The underworld seemed quiet, yet the night in the marsh thrived for those who had once gazed into the deep abyss of solitude. Months had passed since the night Tsuchigumo met a little girl named Kiyoka—a name she had chosen for herself, inspired by the ancient stories left behind by her mother—and they shared their first night in the silence of the mud and webs. Tsuchigumo served as a dark guardian at the boundary of the world, while Kiyoka grew with small scars that never quite healed.

  They rarely spoke, but every night Kiyoka would come to the edge of the marsh, sitting and waiting for the sound of those giant footsteps to emerge from the fog. Sometimes they would just sit in silence. At times, Kiyoka would recount her tales, or Tsuchigumo would emit a heavy sound, as if challenging the world that had cast him aside for thousands of years.

  However, the village never forgot. The wounds of human grudges never fully heal, and prejudice lingers far longer than memories of kindness. One morning, as the mist still hung lightly over the grass, shouts and anger shattered the stillness of the air.

  “I saw her talking to the creature in the marsh!”

  “This is why our fields are cursed with failure! It’s all because she brought down Tsuchigumo’s curse!”

  “Burn her—get rid of her! Don’t let this poison spread to our families!”

  “Her mother died young, she must be an illegitimate child!”

  Kiyoka stood in the center of the stone circle, her body trembling. Tears streamed down her face, yet she refused to cry. The adults, teenagers, even the children who had once laughed at her, now approached with sticks, ropes, and a raging hatred. Not a single one of them reached out—only accusations, spit, slaps, and kicks rained down on her, as if sacrificing one small child could erase their own faults.

  The village chief, an old man with a stern face, raised his wooden staff.

  “Take her to the center of the village. Let the world know—we have no need for traitors!”

  Kiyoka made no attempt to fight back. She had understood through the entire night spent in the marsh that this world held no place for “forgiveness” when it came to the weak and different.

  Someone threw a stone. Someone spat. Someone bound her to a small post, right in the middle of the village square. Kiyoka bowed her head, her body shaking. Yet, her gaze remained defiantly challenging.

  “I didn’t call the creature,” she said softly, “I just want to go home.”

  A boy, one of the bullies, stepped forward, pointing at Kiyoka.

  “He’s lying! I saw him talking to Tsuchigumo! He called that monster and swore he would help destroy the village!”

  Whispers of fear among the crowd began to morph into anger.

  “Bastard child.”

  “Little monster.”

  “Cursed one.”

  Mothers pulled their children away. Some men started to dig a ditch, pouring kerosene around the post. A few elders bent down, but none dared to swim against the tide.

  The sky appeared gray. The mist began to lift, and soft sunlight started to caress Kiyoka's face. Tsuchigumo, standing far at the swamp's edge, watched from a distance, his body frozen among the shadows of the dead trees. He was aware of the danger, he felt the hatred flowing, but in his view, this was the world that should be challenged—not with poison, but with something older than rage: loss.

  Kiyoka gazed up at the sky, her voice gentle.

  “If you can hear this, please don’t come. I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s not your fault.”

  But the screams of humanity were louder than the sound of tears. Someone had set a fire, the embers roaring as they caught the dry straw, smoke billowing high into the sky. Kiyoka bit her lip, struggling to stay on her feet. She knew, behind the haze, someone was watching her.

  The village chief shouted, “With this, we will purge the village of the curse! From the traitors! From the pests!”

  The flames licked at Kiyoka's legs, their heat creeping up to her knees, to her abdomen, while the whole world trembled in the chaos of screams and the whistling wind.

  Kiyoka closed her eyes, tears streaming down for the last time.

  “I… just want to go home…”

  The fire enveloped the small figure. No one came to help. There were no cries to be heard—only the earth lamenting, and something waiting in the darkness below.

  From the depths of the swamp, Tsuchigumo roared. His voice shook the morning, resonating in the bones of the trees and making the stones tremble, even causing some to crack. He leaped from his den, his immense body speeding forward with unimaginable force, crashing through every house in his path. The screams of humanity joined together in a symphony of horror. The ground shook, webs bursting forth from any crevice, weaving around, tearing, and devouring anyone who tried to escape.

  The villagers, both young and old, men and women, ran in a frantic search for safety. Children screamed, and mothers prayed, but their prayers never reached the heavens. Amid the rubble, Tsuchigumo continued its rampage, its eight legs gripping the earth while its venom melted wood and stone. Its voice buzzed with unuttered words.

  “You… have killed the only one who cared… the only voice… that called my name…!”

  Every person who had ever made an accusation, every person who had ever cast someone out, every soul complicit in hatred—none would be spared. Some attempted to flee toward the fields, while others prayed for forgiveness. But Tsuchigumo couldn't hear their cries. This world had been destroyed ever since they burned the hope of a small child.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Buildings collapsed, fields burned, bridges crumbled. The river that once pulsed at the heart of the village transformed into a pool of blood and lost souls unable to return. The entire community vanished—not just physically, but also its names, memories, and history. Not a single stone remained intact, and not a single leaf survived the flames.

  When morning truly arrived, only Tsuchigumo remained. He stepped back toward the charred remnants of the pillars, leaving behind only ash and fragments of that small body. His heart trembled as he lifted Kiyoka's burned form, brushing the soot from her cheek, then kneeling amidst the darkness he had unleashed.

  “I’m so sorry, Kiyoka,” Tsuchigumo’s voice was hoarse, “I was too slow… I don’t deserve to be called ‘home’…”

  He carried the remnants of the girl’s body to the marsh. There, he buried Kiyoka amidst the broadest spiral of webs, planting every memory, every name, every word ever spoken by her, into layers of earth, mud, and poison. He vowed that no one would ever step on that land again—no living creature, no spirit, except for those who had lost everything.

  The nights that followed, Tsuchigumo wandered aimlessly. Sometimes he spoke to himself, other times he sang with a cracking voice. The entire marsh underwent a transformation—the fog thickened, roots extended like threads of a web, each stone and stream echoed with Kiyoka’s name.

  The spirit of Kiyoka found itself trapped in turmoil. She couldn't bear to distance herself, yet she was also reluctant to do so. The world had rejected her physical existence, but her soul refused to leave the only 'home' she had ever known.

  In silence, Kiyoka's spirit fragmented—some floated among the roots, some sank within the web, while others blended with poison and soil. From all this, a new realm slowly began to emerge: The Spiral World of Tsuchigumo.

  Beneath the surface of the earth, this spiral world resurrected memories of trauma, wounds, and hopes that never materialized. The spirit of Kiyoka became its center, wrapping layer upon layer of the spiral area with bitter memories: the screams of the night as flames consumed everything, whispers from a betraying friend, and the hazy image of her mother’s face—all merging into a nightmare field.

  Tsuchigumo wove a spiral world around Kiyoka's tomb, where his webs ensnared the lost souls—beings who couldn’t find their way home, and spirits who fell victim to betrayal and human violence. Every field, every corner, every illusion of eternity was born from the sorrow and loss of a child yearning to return home.

  A soft voice, barely audible, floated through the spiral mist.

  “Are you… still watching over me, Tsuchi?”

  Tsuchigumo sat calmly at the center of the web, his voice hoarse as he replied, “Always. There’s no one else. Only those who have lost everything dare to enter my spiral.”

  The spirit of Kiyoka moved slowly like a whispering breeze through the web. Her voice trembled with pain. “They all… died, didn’t they?”

  Tsuchigumo lowered his gaze, speaking softly. “They ended your life. And I... I avenged it. Now we are bound by the same curse, with no other place but here.”

  Kiyoka let out a small, bitter laugh. “Then let's make a home in this spiral world. Let everyone forget us. So that only we remain, nameless.”

  Tsuchigumo stared into the darkness, his webs glowing faintly. “Once, I couldn't save you. But now… I will cradle every forgotten name. Every lost whisper. Every spirit cast aside by the world.”

  The spirit of Kiyoka slowly faded into the fog. “If that's the case... please don’t forget me. Let me remain the foundation of my spiral, Tsuchi.”

  Tsuchigumo nodded firmly. “I won’t, Kiyoka. This underworld belongs to you, and only you have the right to decide who can come back.”

  Time passed. The world above forgot Kiyoka's name, forgot the village that once stood by the marsh, and forgot the terror brought by Tsuchigumo. Yet, in the depths of the spiral, every field, every illusion, and every nightmare was born from unresolved trauma and love. The spirit of Kiyoka waited for anyone longing to return—and for every wounded name, the spiral world offered one door: a way home that only monsters and reluctant spirits remembered.

  The End of the Flashback—

  Above the surface of the earth, the world spins without regard for what lies beneath. Yet below, the spiral of Tsuchigumo continues to grow, eternal, serving as a prison and a sanctuary for every name that has ever been banished by the world. Tsuchigumo has never ceased to feel remorse. Kiyoka, on the other hand, has never truly left. Night after night, the spiral deepens, increasingly filled with souls who never got the chance to return.

  “Why are you showing me this?” Fitran asked, his voice trembling. “Do you want me to apologize for killing your hero?”

  The spirit of Kiyoka began to fade. Just before completely disappearing, she whispered, “Thank you for freeing Tsuchi.”

  “Oh, I see. I'm starting to miss Rinoa,” Fitran said, a faint smile creeping onto his face.

  Fitran fell to his knees among the ruins, his breath caught in his throat, yet his gaze remained sharp and resolute. Above him, a spiral opening appeared—a gateway to the next duel arena. From within that opening, the silhouettes of other Yokai generals started to emerge—the cunning shadow of Nurarihyon, the colossal form of Shuten-dōji radiating death's aura, Tamamo-no-Mae whispering in the language of spirits, Yuki-onna surrounded by a mist of ice, and the remnants of the Oni and Yokai army lurking in wait for their next prey.

  The voice of Shuten-dōji echoed from above, “Do you dare to climb again, spiral man?”

  Fitran wiped the blood from his lips, standing slowly as the Voidlight continued to shimmer around him. “There’s no turning back. The old world must be destroyed for the new one to be born.”

  Tamamo-no-Mae spoke with a melodious voice imbued with magic, “How many times have you risen to face your destiny, Fitran Fate?”

  With a cunning smile, Fitran replied, “Until every name in this world can no longer be read.”

  Nurarihyon grinned from the shadows, declaring, “You relish the challenge. We enjoy it by shattering hope.”

  Fitran gazed up at the sky, his voice ringing with authority, “Try it. Let’s see who falls first.”

  Voidlight shone once more. Below, the spiral hole closed—now, the entire Tsuchigumo area was just dust among spirits. Fitran stepped forward, his movements slow but determined, ready to confront every great figure still standing in the spiral realm of the world.

  The battlefield was evolving. The air was thick with the scent of blood and incantations, the voices of the Yokai generals mixed with the melody of destruction. Amidst this chaos, Fitran lifted his head, his body riddled with wounds but his spirit still blazing—ready to finish the war, one name, one spiral, one destruction, until the world ceased to spin.

  The silhouettes of the Yokai generals became increasingly clear as the battlefield transformed into a vast arena. Fitran, the antihero of the night, found himself once again at the center of a terrifying spectacle—each nightmare still very much alive.