Gravel crunched against Izumi's feet, the sun cleared the ridgeline. The trees lining the dirt path waved, first to one side, then the other. No wind. Just silence. An unnatural, unsettling silence.
Day one passed in travel without incident. No beasts. No people. No birdsong. He didn't miss the noise. In fact, he welcomed it. It was freedom.
By day two, when Yamato Village had become visible ten kilometres away, he finally heard something.
Someone stepped onto the path ahead of him.
It looked like a person—it was human. Barefoot, tattered robes covered an ambling, dragging existence. Its head rolled back and forth curiously. This man walked like his body forgot how—an improper association with purpose and intent barely kept him on this plane of existence. Mindless. Hollow.
Izumi stopped and held his gaze.
The man inched closer, no acknowledgement—just dragging feet and mumbling something—until one coherent phrase snuck through his garbled speech:
"Sins… aren't born. They're gifted… to those too weak to resist."
Izumi narrowed his eyes. He knew that line... A former Sin cultist said that right before he wiped out villages.
He swiped his wrist, and shadows etched themselves from his feet.
"Hell cloak."
In an exhale, a Yin energy coursed down the mans arms and legs and across his torso in a black, burning energy, flickering with added fog. When the nearly dead husk came in too close for comfort, however, the veil erupted into a raging fire—vanishing the creature in an instantaneous explosion of silent annihilation. Its form collapsed, twitching once before lying still, forever.
A creak of wood suddenly echoed next to Izumi, there was, in the wooden cart sat an old man who smiled at him as he grinned down. Silver-white hair tied back in a thick braid from the back of his head—and long eyebrows that leapt with each chuckle.
"Ichiro's the name. Old Man Hiro's what they call me these days, mostly anyway," he said, patting the empty space beside him. "Not every day I see a lad roast a husk like that. You off to Yamato Village?"
Izumi nodded, without a word.
"Then hop on," Hiro chuckled. "Ain't like you're in a hurry; only the most stubborn of youngins walk ten kilos on foot."
Izumi got up and sat down without saying anything.
The wheels turned. The path continued.
"Why you goin, over there, is it cult related?" he said after a moment, glancing over at Izumi.
"Yeah," Izumi said flatly. "Cult of Omnir. They worship that fallen demon guy."
"Fallen demon guy?" Old Man Hiro looked at him, eyebrow raised. "Heh… that works."
"They called him the Fallen King of Hell. He lost his throne, not due to death, but to sloth. He didn't even fight to keep it there. Folks call him the King Who Waited."
The trees flashed by, Izumi staring at them in silence.
"...guess he waited too long."
Old Man Hiro took a deep breath. "Never thought sloth was such a hazard until I heard that story."
The subject changed until Hiro cleared his throat into the line again. "So. What got you here, kid?" Izumi did not falter. His tone remained the same. "Cult of Omnir trying to make a Virtue mark a Dissonant." "A Dissonant,"
"What exactly is that?" Old man Hiro asked curiously,
"A person whose soul's nature is opposite with his mark." Izumi replied. By the time the sun started to set, they were riding over a hill that overlooked Yamato Village. It looked peaceful… too peaceful. The wooden gates parted as the cart rolled on; darkness was left behind.
As Izumi stepped down, Hiro called out, "What do I call you, anyway?"
Izumi didn't turn.
"…Izumi. Izumi Haruki."
Hiro scratched his chin. "Haruki, eh? Funny. You've got the same stare as an old noble I once heard of except, he had another last name, is he your gra—"
"Stop," Izumi cut in,
The old man blinked but didn't push.
Izumi walked on, his dark purple eyes catching the last sliver of sun as it dipped below the rooftops.
Yamato Village awaited.