Chapter 1: 001. Joyous Occasion
Chapter Text
The air hung thick and heavy, a blanket of damp earth and the unsettling scent of pine needles decaying. Tsumugi, her delicate peach eyes scanning the inky shadows, pulled her threadbare cloak tighter. Beside her, her younger brother, Muzan, shivered, his light blue eyes wide with a fear that mirrored her own. Their breath plumed in the frigid night, the only sounds a symphony of rustling leaves and the distant, mournful cry of an unseen owl.
“Are you sure this is it, Ane-Chan?” Muzan whispered, his voice a fragile thing against the vastness of the forest. He clutched the worn hem of her sleeve, a small, trembling anchor in the overwhelming darkness.
Tsumugi nodded, her gaze fixed on the gnarled, ancient oak that loomed ahead like a skeletal sentinel. “Yes. Grandfather’s map was clear. The twin oaks mark the path to the old logging trail, and the carriage… it should be just beyond.”
They pressed on, their footsteps crunching on fallen twigs and damp moss. The moon, a sliver of bone, offered little illumination, forcing them to rely on the flickering light of a single, dim lantern Tsumugi held aloft. The forest seemed to press in on them, the trees like silent, judging spectres, their branches clawing at the bruised sky.
Then, through a break in the dense foliage, it appeared. A hulking, shadowy form, vaguely equine, hitched to a carriage that seemed to bleed into the darkness. The carriage itself was a relic, its wooden wheels half-buried in the soft earth, its once-ornate carvings now obscured by grime and years of neglect. And atop its flatbed, shrouded by a moth-eaten canvas sheet, was the object of their terrifying pilgrimage.
“There it is,” Tsumugi breathed, her voice barely a whisper, a mixture of relief and dread. She approached the carriage cautiously, her hand extended towards the sheet. It was heavy, stiff with age and what felt like centuries of accumulated dust. With a grunt, she pulled, and the fabric tore away with a sound like rending flesh, revealing the trunk beneath.
It wasn't just a trunk. It was a monstrous creation, carved from what looked like a dark, unknown wood, its surface intricately etched with symbols that seemed to writhe in the faint lantern light. A brass lock, tarnished green with age, held it fast. Even in the gloom, a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from within, a silent vibration that resonated in their bones.
Suddenly, a long, drawn-out howl ripped through the stillness of the forest, closer this time, chilling them to the core. Muzan yelped, burying his face against Tsumugi’s leg.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a pack of wolves,” Tsumugi whispered, though her own peach eyes were wide with a worry that betrayed her calm tone. “Come on. We’re almost rid of it.” She tugged at the trunk, the sheer weight of it almost pulling her off her feet.
Muzan, still trembling, reached out to help. Together, grunting with effort, they managed to slide the trunk off the carriage and onto the damp earth. It thudded with a sickening resonance that seemed to echo through the very ground beneath them. They dragged it, inch by agonizing inch, towards a gaping maw in the earth—a pit they had spent the better part of the day digging, their muscles aching, their hands raw.
The hole was deep, a dark, hungry mouth ready to swallow its forbidden meal. With a final, desperate heave, they pushed the trunk towards the edge. It tipped, teetered for a heart-stopping moment, and then plunged into the depths with a dull, echoing thud. The silence that followed was profound, heavy with the weight of their monumental task.
Tsumugi reached for a shovel, her fingers brushing against the cold metal. Beside her, Muzan, still shaken, stumbled. His foot caught on a loose root, and with a cry of surprise, he tumbled forward, disappearing into the darkness of the pit.
“Muzan!” Tsumugi cried out, her voice a sharp gasp of terror.
And then, from the depths of the hole, from the trunk itself, came a sound that was both ancient and terrifying: a deep, rhythmic drumbeat, resonating through the earth, slow and deliberate, like the beating heart of some colossal, awakening beast. Each beat vibrated through Tsumugi’s very bones, a primal summons.
“Tsumugi, it’s after me!” Muzan’s voice, muffled and tearful, echoed from the darkness below.
Tsumugi scrambled to the edge of the pit, peering down into the impenetrable blackness. “Grab on!” she urged, extending her hand, her fingers outstretched, desperate to find his. She could vaguely make out his pale, terrified face in the sliver of moonlight that managed to penetrate the depths. His small hand, shaking uncontrollably, found hers. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, Tsumugi pulled, her muscles straining, her feet digging into the soft earth. Slowly, agonizingly, Muzan was hauled from the pit, his face streaked with dirt and tears, his light blue eyes wide with unfathomable horror.
“Run! Run!” Muzan cried, scrambling to hide behind his sister, his small body trembling violently. The drumbeat intensified, a steady, relentless rhythm that pulsed in the very air.
But Tsumugi, though her own heart hammered against her ribs, knew they couldn't. “No, Otouto,” she urged, her voice a little shaky but firm. “We have to finish this. Come on. Help me bury it.” She gestured frantically to the shovels, the earth still loose around the edges of the pit.
Muzan peeked out from behind her, his eyes darting to the hole, then to the ominous, throbbing trunk within. “What if someone digs it up?” he whispered, the question laced with a child’s innocent, yet terrifying, understanding of the unknown.
Tsumugi’s jaw tightened, her peach eyes hardening with a grim resolve. She picked up a shovel, its weight a comforting solidity in her trembling hands. “May Kami-Sama have mercy on his soul.”
As the words left her lips, the air around them shimmered, not with heat, but with a palpable, otherworldly chill. The drumbeat reached a crescendo, a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the forest. Behind them, the trees seemed to warp and distort, and then, with a terrifying, whooshing sound, a swirling vortex of jungle green erupted from the ground. It was a kaleidoscope of vibrant, impossible colors, swirling with an unnatural energy. Vines, thick and sinuous, seemed to reach out from its depths, their tendrils grasping at the air. The stench of damp earth and exotic, unknown flora filled their nostrils, overpowering the familiar scent of pine.
Before they could even scream, before they could even comprehend the impossible sight before them, the vortex expanded, its verdant maw opening wide. A powerful, unseen force gripped them, yanking them off their feet. Muzan’s cry was cut short, swallowed by the roar of the swirling portal. Tsumugi felt a sickening lurch, a sensation of being pulled through an impossibly narrow space, her vision blurring into a dizzying kaleidoscope of green and black.
Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the vortex vanished, leaving behind only the silence of the forest, the lingering scent of damp earth, and the empty space where two terrified siblings had stood moments before. The only evidence of their presence was the newly disturbed earth around the freshly buried, drumming trunk. And deep within the forest, far away, the mournful howls of the wolves began anew, their cries echoing through the vast, dark emptiness.
The summer of ’69 hummed with a lazy warmth, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer and the cicadas sing their relentless song. For Yoriichi, it was the soundtrack to freedom, the wind in his long, burgundy hair, now tied back in a messy high ponytail that danced behind him like a fiery banner. His maroon-red eyes, usually serene, held a glint of easy contentment as he pedaled his beat-up bike down the cracked suburban street, the sun-kissed visage of his hanafuda earrings swaying gently with each turn of the pedal.
“Hello, dear,” a soft voice drifted from Mrs. Ubuyashiki’s porch. The black-haired woman, her light purple eyes gentle, offered him a warm smile as she cradled her baby, a tiny bundle with small tufts of black hair, to her breast.
Yoriichi slowed, his voice polite. “Hi, Miss Ubuyashiki.” He offered a small wave before continuing on his way.
Further down, from her manicured garden, Mrs. Botan called out, her voice a melodic chime. “Good afternoon, Yoriichi-chan!” She was a pretty woman, her laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
“Hey, Botan-San,” Yoriichi responded, a faint smile gracing his lips. He liked Mrs. Botan. She always had a kind word.
At the intersection, Ishi, a burly man with a perpetually grease-stained uniform and kind brown eyes, held up his hand, signalling for the sparse traffic to stop. “All yours, Yoriichi,” he called out, his black hair falling across his forehead.
“Thanks, Ishi-San,” Yoriichi yelled back, grateful for the brief pause that allowed him to cut across without hassle. He was almost there.
But just as the factory gates came into view, a familiar, unwelcome sound broke the peaceful hum of the afternoon. The grating screech of bicycle tires on pavement, the guttural laughter that always seemed to promise trouble.
Rengoku Hachijurou, a fiery comet of blonde hair that faded to red, leading the charge, his yellow eyes gleaming with mischief. Trailing behind him were his usual cronies: Mikazushi Kaito, a slender figure with slick black hair and cruel blue eyes, and Hayashi Kaze, a pale shadow with stark white hair and unsettling green eyes.
“Get him!” Kaze’s voice, sharp and reedy, cut through the air like a whip.
Hachijurou let out a booming laugh, a sound that grated on Yoriichi’s ears. “Prepare to die, Tsugikuni! Hey, Tsugikuni, what’s the rush?” He pedaled harder, his blonde hair with its fiery ending streaming behind him like a tail.
Kaito howled with laughter, his blue eyes shimmering with malicious glee. “He’s goin’ to his dad’s factory! Yoriichi wants his daddy now!” The taunt was a familiar one, a barbed arrow aimed straight at Yoriichi’s quiet nature.
Yoriichi ignored them, pushing his legs harder, the chain of his bike groaning in protest. The factory, with its tall brick walls and the faint, comforting scent of metal and oil, was his sanctuary. He pedaled with a desperate urgency, the taunts of the trio echoing in his ears, spurring him on.
Finally, with a last burst of speed, he reached the double doors of the factory. He dropped his bike with a clatter, not bothering to prop it up, and burst inside, the relative coolness of the interior a welcome relief from the sweltering heat and the tormentors outside.
Through the glass panel of the door, he could see Hachijurou, his expression a sneer of contempt. “Go ahead, Tsugikuni. Run to Daddy. We’ll be waiting.” The blonde hair with a fiery ending seemed to glow with triumph as Hachijurou snickered, his friends echoing his amusement.
Yoriichi slammed the heavy door shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. He leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep, shaky breath. The taunts still stung, but for now, he was safe. He was in his father’s factory, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.
Yoriichi bit his bottom lip, the sting of the recent chase still prickling at him. He let out a soft sigh, the factory’s familiar hum of industry a low, comforting thrum around him. He ambled through the bustling workspace, his maroon-red eyes scanning the scene.
Men and women, their sleeves rolled up, moved with practiced efficiency, their hands a blur of motion. The rhythmic thud of machinery, the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional sharp snap of a cutting tool – it was a symphony of creation. Rolls of cloth, vibrant and muted, were transformed; some were fed into massive washing machines that churned with soapy water, others were guided through the precise needles of sewing machines, the intricate threads weaving patterns of everyday wear.
He began to ascend the creaking wooden stairs that led to his father's office, the scent of fresh fabric growing stronger with each step. The door was ajar, and as he reached the top, he paused, a faint smile touching his lips at the sight within. His older twin brother, Michikatsu, was seated in a worn armchair, his long, spiky black hair with its distinctive burgundy tips cascading down his back. Kneeling before him, her nimble fingers deftly weaving through his dark locks, was Tamayo, her petite frame a contrast to Michikatsu’s broader build. Her dark brown hair framed a face of gentle concentration; her light purple eyes focused on her task.
“Hello, Yoriichi-San,” Tamayo murmured softly, her voice a soothing melody as she hummed a quiet tune, her fingers continuing to braid Michikatsu's hair with an almost meditative grace.
Michikatsu, his maroon-red eyes unreadable as always, glanced up. “Otouto, you’re here way earlier than I thought.” His tone was flat, almost bored, but then his gaze sharpened, taking in Yoriichi’s disheveled appearance, the faint streaks of dirt on his clothes and the lingering tension in his shoulders. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, crossed his features before he continued, “Those boys again, I take it?”
“Yeah…” Yoriichi frowned, the memory of Rengoku Hachijurou’s taunts still fresh.
Tamayo pursed her lips, a hint of displeasure in her gentle eyes as she deftly secured the end of Michikatsu’s braid with a tie. She looked up at Yoriichi, her expression filled with quiet sympathy. “Those boys need to stop picking on you.”
"Otou-Sama won't be happy if he finds out those boys are still picking on you." Michikatsu let out a sigh, a rare display of something akin to exasperation. He then turned his head slightly, admiring the neat braid Tamayo had woven into his hair, a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes.
Tamayo smiled sweetly, her gentle fingers lightly touching the newly finished braid before she leaned her head against his shoulder, a picture of quiet affection.
Yoriichi frowned, the weight of his brother’s words, and the implied disapproval of their father, settling on him. He simply nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken understanding between them.
Tamayo’s gaze shifted to Yoriichi, her gentle purple eyes thoughtful. She then muttered softly, almost to herself, “Is it because you are friends with Rengoku’s girlfriend, Uta?” The question hung in the air, delicate as a spiderweb.
Yoriichi’s cheeks bloomed a warm cherry red, a blush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. The mere thought of Uta, with her bright obsidian eyes and quick smile, made him feel a giddy lightness in his chest. “We’re just friends…” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.
Michikatsu, who had been idly admiring his braid, let out an almost exasperated groan, a low, rumbling sound that spoke volumes of his twin’s transparent denial.
"For the love of— Otouto, you need to stay away from her." Michikatsu's voice was sharper now, a definite edge of frustration. He wrapped an arm around Tamayo, pulling her into a loving hug before standing up and helping her to her feet. Her light purple kimono, soft against her frame, fluttered prettily around her like butterfly wings as she moved. "I get she and you are friends, but one day you're going to get hurt because of Rengoku and his goons." He snarked, his maroon eyes narrowed slightly.
Yoriichi looked down at his scuffed sandals, his earlier blush fading to a dull flush of shame. He didn't argue, just nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of his brother's harsh but undeniable truth.
Tamayo then gently took Yoriichi’s hands in hers, her touch soft and reassuring. A softer smile bloomed on her already gentle face. “Listen to me, Yoriichi-san, I’m sure things will all work out.” Her light purple eyes were full of genuine concern. “I just… I think it’s best that you avoid a further confrontation with Rengoku and his friends.” She tilted her head slightly as Michikatsu, beside them, muttered under his breath, “Goons. Rengoku and his stupid ass goons.”
Yoriichi nodded, a silent agreement to her sensible advice, even as a knot of resentment began to form in his stomach.
Tamayo let go of Yoriichi's calloused hands, her fingers then lacing with Michikatsu’s. They exchanged a brief, comforting glance before turning and leaving the office, walking down the creaking wooden stairs. Yoriichi heard their footsteps recede, then the soft murmur of their voices as they waited by the main entrance of the factory for him.
Yoriichi numbly followed, his mind replaying Tamayo’s words, Michikatsu’s warnings. The thought that he shouldn’t be around Uta, that his friendship with her was a source of trouble because of her boyfriend and his friends, made something inside him clench. He shouldn't have to avoid someone he cared about. It made him somewhat… angry?
Tamayo’s soft smile widened as Yoriichi caught up to them, his expression still a mix of frustration and quiet contemplation. Michikatsu huffed, but a wry grin, surprisingly warm, touched his lips as he looked at his younger brother.
They stepped out of the factory, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. The first thing Yoriichi noticed was the glaring absence of his bicycle. His heart sank.
And then he saw them. Hachijurou, Kaito, and Kaze were lounging by a gnarled old oak tree at the edge of the factory grounds, their faces a mix of boredom and anticipation. Hachijurou’s eyes, yellow and sharp, immediately locked onto Yoriichi.
“Just because you’re a Tsugikuni,” Hachijurou snarled, his voice dripping with venom, “doesn’t mean you can hang around my girlfriend!” He took a step forward, his fists clenching.
The words were barely out of his mouth when a blur of motion erupted beside Yoriichi. Michikatsu, his face a mask of cold fury, lunged forward. A sharp crack echoed through the air as his fist connected squarely with Hachijurou’s nose. The blonde-haired boy let out a pained cry, a choked gasp, as he tumbled backward, a string puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. He landed in an undignified heap on the dusty ground, clutching his face.
Kaito and Kaze, who had been snickering moments before, froze, their eyes wide with shock. They exchanged a terrified glance, then, without a word, turned and bolted, their bikes abandoned as they disappeared around the corner of the factory.
Tamayo gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. For a moment, she looked ready to chide her boyfriend, her gentle nature instinctively rebelling against the sudden violence. But then, her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Hachijurou writhe on the ground, and a silent acknowledgment passed between them. The bratty boy named Rengoku Hachijurou had, she concluded, deserved it.
Yoriichi’s eyes widened in surprise, a jolt going through him at the sudden, swift act of retribution. Then, a wave of something almost smug washed over him, a flicker of dark satisfaction at the sight of the self-righteous bully tossed so ignominiously to the ground.
“You’re a jerk, ya’know?” Michikatsu snarled, his voice low and dangerous, his gaze fixed on the groaning Hachijurou. Tamayo, her expression now firm and unwavering, nodded her agreement as she stood just behind Michikatsu, a silent pillar of support.
Hachijurou, blood dripping from his nose, scrambled to his feet, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pain and incandescent rage. “I’ll get you back! You bastard!” he shrieked, clutching his now-bleeding nose. He shot one last venomous glare at the Tsugikuni brothers before turning tail and running, a pathetic figure disappearing down the street.
Tamayo, for a fleeting moment, let her usual gentle composure slip, a tiny, almost triumphant and deeply smug grin playing on her lips as she watched Hachijurou flee. It was a side of her Yoriichi rarely saw, and it was surprisingly… satisfying.
Michikatsu let out a low snicker, the sound rough but laced with amusement. He then turned his attention to Yoriichi. “I’ll be staying at Tamayo’s for the night, will you be okay to spend the night alone?” His tone was casual, but his eyes held a flicker of concern.
Yoriichi nodded, a small, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. Being alone was a familiar state, a quiet constant in a house that often felt too large and too silent.
“Great! We’ll see you tomorrow!” Michikatsu grinned, reaching out to playfully ruffle Yoriichi’s already messy burgundy hair, a gesture of brotherly affection. He then grasped Tamayo’s hand, their fingers intertwining naturally, and with a last wave, they walked off into the distance, their figures silhouetted against the setting sun.
Yoriichi watched them go, a sigh escaping him. He didn't want to go home just yet, not to the hushed tension that often permeated the air between his patriotic, demanding father and his meek, perpetually worried mother. The thought of the quiet, slightly stifling atmosphere of their house was unappealing.
As he stood there, caught between the retreating figures of his brother and Tamayo and the looming presence of his empty home, a peculiar sound reached his ears. A rhythmic drum, deep and resonant, pulsed through the air. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard – almost enchanting, certainly compelling. It seemed to emanate from somewhere beyond the factory, drawing him in with an almost irresistible pull.
Curiosity, a potent force in his quiet life, tugged at him. He began to follow the sound, his maroon-red eyes scanning the surrounding area. The drumbeat seemed to lead him towards a derelict construction site just a few blocks away – a forgotten patch of churned earth and skeletal scaffolding, left unfinished and overgrown with weeds.
The drumming grew louder, guiding him to a section of freshly disturbed dirt near the edge of the site. Something was half-buried there, its corner barely visible. Yoriichi knelt, his fingers digging into the loose earth, uncovering a heavy, ornate wooden box. It was caked in grime, but as he brushed away the dirt, he saw intricate carvings that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
He pulled it free, the box surprisingly heavy. As he flipped it open, revealing a vibrant board game inside, a stern-looking construction worker in a hard hat, who had been taking a break nearby, looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. His gaze lingered on Yoriichi, then on the mysterious box in his hands.
Without a second thought, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through him, Yoriichi snapped the box shut, tucked it under his arm, and bolted. He ran, not looking back, the rhythmic drumbeat now echoing in his ears, a prelude to an adventure he couldn't yet comprehend.
Yoriichi slipped into the quiet house, the heavy front door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the stillness. He moved through the dimly lit hallway, the familiar scent of lemon polish and stale air filling his nostrils. The factory, the chase, the confrontation, the strange box – it all felt like a dream now, a vivid, unsettling memory.
He drifted into the lounge room, a space usually reserved for his father’s quiet evenings with the newspaper or his mother’s occasional tea with a neighbor. It was furnished with heavy, dark wood and plush, if slightly faded, armchairs. He walked over to a large, ornate wooden cabinet, its top usually cluttered with family photos and decorative knick-knacks. He found the ‘rules drawer’ – a specific compartment his father always used for instruction manuals and various small, mundane objects.
With a gentle tug, the drawer slid open. Inside, nestled amongst old board game instructions and a tangled mess of forgotten playing cards, was the Jumanji game. He pulled it out, his eyes drawn to the mysterious tokens within. His fingers, still calloused from years of helping at the factory, carefully selected two: a dark, polished piece that looked like a stylized Keratin Oni, its fierce expression somehow muted by the smooth wood, and another, gleam of metallic Kitsune, intricately crafted and shimmering faintly in the dim light. They felt cool and smooth against his skin, unexpectedly heavy.
He lifted them, examining them closely, when a soft voice startled him, causing his hands to jump. The tokens slipped from his grasp. They clattered against the wooden surface of the cabinet, a dull thud that seemed to resonate louder than it should have. And then, impossibly, miraculously, they weren’t where they fell. Like magnets to an unseen force, the Keratin Oni and the Metallic Kitsune slid across the polished wood, drawn by an invisible pull, until they clicked into place at two distinct starting points on the game board.
“Honey… Is that you?” His mother, Akeno, called out softly from somewhere deeper within the house, her voice a gentle tremor in the quiet.
Yoriichi’s heart gave a small lurch. He quickly shoved the Jumanji game under the heavy mahogany coffee table, its unexpected weight causing a slight tremor in the furniture. He then walked towards the formal dining room, drawn by the familiar drone of his father’s voice.
Shinji, the undisputed lord of the Tsugikuni household, stood at the head of the polished dining table, his posture rigid, a sheaf of papers held meticulously in his hand. He was reciting, or rather, rehearsing, a speech. “Hard work, determination, a cheerful outlook—attributes that have exemplified the spirit of our home since our forefathers first settled this town. Despite the harshness of our native clime and the granite of our soil… we have—”
“Prospered,” Akeno, his Okaa-Sama, subtly added, her voice a gentle hum from where she sat at the table, her hands folded meekly in her lap. She offered a small, encouraging smile.
Shinji glared good-naturedly at her, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I knew the whole damn thing this morning.” He grumbled, adjusting his spectacles.
“I’m sure you’ll do lovely, dear,” Akeno nodded, her tone unwavering in its quiet support.
Shinji let out a theatrical sigh, then straightened his tie. “All right. Let’s go.” He announced, expecting immediate compliance.
As he turned to leave the dining room, Akeno’s voice, soft and hesitant, stopped him. “Shinji… We have to talk to Yoriichi.” Her head was lowered meekly, her gaze fixed on the tablecloth.
Yoriichi, who had been setting the dinner table with an almost robotic precision, placing heavy silver cutlery next to pristine porcelain plates, felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He bit his bottom lip, the subtle tremor in his mother’s voice confirming his unease. He continued to arrange the napkins, pretending not to hear, yet every word resonated within him.
Yoriichi picked at his food, the silverware clinking softly against the porcelain plate. Dinner was a quiet affair tonight, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
“Well, we’re on our way,” Shinji announced, pushing back his chair slightly and nodding to Akeno, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return.
“Okay…” Akeno began, her voice a soft murmur, “I told your father what you told me yesterday. It wasn’t just Rengoku Hachijurou, no?” Her eyes flickered to Yoriichi, then quickly away.
Shinji let out a sigh. “Look, if I’d known that, Yoriichi, I wouldn’t have—” he trailed off, seemingly addressing an invisible confidante, perhaps rehearsing a conversation he’d already had.
“It’s okay, Otou-Sama…” Yoriichi mumbled, his gaze fixed on his plate.
Shinji cleared his throat, his voice taking on a more formal, almost oratorical tone. “But I want you to know I am proud of you. I mean, you faced them, even though you were outnumbered. And since you took it like a man, your mother and I have decided that you’re ready to go to the Cliffside School for Boys. There.” He reached into his suit jacket pocket, pulling out a glossy brochure for Cliffside Academy for young boys, its cover depicting stately stone buildings nestled amidst verdant hills. He pushed it across the table towards Yoriichi.
“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Akeno added, her smile loving, though her eyes held a hint of her usual worry.
Yoriichi stared at the brochure, his mind reeling. The words didn’t compute. “You don’t want me living here anymore?” he asked, the question escaping his lips before he could stop it.
“Yoriichi…” Akeno sighed, a note of exasperation in her voice.
Shinji, however, forged ahead, oblivious to Yoriichi’s shock. “It’s always been the plan that you go to Cliffside when you were ready. I mean, Tsugikunis have been going to Cliffside ever since the 1700s. Even your Uncle went there.” He spoke with a pride that left no room for debate.
Yoriichi picked up the brochure, his fingers tracing the familiar architectural lines. His gaze snagged on a prominent photograph. “Look at this. Tsugikuni Hall.” His brow furrowed in a frown.
“It’s the main dormitory,” Shinji responded, a note of paternal pride in his voice.
Yoriichi’s frustration brewed, bubbling to the surface. “Oh, this is great. Kids are on my case here because I’m a Tsugikuni. Just wait till I’m living in a building named after me.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.
Shinji’s expression hardened, his reply was stern. “It was named after my father.”
“Good. Why don’t you live in it?” Yoriichi snarked, the anger now fully taking hold.
Shinji scoffed, a disbelieving huff. “I did! I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for my years there.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna be who you are. Maybe I don’t wanna be a Tsugikuni!” Yoriichi blurted out, the words hot and sharp, cutting through the polite dinner table atmosphere.
“You won’t be. Not till you start acting like one,” Shinji growled, his eyes blazing with a fury that mirrored Yoriichi’s own.
“Shinji—” Akeno interjected, her voice a desperate plea.
“Get your coat!” Shinji commanded, his gaze unwavering, indicating for Akeno to grab her coat.
Yoriichi was livid. “I guess I’m not ready for Cliffside then!” he yelled, pushing back his chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor.
“We’re taking you there next Sunday! And I don’t wanna hear another word about it!” Shinji scowled, his face a mask of controlled rage. He spun on his heel and stalked out the front door, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“You won’t! I’m never talking to you again!” Yoriichi screamed after him, his voice cracking with emotion.
From the car, Akeno’s muffled voice called out, “Shinji—”
“Don’t!” Shinji huffed, yanking open the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat. He slammed the door shut with a resounding thud, then barked at the chauffeur, “Get driving!” The engine roared to life, and the car pulled away, leaving Yoriichi standing alone in the doorway, his chest heaving with impotent fury. He turned and stormed into his room, throwing open his suitcase and furiously packing, clothes spilling messily onto the floor around him.
Chapter 2: 002. The First Roll Till The Last Stand
Chapter Text
As Yoriichi, suitcase in hand, stood in the entryway, still seething from the confrontation with his father, a soft knock echoed through the house. He pulled open the door, his breath catching slightly. Standing on the porch, bathed in the fading light of dusk, was Uta. Her lovely yellow kimono seemed to glow, a vibrant splash of colour against the muted tones of the evening, and her black hair framed a face dominated by her captivating obsidian doe eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Yoriichi asked softly, a warm blush creeping up his cheeks. The anger he’d felt moments before began to dissipate, replaced by a familiar giddiness.
“I brought your bike back,” she said shyly, gesturing to his bicycle propped against the porch railing.
“You didn’t have to. I was going over to Rengoku’s to get it myself,” Yoriichi mumbled, the words tinged with a touch of bravado. He had, in fact, harboured a simmering plan to storm Rengoku Hachijurou’s house and, in a fit of vengeful satisfaction, perhaps even slap the boy silly.
“I told Hachi-Kun to stop picking on you,” Uta let out a weary sigh, a clear note of annoyance at her boyfriend evident in her voice.
“You shouldn’t have wasted your breath. We’ll talk about this some other time,” Yoriichi grumbled, his mood still soured by the thought of Rengoku.
Just then, the faint, rhythmic drumming from the game sounded again, more distinct this time, seemingly emanating from within the house.
Uta gasped, her obsidian eyes widening. “What was that?”
“You heard it too?” Yoriichi questioned, a sudden chill tracing its way up his spine.
“Of course I heard it,” Uta nodded, her lips pursed together in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“Come on. I found this weird game at a construction site!” Yoriichi urged, a new excitement bubbling up inside him, eclipsing his earlier frustrations. He gestured for Uta to follow him into the lounge room.
“A game?” she questioned, her eyebrows arching in surprise.
“Jumanji. A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind. You roll the dice to move your token. Doubles get another turn. And the first player to reach the end wins.” Yoriichi nodded eagerly, a thought blooming in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, playing this game with Uta could bring them closer. “You wanna play?”
“I quit playing board games five years ago,” Uta mumbled, a faint blush on her own cheeks. It was true; she found them sometimes too complicated, too frustrating.
They both sat down on the floor by the coffee table, Yoriichi pulling the Jumanji game from its hiding place and placing it atop the polished surface. The intricate carvings on the wooden box seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light of the room.
Uta reached out, her fingers lightly brushing one of the dice. She admired its worn edges, its unusual weight, before idly tossing it into the air. It tumbled, then landed with a soft click on the board, a clear ‘6’ facing upwards. As she began to pull her hand back, Yoriichi witnessed a chilling sight: the Keratin Oni game piece, without being touched, slid smoothly across the board, moving exactly six spaces.
“Uta, it’s gotta be magnetized or something,” Yoriichi said breathlessly, his voice barely a whisper, disbelief warring with a growing sense of unease.
“Yoriichi, look!” Uta gasped, her finger trembling as she pointed to the small, yellowed rules guide that had fallen open beside the board. Her voice was hushed as she read the eerie verse: “At night they fly, you better run, these winged things are not much fun.”
Just as the last word left her lips, a chorus of leathery wing beats echoed eerily from the fireplace. Both Yoriichi and Uta snapped their heads towards the hearth, where shadows seemed to writhe and coalesce. “What was that?” Uta whimpered, her voice laced with rising fear.
“I—I don’t know,” Yoriichi stuttered, his own heart beginning to pound.
“Put it away, Yoriichi!” Uta whispered fearfully, her hand reaching out to grasp his arm.
“Okay.” Yoriichi nodded numbly, his fingers fumbling towards the game board, an instinct to close the box, to make this strange nightmare disappear.
But as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed a resonant eight o’clock, signifying the hour, Yoriichi’s hand brushed against the second die, sending it spinning. It landed with a soft thump, showing a clear ‘5’. The Keratin Oni game piece, already positioned on the board, twitched, then moved precisely five spaces. “Oh, no! The game thinks I rolled.”
“What do you mean, ‘the game thinks’?” Uta whimpered, her face paling in the flickering light.
Yoriichi ignored her, his eyes fixed on the rules guide. He saw the next ominous verse and read it aloud, his voice strained: “In the jungle you must wait, until the dice read five or eight.” He repeated it, trying to decipher the meaning, his brow furrowed in concentration. “In the jungle you must wait—What’s that mean?”
To Uta’s utter horror, the air around Yoriichi began to shimmer, twisting like a heat haze. A swirling vortex of verdant green, thick with the scent of damp earth and exotic blossoms, erupted from beneath the coffee table, reaching out like grasping tendrils. Yoriichi screamed, his voice echoing eerily. “Uta! Roll the dice, Uta! Please!” he pleaded, his body being pulled inexorably into the swirling green depths. He fought, his hands grasping desperately at the edges of the table, but the force was too strong. His pleas grew fainter, more desperate, until with a final, terrified cry, he had finally disappeared, swallowed by the luminous vortex.
The green light flared, then vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the stunned silence of the lounge room. Then, from the fireplace, hundreds of bats, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light, swarmed out, their leathery wings beating furiously. They screeched, filling the room with a cacophony of sound, and descended upon Uta.
Uta screamed, a raw, visceral cry of terror, as the bats swooped and dove around her, their tiny claws snagging at her hair and clothes. She scrambled backward, tripping over the rug, her eyes wide with horror. She clawed her way to her feet, pushing past the swarming creatures, and burst out of the house, her terrified screams echoing into the night. The front door slammed shut behind her, the sound a definitive thud.
The house stood silent once more, the only witness to the impossible events. The seasons changed, years passed, the calendar pages fluttering away, marked by the relentless march of time.
Twenty-six years later. The year is 1995.
Tamayo, her pregnant belly a gentle curve beneath her flowing dress, smiled warmly at the two children she and Michikatsu had taken in. Their arrival had brought a new, if sometimes challenging, dynamic to the Tsugikuni household. “So, what do you think? Is it good?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting, as she glanced at Muichirou and Yuichirou.
Yuichirou, his long black hair fading to a distinctive teal at the tips, pursed his lips, his angry blue eyes flicking towards his twin. “Muichirou hasn’t spoken a word since it happened,” he cut in, his voice flat, almost accusatory.
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. How terribly awful.” Tamayo’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of deep concern. She felt a pang of guilt, knowing the trauma the twins must have endured. “Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s okay,” Yuichirou continued, a practiced weariness in his tone. “We barely even knew our parents. They were always away—skiing in Saint Moritz, gambling in Monte Carlo, safariing in darkest Africa. We didn’t even know if they loved us.” He paused dramatically, then continued, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. “But when the sheik’s yacht went down, well, they managed to write us a really beautiful good-bye note that was found floating in a champagne bottle amongst the debris.” He coughed, then turned away, making it look as if he was stifling a sob. “Excuse me.” He snickered, a small, almost imperceptible sound, knowing full well he had just spun a masterful lie for Mrs. Tsugikuni.
Tamayo’s eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. She was a discerning woman, and a long-suffering girlfriend of Michikatsu Tsugikuni. She knew a lie when she heard one, especially from a child with such a mischievous gleam in his eye. However, she also understood that children coped with trauma in myriad, often convoluted, ways. She simply offered a sympathetic nod.
Meanwhile, Michikatsu was in the hallway, grappling with a particularly stubborn lock on Yoriichi’s old room. The heavy brass was tarnished, refusing to yield. “I’ll have to get a locksmith out for this one,” he muttered, frustration etching lines on his brow. He looked up, spotting Muichirou standing silently nearby. “Muichirou, why don’t you help me please. Could you take this suitcase up to the attic? Then we can all have ice cream… and I’ll find something for the grown-ups.”
Muichirou, his eyes distant and unreadable, nodded mutely. He reached out and grasped the handle of the old, dust-covered suitcase Michikatsu indicated. With a strength that belied his slight frame, he lifted it and began to ascend the creaking steps that led to the attic, a dark, cavernous space that smelled of old wood and forgotten things. As he reached the top, a faint, leathery flutter reached his ears, followed by a distinct, almost familiar, squeak – a bat.
“What? What is it?” Michikatsu called out, having heard the sudden tumble from the attic. A faint clatter echoed from above, followed by a muffled grunt.
“I’m going to Motel 6,” Yuichirou announced bluntly from the bottom of the staircase, eyeing the thick layer of dust that coated the steps with distaste.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Michikatsu muttered under his breath, a flicker of exasperation crossing his face. He then managed a tired smile for Tamayo, who simply returned it with a knowing look.
That night had been unbearably long. Painfully so. For Muichirou, sleep was a restless affair, punctuated by the phantom slither of bat wings echoing in his ears, a sound that persisted even after the real creatures had, supposedly, vanished.
The next day, the attic was bathed in the pale light filtering through a grimy skylight. An exterminator, a wiry man with a tired sigh permanently etched on his face, surveyed the dusty rafters. “I don’t see any guano,” he announced, clearly exasperated. He wanted to be elsewhere, ideally anywhere but dealing with these peculiar children. He'd love to see Mrs. Tsugikuni, he mused, but alas, Michikatsu would probably slap him… and these kids were holding up his time.
Yuichirou, meanwhile, was consulting a dog-eared book, its pages filled with illustrations of various bat species. “He said it looked like that,” he stated, pointing to a page.
The exterminator squinted at the drawing. “That’s an African bat. Some kid said she saw a bunch of those back in the ‘60s. But we don’t get bats like that in Japan unless they were introduced.” He sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But that’s what he saw,” Yuichirou pressed on with a huff, a stubborn glint in his angry blue eyes.
“Well, whatever it was is gone now. Bats aren’t what I’d worry about in this house anyways.” The exterminator then gave a rather… sly grin, a glint of something unsettling in his gaze.
“What would you worry about?” Yuichirou sniffed, his head cocked.
The man snickered, brushing some loose, lank hair behind his own ear. “Well, personally, I wouldn’t wanna live in a house where someone was murdered.” He watched Yuichirou’s face, clearly enjoying the reaction.
“Murdered?” Yuichirou muttered, his eyes widening slightly.
“Yep. Little Tsugikuni Yoriichi. I say his father did it. There’s a thousand and one places he could have hid the body in this house. Especially if he chopped it up first.” The exterminator chuckled, a morbid, unpleasant sound. “He’s the younger brother of your caretaker, or well, was.” He delivered the last line with a flourish before beginning to pack up his equipment. As he passed Tamayo, who was standing at the bottom of the attic stairs, he gave her a quick, flirtatious grin. Michikatsu, catching the gesture, raised a brow, a silent warning in his maroon eyes. The exterminator’s grin vanished, and he bolted like his life depended on it, tripping slightly on the doorstep. “Not a bat in sight, ma’am!” he called out as he scrambled out the door and down the path.
“Hey, up there! You kids don’t wanna be late for your first day of school,” Michikatsu called, his voice echoing up the stairwell, pulling them from the unsettling conversation.
The evening meal was a strained affair. Tamayo, Michikatsu, Muichirou, and Yuichirou sat around the dining table, the clink of cutlery against plates punctuated by the heavy silence.
Michikatsu let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. “I can’t believe I have to see your principal after the first day. What am I gonna do?” He glanced at the twins, his maroon eyes clouded with worry. He wanted them to be happy, to feel comfortable here, not to be burdened by his frustrations. “Let’s just try to relax and finish our dinner and talk about something else.”
Yuichirou, however, seemed to have other plans. He put down his chopsticks, his angry blue eyes fixed on Michikatsu. “Well, why live here. Twenty-six years ago, a kid named Tsugikuni Yoriichi used to live here. Then one day, he just disappeared ’cause his parents chopped him up in little pieces and hid him in the walls.” His words, delivered with a chilling nonchalance, hung in the air like poison.
Michikatsu’s chopsticks clattered to his plate, his eyes wide with a shock that quickly morphed into a raw, profound pain. He pushed back his chair abruptly, scraping it loudly across the floor, and without a word, he rose and left the room.
Tamayo’s usual gentle smile vanished, replaced by a rare, fierce anger that tightened her lips. “Okay, that’s it. I am sick and tired of your behavior, Yuichirou. I understand that you and Muichirou have been going through so much as of late, but that does not give you the right to take it out on others, young man.” Her voice, though still soft, held an undeniable edge of steel. “You’re grounded.” Yuichirou had gone too far. How dare he bring up such a sore spot for Michikatsu, a wound that still festered after all these years? But… he was still a child. No, discipline was needed.
Yuichirou’s face hardened. He pushed his own chair back and stood. “Fine. There’s nowhere to go in this stupid town anyway,” he growled out, before turning and stomping out of the dining room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Later that night, under the silk covers of their shared bed, Yuichirou and Muichirou lay in the dark. The house seemed to settle around them, full of unseen shadows and unspoken anxieties.
Yuichirou broke the silence, his voice a low murmur. “Did you hear anything a little while ago?”
Muichirou, his dull blue eyes somewhat teary in the darkness, whispered, “Do you miss Mom and Dad?”
“No,” Yuichirou responded, his voice flat, almost too quick.
“Liar. If you don’t cut that out, they’re gonna send you to a shrink,” Muichirou coughed up his words, his voice strained.
“Where do you think they’re gonna send you if you don’t start talking?” Yuichirou snarled back, his anger flaring even in the quiet intimacy of their room.
That night was a slow, restless time. The boys tossed and turned, sleep offering little solace from their inner turmoil.
The next day dawned, crisp and clear.
Michikatsu stood by the front door, his car keys in hand, addressing the twins. “If I get held up at the permit office, I’ll give you a call. School bus should be here any minute. You guys still have your house keys? You guys listening to me? Hello? Hello?” He chided, his brow furrowed with concern.
Tamayo, standing beside him, let out a soft, tired laugh, her hand resting protectively on her pregnant belly.
“What?” Yuichirou asked, raising a brow, his usual defiant gaze already in place.
“Maybe I should wait with you till the bus comes. Did your parents used to put you on the bus?” Tamayo pursed her lips, rubbing her abdomen with a sigh, a quiet worry for the children evident in her eyes.
“No. No,” Yuichirou responded quickly, while Muichirou shook his head mutely.
“Are you sure? I could drop you off,” Michikatsu offered, still hesitant to leave them.
“No, don’t worry about us. The bus’ll be here any minute,” Yuichirou responded bluntly, a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Okay. Please be good today,” Tamayo said softly, her voice filled with a hope that was almost a plea. She and her husband then got into their car, the engine rumbling to life before they pulled away, leaving the two boys standing alone on the porch, the quiet anticipation of the school bus mixed with the heavy silence of their new reality, but they had other plans.
A sudden, deep beat of drums echoed through the quiet morning air, resonating with a primal intensity. Both Muichirou and Yuichirou looked sharply alarmed, their eyes wide. Yuichirou’s gaze snapped to his twin, a scowl deepening on his face. "So you do hear it." His voice was low, a mixture of accusation and a strange kind of vindication.
Muichirou nodded, his eyes, dull blue as ever, confirming the sound. Yes, he did hear it. He had heard it before, distinct and terrifying, just as the bat had attacked him in the attic. The memory, and the sound, were inextricably linked in his mind.
“Where’s it coming from?” Yuichirou demanded, his head cocked, his eyes scanning the quiet street. Muichirou, without a word, turned and led the way back into the house, up the dusty stairs, and into the attic. He moved with a quiet determination; his gaze fixed on the old trunk in the corner. Reaching in, he pulled out the familiar Jumanji game.
“Wow. Let’s bring it over here,” Yuichirou said, the ‘wow’ dripping with sarcasm as he gestured to a clearer spot on the attic floor, littered with forgotten boxes and draped sheets.
Muichirou set the board down, his dull blue eyes focusing on the two original game pieces. “Weird. They’re stuck,” he muttered, his fingers trying to budge the Keratin Oni and Metallic Kitsune tokens, but they remained stubbornly fixed to their starting points.
Yuichirou leaned over the board, picking up the crumpled, yellowed instruction sheet. He read the faded text aloud, his voice flat. “Jumanji. A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind. You roll the dice to move your token. Doubles get another turn. The first player to reach the end wins.” He huffed, tossing the sheet back onto the board. As he did, Muichirou opened the small drawer on the side of the game box, revealing two more tokens: a dark, glossy Tanuki and a slender, intricately carved Dragon. As he examined the other two tokens, they too, inexplicably, were automatically pulled to their starting points on the board with a soft click. “It’s gotta be microchips or something,” Yuichirou muttered, more to himself than to Muichirou.
“You go first,” Muichirou muttered, pushing the dice towards his twin.
“Okay.” Yuichirou picked up the dice, giving them a cursory shake before tossing them onto the board. They tumbled, then settled with a decisive six. He watched, a mixture of disbelief and fascination on his face, as the Tanuki game piece slid forward, moving precisely six spaces across the carved pathways of the board. Then, words shimmered into existence on the game guide. Yuichirou leaned closer, reading aloud, his voice taking on an unnerving tone. “A tiny bite can make you itch, make you sneeze, make you twitch.”
Before Yuichirou could even process the cryptic verse, a low hum filled the attic, growing rapidly into a buzzing crescendo. Then, through the grimy skylight, a swarm of giant mosquitoes, their iridescent wings catching the faint light, descended upon them. They were monstrous, their needle-like proboscises glinting menacingly. Yuichirou screamed, a very, very, very girly, high-pitched shriek, grabbing a forgotten tennis racket from a corner. With a wild swing, he connected with one of the monstrous insects, sending it flying with a sickening thwack out the open attic window. The remaining mosquitoes, seemingly startled by the sudden resistance, retreated outside, their buzzing fading into the distance.
Muichirou, his dull blue eyes wide, watched the chaotic scene unfold. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He thought it was… fun. Yuichirou, however, was acutely aware of the sudden, terrifying danger that had invaded their quiet morning. His face was pale, his breathing ragged. He quickly reached for the dice again, intending to make his next roll.
"Don't!" Yuichirou whisper-yelled, his hand darting out to stop Muichirou, who had, in his detached fascination, also reached for the dice, eager for more excitement.
But it was too late. Muichirou, in his attempt to grab the dice, accidentally knocked them, sending them tumbling across the board. They landed with a decisive click: doubles. The Dragon token, without any human intervention, slid forward precisely two spaces.
Muichirou leaned closer to the board, his eyes fixed on the newly revealed text in the game guide. He read aloud, his voice still soft, but with a hint of newfound gravity: "This will not be an easy mission; monkeys slow the expedition."
“What is that?” Yuichirou snarled, his head snapping up, a new dread coiling in his stomach.
From downstairs, a series of crashing sounds erupted, followed by a chorus of agitated chattering and screeching. Muichirou and Yuichirou exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Without a word, they scrambled down the attic stairs. What they found in the kitchen confirmed their worst fears: a chaotic scene of overturned pots, smashed dishes, and fruit scattered across the floor, all thanks to a mischievous group of monkeys, their agile forms swinging from cabinets and tearing through bags of groceries.
Yuichirou and Muichirou, their faces a mixture of terror and bewilderment, bolted back up to the attic, their hearts pounding. Yuichirou grabbed the game guide, frantically flipping through the pages. “I bet those monkeys came from the game. The mosquitoes too. Uh-oh. I didn’t see this part.” His finger traced a warning. “‘Adventurers beware.’ Adventurers beware. Do not begin unless you intend to finish.” He looked out the attic window. The monkeys, having seemingly finished their kitchen raid, were now convening on the front lawn, their chaotic chattering filling the air, before splitting up and scattering in opposite directions into the suburban neighborhood. Yuichirou’s gaze dropped back to the game guide, his voice hushed as he read the final, terrifying rule. “The exciting consequences of the game will vanish only when a player has reached Jumanji and called out its name.”
The frantic clanging and the cacophony of monkey sounds gradually dispersed, fading into the suburban quiet.
“The monkeys are gone,” Muichirou assessed, his voice flat, but a hint of relief in his dull blue eyes.
“Good,” Yuichirou let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his black hair.
Muichirou, already reaching for the game board, mumbled to himself, “Put it away.” He started to pack the pieces back into the box, a desire for normalcy overriding his earlier curiosity.
“Wait!” Yuichirou interjected, his voice urgent. “The instructions say if we finish the game, it’ll all go away. We better do it, or Mr. Tsugikuni is gonna pitch a fit.” He glanced around the now quiet, but subtly damaged, attic. “We should just get through it quickly. I mean, there’s no skill involved.” He remembered something else, his eyes lighting up. “No, you rolled doubles. You get another turn. Roll!”
Muichirou, with a resigned shrug, picked up the dice again. He gave them a quick shake and tossed them onto the board. They tumbled, coming to rest on a five. A sly grin, almost imperceptible, touched Muichirou’s lips. “Five.” The Dragon token slid forward precisely five spaces. His gaze dropped to the game guide, reading the newly revealed verse aloud: “His fangs are sharp. He likes your taste. Your party better move poste haste.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Yuichirou muttered to himself, a shiver running down his spine.
From downstairs, a deep, resonant moan echoed through the house, followed by the distinct, heavy sound of a large object shifting. Then, a low, guttural growl. Muichirou and Yuichirou exchanged a terrified look. They tiptoed to the attic opening, peering down the stairs.
In the living room below, perched imposingly on the grand piano, a magnificent, terrifying lion materialized. Its golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, its powerful paws resting on the ivory keys, which gave another mournful moan under its weight. The lion slowly, majestically, stepped off the piano, its tail swishing languidly.
“Yuichirou, someone’s in here,” Muichirou whispered, his dull blue eyes wide with a fear he hadn’t displayed before.
Twilight02 on Chapter 2 Fri 01 Aug 2025 09:26AM UTC
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