By the whispering tides of the southern edge of Edenia, where the sea hummed lullabies to the drifting stars, there stood Serabaun.
A city of stilts and silence, where lanterns swayed gently above saltwater veins, and the wooden bones of fishermen's homes creaked like old songs passed from one generation to the next. Serabaun did not sleep—no, it dreamed. Bathed always in moonlight like silk poured from heaven, she breathed with the ocean, slow and deep.
The fishermen, worn by salt and time, moved in quiet ritual along the shorelines, casting their nets with the same precision as their ancestors. They did not speak much, for words would have been louder than the waves. Children laughed in hushed tones, bare feet tapping across damp wood, chasing drifting crabs and flickering fireflies that dared glow against the stars.
Then, the water changed. It did not roar. It did not rage. It merely stilled—a reverent silence, as if the ocean itself held its breath. A seam split open in the fabric of the air just above the surface, like a wound in the sky leaking ghostlight. From it slithered a creature of impossible grace: a serpent, long and spectral, with fins like ribbons and scales that shimmered between memory and mist. Its eyes were not eyes—but orbs of mournful glow, like moons drowned beneath ancient oceans.
It did not roar. It glided. Not through water, but above it, as if the waves themselves had bent in worship. The fishermen paused. Nets floated. Pipes dropped into the sand. Children stopped mid-giggle, blinking upward, faces painted in pale awe.
The creature passed without sound, its translucent form brushing the tips of boats and palm leaves with whispers of forgotten names. A fisherman muttered something in an old dialect, a prayer maybe, or a question.
Some fishermen, stirred by more than just curiosity—perhaps something older, something buried beneath their ribs like silt under tide—began to follow. Not all at once.
It started with an old man named Ta'gu, who had seen the serpent's glow reflected in his dead wife's wedding bowl. He claimed it was a sign. A calling. He walked inland barefoot, his feet leaving wet prints on wood and soil alike.
Then came Iden, young and restless, his oar still soaked from the midnight paddle. He followed Ta'gu without a word, eyes glassy like tide pools. More joined.
Because the serpents came again—not just over water, but through it, inside it. One emerged through the well of an abandoned hut, its coils wrapped around an old kettle before vanishing through the rafters. Another drifted slowly through a closed windowpane, glass never cracking, wood never bending.
Children whispered of the ghostfish in their mother's jars, gliding between floating herbs. Inside kitchens, inside lanterns, inside dreams—the serpents danced.
They flickered in and out, playful, beckoning, like lights at the edge of fog. A few villagers swore they heard music, low and sweet, like reed flutes beneath the earth.
By the time dawn should have come—though the moon still ruled the sky—nearly two dozen villagers had wandered inland, deep into the woods behind Serabaun. Their feet silent, their eyes silvered. They followed the serpents like they were following lost lullabies. More and more footsteps joined the hush.
The fishermen moved like mist themselves now, carried on something quieter than will—an old rhythm forgotten by modern breath. The deeper they went into the woods behind Serabaun, the more the trees seemed to lean closer, their trunks shaped like faces whispering prayers.
Then the mists thickened. Not cold mist—but warm, breathing, like something exhaled by the ground. It curled around ankles and waists, thick with the scent of salt and sakura smoke, and from within it, shadows began to move.
The first appeared floating sideways, like a marionette in water—her head twisted completely backward, her long black hair dragging across leaves. Her kimono was torn, but carefully wrapped. A fan of paper floated beside her, fluttering even though no wind blew.
Another ghost rose up from the roots like a pale candle flame, with arms too long, hands reaching past her knees, and a face made of porcelain with no mouth—just two weeping, ink-black eyes that blinked slowly.
Behind them, three childlike shapes danced in circles, but when the villagers blinked, the children were gone—and foxes with human faces stood in their place, tails swaying hypnotically.
A tall, headless man in lacquered armor walked through the trees carrying his own head under his arm, which whispered ancient riddles in a forgotten tongue.
A one-eyed maiden with a paper lantern for a mouth smiled, and light leaked from between her teeth.
They were Yokai, but no one said the word. No one needed to. Every ghost radiated a strange familiarity, as though pulled from family stories and night terrors passed down through bone.
And strangest of all—these ghosts did not react to the fishermen. No rage. No wails. No haunting. They coexisted. They stood beside the serpents as if they'd always known each other.
They reached into the mist and gently stroked the glowing coils like one would greet an old friend. Some fed them—offering petals, bones, or slips of paper inked with forgotten names.
The serpents curled around the ghosts lovingly, like cats brushing legs. And then—one of the ghosts turned her head, slow and jerking like a puppet rediscovering its strings. She smiled. And though her mouth was sewn shut, every fisherman heard her whisper the same thing: "Come."
Next Morning – Serabaun, 7:03 A.M. A chill hung low over the moon-washed port of Serabaun. Fishermen returned with half-filled nets, wives lit incense on windowsills, and radios crackled through the salt-heavy air.
Suddenly, the familiar jingle of "Radio Laut Selatan 93.2 FM"—usually a soundtrack to early market haggling—was interrupted. The music cut into static, followed by a firm, shaken voice: "This is Nirwana Putri, reporting live from the Radio Laut Selatan newsroom. We interrupt regular programming with an urgent bulletin."
Nirwana, a respected local journalist known for her calm demeanor and moonlit broadcasts about tide schedules and pearl festivals, now stood in front of a screen flickering with red banners. Her black blouse looked a touch disheveled, hair pinned in haste, and her eyes—usually gentle—were sharp with unease. "Last night, thirty-seven residents of Serabaun vanished under circumstances authorities are still struggling to explain. Entire households gone—doors still locked from the inside, food left untouched, nets abandoned in the surf."
Behind her, looping drone footage played—wide shots of the stilt houses above the tide, boats gently bobbing at the pier, a table where steaming rice still sat, and a single sandal half-buried in the mud. "Witnesses described serpent-shaped lights, ethereal and luminous, weaving through the village and vanishing into the woods beyond. Many who saw them followed without hesitation. They have not returned."
The feed cut briefly to an interview with a trembling fisherman, face shadowed under a straw hat. "It wasn't right... the way they moved. Like ghosts made of silver thread. I saw a man follow one into the trees. His wife screamed for him... he didn't even look back."
Back in the studio, Nirwana leaned forward, voice lowered. "Let this be known—we are not sensationalizing. This is not folklore. Thirty-seven lives. Gone. The forest behind Serabaun is now under investigation by the Edenian Watchtower, and citizens are urged to remain indoors after dusk."
She paused, gaze piercing through the screen. "To the people of Serabaun, and all Edenians watching: Something is happening in the mists. And it's not done yet."
Inside the recovery hall of Hall of M, with bandages wrapped like war-torn mummies and bruises painting their pride, the trio sat in awkward silence. Then the radio crackled—"Thirty-seven villagers... serpent-shaped lights... fog... vanished..."
Silas, his left arm still in a sling and sporting a black eye the size of a mango, burst into laughter. "Oh c'mon, thirty-seven missing? That sounds like a bad indie horror script. What's next? Killer noodles in the mist?"
Professor M, holding a psychic ice pack on his temple, gave him the deadliest side-eye academia could offer. "Maybe if someone hadn't knocked on the demon king's door like a door-to-door sandwich salesman, we wouldn't be hearing ghost stories on morning radio!"
"Hey! I brought some action to your boring little mind-reading soap opera."
Veymar, sitting between them with one eye twitching and wrapped like a magical tamale, raised his hand weakly. "Guys. Guys. I'm literally still bleeding sparkles. Can we not fight over whose fault it was we pissed off a god?"
Professor M leaned forward, tone mocking. "I'm just saying... maybe the ancient 15,000-year-old fox emperor with a harem of murder ballerinas didn't appreciate being challenged to a dance-off."
"Oh, so now we're blaming me for trying to be brave?"
"You called him grandpa in cosplay!"
"You called Daji 'budget succubus'!"
"And was I wrong?"
Silas leaned back, hands behind his head like a smug idiot. "If Nurarihyon's coming for us, good. I've been thinking to return the favor."
Veymar exhaled deeply, he slumped back on the bed like a man surrendering to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, mumbling with one eye half-open. "Y'all wanna know about Nurarihyon? Fine. Lemme tell you the bedtime story straight outta the Chronicles of Ereshan... before I pass out and dream of less homicidal fox women."
"Oh great, story time with Daddy Scrolls."
Even Professor M looked intrigued, tilting his head. Veymar didn't even bother sitting up—just started narrating like an ancient bard who couldn't be bothered. "Long before Edenia had comfy roads and mutated werewolves played sheriff, there was Nurarihyon. Not a king. Not a god. Something... in between. The Chronicles say he was born when the First Veil cracked—where spirit and matter mixed like soup with too much salt. He didn't climb to power. He flowed into it. Like mist. Like rumor. Like a curse whispered under your pillow."
Silas snorted. "Sounds like my ex."
Veymar ignored him. "Back then, Yokais weren't just weird spirits with cute tails—they were reality's rebellious children. And Nurarihyon? He wasn't just their leader. He was the source. A mirror that reflects all things... and steals a little piece of what it sees. A living blueprint."
Professor M scribbled mental notes for his students.
"They called him The Grand Ripple. Because everything that touches him? Ripples back stronger, twisted, mutated... like echoing thunder. That's how Daji was born. Not from womb or magic—she's a ripple of his own desire, made flesh and tails. Yeah. Creepy poetic, I know."
Silas raised a brow. "You sure you're not high on your own blood loss?"
"Shut up, I'm lore-dumping here." He shifted under his blanket, almost disappearing into the mattress, still mumbling. "So if y'all planning a rematch... maybe ask yourselves: do you challenge the ocean just 'cause your boat floats?"
A pause. Then, softly like a wounded wizard retreating into dreamland, he finally passed out.