Chapter 4 The Choosing

The hum would not stop.
It was the same sound that had haunted Katakana the night before, low, rhythmic, and almost alive. It pulsed behind his ribs as if his heartbeat had learned a new song. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something ancient had noticed him during the gathering yesterday.

He remembered the square: the fog, the whispers, the way shadows bent toward him when the priest read the list of names. And then, that final, chilling thought before he fell asleep, the Choir had noticed him.

Now, as dawn broke through a wall of thick gray fog, Katakana knew what that meant.

Today was the Choosing.

The entire town moved like ghosts through the mist. Doors creaked open just enough for figures to slip out, dressed in dull gray and black. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at each other. The cobblestones, slick with dew, reflected the trembling lantern light like veins of pale fire running through the earth.

Katakana walked with his younger brother and sister, their small hands clutching his tightly. He had barely slept, the echo of the Choir’s hum still rattling inside his skull. His sister’s eyes were red from crying. His brother hadn’t said a word since last night.

“Stay close,” Katakana said, forcing his voice to sound steady. “Don’t let go, no matter what happens.”

When they reached the square, a thousand eyes turned toward the stage. The same priest from yesterday stood there, older now, it seemed, worn thin by the fear that plagued him. But this time, he was not alone.

Five figures stood behind him, tall, still, cloaked in black robes that shimmered faintly in the light. Their faces were hidden behind porcelain masks carved into screaming mouths. Each bore a symbol over their hearts, a crooked cross bound by chains.

Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass.

“The Broken Will.”

Katakana had heard the name only once before, in a drunken whisper from a trader who passed through the town years ago. A cult of false saints who worshipped despair itself. People said they were the ones who first brought the Choir into this world centuries ago, promising salvation in exchange for obedience.

The tallest of them stepped forward. His mask was white and cracked, lined with gold. The sight of him made Katakana’s skin crawl.

When he spoke, his voice rolled through the fog like smoke.
“I am St. Williams the Crave,” he said, each word heavy, deliberate. “The voice of the Choir’s will.”

The crowd lowered their heads in fear.

“For a century,” St. Williams continued, “your town has lived in peace. Your crops grow. Your homes stand. You owe your breath to the Choir that hungers for none but the chosen.”

His gloved hands opened wide, as if blessing them.
“Today, we feed that hunger once more.”

Katakana’s sister whimpered quietly. He tightened his grip on her hand.

The priest began reading the parchment, his hands trembling.
Each name that left his mouth felt like a funeral bell. Mothers cried softly. Fathers stood rigid, unable to move.

Then the priest’s voice cracked, and the next name left him broken.

“Aiko Tana.”

The sound tore through Katakana like lightning.
His little sister froze. Her hand slipped from his.

For one instant, everything went silent, even the hum.

Then it came back, louder, pulsing through his body. His left arm burned, shadows twisting around his wrist like living ink. He felt the world tilt beneath him.

“No,” he whispered, stepping forward. “No. You can’t.”

The Broken Will’s guards moved through the crowd, their boots echoing sharply against the stone. When they reached Aiko, she screamed and clung to Katakana’s side.

“I don’t want to go!” she cried.

Katakana’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him as the guards closed in. The hum grew into a roar.

“I’ll go!” he shouted. His voice cut through the noise. “Take me instead!”

The entire crowd gasped.

The guards stopped. Even the fog seemed to pause in midair.

St. Williams tilted his head slowly, his cracked porcelain mask gleaming faintly in the gray light. “A volunteer,” he murmured. “How... poetic.”

The leader descended from the platform, his presence heavy and unnatural. Every step he took made the ground groan. “You would take her place, boy?”

“Yes,” Katakana said, his voice trembling but firm. “Let her go home. I’ll go.”

The priest tried to speak, but St. Williams silenced him with a gesture. The leader studied Katakana, almost fascinated.
“There is something about you,” he said softly. “The Choir stirs for you. It hums through your blood.”

He reached out and placed a single finger beneath Katakana’s chin. The touch burned like ice.
“Yes,” St. Williams whispered, almost lovingly. “You will do nicely.”

The air shifted. The fog began to twist, swirling violently around the square.

“Then it is decided,” St. Williams said. “The Choir accepts your offering.”

The priest fell to his knees, praying desperately. The villagers began to scream.

Katakana clutched his chest as a searing pain tore through him. His vision blurred, white and silver shapes flashing at the edge of his sight, skeletal armor, shadows bending, the faint outline of a scythe forming behind his back. He heard thousands of voices crying out, singing, and begging all at once.

His brother reached for him, shouting his name. His sister sobbed uncontrollably.

And then,  the world shattered.

The fog exploded outward with the sound of a thousand voices singing in perfect, horrific harmony. The light turned red. The shadows surged upward, swallowing Katakana whole.

When it was over, he was gone.

Only the echo of the Choir’s eternal song remained.

St. Williams turned to the terrified villagers. “The Offering is complete,” he said calmly. “Your peace is renewed.”

He paused, tilting his mask toward the sky as if listening to something only he could hear.
Then he smiled, a small, cracked grin behind the porcelain.
“And so begins the Choir’s true feast.”

Katakana opened his eyes.
He was lying on something cold, a ground that wasn’t stone but felt like it had once been alive. The air was thick with whispers, the same hum now deafening, vibrating through the very air.

Shapes surrounded him, people, hundreds of them, their faces gone, mouths wide open, singing in endless agony.

And in the distance, through the haze, a towering figure of shadow waited. Its form was made of bone and voice, and its hollow mouth sang a single note that rattled his soul.

Katakana tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The Choir had claimed him.
And it was hungry.