Expedition to the Veiled Peaks: Arc One — Into the Mist
Blades of fog sweep through Mount Kiritsu. Night frogs croak and willow leaves twitch. Orion Minato pulls his scarf close, small hands shaking, staring at the path. Kurokuro, his younger sister, whines behind him: “Ori, you still think she’ll be up there?” Orion doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t want her scared. He looks up at moonlit clouds. “If Grandma vanished beyond the mist, that’s where I’m going.” A lantern rattles between them.
The story opens with the twins pacing the edge of their home village, Himura. Everyone warns them, don’t follow old ghost trails up the hills after dusk. Their grandmother disappeared four years back. Rumors swirl she met the Tatsu-no-Kage, the myth dragon in those clouds. Kurokuro tugs Orion’s sleeve. “Can’t we look in daylight?” Orion just shakes his head. That’s when their friend Masa early, a goofy but sharp woods kid, grins with his crooked tooth: “You know they’re gonna close the gate when the bell rings, right? I’ll come. We need bait.”
Have you ever had friends like that? The type who throw themselves into weird things just to make sure you’re not alone? Everyone says some skills don’t show until the real test. Masa knows every bird sound, Orion sings old shrine prayers (softly so Kurokuro won’t moan about being embarrassed), and Kurokuro’s eyes spot every little light around in the dark. And right then, as they step off to the jade moss path, the ancient idol stands. Its faded grin is creepy. Someone once nailed its jaw back on—crooked, upside down. Ori jokes, “Lucky for us, I guess it doesn’t talk anymore.” Masa spits. “Let’s pray it stays that way!” 
The kids scramble through tangled roots while stories return in spurts. Their grandma was a boundary seeker though few believed her wild jobs or strange maps. What’s myth in your hometown? Have adults told you something can’t exist, then someone winks like they know better?
If you’re from a small town, you get it. Every tree’s got a history. Then the ground shakes and great blue light flares from deeper in the fog. All three drop to their knees fast—Kurokuro’s hands mud-slick as she gasps. From inside the cloud, scales from some giant creature reflect tiny moonbeams on the moss. They haven’t seen this in schoolbooks. Something walks where nothing’s been caught for decades. But the shape isn’t right—the Tatsu seems half there, thin one moment, shining strong the next. The air’s cold and slit by old choir chanting none of them learned in class. Orion mutters, lips dry: “That—sounded like Grandma. I’m sure.”
Then, tension. The path splits three ways. Heavy roots block the left road. A river crashes right. Midway lies thick ferns spotted with small red hats. Orion strains to see, feeling eyes everywhere. Suddenly, Kurokuro steps on a plate buried in peat—she falls right through. Orion dives after her. Is there any feeling sharper than trying to grab someone and barely missing? The pit glows gold on its walls, flecked with bone and hair, old kitchen tiles and melted family photos. Three sets of flaming blue eyes blink from the gloom.
Kurokuro lands soft but far below. She whispers, thinking they won’t hear: “Is this hell?” Masa hoots back up—Orion soon sticks by her side. There’s not much time left to panic, because just ten feet away a mask-like face—white clay, missing half a jaw—raises up from the muck. It gurgles new prayers no one in this era has heard. Orion inches forward, heart racing, holds out the old flute he kept. The mask blinks and, just for a moment, seems to smile.
Above ground, Masa is scrambling along mossy stone glyphs. He uncovers an old striking post shaped like a crescent moon. It crackles as he tests it. Wild stories crisscross: maybe a Tatsu bent the metal ages ago. Now he has to use it—rocks fall below and torchlight brightens the sunless pit. Tense, Orion and Kurokuro reach for each other. Is it myth or some odd science they don’t get? The cave breathes, pushing out sounds of faraway drums. Orion looks back—three mask spirits have begun chanting their tiny shrine rituals. None of them about to attack—yet. Instead, they drift around the kids respectfully. Have you heard your family honor the dead this way? Or step beyond known places, out of longing or stubborn hope?
The trio stands together again, sweat pooling on their cheeks. Mitsue, the good-natured old quest-monger, waits at the next entry—somehow, she always pops up at just the wrong (or right) times. “Looking for a lost grandmother, huh? Lost isn’t lost in these hills. Take this root. You’ll need it before the sunleaves fall.” The kids don’t fully get her. She gives Kurokuro a root shaped oddly like a hand—”Don’t eat. When scared, squeeze.” The group takes her at her word (mostly: Masa bites his just to see). Is legend for the gullible, or can lost relics and warnings still help kids in fear or lonely trips？ 
They move up to the ridge, air sharp as blade tips. At the top, faint golden eyes appear in a tight circle—nine pairs, sometimes blinking at once, sometimes vanishing. The Tatsu steps almost clear of the fog. Half-myth, half strangely real flesh. Orion lifts his lantern, watching it flicker. The mask spirits at their flank stay—first wary, then less so as the Tatsu looks down its hooked snout and says in perfect voice: “Do you carry what is lost, or wish to lose more?” Orion can’t speak. Kurokuro sees her own tiny face in each Tatsu eye. Masa just laughs, “Don’t sweat us, cloud-dragon. We just want our grandma, and maybe your tooth for luck.” Every myth whispers something forward and backward—sometimes you need to mouth off. Do you judge fear or try to muscle through?
The Tatsu’s voice cracks the silence. “Call the one who waits between roots.” Orion musters a song fragment his grandma used to hum, shaky at first. Thin lines of song roll into a storm. Eyes blink. The old photos come alive in bursts within the cave below—grandma’s laugh filling the air for just a bit, making all of them want to stay right there. Still, cliffhangers leave us stuck—the Tatsu turns as gale winds surge, splitting the ground under them. Mitsue grabs Orion’s sleeve. “You’ve started it. Next time, you’ll see more than you want—be wary next sundown.” Lightning sizzles. The arc closes with all three falling, caught mid-air in soft mist, faces steely. Who do you trust when you’re far from home, following a grandma’s echo into unbelief?
Will they land safe, lost, cursed, or join the mask spirits? See you in Arc Two.
