The mists grew thin again.
The wasteland breathed like a dying animal. The air itself seemed to rot. Beneath the bruised sky, two silhouettes walked side by side, one tall and one smaller, both moving through wind that hissed like sand against rusted bone. The horizon offered no welcome—only ruin.
Gomi Kirā and Hosogiri Shirudo left the sanctuary of Mr. Hotogamiha three nights ago, and already the warmth of its walls felt like a memory someone else had dreamed. The incense, the fire, the old gramps's steady voice—it all lingered only as scent and ache. The wastelands did not permit peace to last.
They crossed dead plains veined with black stone and glass. They passed skeletons of machines half-swallowed by the dirt. Sometimes they found echoes of laughter from long ago—whispers caught in broken walls. Sometimes they heard footsteps that weren't their own. But the true danger lay ahead: a region forgotten even by the forgotten.
Furezon.
The locals called it the Spread That Eats Memory.
The first sign of life came in the form of a smile.
A person stood at the edge of the road. She looked human enough—eyes downcast, clothes clean though torn, hair braided neatly like she had been waiting for guests. In her arms she held a child, or something that resembled one. The child's face was smooth. Too smooth. Like wax melted and reformed.
"Travelers," she whispered, "please… help us."
Hosogiri's hand twitched toward his pouch. "She's—"
"Don't," Gomi said.
His voice cut through the wind like the edge of a dull blade. He didn't slow down. The persons eyes followed them with unnatural patience. When they passed, her smile cracked just slightly, revealing something black behind her teeth.
The child in her arms turned its head—completely around—and giggled.
They didn't look back.
Not far ahead, the city began to show itself. It wasn't a city anymore, but an open wound. Towers leaned like drunks. Streets bent in directions that defied memory. There were people, yes, but they didn't walk right. They twitched. They crawled. Some laughed quietly to themselves as they gnawed on broken glass or old bones. Every alley reeked of smoke and perfume—both too sweet, too heavy.
"This isn't a place," Hosogiri murmured. "It's a graveyard pretending to be one."
Gomi said nothing. But his steps slowed.
He could feel it—the same stench that lived in the nobles of the surface. Greed disguised as pity. Hunger disguised as hope.
And then they came.
Men, women, children—faces pale and trembling, hands reaching.
"Please," one croaked, "a drop of water."
Another crawled forward. "Just a coin… a crumb…"
Their voices quivered with practiced weakness.
Hosogiri's hand hovered near his blade. "They don't look armed."
Gomi's eyes flicked over the crowd. "They don't need to be."
One of the beggars grabbed Hosogiri's sleeve. The hand was ice-cold, the grip too strong. Gomi's sword was halfway out before the crowd scattered like rats—vanishing into cracks, giggling.
The sound of the laughter followed them long after the people had gone.
They found refuge—or what passed for it—in a shattered plaza surrounded by burnt signs and dead fountains. The symbol of an old god lay cracked on the ground, its stone eyes hollow. There they rested, sharing silence and the last of Hotogamiha's dried herbs.
Hosogiri finally spoke. "You think those things were human?"
Gomi stared into the fog. "Once."
"What happened to them?"
"They learned to survive too long."
The younger one frowned, pulling his knees close. "You ever think we'll end up like that?"
Gomi's jaw tightened. "If we forget why we keep walking, maybe."
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind sang through broken glass like a flute made for ghosts.
Then, from the far side of the plaza, a bell rang.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Wrong.
Hosogiri turned his head. A building stood there—whole, untouched by decay. Its lanterns glowed with gold and violet, casting patterns that looked almost alive. The sound of faint music drifted from within. A voice hummed, slow and warm.
"You think it's another trap?" Hosogiri asked.
"It's always a trap," Gomi said. "But sometimes… traps have answers."
They approached. The sign above the door had half its letters missing, but the remaining ones spelled HOTEL. A single bell hung above the entrance, still swaying though there was no wind.
When they stepped inside, the air changed.
It was warm inside—too warm. The smell of incense and cooked meat filled the room. Candles burned in cages made of silver wire. The floor was spotless. The walls shimmered faintly, like they were breathing.
A figure sat behind the counter.
He wore an immaculate white suit with faint cracks in the fabric that pulsed like veins. His face was smooth, featureless at first glance, but the longer they looked, the more features appeared—nose, mouth, eyes, rearranging themselves as if remembering what a face was supposed to look like.
"Welcome, travelers," he said softly. "You must be tired."
His voice slid across the air like honey on glass.
Hosogiri flinched. "Who are you?"
The stranger smiled. "A friend. Or a reflection. Whichever comforts you more."
He gestured to the chairs near the fire. "Please, sit. Rest. There is safety here, if you're willing to pay the price."
Gomi didn't move. "And what's the price?"
"Your face," the person said pleasantly. "Only for a while. I will keep it safe."
The silence stretched until it hurt.
Then, very calmly, Gomi drew his sword and pressed the edge against the counter.
"Keep talking," he said. "Let's see how long that smile lasts."
The figures features flickered—sadness, anger, laughter—before settling back into calm. "So much pain in you, Oni King. So much shame. Tell me, does your mask ever itch?"
Hosogiri stepped forward, blade half-drawn. "We're leaving."
"Are you?" the figure asked.
The walls pulsed.
Dozens of mirrors slid out from hidden panels, encircling them. In each reflection, Gomi saw not himself, but versions of him—each smiling, each whispering words he couldn't quite hear. Hosogiri's reflections laughed soundlessly, their mouths full of teeth.
The figure rose from behind the counter. His body stretched, skin cracking like porcelain.
"You've entered the House of Faces," he said, voice deepening, warping. "And here, lies and truth wear the same skin."
The mirrors closed in.
Each one shimmered, showing flashes of memory—Hotogamiha's fire, Yasugiri's mist, the Pit's flames. Then came the whispers.
"You failed them."
"You'll fail him."
"You are trash pretending to be divine."
"Your master pitied you."
Gomi's knuckles whitened. "Enough."
But the voices didn't stop. They multiplied.
Hosogiri cried out—his reflection grinning back at him with eyes black and bottomless.
Then the mirrors began to bleed.
From their centers oozed shapes—humanoid, pale, crawling. Faces slid off like melted wax, revealing new ones underneath. The air filled with the smell of iron and rot.
"Stay close!" Gomi shouted.
They fought.
Blades cut through flesh that wasn't flesh. Each slash made the creatures split and multiply. Hosogiri's laughter—his nervous habit—echoed between screams. Gomi moved like a storm, his horns glowing faint violet in the firelight. The mirrors cracked but didn't break.
Finally, one of the creatures lunged, biting deep into Gomi's arm. He roared and slammed it into the floor, crushing its skull—but when he looked up, the featureless person was gone.
Only a single mask remained, resting on the counter.
It was his own face.
The air stilled. The mirrors faded. Only the silence remained.
Hosogiri trembled. "What the hell was that?"
Gomi wrapped his arm with torn cloth. "Something pretending to be alive. Like the rest of this place."
He glanced at the mask once more before turning away. But as they left, it whispered.
"I remember you…"
They didn't stop walking until the sun—if it could be called that—bled behind the black hills.
The city stretched endlessly. They passed streets lined with stalls still filled with food that hadn't rotted, though no one sold it. Every fruit they touched crumbled to ash. Every door they opened revealed empty rooms filled with laughter that didn't echo.
Then they heard it.
Music.
It came from below—a deep rhythmic pulse, drums made of something wet. A crowd murmured. Chanting. Cheering. Celebration.
They followed the sound through a cracked stairwell that spiraled down into what must have once been a banquet hall.
Hundreds of people sat at long tables, feasting. Meat steamed. Wine flowed. Laughter rolled thick as smoke.
But none of them had faces.
Masks hung from strings around their necks. Blank porcelain, stained with food and blood. Hands moved like puppets. Mouths—where mouths should not be—opened in their chests to swallow the meal.
Hosogiri gagged. "What are they—?"
"Feeding," Gomi said.
At the head of the table sat the figure from the hotel, his body now stitched with too many faces. His voice was all of theirs combined.
"Join us," he called. "Everyone must eat to stay human."
The crowd turned as one, lifting their masks, revealing nothing beneath but endless black.
They charged.
The air exploded with shrieks and the sound of breaking porcelain. Gomi fought through the tide, his blade flashing with oni fire. Hosogiri darted between shadows, throwing shards of saltstone that burned through the false flesh. Still, they kept coming—dozens, hundreds, crawling over tables and walls.
"You can't kill hunger," the many-faced figures laughed. "It wears all our skins."
Gomi's horns burned brighter. "Then I'll burn the skin too."
He drove his sword into the ground.
A shockwave erupted—violet fire roaring outward, consuming the tables, the masks, the feast. The laughter turned to screams. The hall collapsed in light and ash.
When the smoke cleared, only the two of them remained, coughing, covered in soot.
Hosogiri looked up weakly. "You okay?"
Gomi didn't answer. His eyes lingered on the single unburned mask lying at his feet. It had Hotogamiha's face.
They escaped into the night.
The streets were quiet now. The fog, heavier. The ground beneath their boots cracked like glass. Every step echoed too loud.
They stopped beside an old well. Hosogiri dropped to sit, exhausted. "That thing… it knew your name. It knew mine."
Gomi's expression was unreadable. "Everything in this place knows what we hide."
Hosogiri's voice softened. "And what are you hiding?"
For a long time, Gomi didn't answer. Then, quietly:
"That maybe I'm no better than them. That maybe, given enough hunger, I'd wear their faces too."
Hosogiri looked at him, then smiled faintly. "You'd look terrible in porcelain."
The older one huffed, almost a laugh. Almost.
Above them, thunder rolled—not from clouds, but from within the earth itself. The ground trembled. In the distance, a shadow rose—a tower of faces, flesh, and stone twisting toward the sky, forming something alive.
The city moaned.
The House of Faces had not died. It had simply changed shape.
Gomi stood, gripping his sword. "We end it here."
Hosogiri nodded. "Together."
They climbed.
The tower's walls pulsed like muscle. Faces pushed out from beneath the surface, whispering, crying, laughing. Every inch was alive. Every inch remembered them.
Halfway up, Hosogiri slipped. Gomi caught his arm just in time. Below, the tower began swallowing itself, faces melting into one another, reaching upward.
"Don't look down," Gomi hissed.
"Wasn't planning to!"
They reached the summit—a flat platform of bone-white stone. At its center stood the many-faced figure, now vast, shifting, a tower of masks fused into a single body. His voice came from everywhere.
"You came seeking truth," it said. "But truth is just the prettiest lie."
Gomi's horns flared. "I came to cut the lie open."
The final battle began.
Hosogiri danced between beams of light that twisted like blades. Gomi struck upward, each blow tearing through layers of false flesh. The creature retaliated—arms of faces reaching, grasping, screaming. The sky fractured with color.
Then it spoke again, softer.
"You wear your dead master's regret like armor. But what if he never meant for you to survive?"
That struck deeper than any blade.
Gomi froze—just for a heartbeat. The creature seized the moment, wrapping tendrils around him. Hosogiri screamed and hurled himself forward, cutting wildly, desperately.
"Let him go!"
But it wasn't strength that freed them. It was memory.
Hotogamiha's voice, steady and warm: "The pit begins to accept you. But beware…"
Gomi roared, snapping the bindings. Energy flooded from his horns, crimson and violet mixing until they burned pure white. He drove his sword into the creature's heart—a heart made of stolen faces—and shouted:
"Keep your masks. I'll keep my scars!"
The tower imploded.
When the dust settled, the city was silent.
The false faces were gone. The streets lay still beneath a dim, red dawn. The air smelled of ash and salt. The masks had melted into the ground like tears.
Hosogiri limped beside Gomi, bruised but grinning weakly. "Think it's over?"
Gomi sheathed his blade. "Nothing's ever over. Not here."
He looked toward the horizon. The mist was returning—soft, violet, like the kind that had surrounded Yasugiri. For a moment, it almost looked beautiful.
Hosogiri kicked a broken shard of porcelain. "You think Hotogamiha's watching?"
"Maybe," Gomi said. "Maybe he's laughing that we're still dumb enough to care."
They walked.
The city of Furezon faded behind them, collapsing slowly into itself. Every building, every road, every false smile sank into the dust until only silence remained.
As they reached the edge of the wasteland, Hosogiri glanced back one last time. "So what now?"
Gomi's voice was quiet.
"Now we find the ones who built this world of lies… and we show them what truth costs."
The wind howled. The fog thickened. Two figures disappeared into it—one carrying scars, the other still smiling through fear.
And far beneath the ground, something stirred awake.
The next arc had begun.
TO BE CONTINUED...