The village that waited

“You always do this, Nia,” my mother had said, arms folded, tone sharper than the wine she only drank when she was mad. “You find a way to run. Even when no one’s chasing you.”

We were standing in her spotless kitchen, sunlight caught on the counters, nothing out of place but me. I still had my café apron on, still smelled like espresso and spoiled milk. I hadn’t come to fight. I’d come because she called. After all, I thought maybe this time would be different.

“I thought you called me over to talk about my tuition,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Or maybe to have a conversation for once.” Her heels clicked across the tile as she poured herself another glass. She didn’t dare look at me.

“I’m not running,” I said. “I’m just trying.” But that had never been enough for her.

“You’re twenty-one, not seventeen,” she snapped. “You want independence? Earn it. I’m done cleaning up your decisions.” 

And like that, the conversation was over.

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I was still running.

 I don't know how long I ran for, but long enough for my lungs to turn inside out. I had cuts and bruises all over, thin scrapes on my arms, dirt in my socks, a bruise blooming on my thigh from that last stumble, and managed to get dirt on my face. 

Eventually, I stopped. My breath came in short, ragged bursts. My legs trembled like they were ready to clock out, and that’s when I saw it.

The village.

Or something like a village. It wasn’t there before, I know it wasn’t. It felt like it had appeared the second I stopped running, like a reward for surviving the first level or whatever that was. At the top of the hill stood a tall wooden archway, its beams weathered and lined with carved kanji and swirling motifs. Paper charms fluttered from its crossbeam, even though there was no wind. Lanterns hung low on either side, glowing faintly like they were waiting to be noticed.

Across the top, in faded brushstrokes, was one word:
*Kiyozumi.

A faint chime echoed in my head, and I didn’t even flinch anymore.

⟡ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⟡
Status: ESCAPE SUCCESSFUL
HP: 61%
New Objective: Locate Safe Zone
Reminder: You are not the heroine of this story. Proceed with caution.

“I got that,” I muttered, still breathless. “Trust me. I noticed.”

 I wiped the smudge from my cheek with the edge of my sleeve and stepped closer, squinting past the archway. The road wound gently downhill, cobbled with stone arranged in imperfect, intentional lines, like something laid centuries ago and never touched again. Wooden storefronts leaned slightly with age, their eaves heavy with ivy and moss. Faded noren curtains swayed gently in front of shuttered windows. Some buildings still held signs painted in cracked black ink, while others had paper talismans pinned to their doorframes. On a few windowsills rested small offerings—cups of rice, tiny dishes of salt, wilted lotus flowers that had long since bowed their heads.

It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt paused. Like someone had put the story on hold and stepped away from the keyboard.

 In the distance, centered in the heart of the village, rose a five-tiered pagoda. Its roof was lacquered black, and the curved corners caught the amber light. Behind it, a slender bell tower stood silent and tall, thin golden charms strung between its beams like prayers strung between breaths.

I kept walking, not because it felt safe—it didn’t—but because standing still felt worse. Like I’d get swallowed up by the stillness if I didn’t move.

 Then it hit me.

I still had no phone.
No charger.
No bookbag.

“Dang it,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “I left my bag.”

Of course, I had. Dropped it right after I panicked somewhere back in the clearing when the girl with the parasol appeared, all violet eyes and silver vines and that too-polite “You weren’t summoned.” 

Either she had it or one of those guards did. And inside that bag? The book I was inside of, the one I hadn’t finished since high school. I was pretty sure I still had a few downloaded off a pirated site buried in my files somewhere. But of course, the one I fall into is the one I barely remember.

I didn’t wait for another system message.

I kept walking, weighed down by the sinking feeling of stupid decisions and missed chances. I turned down a narrower street until I reached a building tucked beneath a slope of low-hanging trees. A teahouse, maybe. Or it used to be. The sign above the door had been painted in delicate strokes, but the characters had faded into ghost ink. Its paper lanterns were still lit, though— swaying slightly like they were expecting me.

The door creaked as I pushed it open.

Inside was quiet. Not the eerie, heavy kind but the kind of stillness that clings to old places. Tatami mats lined the floor, edges fraying. A low table stood at the center, set with a tea set for two, untouched. Dust shimmered in the light that filtered through the rice paper windows, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and something sweetly bitter—like old incense or memory.

I caught my reflection in the teahouse’s cracked window—a blur of wild curls, half flattened from running, half tangled from the wind. My skin was streaked with dirt and sweat, deep brown beneath the smudges.

I didn’t look like a summoned maiden.
I looked like a girl who’d barely survived gym class.

I let out a breathless laugh. No one laughed back.

Then came a creak.
Behind one of the room dividers, a shadow moved. 

  I froze.

“Not again,” I whispered. “Please, Lord…”

I scanned the room for any usable weapon, a tool, or maybe a sharp stick. I reached for the nearest object: a ceramic teacup. Armed with porcelain and adrenaline. Great. 

I inched forward slowly, heart pounding like it hadn’t just nearly exploded during that sprint through the forest. The divider rustled faintly. I held my breath. Then I peeked around the edge—with caution.

It was a coat rack. Just a stupid coat rack. With a dusty embroidered robe hanging off one arm like it were waiting for someone to pick it up.

I exhaled and slumped to the floor.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “So that’s two jump-scares by inanimate objects. We’re off to a great start.”

I sat there for a while letting my muscles stop twitching. Letting the shaking in my hands fade into something more manageable. Then I stood again and limped toward the back, where the shelves still held old things, useful things.

1. Jars of dried herbs.
2. Small bundles wrapped in waxed paper.
3. A stack of folded linen bandages that looked cleaner than they had any right to be.

Under a low table sat a small chest, its lock already broken, so I knelt and lifted the lid. 

Inside: a pouch of coins, a flint stone, a cracked compass, and a bar wrapped in waxed paper with faint print across the front: *Katapan. It looked like a granola bar—It probably wasn’t. Still. I tucked everything into the deep pockets of my apron and took a bite of the gronala-shaped bar. It tasted like stale honey and uncooked oats, but it was better than vending machine food at the moment.

I wandered back toward the door, the weight of the pouch in one hand, the granola bar in the other. The light outside had shifted—darker now, more blue than gold. The lanterns had brightened slightly, like they were leaning into the dusk.

Outside, Kiyozumi still waited.

Still too quiet. Still too still.

⟡ SYSTEM TIP UNLOCKED ⟡
World Status: STABILIZING
Survival Progress: 6%
Recommended Action: Continue Resource Collection

Six percent. Out of what, a hundred? Or out of surviving at all?

I tightened the pouch at my side and stepped outside, eyes sweeping the street. No voices. No footsteps. Just paper lanterns swaying and the faint clink of wind chimes in the distance.

Not a safe zone.

But it would do—for now.

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➤ Katapan  (Item Type: Common | HP Filler +5%)
Found in safehouses, market stalls, and forgotten corners of the world, katapan is the go-to ration for travelers who don’t have time—or options. Made from compressed grain, stale honey, and wishful thinking, it fills your stomach and not much else. Often found in abandoned inns or tucked into emergency kits. Chewing is recommended, but not required.