As Shinkai's eyes opened, the world did not greet him with light—it greeted him with absence.
There was no rush of sound, no flood of clarity, no sharp gasp for air. It was as though the chamber itself held its breath, afraid that acknowledging his awakening would invite something it wasn't ready for.
He didn't move at first. He simply… existed. And in that stillness, the silence thickened.
It wasn't the silence of peace. It was awareness. His consciousness returned like it had walked through a storm of memory and come out the other side… weightless and altered.
He sat up slowly.
A ripple spread through the room—not physical, not magical, but felt. Like the sound of a scream trapped in glass. One of the disciples near the back took a shaky step back, their knees weak beneath invisible pressure.
Shinkai didn't notice.
His gaze fell to his hands.
Same skin. Same bones. But something beneath shimmered—not light, not power, but something colder. More intimate. His own Echo pulsed faintly in his fingertips, like a second heartbeat.
He could feel silence. And for the first time in his life, it felt alive.
He breathed in slowly, and even that felt different. The air tasted muted. Compressed. Like the world was speaking in whispers just for him.
Then—
"You returned," a voice echoed faintly across the chamber. Not loud. Not demanding. But there was weight in it.
The leader of the Secret Hand stood a few steps away, hands folded within his sleeves. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—
His eyes studied Shinkai like a question he hadn't prepared for.
"What did you see?" he asked softly. "What did the Shrine show you?"
Shinkai looked at him, and the silence thickened again.
For a heartbeat, it seemed as though Shinkai wouldn't answer. Not out of rebellion, but because words weren't enough.
"…Nothing I wanted," he said at last. His voice was hoarse, quiet—but it reached every corner of the room. "But everything I needed."
The leader's brow furrowed.
"And the price?"
Shinkai glanced at the blade beside him—Seijaku, its obsidian surface now etched with glowing threads of silent memory.
He whispered: "Silence doesn't come cheap."
The leader said nothing. Not because he lacked a reply—but because in that moment, he understood.
Shinkai Kuronuma had returned not just changed.
He had returned carrying something.
Something the Shrine had buried in him.
And it had only just begun to awaken.
The silence after Shinkai's words didn't settle. It thickened.
Like the chamber itself realized he was no longer just a survivor.
He was a carrier.
A conduit.
And something deep beneath the Shrine stirred in response.
The disciples remained still, still shaken, still trying to breathe in air that felt too heavy. Shinkai didn't look at them. His gaze was distant—as if still walking somewhere his body had left behind.
But then—
A choked gasp cracked the silence.
Everyone turned.
One of the disciples—Renji—staggered back two steps, clutching his chest.
"W-what the hell—" he rasped, his eyes wide. "I… can't—breathe."
Another step. His back hit the wall. His hands trembled, reaching blindly into the air, like trying to grab hold of something only he could see.
Shinkai's head slowly turned toward him.
The leader's eyes narrowed.
Then Renji collapsed to his knees, screaming—not in pain, but in shock. As if his mind had been dragged somewhere his body couldn't follow. He dropped forward, body twitching once—
—and then he went still.
Eyes open.
But unseeing.
The room fell dead quiet.
The leader took a breath. "The second."
Whispers began again. Cloaked figures shifting, exchanging glances, gripping the hilts of their weapons out of reflex. Not out of fear of Renji—but of what came next.
Shinkai stared at the fallen disciple for a long moment… and then said quietly:
"…He's not dead."
One of the robed members turned sharply. "How do you know?"
Shinkai didn't look away. "Because I know that look. He's inside."
The chamber tensed as the realization sank in.
The Shrine wasn't waiting anymore.
It had started.
One by one, the trials would call them.
And none of them would get to choose when.
They had stepped into a place that remembered everything. And now, it was remembering them.
_____
Far from the Shrine's cold chamber, the ruined city stretched endlessly beneath a sunless sky.
Kaizetsu stepped over a jagged pile of stone, the remnants of what might've once been a staircase. Around him, the city lay in ruin—no buildings stood whole, no towers remained upright. Just broken pillars, half-sunken archways, and shattered walls that reached for nothing.
The earth was uneven, fractured by time and something far worse than decay. Whatever force had destroyed this place hadn't simply torn it down—it had erased its soul.
He walked slowly, weaving through debris and forgotten rubble. Every corner whispered of things lost: shattered tools, scorched tiles, stone carvings eroded by more than wind. Dust clung to everything like a second skin.
And the silence… it wasn't peaceful. It was the silence of graves. The kind that lingered after screaming had stopped.
Behind him, Kazuki kicked a small piece of brick aside and grimaced. "Tch… I know we're gonna find something here, but this place still creeps me the hell out."
He glanced around at the wreckage—the bones of a city long buried in silence. "Like the ground's holding its breath or something."
Kaizetsu eyes fixed ahead—on a distant fragment of what might've once been a monument, now no more than a collapsed foundation.
"I can feel something under all this. Like the ruins are humming." Kaizetsu said.
Kazuki arched an eyebrow. "Humming?"
Kaizetsu nodded slowly, placing a hand against a cracked stone etched with old, worn symbols. "It's faint. Like a memory trying to survive."
He lingered there for a moment, feeling the cold pulse beneath his fingertips—like the ruins themselves were remembering something they weren't ready to reveal.
Then he moved.
Careful, deliberate steps carried him over a broken stairwell, his eyes scanning the twisted architecture. Every building leaned wrong, like gravity had bent sideways here. Shadows pooled in corners even where light should've reached. He didn't speak. He barely breathed.
Something about this place was watching. Not alive, but not quite dead either.
Behind him, Kazuki exhaled sharply. "This place is cursed. I'm telling you, man. The air's off. The walls are watching. I've had nightmares friendlier than this."
Kaizetsu didn't respond.
Because he felt it too.
Not fear. Not exactly.
It was resonance. Something under the surface pulling at him, like a hum just beneath hearing. Not sound—but echo.
His steps slowed. He placed a hand on one of the blackened stone walls.
It was warm.
Not from heat—but memory.
Kazuki stepped up beside him, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You sure this is the right spot? Whole damn city's a graveyard—we could wander for days and find nothing."
Kaizetsu's hand clenched slightly.
"I had to come," he said. "The silence that spread from there… it didn't stop. It's moving through this place too. Like it's looking for something."
Kazuki made a face. "And you think we'll find what? Answers? Some big glowing sign that says 'prophecy goes here'?"
Kaizetsu shook his head. "No. But I think I'm meant to be here."
He didn't say it out loud, but he felt it in his chest—the same pressure he felt the moment Shinkai awakened. His soul reacted like a tuning fork, vibrating with something buried under centuries of dust.
Something was calling them.
Or warning them.
He didn't know which yet.
Kazuki gave a low whistle. "You've been acting different ever since we came here. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Kaizetsu's voice was distant. "I think we're
going to change by the end of this."
The city groaned around them, a far-off rumble echoing through hollow streets. Stone cracking. Wind shifting.
Far across that ruined silence, where echoes still clung to ancient walls… the Shrine held its breath.
The air in the chamber wasn't just heavy now—it felt sentient. Watching. Waiting.
The leader of the Secret Hand stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed not on the shrine, but on those who had already emerged.
Eleven had entered. Nine had returned.
Returned… changed.
He didn't need to ask to know it. He saw it in the way they stood—more distant, more still. As if a part of them had not come back. Or perhaps something else had come back with them.
"Two more," he murmured, voice low, words nearly stolen by the silence.
A presence approached from behind—one of the Fingers, cloaked in dark robes with faint red embroidery, stepped silently beside the leader. Neither spoke. Words felt too fragile for what they were witnessing.
Only two remained now.
Ten had already collapsed over the course of the day—each drawn into the trial one by one, like pieces being claimed by something vast and unseen. None of them screamed. None of them resisted. They simply… dropped, as if the weight of silence folded them in.
The leader's eyes didn't leave the center of the chamber.
"It takes the ones with the weakest Echo of the Soul first," he said quietly, almost to himself. "And the longer one resists… the more dangerous they are."
The Finger gave a subtle nod.
That was the truth the Shrine had revealed: the trial wasn't just a test of will—it was an order of resonance. Those with faint echoes were claimed early. Easily. But the stronger the Echo, the more tim
e it took for the realm to reach them. It was not hesitation. It was caution.
The chamber's silence deepened around them like breath held too long.
Now, only the strongest two remained.
And time was running out.
_____