Chapter Twenty-One:

  “Lanterns That Stay”

  Pearl Bay looked abandoned. But not ruined. From the highest rooftops, you could see the barrier fracturing in real time—shimmering colors turned to a steady red, cracks splintering across the sky like shattered glass. Every few seconds, another impact lit the heavens: cannon fire from Vassoth’s fleet hammering the barrier from beyond the waves. The armada spanned the horizon, a wall of black sails and war-forged metal. And at its heart, monstrous and unmoving, loomed the flagship. Bigger than any other. A beast among beasts. Its jagged silhouette caught each blast of light, less a ship and more a promise.

  Tall stilt-houses leaned over clustered docks like watchful birds, their wooden skeletons rising high into the mist. Windmills spun lazily above tiered huts, straw roofs fluttering with faded banners. Rope bridges tangled across the skyline like veins. Wooden walkways spidered over calm teal water, connecting boat homes, bathhouses, and salt-stained market stalls still strung with faded fabric. A coastal village folded into misted cliffs.

  Today, the streets held all the signs of life cut short. A meal sat half-eaten on a porch. A door swung open and closed in the breeze. A lantern had burned out mid-glow.

  John stepped into the silence with Akira beside him, RW perched alert on his shoulder, her flames flickering low. Haru and Kei followed just behind, eyes sharp, bodies tense.

  "It’s quieter than I expected," Akira murmured.

  The only answer came from the sea. Waves lapped against the rocks with rhythmic insistence.

  Kimiko's ears twitched, her tail flicking once. "Most of the villagers evacuated inland, toward Kagemura. Those who stayed... are the kind that don’t run."

  As they moved deeper into the village, the signs of sudden departure multiplied. Torn lanterns dangled from frayed cords. Fishing nets sagged across empty courtyards. A bowl of untouched rice sat on a windowsill, chopsticks beside it, the curtain behind it stirring as if waiting for someone who would never come.

  John slowed.

  A sound rose over the rooftops—low, distant, guttural.

  A roar.

  It rolled across the bay like thunder remembering how to speak.

  He turned toward the water.

  The fleet was still there, vast and unmoving. Thousands of ships, black sails pulled tight against the wind.

  Cannons along its hull flared with a deep violet glow. Glyphs pulsed across their frames, runes warped and blackened like scars, glowing like coals choked with ash as they launched another volley. Arcs of violet fire streaked into the sky, hammering the barrier relentlessly. Each strike sent cracks dancing across the heavens like lightning etched in glass.

  The heavens answered with a groan.

  Above them, the barrier continued to crack.

  RW flinched. Her voice came low, taut. "Structural integrity down to thirty-seven percent. Collapse is accelerating."

  Another impact. A flare of violet fire. The cracks widened.

  John staggered a step, a pressure behind his eyes sharp enough to blur vision. The world didn’t just feel close to breaking—it felt like it was already unraveling, thread by thread.

  And still, Pearl Bay held.

  Not with barricades. Not with soldiers on patrol. But with people. Ordinary Eldorians—mostly Nekomijin, some Human—who hadn’t run. They stood in doorways, lit lanterns. Not pretending nothing was wrong. Just refusing to leave.

  John saw them and looked at Akira, at Haru and Kei, at RW beside him. He thought of Rai. Of Yumi. They wouldn’t have run either.

  He wasn’t sure anymore why he’d left his world in the first place. And he didn’t care. Whatever the reason, it had brought him here.

  And here, he had friends. He had people worth fighting for.

  Family.

  Haru motioned toward a cluster of buildings deeper in. "The Drifting Lantern’s ahead. Central lodge. They’ll be expecting us."

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  As they followed her, John let his hand rest against the hilt of one of the Moonlit Echoes. Not in readiness. In grounding. As if the blades could remind him that he was still here. Still whole.

  The glow of lanterns pulled them forward, faint and warm against the chill of the air.

  And for the moment, at least, there was no enemy.

  Only the long shadow of what was coming next.

  The Drifting Lantern sat at the heart of Pearl Bay, nestled beneath a bloom of wisteria and old, mossy roofs that looked more like they had grown than been built. Its eaves curled like waves caught mid-break, and the walls leaned with age but not fragility. Lanterns hung beneath the overhangs, their paper shells hand-painted with symbols of sea gods and fox spirits. Windows gleamed with amber light, welcoming them.

  Inside, it was warm. Not from fire, but from presence. From memory. From being lived in for a very long time.

  Elder Warabi was already waiting.

  She was shorter than John expected, but the way she carried herself left no question of command. Her fur was calico—patches of warm gold and gray faded with time—and her eyes gleamed with quiet clarity. A steaming pot of tea sat on the table before her, beside a carved tray of fish and rice. Haru and Kei bowed slightly as they entered.

  Warabi gestured toward the cushions without rising. “Sit. Eat. You’ve traveled far.”

  They sat. No one argued. Even Akira looked thankful for the pause, his usual tension melting just slightly as he poured a cup of tea.

  John sipped his own and found himself watching the elder. “How do you live with it?” he asked. “The barrier, the fleet, all of it. Just… hanging there.”

  Warabi didn’t answer immediately. She took a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the window where flashes of gold and violet played silently through the paper screen.

  “You don’t live with it,” she said. “You endure it. Like a storm that never makes landfall.”

  Kei nodded. “The people who stayed behind? They weren’t brave at first. Just stubborn. But over time, that stubbornness becomes something else.”

  “Belief,” Haru added quietly. “In the ones still willing to fight. In the idea that standing your ground matters, even if no one else sees it.”

  RW perched near the edge of the table, her flames low but steady. She watched Haru for a moment, then nodded once. "Belief in each other," she said. "That’s harder than fear. And worth more."

  Akira’s expression shifted. He looked toward the door, toward the villagers still out there, still standing. “They’re not just surviving,” he said. “They’re choosing to fight. Even if it means standing in the way of something that should flatten them.”

  John looked around the table. "Maybe that’s what makes a place worth saving," he said. "Not just the walls or the history. It’s the people who stay when they don’t have to."

  Warabi spoke again. “There is a story the elders here keep, though it is not often told aloud. Not since the early days after the Fall.”

  She gestured toward a faded tapestry on the far wall. It showed a lone Nekomijin warrior, standing at the mouth of a cove. In his hands: two blades. One long, one short. Their edges glowed white-blue in the face of a rising tide of shadow.

  “The Broken Fangs,” she said. “Two blades forged in desperation, used to sever the corruption at its root. The warrior who wielded them gave everything. And when he fell, the blades were returned to the cove where they remain to this day.”

  Akira leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You're saying they’re still there?”

  “They’ve never been retrieved,” Warabi said. “Because to reach them is to walk into the place where the corruption bled most deeply. Even the waves fear to crash among its shores.”

  John exchanged a glance with RW. “Sounds like our next step.”

  Akira poured himself another drink. “Of course it is. Haunted blade quest. Right on schedule.”

  “Scared?” Haru asked, smirking.

  Akira raised his cup with a crooked grin. “I’m flattered you think I’m smart enough to be scared.”

  John laughed, and for a moment, so did the others. Even the rumble of distant impact couldn’t reach the warmth inside the Drifting Lantern.

  The moment passed slowly, like the last glow of a dying candle.

  But no one said they weren’t ready.

  Not out loud.

  Night crept into Pearl Bay in soft, deliberate waves. Outside The Drifting Lantern, the wind picked up just enough to rattle the windchimes, sending their glass notes echoing down the narrow alleys between stilt-houses. Inside, the lanterns had burned low, their glow fading to warm pulses like the heartbeat of a place trying to hold still.

  John sat near the hearth, legs stretched out, a half-empty cup of tea cooling beside him. Haru and Kei had fallen into a quiet rhythm sharpening their blades. RW snoozed with her flame dimmed to a whisper, curled like a cat beside the stairs. Akira, sprawled on a mat with one arm tossed over his eyes, breathed slow and steady—not quite asleep, but not entirely awake either.

  The warmth of dinner still lingered in John’s stomach. But the rest he’d hoped for hadn’t come. His mind was too full.

  He glanced at the ceiling. Then at the door. Then at the quiet company around him.

  This was his world now. These people. This room. This moment.

  He thought of Yumi.

  He remembered the curve of her smile, the weight of her hand in his, the feel of her warmth in the soft dark of The Sleeping Fox. The look in her eyes when she said she wanted more time. He had promised her that.

  He meant it.

  John shifted, drawing the blanket up a little tighter. His armor was stacked neatly nearby, blades within reach. Just in case. But for now, he didn’t reach for them. For now, he just breathed.

  A soft knock came at the door. Not loud. Gentle.

  Elder Warabi stepped inside, her silhouette outlined by the hallway glow. She didn’t speak. Just gave a nod, then walked back into the dark.

  John followed.

  She led him up a short stairwell and out to a small open terrace that overlooked the bay. The sky was bruised with starlight. The barrier flared above like veins of light etched across a dying canvas.

  He stood quietly beside her.

  Warabi didn’t look at him. "The ones who stay," she said, "are often the ones who never had a choice. But you did, didn’t you?"

  John didn’t answer right away. "Yeah. I did."

  She nodded once, then walked away.

  He stayed, watching the broken sky reflect in the water below. Somewhere out there, a monster waited behind a thousand ships. Somewhere behind that, Yumi was still climbing her own mountain.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Neither was she.

  And tomorrow, they’d all fight like hell to make sure the others made it through.

  John closed his eyes, the wind brushing past like a whispered promise.

  He stayed until the last lantern winked out below.

  Then he went inside and finally let himself sleep.