The dead boy had to blink twice before he realized he was alive.
Water pooled around his hands—cool, still, almost reverent.
Riku Shinsora snapped up with a choking gasp. His breath caught in his throat, his stomach twisting like something was hatching inside him.
That feeling again. The churning. It had started in the beginning of the week—low, persistent, like a chant repeating in a voice that was not his own.
His hands trembled as he stared into the water. For a second, he could have sworn his reflection was smiling.
"Damn it... What the hell's wrong with me?" Riku tried to gather the remaining strength he had left, which he didn't think was there, as it felt like his energy was nothing but an old lighter—flickering and sputtering out.
He stood up and placed a hand on his belly, the churning still racking his body with pain.
Around him, the world was quiet. Too quiet.
A shrine sat a few meters behind him, half-swallowed by mist. Stone lanterns lined the basin, their flames long extinguished. Somewhere nearby, cicadas buzzed, but even they sounded distant, like they were afraid to get too close.
The air felt thick and heavy, like a plea was spoken here and it was answered with deaf ears.
Riku looked around and rummaged through his pockets. A stone-cold card touched his hand, the chill making him jump for a moment. He stumbled back from the water's edge, wiping his hands on his uniform—damp, dirty, and stained with... ash? He couldn't tell.
He pulled out the card from his pocket and looked at his ID, almost afraid of what would be written on it.
Name: Riku Shinsora
Age: 17
School: Aoyama Prefectural High School
Blood Type: O-
Emergency Contact: --
He stared at the name.
It was right.
Yet something about it felt wrong. Like it had belonged to someone else. Like he was holding the autobiography of a person who had died, but the author's name was his own.
His eyes drifted to the photo.
A boy with tired eyes. Faint smile. Black hair unkempt. He looked like he was trying to act normal for the camera. Trying to look human.
"That's me... right?" The card was up against the piercing light of the morning sun, with the clouds passing above, filtering it in grey-blue sheets. Shadows danced over the image and for a second, he could've sworn the eyes in the image blinked.
Riku shoved the card back into his pocket
His head spun and pulsed—but not from pain, but with a strange duress. As if someone's gaze was pressing against his skull. Like something beyond his perception was watching him.
He turned. Slowly.
The shrine still stood silent.
The timeworn steps, the moss-covered torii gate, the cracked basin where the ritual water was collected—everything looked ancient, untouched.
His phone was gone.
His bag, missing.
No footprints but his own.
Yet... he had no memory of coming here.
He crouched near the edge of the river, touched the water again. It rippled around his fingers in slow spirals. It felt oddly peaceful, given the throbbing in his head and stomach.
There were no fish. No stones. Just the smooth reflection of the sky.
And then he saw it again.
His reflection.
Smiling.
Not a grin. Not a sneer.
A knowing smile.
Riku scrambled back, his heart pounding against his ribcage, as if it had done something of great offense. His hand slapped the grass behind him, wet and cold. The shrine seemed larger now—impending.
He forced himself to look again.
The reflection was normal.
His heart didn't slow down.
He had to leave. Wherever he was, he didn't belong here.
The grass beneath him was slick with dew and silence. Riku tried to calm his breath, but the rhythm kept skipping like a broken metronome. Each inhale stung, as if the air itself didn't want him there. Didn't want him to be anywhere at all.
He staggered to his feet, brushing himself off, but the feeling remained: like he'd walked into a painting, not a place. One that hadn't decided whether he belonged in the frame or not.
The shrine ahead loomed, even larger than it was before.
He didn't want to look at it again. But his eyes, uninvited, dragged themselves to its darkened silhouette.
And that's when he noticed it.
There was a statue. It hadn't been there before.
He was sure of it.
Carved from obsidian stone, it sat in the middle of the shrine's steps, hunched, almost folded in grief. Arms wrapped around knees. A face half-hidden behind cracked fingers. Despite its stillness, it felt... wrong. Too detailed. Too alive. Too present
Riku took a cautious step back. The cicadas had stopped.
A breeze passed, and with it came a strange rustling—not leaves, not wind—but whispers. Faint. Dozens of them. Some melodic, others harsh, speaking in a tongue he couldn't understand, like ancient verses echoing across broken glass.
He turned, fast, towards the woods behind him. Nothing but mist and trees.
He turned back—
The statue's head was raised; its fingers no longer hid its face.
Riku's breath hitched. He stepped back, feet crunching on gravel, heartbeat roaring in his ears. The statue's eyes were gouged out, but he could feel them watching him. Not from the stone.
From something inside it.
Then he noticed the others.
Figures.
More of them.
Small, hunched silhouettes lining the edges of the shrine. Their faces turned toward him—no features, no mouths—just depressions where eyes should have been, and long, coiled necks that craned unnaturally toward his direction.
He could feel them breathing. Watching.
Judging.
"Nope," he whispered, backing away, voice cracked and frail. "Nope, nope, I'm not doing this—"
His foot caught a root. He stumbled, falling hard. His head hit the damp earth with a dull thud. Stars blinked in his vision.
And in that daze, in that half-second between pain and clarity, he saw his reflection again.
Not in water.
In the idol's eyes.
A distorted, smiling version of himself, seated cross-legged on the shrine steps. Wearing something ancient. Gold and black. His body wreathed in lightless flame.
The figure looked at him—and waved.
Riku screamed.
His vision burst into white.
***
He woke up to birdsong. Distant. Disconnected.
The shrine was empty again. No statues. No voices.
But something had changed.
The water where his reflection once smiled had gone still again—but this time, it showed no reflection at all.
On his palm, carved like a brand and bleeding faintly, was a symbol.
An eye.
The pulsing in his head turned into a voice, low and dry, almost imperceptible.
"One of the Nine has opened"