Fuyumi Mori rode her old bike to the hidden heart of Ashiwara. Not many people go this far into the valley today. Legends recall it’s a cursed place, but to her, it’s a bright puzzle begging for the right mind. She is set on finding out if tales of the stone Wyrm are truth or empty old words. She has old pain, a father lost to the myths he chased. Now, with graduation ahead, it feels like this ancient mystery is one she must solve. Isn’t curiosity a wild thing sometimes?
Misaki, always the skeptic, waits by the shrine when Fuyumi texts him, ‘The fog’s thick. Come quick if you don’t want to get lost.’ His eyes scan the old slopes. Big stones with carvings rise from tall grass, half-swallowed by green. ‘It all looks the same as last summer, Fu,’ he grumbles, ‘All ghost-stories and moss.’
Then something doesn’t fit. Old stone glows faint gold, as Fuyumi hops off her bike; behind it, a broken wooden plank—never seen that. The light pulses, too soft for townspeople to spot even at dusk.
Shiori, Fuyumi’s little sister, sneaks after her, boots too loud. She hugs a binder full of legends copied from their grandmother. “It’s not just a tale, big sis. The oath-keeper spirit is real. It saves those who find its truth!” she pleads, eyes wide, chin trembling a bit. You get chills when a kid this hopeful says stuff like that.
A new arrival stands on the trail, haggard cloak, staff wound round with old string, face hard to read in the half-light. Ryo, wandering monk, a man who’s saved others from a spirit-possession in a far-off village—how do you think these cast-offs find each other?
As dark falls, an old song rises with the wind. Together, these four find themselves at a stone altar grown with deep moss, a twisted idol that both frightens and calls Fuyumi to touch it. Awkward moments pass and the air thickens. Something unseen breathes. Silence stretches.
Sudden changes: glow goes harsh, grass fades, sounds ricochet off the shrine walls. Each sees visions pulled up by the stone, filling the minds in flashes—old battles, vows made on rivers of blood, the sorrowful scream of a crowned reptile great and wise. Is it grief, or warning, or both?
Ryo grabs the staff higher and shouts, “Don’t let your fear bind you!”
Then it happens. The ground softens, heat sighs up, and a true Wyrm edge clangs past shapes of falling leaves, gigantic yet solution, neither ghost nor flesh. Fuyumi can’t move. A voice—or maybe more a needling thought—hits them: ‘Swear or break. Oaths keep me alive. What oaths do you keep and what do you lose for them?’ Do you ever think what promises are worth, once made?
Fuyumi’s boldness falters then returns full force. “I won’t let old pain guide me if it means I cling to lies! Tell us: can truth defeat a vow bound in fear?” Her say feels strong, or is it just quick hope?
Misaki steps forward too, his tone low: “I swear to protect my friends from things they can’t fight alone. But is that what traps you here?” 
Shiori hugs her binder close, trying hard not to cry, already vowing to believe no matter what. Ryo holds his ground, his words soft but steady: “All vows carved in fear rot the same way.” For a blink, he looks younger, more tired.
The Wyrm shows them its old mind using flashes—not words, but snatches. It keeps rolling, promise by promise, links of loss, hints that somewhere, someone broke the chain. If they can find out who, that curse might wilt for good.
The spell closes in, narrowing their vision until the world is just broken shapes and swirling mist. Each must step close and name what they hold or bind—oaths that protect, oaths that hurt.
‘What if the very power of the ancient legends was in the courage to let go?’ Are they strong enough to break oaths for the sake of truth?
But before Fuyumi can speak, a ripple shreds the glow. A weathered voice cracks from somewhere beyond: “You children… who gave you the right?” The Wyrm shudders, shrine stones groan, new cracks spread in the altar. Fuyumi’s eyes go wide.
Cliffhanger: a hand, dead pale, reaches up from the grass, clutching a rusty pendent—a sign none of them saw before—pushing into the midst of their trembling circle. Who is it, friend or ghost? The shine from the idol spikes, pulling them closer. Have they gone too far this time?
