Wishing Upon a Star

The wind howled mercilessly beyond the mountain ridge, sending violent gusts that rattled the wooden walls of Yuki's small home. Beneath the heavy pelt blanket, she lay curled tightly, her frail body trembling as each shriek of the wind clawed through the cracks in the timber. Outside, the bison lowed in agitation, their cries sharp and urgent, cutting through the storm.

But it wasn't the cold or the restless animals that had torn Yuki from her sleep.

There was another sound—a deep, resonant hum, low and mournful, threading itself through the howling winds. It was barely perceptible, a phantom note that hid within the storm's chorus. Yet Yuki heard it clearly, as she always did.

It wasn't the first time.

Night after night, she had trained her ears to search for it—the whisper beneath the chaos. Others didn't hear it. They never did. To them, it was simply the wind. But Yuki knew better. She had first heard it when she was just a child, the strange, guttural murmur echoing from the northern mountains. It returned, always the same, each time as fleeting as the last—one or two times an hour if she was lucky. A secret song only she could hear.

She had tried telling others once—her parents, her friends—but they had dismissed her. Her mother smiled gently, saying it must have been a dream. Her classmates teased her, calling her a liar. Eventually, she stopped bringing it up. It became her own mystery, her private melody.

At first, she had been terrified. It sounded… alive—like something ancient, something vast and breathing in the deep places of the earth. But as the years passed, her fear had softened into curiosity. What was it? A spirit? A beast? Or something even older? Yuki didn't know. But sometimes, when the nights stretched long and cold, she imagined it was the voice of the mountain itself—the earth whispering its secrets, waiting for someone to listen.

The house groaned again as another gust slammed against it. Yuki pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

"Yuki! Wake up! You'll be late for school!" her mother's voice cut through the storm, sharp and impatient.

Yuki sighed, the voice of the mountain fading as quickly as it had come. She hesitated for a moment longer, straining her ears, but there was only the empty howl of the wind now.

She threw off the blanket and sat up. Cold shot through her bare feet as they met the wooden floor, rough and icy beneath her soles. The boards creaked under her weight, groaning like an old ship in a storm. She lit a match, the tiny flame sputtering before catching the stub of a candle on the nightstand. Warm light filled the room, chasing the shadows into corners.

Yuki wrapped a threadbare towel around herself and padded toward the cramped bathroom. The cracked mirror reflected her pale face—dark hair tangled from sleep, eyes rimmed with weariness. She splashed icy water on her face, gasping at the shock, and hurried through her morning routine.

Back in her room, she opened the rickety wooden wardrobe and pawed through the small pile of clothes at the bottom. Most were thin and worn, some with small holes chewed by time or insects. She found a simple cotton dress—frayed at the sleeves, but intact—and pulled it on with a resigned sigh.

Raised voices echoed through the thin walls.

"Why do you waste money on that damn booze? I was saving for Yuki's winter coat!" Her mother's fury was sharp and jagged, cutting through the morning.

"I worked for that money! Don't I get a say in how I spend it?" her father barked back.

The argument filled the tiny house, bouncing off walls, refusing to be ignored.

Yuki slung her worn canvas bag over one shoulder and tiptoed toward the hallway. She didn't need to get caught in the middle of another shouting match.

The front door was blocked—her parents standing toe-to-toe, still locked in their heated standoff—so Yuki veered toward the side window instead. She slid it open, the cold wind slicing through instantly, and climbed out into the morning frost.

The wind was even harsher outside, its bite gnawing at her exposed skin. She huddled into her thin coat, the hem fluttering wildly as she made her way across the brittle grass.

And then, faint but distinct beneath the scream of the storm, she heard it again.

That low, haunting hum.

She stopped in her tracks, closing her eyes against the wind, and let the sound wash over her. It rumbled deep within the mountains, carrying a weight that felt ancient—lonely, maybe, or angry. She didn't know which.

A chill not caused by the cold crawled down her spine.

Something soft brushed her forehead. She opened her eyes and reached up. A black smear clung to her fingertips.

Snow's falling, she thought sadly.

The wind howled louder.

The voice of the earth fell silent once more.

…

By the time Yuki finally reached the school near the harbor, her clothes were streaked with black stains from the snow. At least it had stopped falling by the time she'd made it down to the main road, or she might've arrived looking like a shadow herself.

The Kyushu Harbor School was a simple, single-story wooden building stretched long and narrow along the dockside. A pair of heavy wooden doors led into a central corridor that split the school into two wings. Six classrooms flanked the hall, three on each side, each designated for a different age group.

Yuki slipped through the front doors, their hinges groaning in protest, and immediately realized she'd missed the first lesson of the day. Not that it surprised her—walking all the way from the hillside always meant she arrived late.

"Yuki, late again," sighed Mr. Shimada, the history teacher, barely glancing up from the chalkboard. His voice was heavy with routine disapproval. "Snow on the hills already? Must've been a rough walk down. Go on, take your seat. We're covering the history of Kyushu's guardian deity today."

Suppressing a sigh, Yuki kept her gaze low as she made her way past rows of classmates who snickered and whispered, a few of them pointing at the streaks on her tattered clothes. At least today they weren't mocking her for wearing patched-up hand-me-downs. Small victories.

She dropped into her seat and pulled a notebook from her bag. Snow dusted off her sleeves and scattered onto the wooden floor like flakes of soot. She brushed at them absently, but the stains had already darkened the grain of the planks.

"Now, where were we?" Mr. Shimada continued, tapping the blackboard with his chalk. "Ah, yes. The early settlers. According to historical records, the first leader of the migrants who discovered this island was Hattori Danso. When he arrived, the island was said to belong to the Dragon God of Kyushu—a colossal, mythical creature believed to dwell beneath these lands. Danso forged a pact with the dragon: in exchange for sanctuary on the island, the settlers would offer worship and tribute. This is why dragon motifs are still found everywhere here—statues, paintings, carvings. Even the ridgepole of our own school bears a dragon carving at its peak."

His monotonous voice buzzed in the background like a dying cicada. Yuki tuned him out, letting her thoughts drift elsewhere, reaching again for the haunting hum she had heard that morning—the voice from the northern mountains.

But before she could find it, another voice cut through her focus.

"God, Yuki, you actually walked through the snow like that?" sneered Mayu from the desk beside her, loud enough for half the class to hear. "No umbrella? Oh, right—you probably couldn't afford one." She laughed and flicked her silky black hair over her shoulder.

Yuki clenched her jaw. "It wasn't snowing when I left home," she lied flatly, eyes fixed on her notebook.

Mayu gasped dramatically. "So you just stood there and let it fall on you until you looked like that? Wow. That's… impressive." She snorted, nudging the girl beside her, who giggled on cue. "Or maybe you just enjoy being the school's walking snow pile."

Yuki forced herself not to react, not even a sideways glance. Her fingers tapped the edge of her desk rhythmically, willing the noise around her to fade so she could listen again—just for a hint of that ancient, low hum.

"Are you seriously ignoring me right now?" Mayu's voice sharpened. "Or are you too busy listening to your little 'phantom mountain song' again? You know, the one only you can hear?"

The laughter this time was louder.

"Enough talking in the back!" Mr. Shimada's voice cracked across the room like a whip.

But Mayu wasn't done. "Sensei! Yuki's snow fell all over my uniform!" she whined, leaping to her feet and gesturing dramatically at her expensive silk cloak.

"Wait a minute!? Your shirt doesn't seem to be stained anywhere, does it?" Yuki's eyes roamed up and down, and she noticed that Mayu's white silk cloak was almost completely free of any stains—not even a single spot.

"Are you calling me a liar, you little mountain rat!?" Mayu snapped. "Just look at the mess you dragged in! The snow's everywhere!"

Mr. Shimada heaved another sigh, the deep kind that spoke of a man who'd long since given up caring about schoolyard squabbles. "That's enough, Mayu. Yuki, go clean yourself up."

Yuki didn't wait to be told twice. She shoved her notebook into her bag and practically bolted for the door, grateful for any excuse to get away—even if it was one soaked in humiliation.

Once outside, the din of the classroom faded, and the cold air bit at her cheeks like icy needles. She pulled her scarf higher and took a long breath.

All she wanted was a moment of silence—to be alone, where she could try again to find that elusive hum, the voice of the mountain, and this time, maybe hear what it was really trying to say.

…

The low, guttural hum threaded through the wind again as Yuki stood in the school's bathroom, her hands dipping a rag into a small basin of water. The faint glow of a candle flickered from its saucer by the sink, casting shadows that danced along the cracked walls. Yuki's reflection in the mirror above the basin stared back at her—hollow-eyed, pale, and smeared with streaks of black snow. She shut her eyes tightly, willing the image away, shutting out everything except that sound.

The voice of the earth.

"Who are you?" she whispered into the dark behind her eyelids. "Why can I hear you when no one else can?"

The hum deepened, a note so low it almost sank beneath hearing—steady, relentless, fused into the breath of the wind, like it had been there forever.

"I can hear you," Yuki insisted. "What are you trying to tell me?"

And then, silence. The hum vanished as if it had never existed, leaving only the soft drip of water from a rusted faucet and her own shallow breathing.

"Talking to yourself now?"

Yuki spun, heart leaping into her throat. Mayu stood at the doorway, a mop in one hand and a battered bucket in the other, her dark braid swinging as she laughed.

"Don't tell me you're chatting with your imaginary mountain ghosts again," Mayu sneered. "You're seriously losing it, you know that?"

Yuki didn't answer. She didn't trust herself to.

Mayu's grin faltered. "You know, thanks to your filthy snow trail, Mr. Shimada made me mop the damn floors." She rattled the mop for emphasis, water sloshing in the bucket. "All because of you."

"I—I'm sorry," Yuki stammered, guilt tightening her chest. It was true. She'd tracked in the mess.

But Mayu's smile was all teeth. "Don't worry. I'm getting my payback."

Before Yuki could move, Mayu upturned the bucket.

The cold, inky water splashed over her head and shoulders, thick and heavy as oil. It soaked her instantly, knocking her to the ground with a wet smack. She hit the slick floor hard, sliding through the puddle until her back slammed against the basin. Black water pooled beneath her, seeping into her clothes and chilling her to the bone.

"You should've stayed up in the hills with your filthy bison, Yuki," Mayu snapped. "No one wants you here. You don't belong here."

She snatched the candle from its dish, the small flame flickering wildly as she turned to go.

"And those 'voices' you hear?" Mayu's face twisted into a smirk. "They're in your head, freak."

Yuki pushed herself up, soaked hair plastered to her face. "I do hear it! It's real!"

Mayu paused at the door, then glanced back. "Then sit in here and listen to it. Alone."

The door slammed shut.

And the light was gone.

Total darkness swallowed her.

For a moment, Yuki lay there, the cold seeping into her bones, her soaked clothes heavy against her skin. The faint scent of mold and rust filled the air. She pushed herself upright, hands slipping on the wet floor, and reached for the door in the dark.

Her fingers found the wall—rough concrete—then slid over to the doorframe, searching for the handle. When she found it, she twisted it hard.

Locked.

From the outside.

Panic clawed at her throat. "Mayu! Open the door! Let me out!"

She pounded on the door with both fists, the sound muffled against the thick wood. She rammed her shoulder into it. It didn't budge.

"Mayu! Please!"

Her voice cracked into a raw scream. She hit the door again and again, fists aching, until her arms went limp at her sides.

Nothing.

The silence pressed down on her, suffocating and absolute.

Not even the voice of the earth remained.

The school bathroom stood as a solitary block of concrete at the far edge of the grounds, a forgotten structure that no one visited unless absolutely necessary. Isolated. Removed. Out of sight.

No one would find her here.

No one would come looking.

No one would hear her.

Yuki understood that now. After throwing every ounce of strength she had into pounding the door—her fists bruised and raw—she finally sank onto the cold, wet floor, exhaustion hollowing her out.

Then, she cried.

But not the flood of tears, the dramatic gasps for breath, or the shoulders heaving with sobs.

There were no tears.

No trembling lips.

No sound.

It was the hollow kind of crying—the kind that ached deep in her chest but never broke the surface. A silent, heavy ache.

She had grown used to this kind.

Ever since the first time her father struck her in a drunken rage, ever since her first day at the city school, it had become part of her life. In the beginning, she had cried herself to sleep night after night, the sheets damp with tears. But time wore that rawness away. The sobs faded. The tears slowed. Until one night, there were no tears at all.

And that was the night she first heard the voice.

It was like a cruel cosmic joke. She had lost the only way she knew to express her sadness—only to gain something no one else could hear in return.

And now, trapped in the bathroom, she heard it again.

That deep, guttural hum—low and endless—filled the empty space around her. There was no wind to mask it here, no walls of noise from the outside world. In this stillness, the sound was clear. Resonant.

Yuki sat there, leaning against the cool concrete wall, her wet hair clinging to her cheek. She closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her.

And she drifted into sleep.

…

She woke with a jolt.

A deafening explosion shattered the silence, the force of it rattling through her bones. Her ears rang, the sound nearly splitting her skull. Shouts. Screams. The chaos of dozens of voices twisted in panic.

Yuki scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the destruction around her. One entire wall of the bathroom had crumbled into rubble, jagged edges of concrete and brick scattered across the floor. A smoky, flickering light poured through the opening, illuminating the shattered debris.

Clambering over the twisted wreckage, she pushed through the broken wall and emerged into chaos.

The school was burning.

The triangular rooftop—once adorned with a proud, dragon-shaped carving—had snapped in half, its splintered beams collapsed into a smoldering heap. Flames clawed hungrily at the wooden frames, smoke billowing upward in dark, writhing plumes. Screams pierced the air—high, panicked cries mixed with the low roar of fire.

Teachers and students scattered in every direction. Some ran, faces streaked with soot and tears, while others crouched near the wreckage, sobbing or calling desperately for friends and loved ones. Explosions echoed from within the city, shockwaves sending sparks and burning debris into the snow-filled sky.

"Saipan forces are attacking! Head for the evacuation boats—now!"

Mr. Shimada's voice carried through the inferno, though Yuki couldn't tell where it came from. It was swallowed almost immediately by the roar of collapsing beams and the frantic chaos of people trying to escape.

She moved forward, her shoes crunching over broken glass and twisted metal, passing figures sprawled lifeless on the ground—some crushed beneath fallen walls, others half-buried under splintered wood and stone. The metallic stench of blood mixed with the acrid smoke, choking the air.

Then, a voice cut through it all.

"Y-Yuki! Yuki! Help me!"

It was familiar.

She turned her head.

Miyu.

The girl was pinned beneath a heavy wooden beam—one of the main supports from the school's collapsed roof. Her pristine silk uniform, once an immaculate white, was now torn and soaked with blood, dust smeared across her face.

"Yuki, please!" Miyu's hands clawed at the beam, but it wouldn't budge. Her legs twisted awkwardly beneath it. "I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Please! Help me!"

Yuki stood there for a moment, her eyes fixed on the other girl. The weight of the moment hung between them like smoke—thick, suffocating.

Then, silently, Yuki turned away.

"Yuki—no! Don't leave me! I said I'm sorry! Come back! Come ba—"

Miyu's desperate pleas shifted, sharp with rage.

"Damn you! You worthless, filthy cow-herder! I curse you! I hope you die—alone and in agony!"

But Yuki didn't turn back.

She didn't even flinch.

Because she couldn't hear her anymore.

The only sound that filled her mind now was the low, haunting hum—the voice of the mountain. It grew louder with every step she took, vibrating deep within her bones, calling her forward.

Beyond the burning wreckage, beyond the collapsing school.

She could feel it.

Something is waiting for her there.

…

The path winding up the hill toward Yuki's home was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaos still raging within the city below. Explosions echoed in the distance, their low, guttural booms carrying on the wind, punctuated by the faint, haunting wails of those left behind.

She walked alone.

The road had fractured in places, its once-solid earth now caving into jagged craters, some still smoking from impacts. Yuki skirted one of these, barely glancing at the old man who lay just beside it, his twisted form half-buried beneath crumbling debris. His lower body was gone—ripped away in a moment of violence—his intestines sprawled grotesquely across the dirt. He called out, hoarse, hand trembling in the air.

Yuki didn't stop.

Her boots pressed into the mossy hillside as she veered off the ruined road, navigating through the tall grass that swayed in the biting wind. Firefly lamps, their glass shattered and wires exposed, flickered weakly in a jagged line marking the path. A herd of bison thundered past her, their heavy hooves tearing up the ground, snorting in panic as they charged away from the encroaching destruction.

Yuki didn't flinch.

She kept walking—up, and up—until she reached the crest of the hill.

And then she stopped.

There was nothing left.

Where her house had once stood—where the sagging wooden beams, the patched-up windows, the creaking porch had once weathered years of storm and snow—there was now only a vast, blackened crater. Burned planks, twisted metal, fragments of a life now lost, scattered in a wide arc. Even the bison pen was torn apart, its fencing half-collapsed and splintered.

The wind howled across the empty hilltop, tugging at Yuki's damp clothes, carrying with it the acrid scent of smoke, blood, and earth.

She stood there, unmoving, staring at the pit.

The voices of the city had grown faint—distant screams, the thunder of explosions muffled by the ridge—but the sound that filled her ears now, louder than all of it, was the low, resonant hum.

The voice of the mountain.

It wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a roar.

She had spoken to it for so long.

Through countless sleepless nights, she'd poured her soul into that distant, echoing call—her loneliness, her anger, her grief. She'd told the voice everything. About her father, his drunken rage, the sharp sting of blows that left bruises she had to hide. About her mother, who had stopped fighting back long ago. About school, where Yuki was the perpetual outsider—the poor girl, the daughter of a bison herder—always sitting alone, always hearing the snickers behind her back.

She had never had a real friend. Not once.

Yuki's entire life had been a string of hollow wishes and broken promises. She could hardly remember a moment when happiness had truly been hers. If she were to count, she was certain she had cried more times than she had ever smiled.

So, she wished.

Every night.

Without fail.

And now—here, standing alone on the ruined hilltop—she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She closed her eyes, turned toward the shadowed northern mountains, and made her wish again.

The same wish she whispered every night.

But this time, something was different.

There was a sound—sharp, slicing through the air above her.

She opened her eyes, just as a blinding light streaked across the sky.

It soared high—so high that Yuki couldn't fathom its true size—cutting through the dark with a brilliance that burned her retinas. It left behind a jagged trail of smoke as it curved downward, angling steeply before vanishing beyond the towering peaks of the northern range.

For a heartbeat, the world fell silent again.

Dark. Still.

Then the sky split apart.

Light—pure and furious—erupted, flooding every corner of the landscape in a blinding, searing brilliance. The force of it roared through her, deafening, a sound so loud it broke through her bones and left her ears ringing with nothing but white noise.

Yuki staggered, shielding her face with her arms, but she couldn't look away.

In that single, impossible moment, she saw everything.

The jagged spine of Kyushu's mountain range stretched before her—each peak aglow in the infernal light. The eastern coastline shimmered in the distance, the black waters of the Sunless Sea reflecting the hellfire in broken waves. Tiny ships dotted the horizon.

And then she saw it.

Atop the highest peak of the Kyushu mountain range, a colossal pillar of amber light pierced the darkness, its brilliance tearing through swirling clouds of smoke. Surrounding it, countless smaller beams erupted like furious sparks, shooting outward in every direction, painting the heavens with jagged lines of burning gold.

Yuki's gaze followed one of those smaller beams as it arced across the sky, plunging into the moss-covered hill below. The ground convulsed in a deafening explosion as a ravenous flame erupted, spreading outwards with unstoppable hunger, devouring everything in its path.

Her ears rang with the echo of the blast, but as the high-pitched whine faded, something deeper, more ancient, swelled in its place.

A sound she knew.

The low, guttural hum—the voice of the mountain—was no longer hidden behind the sighs of the wind. It now thundered openly, shaking the earth beneath her feet, vast and alive.

Yuki's breath caught in her throat.

There, within the heart of the amber pillar, a shadow began to take form.

Something massive.

It emerged slowly, a hulking silhouette framed by flame and smoke. At first, Yuki mistook it for a jagged boulder, a great stone monolith glowing with the heat of the eruption. But then—its edges shifted. The layered rock along its body split into four distinct limbs, clawed and immense, anchoring into the mountain's peak. A long, spiked tail flicked behind it, scattering molten debris into the air like droplets of fire.

The thing lifted its head—a broad, arrow-shaped maw lined with serrated teeth—and turned its gaze directly upon her.

Even across the vast distance, Yuki felt the weight of its stare.

Her heart raced.

Her skin prickled with something both primal and electric.

The deep, resonant hum she had heard her entire life... it was coming from this creature.

The voice of the mountain had always been it.

She didn't realize she was smiling.

No—grinning.

A wide, twisted grin that ached her cheeks.

"Burn it all to ash," Yuki whispered, her voice trembling with elation. "Destroy this world... for me."

The beast lifted its head higher, wings unfurling from its sides—wings so vast they darkened the sky, blotting out the smoldering clouds. The ground trembled as the low hum in its throat stopped—replaced by a single, deafening roar.

The sound tore through the heavens.

It split the earth.

And Yuki stood there, smiling as the Sunless World burned.