Chapter 9: The Siege of Mt. Kirama

The sun hung high over Mt. Kirama, casting long golden beams through the towering trees. The wind whispered through the ancient pines, carrying the lingering scent of rain from the night before. Birds called from the cliffs, their cries mixing with the steady hum of the water wheel turning at the edge of the mountain.

Anpan, the ember frog, moved through his routine with the same diligence as always. He was small, but he had work to do.

The water wheel was his first stop. It churned steadily, drawing water from the mountain springs into the channels that fed the Tengu’s home. He checked for blockages, flicking a stray leaf from the wooden grooves with a precise snap of his tongue. The flow was smooth. Good.

He hopped toward the main hall, its wooden floors polished to a soft sheen from years of careful upkeep. Dust had begun to gather in the corners—unacceptable. With a practiced rhythm, he rubbed his heated belly against the wooden planks, watching as the dust curled into nothing beneath his warmth.

His next task was the message board, a lacquered slab hanging near the entrance. Sakana Cove had sent word. The scroll was tied neatly, sealed with the mark of the village elders. Anpan carefully nudged it open with his foot, scanning the words.

The reconstruction was progressing. The Oni raid had left deep wounds, but the villagers were rebuilding. New fishing boats had been crafted, homes restored. They still mourned their dead, but their resolve remained strong.

Anpan exhaled softly, a small flicker of fire escaping his nostrils. Good. Let them rise from the ashes.

His tasks continued—checking charms, ensuring the rice stores were untouched by pests, keeping the forge prepared for his master’s return. He moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency. This was the rhythm of his days when Tengukensei was away.

But when night fell, he returned to his place of comfort.

The forge burned bright, its heat licking against the stone walls. The flames cradled him as he nestled in the embers, his light red skin glowing with veins of molten orange. The warmth seeped into his bones, lulling him into a state of quiet meditation.

Then—a sound.

A crash.

His golden eyes snapped open.

From the direction of the Tengu’s private studio, something had shattered. Glass. Wood. A whisper of wrongness in the air.

Anpan moved.

He bounded through the halls, his body a flicker of shadow and fire. As he reached the studio’s entrance, his breath hissed between his teeth.

The window screen had been torn apart, its delicate silk fluttering in the cold wind. Inside, three dark fairies twisted through the room, their spindly fingers tearing through scrolls, shelves, and relics.

Then he saw it.

One of them had found the silver box.

Small. Elegant. Its surface etched with swirling winds, its edges humming with ancient magic. Anpan’s fire dimmed in fear. He knew what lay inside.

The remnants of Caligula, the Horned Phantasm.

A thing that should never wake.

One of the fairies clutched the box and turned toward the shattered window. Anpan sprang into action.

With a mighty leap, he opened his jaws and let loose a torrent of blue fire, the heat roaring through the studio like a dragon’s breath. One of the fairies shrieked as the flames devoured its form, its body twisting and crumbling into embers.

But the other two were faster.

One flicked its claw in a sharp motion, whispering a curse in a language older than the mountain itself.

The spell hit Anpan before he could leap again.

Stone. Cold. Unmoving.

His body locked, his fire sputtered, his breath vanished. His last sight before his golden eyes turned to lifeless rock was the fairies escaping into the night, the silver box in their hands.

The mountain was silent.

Mt. Kirama, once a fortress of wind and legend, now lay vulnerable. The ember frog, its last guardian, stood frozen in stone. And far beyond the mountains, in the depths of the night, something old and terrible stirred—the first whispers of Caligula’s return.

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