Chapter I: The Two Who Never Feared the Dark

The Two Who Never Feared the Dark

The town of Kurotsuki rested between forested mountains and endless stretches of rice fields that shimmered silver beneath the moon. It was the kind of rural Japanese town that appeared on nostalgic postcards—wooden houses with tiled roofs, narrow stone paths, red torii gates near quiet shrines, and cicadas screaming through humid summers.

And yet, Kurotsuki carried a silence too deliberate to be natural.

People here smiled easily. They also forgot easily.

At the northern edge of town stood Kurotsuki Municipal Middle School, functioning and ordinary. Students laughed. Teachers scolded. Clubs practiced. Life moved as it should.

But high above it all, on Kuroyama Hill, stood its predecessor—the old school building, abandoned fifteen years ago.

No official reason was ever clearly explained to the children. Adults would simply say, “It became unsafe.”

Unsafe how?

No one clarified.

And in Kurotsuki, children learned early not to press too hard against unanswered questions.

Aika Hoshino did not care for unanswered questions.

She was seventeen, sharp-eyed and steady-voiced, carrying herself with the quiet certainty of someone who refused to bend to intimidation. Her black hair was usually tied into a loose ponytail that swung behind her when she walked. She spoke directly. She did not hesitate.

Her best friend, Ren Mizuno, walked beside her every morning.

Ren was her opposite in visible ways—quiet, observant, brilliant without arrogance. He noticed how shadows shifted depending on cloud cover. He remembered exact dates of minor events. He sensed atmospheric changes before others did.

They had grown up in adjacent houses, their childhood stitched together by shared homework sessions, summer festival nights, and long conversations under the stars.

If Aika was the flame, Ren was the glass lantern around it.

They balanced each other.

But that balance trembled on an otherwise ordinary October morning.

The air was cool. The sky, pale blue.

Aika and Ren were halfway to school when someone stepped directly into their path.

Takeda Daichi.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A third-year delinquent with a perpetually untucked uniform and an expression caught somewhere between mockery and boredom. Three of his friends stood behind him, smirking in silent agreement.

“Well, if it isn’t Kurotsuki’s perfect pair,” Daichi said lazily.

Aika did not slow her pace. “Move.”

Instead, Daichi stepped closer.

“You two act fearless,” he continued. “Like nothing in this town bothers you.”

Ren felt it before the words fully formed—the direction this was heading.

Aika tilted her head slightly. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Daichi grinned.

“Go to the old school on Kuroyama Hill tonight.”

The wind shifted. Even the cicadas seemed to pause.

One of Daichi’s friends muttered, “That place is cursed.”

“Shut up,” Daichi snapped, though his eyes flickered briefly toward the distant hill visible over the rooftops.

Aika’s expression did not change. “Is that all?”

“You stay there for one hour,” Daichi said. “Walk through the second floor. Prove you’re not just pretending.”

Ren’s fingers tightened around the strap of his school bag.

The second floor.

That detail felt specific. Too specific.

“You’ll be at the base of the hill?” Aika asked calmly.

Daichi smirked. “We’ll make sure you don’t run back home.”

Silence stretched between them.

Ren expected Aika to refuse. To laugh it off. To dismiss it as childish.

Instead—

“We’ll go,” she said.

Ren’s heartbeat skipped.

Daichi blinked, clearly not expecting immediate acceptance.

“Tonight,” Aika added.

Daichi forced a chuckle. “Sure. Don’t cry halfway.”

Aika walked past him without another word. Ren followed. Once they were out of earshot, he finally spoke.

“Why did you say yes?”

Aika kept walking, her steps steady. “Because he thinks fear controls people.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She glanced at him briefly. “Don’t tell me you believe those rumors.”

Ren did not respond immediately.

The old school had always unsettled him. When he was younger, he once dreamed of walking through its corridors—only to find the hallway stretching endlessly, doors multiplying as he tried to escape. He had never told Aika about that dream.

“Ren,” she said more softly now, her tone less confrontational. “It’s just an abandoned building.”

He wanted to believe that.

But something about Daichi specifying the second floor lingered.

That afternoon, the town seemed to breathe differently. Clouds gathered earlier than usual. Classes felt longer. Whispers circulated through the corridors.

“They’re actually going.”
“No way.”
“They’ll back out.”

During literature class, their new transfer teacher introduced herself.

“Good afternoon. My name is Fujimoto Kaede. I will be your English and extracurricular advisor from today onward.”

Her voice was gentle and melodic. Her smile warm.

But her eyes—

There was a stillness in them. Not emptiness. Restraint. As if she had practiced holding something back for years.

Aika noticed it immediately.

Ren noticed something else.

When Fujimoto-sensei mentioned she had “once lived in this town before,” her hand trembled slightly. Just slightly. No one else seemed to see it.

After school, Aika and Ren walked home together as usual. They passed the small Shinto shrine near the base of Kuroyama Hill. Paper talismans hung from its ropes, rustling softly in the wind.

Ren slowed.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

Aika did not look at him. “Feel what?”

He hesitated. “The town is… tense.”

She stopped walking. For a moment, her confidence thinned just enough for something else to surface—curiosity.

“You’re overthinking,” she said finally. “We go. We walk through. We leave. End of story.”

End of story.

The phrase felt ironic.

Stories rarely end where we expect them to.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, Kuroyama Hill darkened faster than the rest of the town. From a distance, the old school stood in silhouette.

Watching.

Waiting.

And neither Aika nor Ren noticed—

From an upper broken window, something shifted.

Not visibly.

But perceptibly.

Like attention turning toward them.

That night would begin with a dare.

But it would not end as one.

Because somewhere inside the abandoned corridors of Kuroyama Hill, something had been waiting a very long time.

And it had finally been given a reason to awaken.