The Year of Reckoning

A dark, relentless curtain of rain has hung over the rooftops of Orikawa Town for three days. It was not a rain of cleansing, but it was heavy and laced with the collective fear that had settled over the people like soot ever since the Sky-Rending Light and the subsequent cold Resonance—the one that all people felt pulsing through their bones but which the seismographs failed to record. It's been two months since then. It has been two months since the mystics, scientists, and opportunistic doomsayers began their cacophony of contradicting assertions, and since the whispers became frightful headlines. One year. Reluctantly, disciplines that are usually the focus of decades of debate agreed that the nearby Kuro-no-Mori, also called the Black Forest, the place legends warned children not to go, would carry out what the broken, terrified stories called simply "The Reclamation" within a year. It's probably a euphemism for destruction.

Steam hissed off the perpetually damp rails of the Orikawa Line as the morning train rattled past the window, its sound momentarily piercing the din of shouted arguments and hurried statements coming from the radio sets in the surrounding apartments. Zenshi Kaname, renting a small second-floor room above a quiet antiquarian bookshop, was meticulously sharpening a graphite pencil. The regular scrape of the pencil against the stone was the only sound to disturb his self-imposed seclusion. Maps, geological surveys, and faded, hand-drawn charts with symbols that only a handful of live people could decipher were all spread out across his massive, old wooden desk. They were copies of Icor's work, a warning tale about a man who was now generally considered a well-meaning eccentric in the area. Beside them sat Zenshi's own anomalous cartography diary, open to a page detailing conflicting energy signature readings taken from the woodland edge weeks before.

The headlines of the newspapers that were stacked nearby shouted variations on the same pattern: "Renowned Botanist Missing Near Kuro-no-Mori Border!" "Forest's Fury: Official Evacuation Plans Debated!" as well "Whisperer Cult Claims Revelation: Appeasement is Key!" Zenshi picked up the top one, searching the thick columns for prejudice instead of facts. He noted the selective quoting of frightened witnesses, the unspoken rejection of material that contradicted the preferred "monstrous nature" narrative, and the authoritative tone that masked ambiguity. He noted a sentence that attributed a recent quake only to the forest, citing a geological record from an independent Explorer's log on his desk that showed tectonic instability predated the Resonance. His expression did not shift as he mentally noted the difference. Fear leads to heightened assumptions. By assumption, contradicting data is disregarded. The previous maps on his desk, maps from the "missing age" that Icor had spent his life trying to understand, revealed a tragic history that validated the pattern Icor had engrained in him.

Zenshi himself appeared humble. He might have been in his late twenties, but there was a certain stillness about him that made it difficult to determine his age. His simple, well-kept shirt and functional, black slacks, which spoke of utility over fashion, typified the "Ametsuchi Era's" blending of tradition and early industrial usefulness. He wore modest clothing, as if he preferred to watch than to draw notice to himself. With steady pencil strokes and constant attention, he scribbled exact notes in his journal, even as the street below hummed faintly with dread. He stood guard beside a neat, thriving kokedama, a ball of moss where he found a single, resilient fern near the edge of town. It was a straightforward, sturdy chronometer, yet he handled it with care and wound it painstakingly each morning. a pattern. Perhaps it served as a reminder of time passing, or perhaps it had more to do with the obligations he felt, both present and past. He no longer tampered with it; instead, he concentrated on connecting patterns and seeking the truth concealed behind noise.

The gentle rhythm of his work was broken by a knock on his door. There stood two men in grim, practical Prefectural Emergency Directorate uniforms, their postures rigid, their looks grim.

"Kaname-san?" the taller one asked tensely. "You are invited by director Ishikawa. Immediately.

Zenshi was not shocked. He put the pencil down carefully beside his diary, capped his inkwell, and stood up. He stared at the maps, the conflicting reports, and the lone green plant growing in its moss sphere for a minute. Then he gave a small, formal nod. "Understood."

(The narrator's explanation during the walk or transition to the Directorate): The town of Orikawa had always been troubled by Kuro-no-Mori. The forest was separated by the swift-flowing river and years of terrifying stories, and it was best to ignore it and respect its bounds. The "missing age" that ensued after the undocumented disaster Icor researched had only made the gap wider, with superstition replacing knowledge. Now superstition had given way to terror. The Directorate, composed of overworked local police and concerned regional politicians, was having a hard time surviving. Despite having tools like seismographs and early atmospheric sensors, the forest's behavior defied conventional interpretation. They quickly reexamined Icor's fragmented study, which had been neglected for years. They also possessed Zenshi Kaname, Icor's last known colleague, a strange cartographer whose profession was dubious in and of itself; he read energies, whispers, and things that were better left alone. Despite their desperation, they were unable to understand his tactics.

The brief meeting was held in a hijacked municipal office that smelled like stale tea and a little nervous. Director Ishikawa laid out the problem clearly, a man whose face seemed to be etched with the collective fear of the town. Sensors were giving inconsistent data, patrols couldn't get inside the Verge, and conflicting expert opinions were preventing any concerted response. They needed to know. Maps were required. They required him to get in, employ Icor's methods, chart the abnormalities, and find the source of the threat before the year was over. The logical conclusion was to find weaknesses they could exploit.

Zenshi listened patiently, his face devoid of any signs of mental processing, aware of their fear, their presumably false assumptions based on incomplete knowledge, and their unavoidable need for control in the face of uncertainty. He didn't correct their wording or contest the essence of the "threat".

"I understand the necessity of accurate information," Zenshi finally stated in a composed tone. "I have Icor-sensei's original charts and techniques. I could attempt to map the forest's current state. Icor didn't volunteer solely out of civic obligation; this was the consequence of his life's labor, the echo of that earlier disaster echoing through the fearful headlines. It was a duty he could not avoid.

There was a small show of uneasiness among the people when he left the town plaza three days later. The news had spread. As they looked with open animosity, some whisper about foreign meddlers or bring death upon them. Others gazed in morbid fascination or outright fear. Some looked with a strange, unreadable ferocity, their faces perhaps ancient and wrinkled with memories of stories long since told. Zen noted the variety of reactions, the "shouters," the frightened muttering, the confused silence as he walked to the bridge that crossed the river to the forest route. The practical things he took in the durable pack he carried on his shoulders were concentrated rations, water purification tablets, Icor's strengthened journal along with his own, charting instruments, basic medical supplies, and a few small, smooth stones carved with protective symbols. Maybe this was more focused intent, another of Icor's more occult techniques, than magic.

A voice, piercing with dread, broke through the chaos. "So you're just going to walk in there? What can you accomplish? "A magician?" Are you some kind of priest?

Other voices echoed the attitude, a flood of anxious demands and questions that were less interested in learning and more focused on finding someone, anybody, to place the blame or their fragile expectations on.

While he gazed at the faces of the desperate, the angry, and the few silent people whose eyes were asking a different kind of question, Zen let the loudness overpower him for a brief while. Not to demand silence, but to indicate that he was ready to talk, he held up a hand. Instead of the whispering, which faded slightly, there was an anxious expectation.

His voice was clear but not loud, and his tone was calm and even when he spoke. "I can relate to your nervousness. I understand. The simple acknowledgement took a time to register in his mind. "But let me be perfectly clear."

He gazed directly into the eyes of those closest to him, his gaze earnest and devoid of false assurance. "My name is Kaname Zenshi, and I am an atypical cartographer. I've read the works of Icor-sensei. I have looked over the reports. I have practical skills that enable me to map and carry out investigations under difficult circumstances.

Another pause, this one more intense. "That is all I am."

He gave himself a brief, simple grounding gesture. "Skin and bones. Like all of you, blood. I have no divine responsibility, no particular power to chase out shadows, no influence over nature. I am not a hero from a fairy tale who arrives to solve all of your problems.

There were obviously disgruntled, even irate, parts of the crowd. Some hissed, others looked away. Zen's expression just displayed a spark of weary understanding as he processed it—that usual human reaction to unpleasant realities—but perhaps the slightest tightening of his lips suggested controlled irritation at their preference for fancy over fact.

Despite the shifting tone, he continued, "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," in a stern voice. the justification for the deadline. the incidents that took place in Kuro-no-Mori.

The man who had screamed first caught his attention. "I promise nothing in terms of success. I promise you, no miracles. I'm going there to gain understanding, not to fight a fight I can't win or make predictions I don't believe in. Don't expect me to live up to expectations I can't. Focus on what you can accomplish now, your own preparations, and your clear thinking.

For a moment, he kept his gaze on them, letting the hard truth confront their need for a mere savior. After assessing the spectrum of reactions, which included disbelief, hostility, and maybe a few hints of reluctant consideration, he then gave a last, abrupt nod, indicating that the conversation was, in his view, over.

Then a small figure raced out from the small crowd huddled near the bridge's entrance. There was a serious-eyed, bright-eyed girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, holding a slightly crumpled artwork of a flower. Zen hesitated.

She whispered, "Kaname-san," in a quiet but clear voice. "Are you… going to fight the forest?"

Zen bent his head slightly and met her gaze. A faint softening of his expression occurred. "No, Hana-chan," he uttered in a calm, gentle tone. "I will try my best to understand it. There is a difference. He stopped and pointed to a small, faltering sapling that had recently been planted at the bridge approach as part of a hastily organized local beautification effort. Take a look at that tree. While I'm away, could you please do me a favor? Could you make sure it gets water if the rain stops? You can converse with it on occasion if you'd like. For little things to grow powerful, care is required.

The girl, Hana, looked from Zen to the sapling and back again, her eyes glimmering with understanding. She nodded gravely. "I can do that."

Zen said, "Good," and stood up. He flashed her one of his infrequently fleeting grins, a hint of affection. "That's important work."

Zenshi Kaname took one final glance back at the hamlet, at the confusion, the fear, and the lone child with a painting before turning and crossing the bridge to the peaceful, waiting expanse of Kuro-no-Mori. The start of an adventure full of unknown possibilities and lost history.