We were sitting on the roof of the school.
Even the wind seemed to be afraid to come up here.
Misaki was looking into the distance. The city was in her eyes as if in a palm.
Kyoto, ancient and modern, sunny and too quiet.
— I think you've realized that you won't be normal anymore. — She said.
The voice is even. Professional. It was like she was dictating a report to a database, not talking to a teenager who had accidentally activated a thousand-year-old curse a couple of hours ago.
I squeezed my hand.
The tattoo was still moving. Sometimes I thought it was... breathing.
—Explain. — I forced out. —What that was. Who you are. Who... I am.
Misaki looked at me, and for the first time I saw that there was no malice in her eyes. Only fatigue.
— We call them relics. Objects that still contain a piece of intent. Often, it's pain. Sometimes, it's will. Sometimes, it's something much older.
— Magic?
— Magic is a word people invented to keep from going crazy. Relics are real. And dangerous.
She nodded at the compass on my lap.
It no longer glowed. But it seemed to hear us.
— A person who touches an unstable artifact loses their form. They transform. We call them Mask Eaters.
— Masks?
— Because when you transform, the face is... kind of replaced. A mask appears. With teeth. Without emotion. And with eyes that don't see.
I closed my eyes. I remembered that creature in the dome. His mask. And the eyes.
—Was I... supposed to transform?
—Yes. — She nodded. —But you didn't.
Misaki took her phone out of her inner pocket and quickly scrolled through something. She showed me a photo.
My back is covered in a glow. In the center is a serpentine symbol. Above it are four eyes enclosed in a circle.
— This is your seal.
— Why did it appear?
She looked at me.
—Because something inside the relic recognized you. Accepted you. You're not human anymore. Not really.
I felt my heart skip a beat.
—What now?
Misaki stood up.
—Now you'll either die... or become one of us. A Relicologist.
I was silent for a long time.
The city below was going about its business. Children were laughing somewhere. Cars were driving. It was a normal day.
But I knew it was no longer mine.
— If I agree…— Then we'll teach you how to survive, she said, and how to keep others from becoming monsters.
I looked at my hand again. One of the eyes blinked slowly.
[One way… Many relics... Little time…]
I took a deep breath.
— All right. I said. But on one condition.
— What? She narrowed her eyes.
I looked her straight in the eye.
— You're going to tell me everything. Who put the mask in that closet. Why I'm in the dome. And who's watching me in my dreams.
Misaki was silent for a long time. She looked at me as if she was trying to see not my face, but what was behind it.
—You're asking the right questions. — She said finally. —That means you have a chance.
She flicked a thin plate - and the rustling of voices came from her earpiece.
— Urgent activation. Perimeter: southeast, Karatama line. Coordinates confirmed.
— Repeat. —She said.
— Beta-level anomaly. Underground facility. Relic active. Distortions present.
Misaki looked at me. Not with sympathy. But like a soldier about to be handed his first sword.
—Consider this your baptism, Navajo.
Y
I stood up.
There was no courage in my chest. Only a tremor that couldn't be seen from the outside.
—What's the object? — I asked.
Misaki smiled at the corner of her mouth.
—It's a ghost station. It's left over from the war. And inside it is a glass cross.
***
I thought it would be like in the movies.
An armed group, technomagic, armor, lanterns, and heroic shouts.
No.
The entrance to the dome zone was on an old train car on an abandoned subway line. Shabby. Quiet. Like the rusty mouth of a beast that had long forgotten that it had once eaten people.
Misaki was silent. There were three men in black, unmarked gear next to her. One held a suitcase, the other a silver hoop. The third just stared into the void.
There's no fear in their eyes. It's just exhaustion. It's like they've been diving for a hundred years.
—We're below the Karatama station. — Misaki said as the door closed behind us. —This line was closed in 1945. There's a rumor that a whole school class died in a cave-in. Officially, there are no records.
I swallowed.
The floor was shaking. But it wasn't a technical issue.
It was breathing below.
"Can you feel it, Vessel?" — Something inside me whispered.
"Yes. I felt it."
With each step, my tattoo on my arm grew warm. A faint glow. The eyes in it opened, one by one. They looked down. Not forward, but down, as if something was waiting for me.
The tunnel ended in a grate.
—We're crossing the boundary of the dome. — Misaki said. —Once we cross, the usual rules don't apply. Technology becomes unstable. Time does too.
I took a step forward.
The world blinked.
For a fraction of a second, it was as if color had disappeared. Everything turned gray. Then it returned. But the air was... thick. It stretched like jelly.
—Welcome. — Misaki said. — Into the distortion.
A dead station unfolded beneath us.
Debris. Rusted cars. Half-rotted billboards in Japanese and old English:
"Victory Needs Sacrifice."
"Remember the Emperor. Remember Kyoto."
I looked at it and felt someone crying.
Not out loud. It's right in my head.
It's like nails scratching on glass.
—He's close. — Misaki whispered. — The artifact reacts to your mark. Let's go.
We walked along the old paths. There was a rustling sound somewhere behind us, as if someone was following us, barefoot, slowly.
And there he was, behind the pile of trash.
There is a glass cross on a pedestal made of stones. It was just above my elbow. It was clean and dust-free, as if it had just been placed there.
Inside the glass, there was a red spot that pulsed like a living heart.
I took a step towards it.
—Be careful. — Someone said behind me.
It was too late.
As soon as my fingers touched the glass, the world exploded.
I wasn't at the station anymore.
I was in someone else's memory.
A boy.
He's ten. He's sitting in the subway. He's shaking.
There are bombs behind the wall. He's holding a cross to his chest. His mother said:
"It will protect you."
But his mother didn't come. No one came. It was just silence. And a voice.
"Do you want them not to find you?"
...
"Then hide in the glass."
I could feel the boy's body... dissolving. His scream freezes in the glass.
The stain is not blood.
It's him. His fear. His soul.
And at that moment, I realized:
A relic is not just an object. It's a tomb.