The Year of Reckoning

For three days, Orikawa Town's rooftops had been covered in a gloomy, unrelenting curtain of rain. It wasn't a rain of purification; rather, it was heavy and infused with the collective fear that had descended upon the people like soot ever since the Sky-Rending Light and the ensuing, icy Resonance—the one that the seismographs didn't record but that every human being felt pulsing through their bones. Two months have passed since then. Two months have passed since the opposing statements from scientists, mystics, and opportunistic doomsayers started their cacophony, and since the whispers settled into terrified headlines. A year. It was reluctantly agreed upon by disciplines that are typically subject to decades of dispute that the nearby Kuro-no-Mori, also known as the Black Forest, the location legends cautioned children against, will perform what the shattered, frightened accounts referred to as simply "The Reclamation" in a year. Most likely a euphemism for annihilation.

As the morning train clattered past the window, its sound briefly breaking through the clamor of yelled disagreements and rushed declarations escaping from the wireless sets in nearby flats, steam hissed off the persistently moist rails of the Orikawa Line. Zenshi Kaname carefully sharpened a graphite pencil in his little second-floor room, which he rented above a silent antiquarian bookstore. The only sound to break his self-imposed solitude was the rhythmic scrape of the pencil against the stone. His enormous, weathered wooden desk was covered with maps, geological surveys, and fading, hand-drawn charts with symbols that only a few living people could understand. These were copies of Icor's work, a cautionary story about a man the town now largely regarded as a well-meaning eccentric. Sitting next to them was Zenshi's own anomalous cartography diary, which was open to a page describing contradictory energy signature readings obtained weeks earlier from the edge of the woodland.

Newspapers were piled up close by, with headlines that screamed variations on the same theme: "Renowned Botanist Missing Near Kuro-no-Mori Border!" "Forest's Fury: Official Evacuation Plans Debated!" and "Whisperer Cult Claims Revelation: Appeasement is Key!" Zenshi picked up the top one, looking for bias rather than information in the thick columns. He observed the selective citing of terrified witnesses, the authoritative tone that concealed ambiguity, and the tacit rejection of information that didn't support the favored "monstrous nature" story. Citing a geological report from an independent Explorer's log on his desk that indicated tectonic instability preceded the Resonance, he marked a passage that attributed a recent tremor only to the forest. His countenance remained unchanged as he mentally recorded the discrepancy. Assumptions are heightened by fear. Contradictory data is ignored by assumption. The painful history found in the earlier maps on his desk—maps from the "missing age" that Icor had dedicated his life to deciphering—confirmed the pattern Icor had ingrained in him.

Zenshi himself looked modest. Perhaps in his late twenties, but it was hard to tell how old he was because of a certain stillness about him. The "Ametsuchi Era's" fusion of tradition and early industrial usefulness was reflected in his modest, well-maintained shirt and practical, dark pants, which spoke of function above fashion. He was dressed quietly, as someone who would rather observe than command attention. Despite the faint hum of worry from the street below, he took accurate notes in his journal with unwavering attention and steady pencil strokes. He kept watch next to a well-kept, flourishing kokedama, a moss ball that was home to a lone, hardy fern he had discovered close to the town's outskirts. Although it was a simple, robust chronometer, he handled it carefully and wound it methodically every morning. a routine. Maybe it was a reminder of the passing of time, or something more related to the responsibilities he felt, both now and in the past. He didn't mess with it anymore; his focus was on making connections between patterns and looking for the truth that was hidden by noise.

The gentle cadence of his work was interrupted by a rap on his door. Two guys with somber, functional Prefectural Emergency Directorate uniforms stood there, their faces stern and their postures stiff.

The taller one said in a tense voice, "Kaname-san?" "Director Ishikawa has asked you to come. Right away."

Zenshi was unsurprised. He capped his inkwell, set the pencil gently next to his journal, and got up. For a minute his eyes lingered on the maps, on the contradicting reports, on the one green plant growing in its moss sphere. Then he nodded slightly and formally. "Understood."

(Explanation of the narrator during the stroll or changeover to the Directorate): Kuro-no-Mori had always cast a shadow over the town of Orikawa. It was best to ignore the forest and respect its boundaries, as it was divided by the swift-moving river and years of terrifying tales. The'missing age' that followed the unrecorded catastrophe Icor studied had merely widened the gap, with superstition taking the place of knowledge. Superstition had now turned to fear. The Directorate, which was made up of worried regional politicians and overburdened local police, was struggling to stay afloat. Although they had equipment, such as seismographs and early atmospheric sensors, the behavior of the forest defied standard analysis. They had Icor's disjointed study, which had been ignored for years, hurriedly reexamined. They also had Icor's last known associate, Zenshi Kaname, an anomalous cartographer whose occupation was suspicious in and of itself; he was a reader of energies, murmurs, and things better left alone. They were desperate, but they didn't comprehend his strategies.

The short meeting took place in a municipal office that had been hijacked and had a slight anxiousness and stale tea odor. The issue was presented plainly by Director Ishikawa, a man whose face appeared to be inscribed with the town's collective anxiety. Patrols were unable to enter the Verge; competing expert opinions were impeding any coordinated response; and sensors were providing erratic data. They required knowledge. Maps were necessary. Before the year ended, they needed him to enter, use Icor's techniques, map out the irregularities, and locate the threat's origin. Finding vulnerabilities they could take advantage of was the obvious inference.

Recognizing their dread, their presumably incorrect assumptions based on insufficient information, and their inevitable need for control in the face of uncertainty, Zenshi listened calmly, his countenance showing no signs of mental processing. He didn't dispute the nature of the "threat" or correct their language.

Finally, Zenshi said, "I understand the necessity of accurate information," in a calm voice. "I have the first charts and methods created by Icor-sensei. I can try to map the current condition of the forest." This was the result of Icor's life's work, the echo of that earlier catastrophe reverberating through the terrified headlines, and he didn't volunteer merely out of civic duty. It was an obligation he could not shirk.

Three days later, his exit from the town square was a little display of unease among the populace. The word had gotten out. Some murmur about foreign meddlers or bring death upon them as they watched with open hostility. Others watched with open terror or morbid fascination. Some, possibly old cheeks wrinkly with recollections of past tales, gazed with an uncanny, unreadable ferocity. As he made his way to the bridge that crossed the river to the forest trail, Zen observed the range of responses, including the "shouters," the terrified murmurs, and the perplexed stillness. Focused rations, water purification tablets, Icor's reinforced journal alongside his own, charting tools, basic medical supplies, and a few small, smooth stones etched with protective symbols were among the practical items he carried in the sturdy pack he carried on his shoulders. Perhaps this was less magic than focused intent, another of Icor's more esoteric methods.

Through the commotion came a voice, piercing with terror. "You're just going to enter there, then? What are you able to do? Are you a priest of some sort? "A magician?"

The attitude was echoed by other voices, a wave of nervous demands and queries that were more concerned with finding someone, anybody, to blame or to lay their brittle hopes on than with understanding.

For a little period, Zen allowed the noise to overwhelm him while he looked at the faces of the angry, the desperate, and the few silent people whose eyes were asking a different type of question. He raised a hand to signal his intention to speak, not to demand silence. There was a nervous expectation in place of the whispers, which diminished a little.

When he did speak, his tone was level and serene, and he spoke clearly but not loudly. "I understand your anxiety. I get it. He took a moment to allow the straightforward acknowledgement to sink in. "But let me be perfectly clear."

His gaze was earnest and free of false certainty as he looked directly into the eyes of those closest to him. "I am an abnormal cartographer named Kaname Zenshi. I've read Icor-sensei's writings. The reports have been examined by me. I possess useful abilities that make me suitable for mapping and conducting investigations in challenging situations.

Another pause—heavier this time. "That is all I am."

He made a quick, basic grounding motion to himself. "Bones and skin. Blood, just like all of you. I have no special ability to drive out shadows or control nature, nor do I have any divine duty. I am not a fairy tale hero who comes to fix all of your issues.

Parts of the crowd were clearly feeling disappointed, even angry. Others turned away, while others sneered. Perhaps the slightest tightening of his lips indicated controlled annoyance at their preference for imagination over reality, but Zen's expression just showed a flicker of weary understanding as he registered it—that typical human reaction to difficult realities.

"My purpose is to enter the forest, to observe, to map, to gather information, and to try and understand the truth of what is happening," he added, his voice firm despite the changing mood. the rationale behind the deadline. The events that have occurred within Kuro-no-Mori.

He turned to face the man who had yelled first. "I make no promises about success. No miracles, I swear. I'm not going there to fight a battle I can't win or carry out predictions I don't believe in; I'm going there to find understanding. Don't hold me to standards I can't fulfill. Pay attention to your personal preparations, your clear thinking, and what you can do right now.

He maintained eye contact with them for a second, allowing the harsh reality to confront their need for a simple rescuer. He then offered a last, abrupt nod, signaling that the discussion was, in his opinion, concluded after observing the range of responses, which included incredulity, resentment, and perhaps a few glimmerings of reluctant consideration.

Then, from the tiny group of people gathered close to the bridge's entrance, a tiny figure dashed out. A bright, serious-eyed girl, maybe seven or eight years old, had a slightly crumpled painting of a flower in her hand. Zen paused.

"Kaname-san," she murmured in a quiet but distinct voice. "Are you… going to fight the forest?"

Zen lowered himself a little and looked her in the eye. There was a subtle softening of his expression. "No, Hana-chan," he said in a soft, soothing voice. "I'll do my best to comprehend it. There is a distinction. After pausing, he gestured to a little, stumbling sapling that had just been placed close to the bridge approach as part of a hurried local beautification campaign. "Look at that tree? Could you do me a favor while I'm away? If the rain stops, could you make sure it gets water? If you like, you can talk to it occasionally. Care is necessary for small things to become strong.

With a glimmer of comprehension in her eyes, Hana, the girl, glanced from Zen to the sapling and back again. She gave a serious nod. "I can do that."

"Good," Zen murmured as he got to his feet. He gave her one of his seldom little smiles, a little touch of tenderness. "That's important work."

Zenshi Kaname turned and stepped across the bridge, heading towards the quiet, waiting expanse of Kuro-no-Mori, after taking one last look back at the village, at the confusion, the terror, and the lone youngster holding a painting. The beginning of a journey filled with unknowable possibilities and forgotten histories.