The sea did not surge.It lowered.
The water around the shrine pulled back unnaturally, exposing slick stone and writhing seaweed as if the ocean itself were holding its breath. An immense silence followed—so deep it rang in Riku's ears.
Aya slowly rose beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon."Riku… the water shouldn't be doing that."
He nodded. "It's making space."
The surface far out at sea began to bulge—not upward like a wave, but outward, stretching as though something vast were pressing against the skin of the world. The moonlight fractured across it, bending into impossible angles.
Then the ocean opened.
Not split—opened, like an eye awakening after centuries of sleep.
What rose from the depths dwarfed the Umibōzu's previous form. No longer a single towering silhouette, the Black Tide revealed itself as a living convergence of sea and shadow—layer upon layer of darkness folding into a colossal shape with no clear edges.
Within it, countless faces surfaced and sank again—sailors, villagers, children—memories made flesh and water.
Aya covered her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks."It's not just one being…"
Riku's voice was hollow."It's everything the sea has taken."
The Umibōzu's true form stood revealed: not a monster that hunted, but a tide born of unreturned debts, unspoken griefs, and names surrendered to the deep. Its eyes—now innumerable—opened across its surface like stars extinguishing.
The sea spoke, not as thunder, but as finality:
"NAMES WERE GIVEN.FEARS WERE TAKEN.BALANCE WAS KEPT."
The shrine's light flickered, strained to its limit.
Aya clutched the charm. "It thinks balance means taking until nothing's left."
Riku stepped forward, boots scraping stone. His hands shook—but he did not stop.
"No," he said, voice carrying across the water. "Balance means returning what was taken."
The Black Tide shifted. Waves rose around it, forming vast, slow spirals.
"RETURN IS IMPOSSIBLE."
Riku closed his eyes and inhaled, steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice did not shake.
"You took my father. You took names. You took fear. You took lives. But you also took responsibility."He opened his eyes."You became more than a guardian. You became a prison."
Aya looked at him, realization dawning. "Riku… the shrine—it's not meant to destroy it."
He nodded. "It's meant to release it."
The sea convulsed, anger rippling outward.
"RELEASE IS OBLIVION."
"Release is choice," Riku answered. "The same choice I was denied."
He turned to Aya. "The ritual isn't finished."
Her breath caught. "Riku, what are you saying?"
He met her gaze, gentle and resolute. "The shrine needs one final offering. Not a name. Not fear."
He looked back at the Black Tide.
"Forgiveness."
The ocean roared—waves slamming against the shrine as if to crush the word itself. The Black Tide surged closer, faces contorting, memories screaming.
Aya grabbed his arm. "Riku, it doesn't deserve—"
"I know," he said softly. "That's why it will work."
He stepped to the very edge of the shrine, arms open, standing bare before the sea.
"I forgive the ocean," Riku said. "For what it took from me. For what it made me carry. For the debt it forced on a child."
The shrine erupted with light—brighter than before, purer. The charm in Aya's hands dissolved into ash and salt, carried upward by a sudden, warm wind.
The Black Tide screamed—not in rage, but in relief.
Faces within it softened. Shadows loosened. Names—thousands of them—rose like sparks from the water, drifting upward and vanishing into the sky.
The sea receded, layer by layer, the colossal form collapsing inward, shrinking, unraveling—until only waves remained.
Normal waves.
Silence returned.
Aya fell to her knees, sobbing. Riku stood, chest heaving, as dawn finally broke over the horizon—golden light spilling across calm water.
After a long moment, Aya whispered, "Is it… over?"
Riku watched the sunrise, the sea gentle at last.
"For us," he said. "Yes."
But far beyond the horizon, where the ocean met the sky, a faint ripple passed—quiet, watchful.
Legends, after all, never truly die.
They sleep.