The town of Tōminato lay cradled between forested cliffs and the unforgiving Sea of Japan. It was a quiet fishing town, long forgotten by progress, where tradition hung like mist on the water and people whispered old names not found on any map. For centuries, the villagers had spoken of the ocean with both reverence and dread—never venturing out after sunset, never ignoring the strange sounds that echoed from the waves.
To the city folk, these were just old fisherman's tales. But for Yūta Minami, they were a warning wrapped in memory.
Yūta, seventeen, had lived in Tōminato all his life. His father was lost at sea during a freak storm five years ago—his boat washed ashore days later, empty and covered in long gouges that looked more like claws than rocks. Since then, Yūta had avoided the sea, instead helping his grandmother run the small lighthouse perched on the edge of the cliffs. Most days were quiet. Most nights were not.
At night, Yūta heard them.
They came with the tide. Whispers—soft, distorted voices like they were underwater, murmuring in an old dialect he couldn't place. He used to think it was his imagination, but now he knew better. Something was out there. And it had begun to move closer.
---
That morning, the sky hung gray and swollen, the clouds heavy with impending rain. Tōminato's fishermen refused to leave port.
"Not a good omen," muttered Old Man Hirano, standing by the dock and pointing at the water. "See that? Sea's too still. It's watching."
Yūta passed him on his bike, carrying supplies up the winding cliffside path. The lighthouse stood ahead, tall and pale against the sky like a bone stabbed into the land.
Inside, his grandmother, Sachiko, stirred fish broth over the fire.
"You heard them again?" she asked without turning.
"…Yes." Yūta paused, then nodded. "Louder this time. I couldn't sleep."
She sighed. "They're restless. The sea's changing. You feel it too, don't you?"
Yūta didn't answer. He'd noticed it for weeks. Fish were fleeing the bay. Birds refused to land on the water. Even the wind smelled…off—saltier, heavier, with a strange copper tang beneath.
Later that day, a body washed ashore.
The Coast Guard was called. Rumors spread like fire.
The man was a tourist from Aomori—last seen boarding a rented motorboat to go sea-camping alone. They found his body bloated and pale, face frozen in terror, arms torn open by something with far too many teeth. He had claw marks on his back. Deep ones. Not human.
"Shark," someone said.
"No shark leaves bites shaped like circles," said another.
Yūta stood among the onlookers, heart pounding. That night, the whispers returned—and they were screaming.
---
The next day, the sea turned black.
Not metaphorically. Literally black. It spilled in like ink at sunrise, pushing the tide higher than it had ever gone. Boats bobbed violently. A tremor shook the coastline. The town's priest held a blessing at the water's edge, tossing salt and sake into the sea.
Sachiko pulled Yūta aside.
"We must prepare," she whispered. "The Fukkatsu are waking."
Yūta frowned. "That's just a myth."
"No." Her eyes burned with quiet fear. "They're real. We've kept them sleeping for generations. But now, the seals are breaking. And soon, they'll walk the land."
"What are they?"
She hesitated.
"Once human," she said finally. "But twisted. Drowned and reborn by the sea. And they hunger."
---
By nightfall, the town was in panic. A fishing boat had vanished—no radio, no flares, no trace. Just red foam washing into the harbor.
That night, Yūta stood in the lighthouse, flashlight in hand, peering out into the storm-churned sea. Lightning struck the water in the distance. The waves surged unnaturally, rising in tall, unnatural peaks.
Then he saw it.
A silhouette—taller than the boats, half-emerged from the ocean, dripping and glistening. Its form was bloated and scaled, humanoid but wrong, with glowing eyes like jellyfish and a gaping maw filled with layered, circular teeth. As the lightning flashed again, Yūta saw dozens more behind it, rising from the sea like ancient statues reborn.
He fell backward, gasping.
"They've come back," Sachiko whispered behind him, clutching an old blade—a ceremonial dagger etched with sea-worn runes.
"What do we do?"
"We fight. Or we die."
---
World Note: The Fukkatsu
In the lore of Tōminato, the Fukkatsu were once sailors cursed by the gods of the sea for defying the natural order. Drowned, transformed, and consumed by salt and madness, they now dwell in the ocean's abyssal rifts. Bound by ancestral rituals, their prison has begun to weaken as belief in the old ways fades. Without restoration of the seals, they will rise again.