The village of Kurozawa lay hidden in a cradle of mist, its rooftops barely visible beneath the pale cloak of dawn. Far from the cities that hummed with modern life, this quiet settlement clung to ancient ways — rituals whispered beneath the breath, offerings left at shrine gates, and prayers cast into the stillness like pebbles into a bottomless well.
To outsiders, Kurozawa seemed like a relic of a forgotten era. But to those who lived there, the village was a sacred boundary, a place where the mortal and the divine brushed against each other, separated only by a veil of tradition and fear.
At the heart of it all stood the Church of Darkness — not the darkness of evil, but the primordial void, the eternal night before creation, the womb from which all life emerged. In this faith, darkness was not something to fear, but to honor. It was both beginning and end, death and renewal.
For Kaito Takashiro, the darkness was as familiar as his mother's voice or the smell of rice cooking over the hearth. He had been born into its embrace, the son of one of the village's highest-ranking followers — a man whose prayers could summon shadows to coil around his hands and whose words carried weight even beyond Kurozawa's mist-shrouded borders.
Kaito, at seven years old, knew none of this mattered to him. His world was made of simpler things — the crunch of frost underfoot in winter, the taste of river plums in summer, and the constant chatter of his little sister, Yuki, who followed him like a shadow of her own.
Yuki was only five, but she clung to Kaito with the tenacity of a burr caught in fabric. She had dark hair tied into messy pigtails and eyes like black pearls, always wide with curiosity. Where Kaito was quiet and careful, Yuki was a storm of endless questions and impulsive laughter.
"Do shadows sleep?" she asked him once, as they sat on the shrine steps, their feet dangling over the edge. "Or do they stay awake forever, watching us?"
Kaito didn't have an answer, but he liked that Yuki thought of shadows as something alive. In Kurozawa, that wasn't far from the truth.
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Their father, Haruto Takashiro, was a man of few words, his silence carrying more weight than sermons from the lesser priests. In the eyes of the village, he was more than a man — he was a bridge to the divine, a voice that spoke directly to the ancient void. But to Kaito and Yuki, he was simply Father — the man who woke before dawn to chop wood, who smelled faintly of ink and cedar, and who carried Yuki on his shoulders so she could steal persimmons from the neighbor's tree.
Despite his position, Haruto never forced the faith on his children. Prayer was taught through example, not command. Every night, after the household fell quiet, Haruto would kneel before the family altar, hands clasped, eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly in prayers too ancient for young ears to understand.
Kaito would sometimes sneak out of bed to watch, peeking through the sliding door, fascinated not by the words, but by the shadows that seemed to gather around his father — darker than the room itself, curling like smoke drawn to his breath.
Yuki, less patient, usually fell asleep before the prayers ended, curled up against Kaito's side like a small cat.
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It was on one such night, as autumn crept over the village, that Kaito first overheard the conversation that would change his life.
Dinner was quiet — rice, miso, grilled fish — the usual. Yuki babbled about a frog she found near the paddies, holding court at the table while Kaito focused on his food. Their mother, Aiko, smiled softly, her hands moving with practiced grace as she served them. It was an ordinary meal, until Kaito noticed the way his father's chopsticks paused — just for a heartbeat — before resuming.
"They've asked me to return to the Central Temple next month," Haruto said softly, his voice carefully neutral. "They want to discuss my latest interpretations of the First Texts."
Kaito didn't know exactly what the First Texts were, only that they were old — older than the village, older than the faith itself. Sacred words written in a language that only the elders could read. To be asked to interpret them was both an honor and a burden.
His mother's smile didn't falter, but her fingers trembled slightly as she poured tea.
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Later that night, curiosity gnawed at Kaito until he couldn't stay in bed. Yuki was already asleep, her hand clutching the hem of his sleeve. Gently, he pried her fingers loose and slipped into the hall, padding barefoot toward his father's study.
The door was slightly ajar, candlelight spilling into the darkened corridor.
Kaito pushed it open, heart pounding.
The room smelled of ink, old paper, and wood smoke. Shelves sagged beneath the weight of scrolls and books, some so ancient their covers had been replaced multiple times. On the desk lay an open tome, its pages filled with symbols that seemed to writhe when he looked directly at them.
He knew he shouldn't touch it — sacred texts were forbidden to children. But the symbols called to him, their strange shapes familiar in a way he couldn't explain.
The candle flickered. Shadows moved.
Not the soft, natural dance of firelight, but something else — something aware.
A whisper brushed against Kaito's ear, a voice too faint to catch, like a word spoken into the wind. His fingers twitched toward the page.
"Kaito."
He froze.
Haruto stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Not angry, not surprised — but sad, as though he'd expected this.
"You're too young," his father said quietly. "But perhaps not for much longer."
He closed the tome with care, as though the act itself required a prayer. Kaito expected a scolding, but none came. Instead, Haruto knelt beside him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder.
"There are things you will come to understand," he said. "Things I wish I could protect you from — but I cannot."
Kaito swallowed hard. "Is it… about the darkness?"
Haruto's smile was faint. "The darkness is not our enemy, Kaito. But neither is it our friend. It is… a truth. One we must learn to walk beside without being swallowed by it."
He guided Kaito back to bed, tucking the blankets around him and Yuki both. His hand lingered a moment on Kaito's head — a rare gesture of affection.
"Sleep well, my son."
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Kaito did not sleep well.
Dreams came — of shadows writhing beneath his skin, of a voice calling his name from beneath the earth, of Yuki's hand slipping from his grasp as the mist swallowed her whole.
When dawn came, the world outside looked the same. But Kaito knew something had changed.
The darkness had noticed him.
And it was only a matter of time before it reached out again.