They wandered deeper into Kyōgai not because they had a plan—
but because sitting still made the trees whisper louder.
It was the kind of whisper you didn't hear with your ears, but with your spine.
The kind that itched beneath your skin, like someone writing secrets across your bones with a wet finger.
So they walked.
Bellies half-full, egos half-bruised, hair still carrying the faint smell of explosion and moss-jerky.
Rakan led the way at first, marching with the self-assured swagger of someone who absolutely did not know where he was going but wasn't going to admit it.
For twenty minutes they passed the same twisted stone. Then the same crooked root. Then the crater from breakfast.
"Are you… going in a circle?" Teruko asked, deadpan.
"No."
She pointed. "That's the same crater from this morning."
Rakan frowned. "It's a different crater."
"It has your boot print in it."
There was a long pause.
"Okay," Rakan sighed. "Maybe a small circle."
Teruko shoved past him with a sigh that could cut metal. "Let me lead."
They followed her.
Ten minutes later, they arrived… at the crater. Again.
Mazanka clapped slowly. "I love this team."
Shugoh, humming off-key and twirling a vine like a ribbon, stepped forward and said, "Clearly, what we need… is science."
Teruko didn't even look up. "No."
"Let me guide us," he said, puffing out his chest. "I can read the glyphs in the air. The vibrations. The emotion of the Ka'ro flow."
She turned to face him with a flat expression. "You once claimed a fish told you where to go."
"It did. And I made it to lunch on time."
"You also got chased by three jungle-bulls and fell into a screaming hole."
"Direction is subjective," Shugoh said, completely unbothered.
Mazanka—ten paces behind them, as always—sipped from a long-necked gourd filled with something shimmering and vaguely alive. He hadn't offered it to anyone. He hadn't explained it. He hadn't said a word.
He didn't need to. His eyes were half-lidded in amusement. Like a parent watching their kids try to put together furniture without reading the instructions.
The deeper they wandered, the quieter Kyōgai became.
Not peaceful quiet.
But the kind that makes you think you've forgotten something important—like your name. Or where you were born.
The wind died.
Even the insects, which had never truly made normal sounds here to begin with, fell into silence. The hum of Ka'ro lingered in the air like humidity—thick, breathing, full of strange weight.
The ground beneath their boots no longer crunched with leaves or branches.
It hummed.
A low resonance that sank through the soles of their feet and settled into their spines. Like the jungle was gently playing them like instruments, waiting for one to ring wrong.
Glyphs had begun to sprout in patches now—soft curls of green and gold that climbed the bark of trees like veins, like ivy, like disease. They pulsed faintly when passed. Some twitched. Some blinked.
Teruko ran her fingers over one and shivered.
"They're not stable," she muttered.
"They're growing," Rakan said, brushing another one with his knuckles. It hissed softly and shrank into the bark.
"Kyōgai is alive," Mazanka murmured behind them, voice unusually quiet. "Not metaphorically. Literally. It remembers things. Keeps them. Warps them."
"Warping things isn't that bad," Shugoh said. "I once warped a doorknob into a sandwich."
Teruko ignored him.
Rakan turned, scanning the trees. "Are we being followed?"
Mazanka didn't even hesitate. "No."
A beat of relief passed—
"We're being watched."
Rakan stiffened. "By what?"
Mazanka smiled.
A slow, foxlike smile.
"Kyōgai," he said.
The name landed like a dropped stone.
The jungle breathed around them, as if pleased to hear itself spoken aloud.
A low creak rolled through the canopy. Somewhere to the left, a tree bent… and did not rise again.
Rakan's Ka'ro prickled along his arms.
Shugoh, unfazed, spun in a slow circle with arms outstretched, twigs clinging to his coat like confetti.
"Then let's give it a show," he said with a wild grin.
And somehow, they kept walking.
Because the only thing worse than the jungle watching…was the jungle waiting.
They stumbled into the clearing without meaning to.
One moment, they were embroiled in yet another meandering argument about who had the better sense of direction—which was, of course, no one—and the next, the jungle floor dipped suddenly beneath their boots, tilting like a drunken thought.
The air shifted.
The trees, once thick with limbs like claws, opened just enough to reveal a basin carved by something far older than weather. The bamboo grew crooked here—tall stalks bent at strange angles, overlapping like broken bones. Mist gathered low, hugging the earth as if hiding something underneath.
And there it sat.
A single log.
Alone.
Unmoving.
Perfectly straight.
And perfectly unnatural.
Rakan slowed first, eyes narrowing.
It rested atop a short stone altar, half-devoured by moss and vines. The structure was circular, ringed with sunken glyphs that twisted slowly, alive with Ka'ro breath. But the log—that thing didn't belong to the jungle. Its bark shimmered obsidian-black beneath the filtered light, not a single notch or split in sight. It looked polished, sculpted, like someone had stripped the soul from a tree and molded it into a monument to precision.
Its edges were too clean. Its presence, too heavy.
Glyphs ran the length of it like veins—burned into the surface in perfect spirals, carved by something patient and powerful.
Rakan squinted. "That's… weird."
Shugoh gasped, audibly. "It's a Trial Log."
Mazanka stopped walking. One brow arched.
"A what now?"
Shugoh was already moving forward with the reverence of a monk on sacred ground. "A Trial Log," he repeated dramatically, arms stretched out toward the monolith. "Left behind by wandering Ka'ro masters of old. Meant only for the brave, the foolish, and the terminally curious."
Rakan stared. "You're making this up."
Shugoh's grin widened. "According to Rift-born legend—"
Teruko sighed audibly.
"—these logs appear only to those whose destiny is tangled enough to test. It is said they judge your worth by your ability to face the impossible and walk away unchanged."
Mazanka folded his arms. "You're definitely making this up."
Rakan crossed his arms too, tilting his head. "And you know this… how?"
Shugoh spun on his heel. "I made it up just now."
He beamed.
A beat of silence.
"But doesn't it feel true?" he asked, eyes wide, hands raised like he'd just summoned a god from the dirt.
Teruko stared at the log, then at him. "It feels cursed."
Shugoh raised a finger. "Exactly!"
Mazanka exhaled through a chuckle. "Gods, I'm surrounded by idiots."
Before anyone could stop him, Shugoh strode toward the log, boots squelching through moss.
He reached out slowly—no fear, just reckless awe—and placed one hand against the surface.
The texture wasn't bark. It was cool, too smooth, humming beneath his palm like a creature that had never been asleep, only waiting.
Rakan took a half-step forward. "Shugoh—don't."
Teruko's hand went to her blade. "Don't touch it yet—"
Too late.
The log breathed.
A tremor rolled through the ground—subtle, but certain. The glyphs carved along its length flared a sickly green, flickering like lightning trapped under skin.
Then came the hum.
Deep. Slow. Low.
It vibrated through their ribs, rattling old aches in their bones, thudding like a heartbeat inside the world. The air changed.
The leaves stopped rustling.
The birds stopped calling.
The jungle itself… stopped watching.
Everything went still.
The glyphs along the stone altar flared in answer, igniting like a chain reaction. A circle of light erupted around the log in sharp pulses—whomp… whomp… whomp—each burst sinking the basin into eerie silence.
Shugoh, still touching the log, whispered with awe. "Oh yeah. This is definitely a trial."
Mazanka blinked. "Well, that's not normal."
Teruko was already half-drawn. "Back away from it. Now."
Rakan flared with Ka'ro instinctively, fingers alive with radiant heat. "That's not reacting like a construct. That's reacting like—like it knows."
Shugoh turned back to them slowly, one eyebrow arched, his hair now gently rising as if gravity had lost interest.
He smiled like a child who'd found a ghost in a toy box.
"Trial," he said again. "Confirmed."
"What exactly are we supposed to do with it?" Rakan asked, his fingers flexing as stray arcs of Ka'ro sparked around them. The energy buzzed like heat lightning—agitated, reactive. His eyes didn't leave the log, which sat there like an insult.
"Break it?" he added, less certain.
Mazanka stepped forward, sipping the last of his memory-fruit concoction like he was enjoying a festival performance.
"That's usually how these things go," he said, tapping the log with the heel of his boot. "Smash the thing, prove your worth, get a headache. Maybe a lesson about yourself if you're lucky. Or cursed."
Shugoh stepped dramatically to the side like a stagehand making space for a main act.
"The first strike," he intoned, pointing both hands toward Rakan like a prophet, "belongs to the young flame."
Rakan frowned. "Me?"
Shugoh nodded sagely. "The jungle has chosen you."
"It did not," Teruko muttered. "He's just standing closest."
"Which is obviously a sign," Shugoh replied without missing a beat.
Teruko folded her arms. "Unless you're afraid."
Rakan turned his head sharply. "Afraid?"
She shrugged. "You have been twitchy lately."
His Ka'ro pulsed like a growl.
"I'm not twitchy."
Mazanka whistled low. "Ooh, he's heating up. Maybe the log will feel something."
"Please," Rakan said, stepping forward, eyes narrowing. "Watch and learn."
He stood before it, hands hovering a few inches above its glossy, black surface. The glyphs pulsed beneath the bark like veins—steady, uncaring.
Rakan inhaled, then pushed both palms down.
Ka'ro flared. Spiraling upward through his arms, down through his core, heat twisting into pure force. The log lit up beneath his touch, reacting in a blink of light—
BOOM.
Dust kicked up. A shockwave pulsed outward, rustling trees, startling birds into panicked flight.
Silence followed.
Rakan stood there, arms still braced.
And the log didn't move.
Not a tremble. Not a scratch. Not a single fleck of bark out of place.
He blinked.
Then slowly drew his hands back, flexing his fingers like they'd betrayed him.
"…Okay," he muttered.
Mazanka chuckled behind him. "That's the spirit."
"My turn," Teruko said coolly, stepping forward without hesitation.
Rakan looked at her. "Wait—"
Too late.
Her hand was already on her hilt, Ka'ro humming like a string pulled too tight. She moved with crisp precision, a vertical slash arcing through the air with clean violence. Light bloomed down her blade as the energy bit into the log—
CRACK—THOOM.
The ground shook faintly.
She exhaled as her feet landed cleanly.
And then… silence again.
The log remained utterly, absolutely unchanged.
Not even a splinter dared move.
Teruko stared, eyes narrowing. She ran a thumb along her blade's edge, checking it. As if it had failed her.
"I—" she started, then stopped.
Mazanka leaned against a tree with theatrical smugness. "Maybe you're not angry enough."
"I'm plenty angry," she snapped, cheeks flushing.
Shugoh, barefoot and still munching on something leaf-shaped, stepped forward next. He said nothing at first. Just approached the log with the air of someone about to commit a deeply personal act of rebellion.
Everyone took a small step back.
He didn't draw a blade. Didn't summon Ka'ro.
He just took a long breath, nodded to the log like it was an old friend he had to let down gently—
—and kicked it.
Barefoot.
THUNK.
A deep, strange resonance echoed through the clearing like someone had struck a gong underwater.
There was a moment of dumbfounded silence.
Then—
CRACK.
Not loud. Not grand. But real.
A thin fracture ran across one edge of the log—faint, glowing slightly with the same glyph-light that had once slept across its skin.
Shugoh stumbled backward, grabbing his foot with a yelp. "Ow—okay. Success comes at a price."
"You kicked it?" Rakan asked, jaw slack.
"Strategy," Shugoh said, now hopping on one leg. "Spiritual precision."
Teruko looked like she'd just witnessed blasphemy. "Why the hell did that work?"
Mazanka, now fully delighted, spread his arms. "Because he didn't overthink it."
And then—
The log moved.
Not cracked, not splintered. Unfolded.
It shifted open with the sound of something ancient turning over in its sleep. Glyphs slid apart like puzzle pieces separating along invisible seams. Bark and black wood pulled back with eerie smoothness, revealing a spiral staircase carved downward into softly glowing stone.
The earth beneath the log pulsed with breath. A draft of air rose—wet, metallic, and far too deep to belong in a clearing.
Rakan stepped closer, brow furrowed. "What is this?"
"No idea," Mazanka said, finally serious. "But it wasn't meant to be found easily."
Teruko watched the light crawl across the spiral steps. "We're not leaving without knowing."
Shugoh, still holding his foot, limped toward the opening.
He grinned.
"…Oh, this is gonna be great."