The Fall

He couldn’t tell how much of the countdown remained, if any at all.

His exits blocked, in the heart of the building, he only had one option: climb to the roof. The slanted beam crushing the man gave him a walkway and from there, the thatched roof above tore away without much complaint. This high up, flames reached skyward like mountains whilst all the lights of the city shone around him. He considered whether nets could support a jump of this height. If they didn't, that was its own problem.

Arata chose his steps carefully. What little remained of the roof was unstable, he didn’t want to consider falling back through. By the time he made it to the edge meeting the street, he could already feel the rumbles of demolition through the building’s spine.

“Bring up the nets!” He tried to shout to the ground, just to be met with an upward gust of hot air. There was no chance his voice could break through. The hook wouldn’t be able to hold on the thatch but what other choice did he have? It was slow going finding a part of the roof that hadn’t rotted to charcoal underneath, that had a clear line to the edge for the rope, so many variables to account for. A section of roof caved in underfoot and he almost fell through four stories sooner than he’d have liked. He made up his mind, anything was good enough.

Standing at the ledge, rope in hand, he pulled it for the eighth time, just to check the hook was secure. This was right, it was his only option, and he dreaded it all the same. A sharp lean sent his stomach through freefall, only the wind and the crackle of fire as reassurance. He tried again, staring down onto the street and the roving bands of people below, and pulled back again. His coat must have been covered in ash, of course they didn’t see him.

You’re on your own, Arata, will you still do the right thing when there’s no one to do the opposite?

He would. Each motion was as mindless as a pulley, one action after the other, and he let gravity pull him from thatched roof onto wooden walls. Take one step, unwind more rope, then another, unwind more rope, another step. A wall collapsed to his right, falling under its own weight, and the tremor stopped him. His mind went to the hook, only a bunch of thatch supporting his weight. It didn’t hold.

The fall came to him easily like a lover’s embrace. It was so easy to let go.

A net was waiting for him at the bottom but the force still had him smash against the ground. Sawatari was there when he recovered.

“Aose told me that you thought running into a burning building would be more fun than doing your duty.” Her voice was as cold as well water.

“I knew who… who the victim was…” Arata tried to speak whilst pulling air back into his lungs. “Nagami and Zaitsu would never have found her.”

“And where is she?” A crowd of onlookers pretended not to be watching them argue whilst every other witch hunter prevented the fire from spreading. “Did doing what you thought was right in the moment actually do anything? Because with you running off, that meant there was one less witch hunter outside where we needed you.”

Arata didn’t have an answer. He’d failed on all accounts except one. He had a description of the monk.

***

“I truly would like to help with your investigation, your evidence does seem quite convincing.” The head monk of Korinen Temple scarcely met Arata’s eyes, his gaze always hovering somewhere between his nose and his neck as if he wanted to watch him breath. “But no monk here has the characteristics you described. I have a close relationship with each of them, so if any of their fingers suddenly turned to charcoal, I think I would know.” His chuckle at the end was all performance.

“In that case, could I please sit with them to see if any saw the witch come and go last night?” Arata didn’t have the permission to be here and he had to hope the head monk would not notice he should have a partner with him. He wouldn’t waste this chance.

The head monk only smiled and shook his head. “Unfortunately no. All of the monks at this temple are currently undertaking vows of silence so will be unable to assist. I hope you understand.” He swept his long sleeved arm to his side, towards the exit. “We will look into it ourselves at the earliest possible date. Until then, I will join you as you leave.”

They both stood up and the monk led Arata away from his personal study. The older man glided instead of walking, his face as impenetrable as a ceramic mask.

“Before I leave,” Arata turned as they passed a familiar door, “Could I see my wife and child’s portraits? I couldn’t allow myself to look at them for long last week.”

The monk’s expression was an unreadable smile. “Of course.” He opened the door to the hall of remembrance. “Take your time.”

He wasn’t lying, he did intend to visit the portraits, to sit with them, and ask their advice on what he was about to do. His loved ones’ painted faces could not reply but he felt their thoughts. It all served the greater purpose: if he found the monk, it would lead him to whichever witch took Chiyo away. Only when they bled onto his hands could he sleep easily.

There were two entrances to the hall, although the second was far less noticeable. A simple door in the side to allow the monks to clean and wash the floors, an action that didn’t require the ceremony of opening the tall, double doors he came through. To not disrupt the intended effect of isolation within the room, the inner side blended seamlessly with the wood panelling, A witch hunter’s intuition made him aware of the slight gaps that let daylight in.

He pushed it open a crack, checked all sight lines, before slipping the rest of his body through. If they wanted to hide whoever did this, Arata would have to find them himself. He didn’t try to sneak around, that itself would carry more suspicion, instead he strode across the empty courtyard in search of someone who would point him in the direction of the prayer hall.

He didn’t need to, he heard it before he saw it. Quite loud for a vow of silence. He moved past a building to a better view: wide and low, the hall’s screens were pulled aside, breaking the divide between the inside and out. Each monk sat cross-legged, head bowed, hands brought up together to their forehead. The number of times he saw them chanting sutras before, he should have noticed one detail, and yet it slipped him by.

Every monk had a golden cloth wrapped around their fingers.