Three years ago, Guildmasters Sekai, Seiryū and Borlsche met near the entrance of Aokigahara Forest. The first two exchanged anxious glances, unsettled by the news they’d received from the third.

“Are you certain this is what you want?” Sekai asked, his tone laced with concern. “We respect your decision, but…”

Borlsche sighed, a sense of resolve settling over him. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, I nearly forgot why I began this journey in the first place.” 

Seiryū crossed his arms and glanced toward the forest, “If you’re sure, then we won’t stop you,” he said. “I’ve arranged for the Seiryū-kai to provide the provisions you requested, but if you ever find yourself missing the guild, you know where to return.”

“Thank you, both of you.” Borlsche bid them farewell and stepped away from his life as an adventurer and guildmaster. Yet unbeknownst to him, his new path would test his resolve to no end.

With its dense canopy stretching endlessly above, Borlsche quickly lost his bearings as he navigated through Aokigahara. He tried to leave marks on its ancient trees, yet each time he circled back, the markings had vanished, erased by the shifting embrace of the forest.

As days and nights passed indistinctly, Borlsche’s resolve slowly began to erode as he wandered the forest restlessly. An eerie chorus of rustling leaves, and soft, distant murmurs occasionally sounded in his ears. The only thing that signalled any form of time passing, were the numerous wanderers seeking their end here. 

No matter how many lives he’d managed to save, Borlsche could never escape Aokigahara’s grasp after all this while. Despite adapting to its unforgiving elements, his provisions were dwindling, and soon exhaustion weighed upon his body like iron chains. The air unknowingly grew heavy, with an unnatural stillness. It was as if the forest itself was watching him, waiting. 

Borlsche took the next step forward—and lost his footing. He stepped through the earth, and plunged into a cold abyss that swallowed sound and light alike. 

When he finally landed, the ground beneath him was neither soil nor stone. It was something… in between, pulsing faintly under his hands, like the dying embers of a fire.

Borlsche pushed himself up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The air was thick with an unfamiliar scent—earthy yet tinged with decay. The trees around him stood tall and skeletal, their branches gnarled and clawing at an empty sky devoid of stars. A pale mist slithered across the ground, obscuring his boots.

He was no longer in Aokigahara.

A shiver ran down his spine as he gazed at the land before him—a vast twilight expanse stretching infinitely in all directions. The air was unnerving still, as whispers curled around him, distant voices carried by an unseen wind. 

A name surfaced in his mind from tales once told to him by Heaven’s own draconic ruler, unbidden yet undeniable.

Yomi-no-kuni; The otherworld. The land of forgotten souls.

A figure loomed in the distance, its form shifting as if woven from the mist itself. Borlsche reached for his blade out of instinct, but his fingers grasped at empty air. His sword; his lifeline—was gone.

The figure grew closer, and as it did, the whispers grew louder, repeating a name. Borlsche took a cautious step backward. Whatever this place was; whatever fate had drawn him to its depths, he knew one thing:

He was not alone.

A bone-deep dread coiled around Borlsche as the figure in the mist solidified. Its form was grotesque—its body was an amalgamation of twisting limbs, elongated like marionette strings pulled too far. It had a writhing mass of sinew and bone, contorting with every eerie motion, for its skin. A skeletal grin stretched across its misshapen face, jagged teeth protruding in all directions. 

But what chilled him most, was its hallowed spine, lined with gaping maws, exhaling whispers of the lost.

And they were calling his name. 

Borlsche’s breath hitched as the unsightly demon lurched toward him, its elongated limbs snapping forward. He turned on his heel and ran.

The landscape of Yomi twisted around him, shifting in ways that defied reality. The skeletal trees bent and arched, their gnarled branches clawing at him as he sprinted past. The mist thickened, coiling around his legs like ghostly fingers trying to drag him down.

Behind him, the demon crawled with unsettling speed. Its movements were inhumane—bending its limbs at impossible angles as it scuttled, the gaping holes along its spine keening in an eerie, disharmonic wail.

Borlsche stumbled as his lungs burned. He had no way to fight—just a primal instinct screaming at him to keep moving.

Then, through the suffocating fog, he saw a flicker of warm light in the endless twilight. Wooden torii gates stood firm as the outlines of structures appeared—a village, hidden deep within Yomi’s clutches.

Bolstered by this realization, Borlsche pushed forward with one last burst of strength. The demon shrieked as it sensed its prey slipping away. 

Clang!

A flash of steel. A weapon arced through the air, landing just inches from Borlsche’s feet. A rough voice cut through the mist:

“Pick it up if you want to live, outsider!”

Borlsche didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself and stretched his arm out for the weapon. His fingers curled around the hilt of a naginata, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. The weight was perfect, balanced, as if forged for his hands alone. 

Borlsche looked up and saw a figure stepping out from the village shadows—a Tengu blacksmith, his raven-like features illuminated by the forge’s glow. His eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked toward Borlsche.

“Let’s see if you’re worth saving.”

Borlsche turned around, gritted his teeth and steadied his stance. 

The demon screeched, and the battle for survival began. 

The air trembled around Borlsche violently as the demon lunged, its grotesque limbs stretching toward him like sinew-bound spears, aiming to impale Borlsche where he stood. But this time, he was ready.

Borlsche twisted his grip on the naginata, feeling the weapon’s weight settle into his muscles like reuniting with a missing piece of himself. He dropped low as his instincts took over, and swung the blade upward in a crescent arc. 

SHNK!

The steel bit deep into an outstretched limb, severing the unnatural appendage. A wail of otherworldly agony erupted from the demon’s hollowed spine, as the voices of the lost screamed in unison. A thick, ink-black vapor seeped from its wound, writhing like living tendrils before vanishing into the air.

Borlsche had no time to process the sight; The demon lashed out again with its remaining limbs, its body contorting unnaturally. Twisting backward with beast-like movement, it vaulted toward him, jaw unhinging far wider than any creature should be able to. 

Borlsche dodged by a hair’s breath, rolling to the side as the demon’s gaping maw snapped shut where his throat had been moments before. The naginata hummed in his grip, resonating with his determination. His eyes flitted toward the Tengu blacksmith, who stood just beyond the torii gate, with an unreadable expression. He made no move to interfere as he watched with arms crossed.

This is my fight then. Borlsche narrowed his eyes back to the demon. He shifted his stance, exhaling slowly. The demon circled him, its back bending at unnatural angles as its gaping vertebrae sighed and whispered. 

The sound. The voices.

Borlsche’s eyes flicked toward the demon’s spine. The gaping, hollow sections along its back… Were they just grotesque features? Or something more?

The moment he hesitated, the demon struck again at a faster pace.

Borlsche barely had time to react as the creature’s elongated fingers shot forward. He parried a strike, then another, his weapon spinning in his hands like it was an extension of his body. But the force of the demon’s attacks was slowly pushing him back. He couldn’t afford to be on the defensive forever. He needed to end this.

In a reckless gamble, Borlsche did the unexpected.

Instead of retreating, he charged forward, catching his opponent off guard.

The demon screeched as Borlsche planted his foot and drove the naginata straight into its spine. The blade pierced through one of its hollowed vertebrae, sinking deeper into the writhing void. Its reaction was instant.

The demon convulsed violently, its entire form shuddering as if the blade had severed something crucial. The keening wail that erupted from its many mouths was not just pain—it was fear.

The voices from the demon’s spine howled, unraveling like strands of mist being pulled into the abyss.

Borlsche gritted his teeth, twisting the blade, and with all of his strength, ripped it free.

An ink-like essence sprayed from the wound as the demon collapsed. Its limbs twitched, its body convulsed… and then, as a final breath escaped from its hollowed core, it dissolved into mist. 

The whispers faded, and the world of darkness fell silent.

Borlsche stood amidst the swirling remnants of the demon, panting, his hands still gripping the naginata. His heart thundered in his chest. The weight of what had just happened settled over him—he killed something beyond the living world.

A slow, measured clap broke the silence.

“Not bad, outsider,” the Tengu remarked, stepping forward. “Most who wander into Yomi don’t last long against the Hollowspine. But you… You might survive here just yet.” he extended his hand. “Come, let’s head back to my forge.” 

Borlsche took the Tengu’s hand and soon followed the latter through the village, his body still aching from the battle. The air in Yomi felt heavy, carrying an ancient stillness that pressed against his skin. The village itself was unlike anything he had seen before—weathered wooden buildings clung to the edge of reality, flickering like candle flames, as if they could vanish at any moment. 

Inside the forge, Borlsche handed the naginata back to Tenso, the Tengu blacksmith, who worked tirelessly for hours. His sharp, bird-like eyes glowed beneath his mask of soot and emberlight, his feathered arms strong as he hammered molten steel into shape. The forge’s fire burned an unnatural shade of blue, casting shadows that danced across the walls. 

“The weapon served its purpose,” Tenso said, inspecting it with a critical eye. “But you need something that truly belongs to you.”

Borlsche hesitated. “I used to have a sword,” he admitted. “Back in the living world; a memento of mine.”

Tenso tilted his head. “A blade lost but not forgotten… Perhaps it can be reforged.” He turned, opening a chest within the forge. From inside, he pulled forth something familiar—Borlsche’s original sword, though rusted, worn, and cracked from the passage of time.

Borlsche’s breath caught in his throat. “How did it end up here?”

Tenso smirked. “Yomi does not steal. It only returns what was never truly lost.”

For the next few days, Borlsche remained in the village, working with Tenso as the blacksmith reforged his old blade into something new. The blade was no longer just a sword—it was a katana, its steel tempered in the flames of Yomi, infused with the essence of the afterlife itself. Tenso also crafted a new suit of armor—obsidian plates that glowed faintly beneath the light of the spectral forge.

“Black armor for a man walking between two worlds,” Tenso remarked. “Wear it well.”

The weight of the obsidian plates settled onto his shoulders, fitting as if forged for his very soul. The katana at his hip pulsed with quiet strength, a reborn extension of his will. Borlsche turned to Tenso, who simply nodded in approval.

“It suits you.”

Before Borlsche could respond, a voice chimed in from behind him—light, teasing, and filled with amusement. 

“Suits him? Please, he looks like a lost crow.”

Borlsche turned, hand instinctively brushing his sword’s hilt. A Nekomata perched casually atop a wooden post, her twin tails flicking playfully behind her. Her feline ears twitched as golden eyes met his, glinting with mischief. 

“Relax, outsider. I’m not here to fight—unless you’re up for a little fun?”

Tenso exhaled, shaking his head.  “This is Kiko, a cat with a habit of bothering those who interest her.”

Kiko grinned, hopping down in one fluid motion. Without warning, she reached for Borlsche’s hand. “Come on, warrior. You just got your fancy new armor—let’s see if you can move in it.”

Before he could protest, she spun him into a playful dance, leading him effortlessly with quick and light movements. Borlsche stumbled at first, his heavy armor resisting his steps, but Kiko only laughed as she adjusted to his awkward rhythm.

For the first time in a long time, Borlsche smiled. In that moment—the weight of battle, of Yomi itself, faded. A fleeting moment of joy—a memory that felt untouched by death, by battle, by fate itself.

But peace in Yomi was never meant to last.

A horrific wail shattered the air, sending a tremor through the village. Borlsche spun around just in time to see dozens of Hollowspine Demons emerging from the mist. Their elongated limbs stretched toward the villagers, their hollowed vertebrae screaming with stolen voices.

Tenso grabbed his hammer. Kiko’s golden eyes flashed with fear.

Borlsche drew his katana, the newly forged steel humming in his grip. “We fight.”

The battle was unlike any before. The demons tore through homes, and their grasping limbs dragged villagers into the abyss. Tenso fought fiercely, his strikes precise, but every demon he felled, two more took its place.

Kiko moved like the wind, her twin tails flickering as she danced through the chaos, slashing at the creatures with sharp claws. She met Borlsche’s eyes for the briefest of moments—a silent promise to survive.

And then—she was gone.

A demon pierced through her chest, lifting her off the ground. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Borlsche screamed.

The demons wasted no time and descended upon him, their whispers clawing at his mind, their limbs dragging him down. His katana felt heavy, his armor cracking beneath the pressure.

As the final blow struck him, he felt everything fade—

Borlsche shot up, his body drenched in sweat, as the scent of damp earth filled his lungs. He was no longer in Yomi nor the village.

Aokigahara Forest stretched around him, silent and unmoving. The sun had begun to rise, its golden light filtering through the trees.

Was it all a dream? 

His hands trembled as he reached to his side—his katana was still there. Black armor still clung to his body.

And in the distance, the wind carried the faintest sound of laughter.

Kiko’s laughter.

Borlsche closed his eyes.

It wasn’t a dream. He’d lived, fought, and for a fleeting moment, danced there. Determined to find out what’d happened, he got up and decided to return to Yomi.