Shinrabansho: Myriad Souls

Light rose on the tower’s door frame.

The rest of the stage fell away into shadow, leaving only the suggestion of stone and the tower’s immense height. Aurora entered cautiously, her footsteps echoing as she approached the door set into the arch. She studied it, tracing the warped grain of the wood with her eyes, testing the handle once more as if hoping it might have softened since the last time she tried.

“I wonder what wondrous thing hides behind this ancient door?” she murmured.

An owl hooted from somewhere above, the sound sharp and sudden in the stillness.

Aurora tilted her head, smiling faintly. “I have been everywhere in our home,” she said, half to herself. “This one door bars my way. I wonder if the King would remove it for me for my next birthday?”

She reached out and laid her palm against the door, her fingers splayed as if she was straining to listen through it.

“I am impatient,” she admits. “Why can I not see what lies behind you?”

The owl hooted again, closer this time. A dark shape crossed the light as the owl swooped past, her wings beating. It was a student in an owl costume, lowered on a line from above. She hovered up there and something clattered to the floor near Aurora’s feet and the owl set down near her.

“Hoo… Hoo… Hoo.” She eagerly flapped her wings.

Aurora startled, then laughed softly at herself.

“An owl lived here?” she said, crouching to peer at the object on the floor. “How curious. Whatever did it drop?”

She reached down and lifted the rusted key, turning it slowly between her fingers as she straightened.

“A key…?” Her eyes brightened. “I wonder…”

She stepped to the door and fit the key into the lock. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then she turned it.

The lock gave with a tired groaning. The door creaked open, the sound long and aching, as though it had waited years for this moment.

Aurora exhaled a delighted breath and slipped inside.

The owl hooted and fluttered along the stairway ahead of the princess, her wings brushing the stone.

She flinched as it passed, then laughed again, shaking her head.

“I must not frighten myself so easily.”

Gathering her skirts, she climbed the stairs, one step, then another, the ascent marked clearly by a change in height and light and vanished from the audience’s sight.

The light fell and the curtains closed.

The curtains rose slowly.

The doorframe and tower had been replaced by the upper chamber of the eastern tower. The set was spare but evocative, stone-textured flats suggesting narrow walls, a single arched window cut high into the backdrop, and a slanted beam of pale light spilling across the stage as though from a distant moon. The air felt thinner here, quieter, almost suspended in time.

At center stage, a spinning wheel waited.

It was already turning.

The sound reached the audience before Aurora did. The steady whirring of wood spun and rubbed against the frame, patient and measured, filled the space with a rhythm that did not belong to the rest of the castle.

Aurora’s voice carried up the stairwell before she appeared.

“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone—”

She emerged at the top of the steps and stopped short.

The space opened before her.

An old spinner sat before the wheel, her silhouette recognizable even in the dim light. The wheel continued to turn slowly, steadily, its motion hypnotic, the soft whirring echoing against the seemingly stone walls.

The acoustics certainly are good in this gymnasium. Hmmm… Why should I be impressed with a dream, even if it’s carefully layered like reality?

Baku shook his head, feeling amused at himself.

Aurora stepped closer, awe overtaking her earlier playfulness.

“Good-morrow, Motherkin,” she said politely. “What are you doing in this old tower?”

Now this sort of a line would be more difficult for Riko to handle, or so I thought. She appears to be positively demure and respectful towards an elder. I didn’t think she could make such a face. Interesting. She must be a surprisingly talented actress with much past experience.

The spinner did not look up.

“Spinning.”

Aurora took another step, her eyes fixed on the wheel.

“Spinning…?” she echoed. “What is the meaning of that word? I’ve never seen—”

“Of course you haven’t,” the spinner said.

Aurora circled the wheel carefully, intriqued. For a fleeting moment, suspicion crossed her face, but then her curiosity claimed her fully.

“How… beautiful,” she breathed. “The sound of it turning… its motions.” She hesitated, then smiled. “May I try?”

The spinner finally lifted her head.

Her smile was thin. Stretched just a little too tight.

“Every young girl should know how to use a wheel.”

Aurora straightened.

“I’m not merely a young girl—”

“Here.”

The spinner extended the spindle.

Aurora took it.

The stage seemed to hold its breath with her.

She looked down at the sharp tip, her voice lowering.

“Mother said to avoid sharp objects—”

“Mothers say many things,” the spinner replied calmly, “in fear that their child will experience pain.”

Aurora’s finger slipped.

She inhaled sharply.

“Oh—”

The spindle fell from her hand as her body slackened all at once, strength draining from her limbs as though cut away.

“I am weary—”

She collapsed onto a nearby couch, her body folding gently, sleep claiming her before she could finish the thought.

The spinning wheel continued to turn.

The light dimmed.

… And the curtains fell.

The curtains drew apart slowly, the fabric whispering against the floor as it retreated, and the stage revealed itself in a single, oppressive image.

A hedge filled the space where a castle should have stood.

Green cloth tangled with paper briars stretched from wing to wing, layered thickly enough to choke the whole of the stage. It climbed upward in uneven swells, swallowing the suggestion of stone arches and towers behind it. Half-seen structures and shadows hinted at a structure long forgotten, as if time itself had chosen to look away from it.

The lighting was low and muted, cool at the edges, brightest in the center.

Megumi’s voice came through the microphone clearly, carrying easily across the gym without any strain.

“The castle slept.”

A subtle shift in the lighting marked the passing of time. The hedge did not move. It did not need to. It simply waited.

“Seasons moved.”

The color warmed briefly, then cooled again. A faint wind sound brushed across the stage. A villager crossed in front of the hedge, walking with purpose at first. Then another, slower, his shoulders stooped, his hair touched with gray. The hedge remained unchanged.

“People grew old outside the hedge,” Megumi continued, her tone even, almost gentle, “and died telling the story of this castle to children who laughed at it—”

A child appeared, listening, mimicking a heroic stance with a wooden sword raised high, grinning wide as the tale unfolded.

“—until they stopped.”

The lighting shifted again. The child froze. The grin faded. Slowly, the child lowered the sword and stepped back, her eyes fixed on the hedge as if seeing it clearly for the first time.

Movement shattered the stillness.

A would-be prince rushed forward from offstage, her sword lifted, shouting bravado into the air. The blade struck the briars. The hedge recoiled, then snapped back. The prince stumbled, was caught, and was yanked away, dragged offstage in a tangle of green and cloth.

Another figure followed, slower, more cautious. She approached without a weapon, reaching out with bare hands. The briars tightened around her wrists. She cried out once before being pulled into shadow.

A third stepped forward, and stopped.

The moment her foot crossed an unseen boundary, she stiffened. Her breath catching. Whatever she sensed made her retreat at once, her face pale, her hands trembling as she backed away.

Megumi spoke again, quieter now,

“Many tried.”

The hedge loomed, vast and unmoved.

“The hedge did not open for mere effort.”

One last figure approached. They pressed both palms against the briars and leaned in, straining, hopeful. Nothing yielded. After a long moment, they bowed their heads and stepped back.

“It would open only when the curse loosened.”

The light dimmed gradually, draining warmth from the stage until the hedge stood in silhouette.

Immense, patient, and undefeated.

The darkness held for a breath longer than expected.

Then the sound faded, the wind withdrawing, the last echo of movement dissolving into silence. The hedge remained, unseen but felt, its presence lingering even as the stage lights remained dim.

The curtains closed slowly, fabric meeting fabric in a soft, final hush.

For a moment, nothing followed. No music. No narration. Just the shared quiet of an audience left sitting with what they had witnessed.

Only then did the lights fully die.

The lights came back up partway. There was enough light to reveal Megumi stepping out in front of the curtain with a handheld microphone.

She smiled automatically at first. It was the smile she had practiced for announcements, the one meant to keep things going smooth.

“Ah—thank you, everyone,” she said, her voice bright, a little breathless as she bowed deeply. “That concludes the first half of The Sleeping Kingdom. We’ll be taking a short intermission, so please stretch your legs, grab a drink, and be patient with us while we prepare the next set.” She bowed deeply.

A ripple of applause rolled through the gym. Chairs scraped. People stood.

Megumi’s smile wavered, not enough for most to notice. It tightened at the corners.

“There’s been a… small delay backstage,” she added, laughing lightly, as if it were nothing. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll resume as soon as we’re ready.”

She bowed even more deeply, then stepped offstage.

Behind the curtain, the movements became unfocused. Whispers passed in fragments. A stagehand peered down the side aisle. Another leaned toward the wings, craning.

Someone spoke Aoi’s last name.

Someone else asked where the prince went.

In the audience, Baku remained seated.

He had not stood with the others. He did not clap this time.

The fake face he wore, showed his true mood, an expression of mild enjoyment. He kept his hands folded in his lap, his posture composed, but his foot tapped once against the floor before he stilled it.

But something was off.

He could not name whatever it was. That irritated him more than fear ever would.

He replayed the last moments in his mind: the hedge, the narration, the well-executed blackout. There was nothing overtly wrong in any of that. Nothing was apparently broken. And yet the pause afterward had been… uneven. The rhythm had faltered.

Baku tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the same wing that he’d been glancing at now and again since many scenes ago.

People nearby were murmuring now.

“Something seems off…”

“Thought I saw a cloud or something…

“I wonder what went wrong. This play has been very good!”

“Can’t believe that high school students are on stage!”

Baku listened to the murmuring around him without appearing to.

He had no clues… nothing more than the rest of the audience to guess what was going on, and yet something was happening. He shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening together before he forced them to relax.

Annoying, he thought.

Intermissions stretched out all the time for various reasons. Actors sometimes panicked. Costumes snagged and sustained damage. Props mysteriously vanished. This was all potentially relatively normal.

And yet—

His chest felt tight, as if a thread had been pulled somewhere, not hard enough to snap, just enough to hum.

Baku exhaled slowly through his nose.

He did not rise. He did not follow that string yet. He waited.

The play will resume, he told himself.

It had to.

Still, his eyes never left that curtain.

Riko knew something was wrong the second the curtain stayed closed so long.

It wasn’t anything too obvious. She’d been watching as much as she could backstage. No one had missed a cue and caused some kind of massive rewrite. It was nothing weird like that. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

She was proud of them, for some strange reason, more than a girl typically should be, and yet… figuring out what had happened was killing her.

Something felt wrong in the way it felt when you stepped forward expecting a stair and your foot hit empty air.

She was already half out of her seat before she realized she’d moved.

Sumire hadn’t come back.

Aoi hadn’t either, come to think of it.

She hadn’t been helping out with setting up the sets for a few scenes now. The eyes they made at each other every time they passed each other gnawed at her.

Her stomach dropped hard enough to make her feel dizzy.

Riko shoved out from backstage, muttering apologies she didn’t exactly mean, and broke into the aisle. The gym was too loud. People laughed as she ran past in her princess’ dress. Some looked at her and took pictures, recognizing her. Their phone screens glowed and flashes went off. The smell of festival food drifted in like nothing in the world had happened, but she knew that wasn’t true. Those scents made her stomach growl.

“Riko!”

Yuna’s voice cut through the noise surprisingly well. She was right behind her, moving with her, her eyes sharp in a way that made Riko’s skin prickle. It didn’t help that she was wearing Maleficent’s costume. She looked almost wicked.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Riko said, her breathing tight like a guitar tuned too tightly. It wasn’t a question. She was sure of her answer.

Yuna nodded once. “Sumire wouldn’t miss her cue like this. This is her moment to shine.”

“Yeah.” That was all Riko needed to hear.

They bolted together.

The side doors slammed open as they burst into the festival grounds.

They raced, somewhat clumsily on her part, careening through and around people in a rude way that she couldn’t care about. She ignored all the delicious scents. She clenched her teeth, working to focus on what actually mattered.

She found herself plunging into the school dodging through a crowd of other students past a maid café. She took a mental note about it. Going in there might be fun.

She passed a haunted house with the students trying to get them to stop and enter. That looked even more appealing to her, except for how uneasy she felt right now. She didn’t stop because she had a feeling that Sumire wasn’t inside there. She wasn’t inclined to be messing around right now and Sumire wouldn’t be either.

Where was she then?

The noises of her sneakers shrieked against the polished floors of the abandoned wing as they entered it. Yuna’s shoes squeaked on the floor just as loudly. Riko realized that they hadn’t bothered to swap their shoes for slippers, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The noise of the festival in the active wing died behind them, largely swallowed by the relative quiet of this wing, like it was in its own dimension, warped noises echoing from the other.

“Sumire!” Riko shouted, not caring who heard. Her voice bounced back at her, too loud, sounding too desperate.

“Sumire!” Yuna yelled, her voice more controlled and dignified, and yet there was an edge to it like hers.

There was no answer.

They ran past classrooms, past rooms with bulletin boards half-stripped and nearly forgotten all year, past their darkened windows opening to the hallway and doors with the lights off. The farther they went, the colder the air felt, as if the wing itself had a malevolent consciousness inhabiting it that didn’t want them there.

“This way,” Yuna said suddenly, veering left.

“How do you know?” Riko demanded between her deep breaths.

“I don’t, really,” Yuna replied, already accelerating. “But something’s pulling me this way, and I’m trusting that feeling.”

That scared Riko more than if she’d sounded certain.

The abandoned wing loomed ahead, the lights dead, the floor dustier, the smell shifting to old paper and something faintly metallic. Their footsteps sounded different here, duller, heavier, like the hallway was swallowing sound itself.

Riko’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

“Sumire—!”

There was a flicker of movement ahead.

Someone sprinted across the far end of the corridor, fast and wild, her brown hair flying, her breath ragged enough that Riko heard it even from this distance with a flash of green and gold.

“It’s Sumire!” Riko yelled, relief and terror colliding in her chest. She was completely sure that it was her.

Sumire didn’t slow, not looking back. She just ran on, like the floor might give way beneath her feet if she stopped for a moment, it was as though she was running gracefully across a pond to see whether she could sprint across it, and she was somehow managing to.

Riko didn’t think.

She chased after.

“Riko, wait—!” Yuna called out, wheezing but she was still right behind her anyway.

They tore down the corridor together, past open doors and shadowed rooms, the air growing heavier with every step. Sumire was ahead of them, moving too fast for someone who should’ve been exhausted long since like them, driven by a feeling so raw and urgent that Riko felt in her bones even if she didn’t understand it at all.

“What the hell is happening?” Riko gasped, her lungs burning.

Yuna didn’t answer, gasping. Her face was pale, her jaw tight, her eyes locked forward with determination.

Whatever they were running toward—

or whatever was running from them—

it wasn’t going to be pleasant to catch up to.

I caught up to it just past the end of the abandoned wing, the air tearing out from my lungs, my legs burning as I skidded to a stop.

The shadow slowed.

That alone felt very wrong.

It turned toward me, its shape pulling together into a cohesive human-like shape instead of unraveling, the edges sharpening where they should have been smeared and chaotic. It stood taller than before, broader and heavier, its silhouette no longer hunched like the nebulous thing that had been fleeing. Instead it stood upright.

And Aoi-chan wasn’t with it anymore.

My stomach dropped so hard it felt like my insides twisted up.

“Where is Aoi?” I shouted, my voice breaking as it tore out of me. “Give her back to me!”

The shadow tilted its head.

Then it grinned.

It wasn’t a mouth exactly. There were no teeth in there. It was like the idea of a grin carved into darkness, stretched too wide, too knowing.

Something cold slid down my spine.

I didn’t wait for it to make its move.

I lunged, my body doing what it had learned to do, my weight shifting forward, my stance low, my arms moving without hesitation. My fist connected… and yet it contacted nothing. The impact slid, resisted, and then pushed back. It was exactly like striking something that decided after the fact how solid it wanted to be in a very mocking way.

It laughed at me.

A thin, cracking sound, higher than it should have been, filled the air. It was mocking me, strangely delighted.

“TOOOOOMOOOOORRRROOOOOOWWWWWW!” It roared.

“Not tomorrow. Now, you coward!” I hissed, attacking again, forcing my movements to stay clean even as panic clawed at my ribs. “You’ve been running away this whole time. Where did you drop my wife? Where did you take her?”

It blocked and shuddered violently.

“WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

It moved, not wildly as before. Not clumsily anymore and more solidly.

It blocked me.

The realization hit me mid-motion, sharp and sickening. This thing wasn’t flailing anymore. It adjusted and redirected its attacks on the fly. It anticipated my movements actively. Every exchange was carefully calculated, as if it were learning my movements in real time.

That grin widened.

I felt tears burn at the corners of my eyes, fury and fear tangling together until my hands shook. I drove forward anyway, pouring everything I had into my strikes, into my balance, into the promise I’d made myself not freeze ever again.

For a heartbeat, I thought I might actually reach it.

Then it threw itself backward—

—straight through the wall.

Plaster exploded outward in a violent spray of dust and shattered wood.

Fragments of frame and insulation burst into the air as if the building itself had been struck. Warm daylight rushed in through the jagged opening, carrying with it the sudden, jarring brightness of the outside world.

The sun was high. It was just past midday.

Beyond the broken wall, festival music drifted lazily across the grounds. Booths crowded the walkways, bright banners fluttering, laughter and chatter filling the air. A band played on a stage on the grounds that I hadn’t noticed earlier. People moved below us with drinks in their hands, smiling and unafraid, utterly unaware that something monstrous had just torn its way out of the school building above them.

The shadow struck the ground outside in a fluid, unnatural motion. It turned once, facing back toward me.

And bowed.

The gesture was exaggerated. Mocking. Almost playful.

Then it slid sideways, melting into a thin crack along the edge of the pavement, its darkness folding in on itself until there was nothing left but sunlight and noise and the lie of an ordinary day.

“No—!”

I staggered forward, stopping just short of the hole in the wall. My hands clenched uselessly at my sides, my fingers digging into my palms as if I could still grab hold of something, anything that would fix this. Anything that would bring back Aoi-chan. My love. My chest heaved, my breath coming too fast, too shallow, my vision blurring as the weight of what I’d lost crashed into me all at once.

Aoi was gone, as she had promised.

And the world had not even noticed her leaving.

Footsteps pounded behind me.

“What happened?” Riko demanded, breathless, skidding to a stop at my side as she stared at the ruined wall, sweat drenching her forehead. “What the hell was that?”

Yuna arrived a second later, one hand braced on her knee as she sucked in air, her eyes sweeping the damage, the night beyond, my face, wearing her full Maleficent costume.

“It took her,” I said hoarsely. “It took Aoi-chan. She was there and then she wasn’t anymore. It took her and hid her somewhere.”

Riko swore under her breath, running a hand through her hair. “Damn it… damn it. The play hit intermission. They’re already starting to look for us.”

“I don’t care about the play anymore!” The words tore out of me, ugly and raw. “She’s gone. It took her from me!”

Yuna stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm in a way that made it impossible to ignore. “Aoi-chan would hate you if you abandoned the play after everything we’ve all worked for. Especially after all the work she put into the sets herself. And she would hate it even more if you blamed yourself instead of finishing what you started.”

I shook my head, my tears spilling over despite myself. “But—But—”

“We’ll find her, Sumire-chan,” Riko cut in, fierce and certain. “All of us. Even if it means cutting class. Even if it means becoming delinquents for a week or even longer. But right now, everyone’s waiting on you.”

I swallowed hard, my chest aching like it might split open.

Aoi-chan’s voice echoed in my head, steady and calm as ever. 

Finish what you started, my wife.

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and straightened, forcing my breathing to slow. “Yes,” I said, the word shaking, but my determination firmed. “Let’s finish this. As fast as possible.”

We ran.

Back to the path that led back to the gym, cutting through the festival grounds filled with color and noise, laughter, music, the sizzling of grills cooking food, the smell of sugar and oil hanging thick in the air. It all felt so incredibly unreal, like the world had slipped out of alignment and no one else had noticed. They were celebrating when there was no reason for me anymore.

The gym loomed ahead, the lights inside were bright, the doors open.

Inside, chaos awaited us.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted the moment we slipped backstage, bowing reflexively to anyone who looked my way. “I’m sorry… I—”

Hinata caught my sleeve gently, her brow knitting as she looked at me over. “Sumire-chan… your costume. It’s torn in multiple places!”

I glanced down. Dust streaked the fabric. One seam hung loose where I’d scraped against a wall.

Megumi looked once, then shook her head decisively. “It’s fine. Honestly, it looks better that way.” Her smile was tight, her eyes sharp. “Let’s go. No more delays.”

The curtain rustled.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I took my place, my hands steadying at my sides, and stepped forward, carrying my fear with me onto the stage.