They thought the worst had already buried them.
They were wrong.
The Pit never forgave. It only waited—breathing through its ruins, sleeping between tempests, dreaming of the next life to swallow. And when it awoke, it devoured with memory and madness.
The blackened horizon yawned open like a wound when Gomi and Hosogiri reached the settlement. It wasn't even a town anymore—just a scattering of half-eaten shacks clinging to the edge of a cracked valley, where the soil still smoked faintly under the twilight. The air here didn't move right; it was too thick, too heavy, as if the Pit itself was pressing down upon the living.
They walked past the skeletons of homes and melted fences until Hosogiri spotted someone sitting outside one of the houses—a stranger curled into himself, his arms wrapped around his knees.
He was shaking.
At first, they ignored him.
There were always people like that in the Pit. Grief was as common as dust. You learned not to stop, not to listen.
But Hosogiri slowed. Something in the persons posture—something raw and human—hooked his chest and wouldn't let go.
"Wait," the child murmured. "He's not crying like the others."
Gomi didn't even turn his head. "We don't have time for ghosts that still breathe."
But then the figure spoke. His voice was cracked, hollowed out.
"I told her to go," he whispered. "She just turned old enough. I wanted her to see how I fight every day—to understand why I keep her hidden. I told her to bring back food. I told her it would make her stronger."
His fingers dug into the dirt. His words fell apart, one breath at a time.
"She hasn't come back. Not for three nights."
That silence that followed felt like it had teeth.
When the stranger finally looked up, the light caught his face—bloodshot eyes, skin greyed from ash, lips trembling as if words burned him. He was built like someone who'd once worked the mines or guarded the outer gates—a father with strength to protect, but no will left to wield it.
"I thought she'd understand," he rasped. "I thought she'd learn what it means to survive out here. But all I did was send her to die."
Hosogiri stepped closer. His voice was soft. "What's her name?"
The person blinked. "Rinya. My daughter's name is Rinya."
Gomi stood motionless, the dry wind tugging at his coat. He stared toward the horizon where the valley dropped away into fog and ruin.
"Where did she go?"
The person turned his gaze toward the dark. "The Region of Echoing Ashes. It's… a cursed hollow. They say voices live there—voices that sound like people you've lost. Sometimes lights flicker from its depths. That's where she went. She thought she could find food in the ruins. No one else dares go that far."
Hosogiri looked at Gomi. The older persons jaw was set, but his eyes had softened—just slightly.
"We'll find her," he said.
The father stared at him, stunned. "You—You'd go into that place? For a stranger?"
"We don't do it for you," Hosogiri said gently. "We do it because no one deserves to lose family."
Scene I – The Valley That Breathes the Dead
The path into the Region of Echoing Ashes wasn't a road; it was a scar carved through the world.
The earth here was twisted black, veined with cracks that glowed faintly like cooling embers. Every few steps, the wind would whisper through unseen mouths—soft, desperate murmurs that sounded almost human.
"Keep your mask on," Gomi muttered, pulling his scarf tighter across his face. "The air's sick with memory here."
Hosogiri nodded. He'd never felt a silence like this—so absolute it hurt his ears.
When the first whisper came, it was faint.
"Don't leave me…"
Hosogiri froze. "Gomi—did you—?"
"I heard it," Gomi said flatly. "Ignore it."
But the whispers grew louder as they descended deeper, following the black trail that curved between broken pillars and warped stone arches. The remnants of a town sprawled below them—streets buried in ash, houses half-melted into the earth like wax.
Then they saw the footprints.
Small. Barefoot. Light enough to belong to a child.
Rinya.
Hosogiri's heart lifted, only to sink when he saw how the tracks doubled back on themselves—circles, confusion, like someone running from something that wasn't there.
And then… the song.
A faint, broken humming. Coming from the center of the ruins.
They followed it until they reached a shattered fountain. A figure sat on its edge, long hair veiling her face.
"Rinya?" Hosogiri called.
No answer.
The figure swayed slightly. The humming trembled.
Gomi's hand went to his blade. "Don't."
But Hosogiri stepped forward anyway. "It's okay, we're here to—"
The figure's head tilted.
Her voice broke into a sob. "They never wanted me… They never wanted me…"
And then—without turning—she stepped into the fountain and sank into stone as if it were water.
Hosogiri stumbled back. "What—what was that?!"
Gomi's expression didn't change. "A memory. This place feeds on them."
The wind began to howl. Dozens of childlike voices shrieked through the air, laughing and crying all at once. The sound crawled beneath their skin.
And then—one scream rose above the rest.
Real. Human. Terrified.
"HELP!"
Hosogiri didn't hesitate. "That way!"
They ran.
Through the fog, through ruins that groaned under their weight, past skeletons fused to walls and doorframes. The scream cut through the air again—closer now, desperate and raw.
They found her standing in a sunken plaza, cornered between broken columns. Her clothes were torn, her knees bleeding, her eyes wide with a terror that had no shape.
"Rinya!" Hosogiri called.
She turned toward them—then screamed, "RUN!"
The ash behind her rose like a tidal wave.
A shape uncoiled from it—a colossal figure made of soot and bone-dust, its eyes twin embers burning through the haze. The air turned electric with grief.
It moved like smoke, but every strike hit with the weight of memory.
Gomi grabbed Rinya, rolled behind a fallen wagon as the creature's blow shattered the ground where she'd stood. Hosogiri leapt up, his smaller blade flashing through the ash—but it passed cleanly through the thing's form.
"It's not dying!" Hosogiri cried.
"It's not supposed to," Gomi shouted back. "It's not alive!"
But even as he said it, he felt something crawling into him. The whispers pressed against his skull, and suddenly he saw them—his parents, the night they burned, the red glow against the window, his mother's voice screaming his name.
The creature fed on that. It wanted it.
Hosogiri's shout snapped him back. "GOMI!"
He blinked, swung, cutting through the air. The creature loomed over him, trembling. The ember-eyes flickered, and for the first time—it looked afraid.
Then Gomi understood.
It wasn't a beast. It was grief given form—every lost soul in this valley screaming together, begging to be remembered.
He lowered his blade.
"Everyone threw you away," he said softly. "But I'm still here."
He stepped closer. The monster shuddered. Its arms faltered mid-strike. Gomi pressed his palm to its chest, the ash so hot it seared his skin.
"I see you."
The light in its eyes flickered once, twice—then shattered.
The body unraveled into thousands of faces—children, parents, lovers—all dissolving into dust. Their cries softened into sighs.
And then… silence.
Rinya fell to her knees, sobbing. Hosogiri clung to her, whispering that it was over.
Gomi stood still. The ashes settled over his shoulders like mourning cloth.
He didn't weep. He just breathed.
And for once, the Pit seemed to breathe with him.
Scene II – The Fire Veins
The path out of the valley was gone.
The quake that followed the creature's death had split the ground open, swallowing the only road home. Now there was only one way forward—through the tunnels the locals called the Fire Veins.
It was said they ran beneath the Pit's heart, glowing with the molten sorrow of everything that had ever died here.
They waited an hour. Long enough for Rinya to sleep against Hosogiri's arm. Long enough for Gomi's hands to stop shaking.
Then they went in.
The tunnels weren't natural. The walls pulsed faintly, glowing orange like veins beneath blackened skin. The air was humid, stinking of old iron and burnt flesh. And every few steps, they could hear something breathing behind the walls.
"Keep your pace steady," Gomi said.
Hosogiri nodded. "Do you hear that?"
At first, it sounded like dripping water. Then came a whisper.
"Gomi…"
He froze. That voice—he knew it.
His mother's.
Hosogiri's eyes went wide. "I hear my mother too…"
"Keep walking," Gomi said. His voice was trembling. "They're not real."
But the voices didn't fade. They followed them, whispering apologies and accusations in perfect imitation. "You left us." "You didn't come back." "You watched us burn."
Gomi bit his tongue until blood filled his mouth.
They reached a fork in the tunnel. The center path glowed brighter than the others, a molten orange heartbeat pulsing in rhythm with their fear.
"Left," Gomi said. "The middle's too bright."
They crawled through the narrow passage. The glow dimmed, replaced by soft red veins crawling across the dirt. The smell was stronger here—burnt copper, decay.
Then something grabbed his leg.
He kicked back, but the hand—molten clay shaped like flesh—held fast. It pulled itself from the ground, forming into a figure with a cracked, glowing chest.
A kid.
No—not a child. Himself.
"You let them die," the mimic whispered, smiling with his face. "You ran while they screamed."
Gomi raised his blade. "You're not me."
"I'm the part of you that still hears them burn."
The mimic lunged. The tunnel shook.
Steel met black fire. Every strike felt heavier, filled with decades of guilt. The mimic fought with his memories—every regret, every failure turned into a weapon.
Hosogiri shouted from behind. "He's not you, Gomi! He's what you left behind!"
For one moment, the mimic hesitated.
That was enough.
Gomi drove his blade through its chest. The mimic gasped—not in pain, but in release.
It smiled.
"Then don't forget me."
And crumbled into ash.
The tunnel went still. The walls stopped pulsing.
They emerged hours later beneath a blood-red dawn. Rinya stirred awake on Hosogiri's back, her arms tightening around his shoulders.
They climbed the last ridge.
And there—through the dust and the dawnlight—stood her father.
He was waiting.
When he saw her, he dropped to his knees. His sob tore through the air like thunder.
Rinya ran to him, screaming his name. He caught her in his arms, clutching her as though afraid she might vanish.
"I'm sorry," she cried. "I tried to come back—I didn't want you to think I was gone—I didn't—"
He pressed his face into her hair. "You came back. That's all that matters."
Gomi and Hosogiri stood at a distance.
There were no thanks that could touch what they'd endured.
But when the father lifted his gaze—eyes red, lips trembling—the gratitude there was enough.
That night, they stayed in the broken home. The fire burned low, crackling softly against the wind.
For once, the Pit was quiet. No screams. No whispers. Just breathing.
And when Gomi finally closed his eyes, he dreamed—not of the fire that took everything from him—but of ash falling softly like snow, covering the dead so they could finally sleep.
For the first time in years, the Pit felt almost merciful.
Almost.
TO BE CONTINUED…