Those Who Roar in Silence: Monster Wars Saga, Crowcall Arc
You’d think the city would be quiet beyond midnight. Not in Takashima. Not now. Shifts of orange lighting catch broken glass along shopfronts, flickering on cracked streets. Kou Kusaragi paces fast. Not because he hears things, but because he can’t. Something’s stolen the city’s night song for three weeks, eating even the wind and stray cats’ calls. Weird, right? Admit it, you’d check back doors and corners too. Would you?
Kou doesn’t want to be a hero. He only wants answers. His friends—Mai (full of side comments) and Hiroshi (camera glued to hand, too brave for his own good)—nag anyway. Nobody talks about the missing boys by the park or vegetables growing white-black bruises. Adults cross themselves low when they say ‘Crowcall.’
Mai crouches at the playground. “What if the story’s true? No one surviving to tell?” Hiroshi nudges his phone. “I checked the feed tonight, Mai. Two old folks posted broken glass and…shadows. It was at three past midnight. Like now.” Everyone knows not to shows training, but none of them leave. What are you scared of when everyone’s your age?
Kou mutters that they’re not here to catch a cold. He pokes the cold ground—a pair of twisted black feathers marks out a ring in dead leaves. Just then, the streetlights blink blue. Hunting blue. You ever seen fog roll upwards, as if shy? It flushes the cuts in bricks, slow, until smells change. Wet soil and old paper. That’s when you hear the steps.
A shape stands clear. Tall but broken in spots, arms far too thin, skin gray-flecked feathers, eyes unblinking moons punching through fog. That’s Crowcall, its long talon stretched toward the ground. Its beak opens, not in voice, but in that choking silence that crashes on the kids. Kou’s ears close up. Hiroshi drops his phone, swings his fists wildly with a yell—though nothing rings out.
The first clash slides across quiet. Kou moves through the still air, his blade low, his hands numbed. That’s how he lives—little risk, no ripples. Now even moving hurts, every step makes wind windless. He thinks, ‘If sounds die, what’s left but touch?’ So he rushes, dragging the others, hoping brute will against spirit. The Crowcall snatches with thin fingers, nails chipped black, slewing far corners that Mai barely leaps aside from. Mai laughs, biting her lip. “Next blocking, I call shotgun.” They charge, Hiroshi missing a step, and Kou catches him so nobody eats asphalt.
All goes blue. Or possibly gray—colors swim in this fetch of mist. Crowcall rounds again, arms splaying. It tries to sing, but in silence the world shakes. Sheets of glass rip slantwise along parked cars. Noise ought to split—only the shivering hum in skin remains, crawling nerve to nerve. Slivers hang midair. You ever freeze behind a moving wall of your own sweat? Try now.
Kou peels his palm wide and listens not for sound, but what’s missing—fear or just surprise. His voice isn’t much. “Hey, who taught you to be that loud of nothing?” Exit lines don’t impress monsters. Mai edges into view beside him, pipe in hand, proud of her market haul. “Let’s crack it!” Hiroshi squeezes familiar wires, looping a jagged speaker. When the speaker bursts sparks and feeds back, a strange flick—Crowcall’s outline shivers. Just an outline.
Kou realizes: this isn’t about running or hiding. It’s claiming echo in its empty mouth. “Sound fights sound. If all you have is silence, we’ll steal it soon enough.” He jumps into range, trailing noise on Hiroshi’s jury-rigged speaker, shouting wordless through hurt ears. Mai bounces noisy cans, claps her hands. The battle’s weird. Awkward but sort of brave.
Through force, Crowcall folds. Its wings clamp heavy. No more rivers of still. The first true noise—broken but sweet—slips out. Are you still with me? Did your like for street stories make you want more action or more mystery?
Sealed for now. Yet one blood-dark eye sets on Kou. The last thing the monster does? Lays a single black feather at his feet and leaps to rooftops, fade pushing out birds and dawn light behind torn clouds. Hiroshi picks his phone. Screen blinks blank. Mai grins, then frowns. Silence fills in again where shouts ought to go. Mist cracks, wakes to day.
Kou turns. One side of the city’s normal. Yet for him, space bends just apart—he holds the dark feather, thinking hard. Not every win comes without something lost. Do you hold onto proof, or hide it? He asks the others: “Does it come back for this, or will I start to dream in silence too?” Their story hangs unfinished.
Next episode: can monsters grow fond of people? And who wants their fear stolen anyway? Some secrets thump the loudest when all else is quiet.
