Night fell thick and fast.
The Riftlands always did that—swallowed the sun too early, hid the stars behind ash-stained clouds. Snow drifted in slow spirals, heavy as memory. The temperature dropped fast in these cursed lands, making every breath visible in white puffs.
Chi sat cross-legged beside a dying fire, same posture as the night before. Her cloak draped over her shoulders, horns gleaming faintly in the firelight like polished obsidian. She hadn't spoken in hours. Her katana, Red Crescent, rested unsheathed in her lap, its crimson blade reflecting the dancing flames.
She wasn't sharpening it.
She was listening.
The blade vibrated now and then. No sound that normal ears could catch. Just a hum that touched her bones and stirred her blood like an old song that she half-remembered. Each pulse sent tiny ripples through her Netherpulse, the dark energy that flowed through every demon's veins.
Her Netherpulse was agitated tonight. Slower than in combat, when it roared like wildfire. But deeper now. Heavier. As if something was calling to it from far off—beneath the dirt, or behind her ribs, or maybe from somewhere that didn't exist on any map.
She didn't like it.
The feeling reminded her of things she'd rather forget. Memories that should stay buried in the deepest parts of her mind.
Hinata was pacing.
Not nervous—restless. Her twin blades were strapped across her back again in their familiar X-pattern, and her hands kept moving. Stretching. Flexing. Twitching like a cat watching birds through a window. Her golden eyes swept the darkness beyond their small camp, always alert, always ready.
She'd been a warrior too long to ever truly relax.
She didn't sit until the fire popped, sending sparks into the cold air.
Then, with a grunt that sounded almost annoyed, she lowered herself across from Chi. Her movements were fluid despite her irritation—the grace of someone who'd spent years training her body to be a weapon.
Still no words between them.
Chi appreciated that. For all her bravado and loud mouth, Hinata knew how to be quiet when it mattered. She understood that some silences were sacred, that some thoughts needed space to breathe.
Still, her eyes were sharp. Watching. Always watching.
Those golden orbs missed nothing—not the way Chi's shoulders stayed tense, not the way her grip on Red Crescent never loosened, not the dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
"You didn't sleep last night," she finally said. Her voice was soft but direct, cutting through the silence like a blade through silk.
Chi didn't answer. Didn't even look up from the hypnotic dance of the flames.
Hinata poked the fire with a stick, sending more sparks spiraling upward. The wood crackled and hissed, the only sound in their small bubble of warmth. "You going to tell me why that thing had your face, or are we pretending it didn't happen?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Chi's fingers curled slightly around her sword hilt. The leather wrapping felt warm against her palm, almost alive.
"I told you," she said, her voice low and whispery, "it's dead."
"Things like that don't just die. They leave behind questions. Echoes. Problems that follow you around like shadows."
Hinata's words carried the weight of experience. She'd seen enough monsters to know that killing the body didn't always kill the curse.
Chi turned her head slowly, meeting Hinata's gaze for the first time since they'd made camp. Her red eyes glowed softly in the firelight, ancient and tired. "You want to ask?"
Hinata hesitated. Her golden eyes searched Chi's face, looking for cracks in that carefully maintained mask. But whatever she saw there—the exhaustion, the pain, the warning—made her pause.
Some doors weren't meant to be opened. Not yet.
"No," she said at last. "Not yet."
Good.
Chi turned back to the flame, watching it devour the wood piece by piece.
The wind howled outside the ruins, whistling through broken stones and empty windows. It sounded almost alive, almost angry, as if the very air in this place held grudges.
Hinata shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. "You know, I've seen mimic types before. Shapeshifters, doppelgangers, all sorts of things that wear faces that don't belong to them."
Chi remained silent, but she was listening.
"Most of them don't get it right. They mirror the wrong details. Wrong eye color. Mouths that don't open the right way. Scars in the wrong places. One even tried to copy my voice once—but it came out like a crow choking on rocks."
A ghost of a smile might have touched Chi's lips, but it was gone too quickly to be sure.
"But that one? The one from earlier? It knew you. Really knew you."
Chi's grip on her sword tightened. Just slightly, but Hinata caught it.
"I mean, the horns, the scars, even the way it moved when it fought—it was like looking in a mirror, wasn't it?"
"I said I'm not talking about it."
The words came out sharper than intended, with an edge that could cut.
Hinata paused. Then shrugged, letting the topic drop like a hot stone. "Fine. I'll drop it."
She leaned back, staring at the sky where no stars showed through the perpetual gloom.
"Still," she said after a moment, "you should know I'm not following you because I trust you."
Chi arched an eyebrow. "I didn't ask you to."
"I'm following you because I want to see what happens when that sword finally breaks."
Chi looked down at Red Crescent.
The blade was dull in the firelight now. No glow. No Pulse shimmer dancing along its edge. But it was awake. She could feel it humming with potential energy, like a sleeping dragon that might wake at any moment.
It hadn't slept since the mimic died.
Later that night, long after Hinata fell into the light sleep of a trained warrior—alert enough to wake at the first sign of danger—Chi stayed sitting by the dying embers.
Her eyes weren't focused on anything in particular.
The world around her was quiet except for the ever-present wind.
Then it came again.
That vibration.
Stronger now. More insistent.
The sword pulsed—not like breath, not like magic. But like footsteps. Distant but rhythmic. Coming closer with each beat. As if something was walking toward her from deep beneath the frozen ground, climbing up through layers of earth and stone and forgotten bones.
Her chest ached with each pulse.
She gritted her teeth against the sensation.
Her Netherpulse wasn't reacting with fear.
It was reacting with familiarity.
Like recognizing an old friend. Or an old enemy.
She grabbed the blade with both hands.
It stopped.
Immediately.
Everything went still.
Not the wind. Not the snow still falling in lazy spirals.
Just the Pulse.
Like it had frozen inside her veins, turning her blood to ice.
Then—
A whisper.
She heard it clear as crystal, just once, inside her skull.
"Come home."
Chi stood so fast her cloak fell from her shoulders and pooled around her feet.
Blade ready, stance perfect, eyes scanning the darkness.
Nothing was there.
Only darkness pressing in from all sides.
Only cold that bit through her clothes.
Only the waiting.
Always the waiting.
By morning, she hadn't slept a single minute.
Hinata noticed immediately.
"You look worse than usual," she said, rolling up her bedroll with practiced efficiency.
Chi didn't respond. Couldn't find the energy for words.
Hinata raised an eyebrow. "You dreaming or something? Having nightmares?"
"Something like that."
Hinata stretched, working the stiffness out of her joints. "You're lucky, you know. I don't get dreams anymore."
Chi looked at her for the first time that morning, curiosity finally breaking through her exhaustion. "Why not?"
Hinata's smile was sharp and bitter. "The Queen burned them out of me. Said dreams were a weakness. A distraction from duty."
Then she turned and started packing her gear, the conversation clearly over.
They left the ruins behind before midday, heading east along a path that had once been a proper road. Now it was just wheel ruts and stones, leading toward the next dead settlement.
A caravan path that connected ghost towns and empty graves.
Neither said anything more as they walked.
But Chi could feel it growing stronger with every step—in her sword hand, in her chest, in her blood:
The Pulse was waiting.
And it wasn't done with her yet.
Not even close.