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Kazanora · The Monster Catcher's Journal

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Travelers and Monster Catchers abound. I'm Stelliferous
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and you've crash landed on the Monster
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Catchers Journal podcast. Welcome back yet again.
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The stars welcome you to a beautiful and bright
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new day. Folly Oaks had always made my skin crawl.
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Every time the wind shifts through the hollow
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houses, it sounds like laughter. But not the
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kind that warms a heart. It's dry and broken.
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Like the echo of something that forgot how to
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- to feel joy or a beacon I landed near what
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used to be the town square the trees there still
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leaned away from the wind their bark etched with
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dark deep slashes as if something angry once
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passed through my compass spun wildly the moment
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we arrived the moment we arrived wind glyph energy
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unstable old That's when I found it. Inside a
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collapsed tea house, half buried under a rotting
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tatame mat, was an oriental fan, black and green,
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its silk painted with twisted clouds. I brushed
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off the dirt, and the moment my fingers touched
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it, the air went still, completely still. Then
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came the whisper. Do you remember the sound of
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the wind, child? I froze. The voice was everywhere,
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in the rafters, in the dust, curling through
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the empty windows. The fan unfolded itself with
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a delicate flutter, and a chill swept through
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the room, carrying petals that shouldn't even
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exist. Orabeek circled me, wearily, his golden
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wings flickering, not saying a word, since, I
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mean, he can't really talk. Stell, that's not
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just a glyph. That's a whispering fan of Kazunora.
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Locals used to believe it could summon windstorms
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strong enough to erase entire towns, Xena said.
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I looked around the abandoned house, the shredded
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trees, the eerie quiet. Maybe it already had.
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They call this place Folly Oaks, the voice continued,
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once the wind danced here, until they built walls
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to keep it out. The people stopped listening,
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so I took back my song. I felt the pressure on
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my chest, not anger, not malice, sorrow, the
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kind that lingers for centuries. I'm listening
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now, I said softly, if you'll let me in. I knew
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it wouldn't be easy to catch the fan. Catching
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any glyph was never easy. Some fought until your
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hand shook. Others tried to tear your glyph -it
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apart. And a few... The old ones didn't even
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fight. They tested you. They looked straight
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through you, searching for something deeper.
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This one was later. The fan, Kazunora, the whispering
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wind of Folly Oaks, was one of those ancient
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proud glyphs that carried the weight of forgotten
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centuries. I'd heard rumors before. An abandoned
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town where the air still whispered names and
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wind chimes ringed through and no one lived to
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hang them. Folly oaks. The last time someone
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tried to catch Kazanora, their glyphid was torn
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apart, shredded to bits of data and dust. But
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I wasn't walking in unprepared. I didn't check.
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He wasn't always like this before he'd been a
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metallic monkey all brass joints and blinking
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eyes a noisy little Archivist who clung to my
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shoulder scribbled findings on a floating hologram
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he catalogued every glyph I've met What what
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they looked like what they feared how they fought
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and how they changed the world around them? But
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after the Welling Forge incident, he stopped
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being the monkey I knew. Something inside him
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broke when the Forge glyph unleashed a data storm,
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merging part of his mind with the records themselves.
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I remembered watching him fall apart, not physically,
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but spiritually. When the static cleared, his
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body was gone, and in its place lay a levitating
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book and quill. black as obsidian and veined
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with silver runes. Now Inktrek doesn't walk or
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chatter. He floats, he observes, he remembers
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everything. Atmospheric instability detected,
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he said now, his quill scratching across the
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glowing page. Glyph energy levels severe. Recommended
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defensive stance. Yeah, I muttered. stepping
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over cracked cobblestone as fog drifted between
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empty houses. This place doesn't exactly welcome
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guests. Folly Oak was silent except for the groan
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of the windmill on the hill. The town's wood
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was blackened, roofs collapsed and ivy crawled
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up every wall. But the strangest part was the
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sound, like distant murmurs threading through
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the gusts. They weren't words at first, just
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feeling sadness, regret. And then faintly I heard
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it. Why did you stop listening to me? The wind
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picked up. The sound wasn't from behind me. It
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was everywhere. From the shutters, from the grass,
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even from the spaces between heartbeats. And
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then I saw her, the fan. It rested on the fountain's
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rim, green and black silk gleaming beneath the
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overcast sky. It looked ordinarily beautiful.
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But I knew better. Glyphs that looked fragile
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were the most dangerous kind. Visual confirmation.
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Kazunora, ink -trek, whispered. His page is fluttering
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rapidly. Classification wins spirit. Historical
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logs indicate catastrophic gales originating
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from the site approximately 72 years ago. That's
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her, all right? I stepped closer, the breeze
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died completely, the stillness so absolute it
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felt wrong, then the fan unfolded itself. Wind
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exploded outward, like a living thing, shattering
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nearby windows and twisting the air into ribbons
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of emerald light. The fan floated high above
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the fountain, turning lazily in the air as if
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inspecting me. You came to take what the sky
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has forgotten, it said. You came to chain the
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wind again. No, I said, through gridded teeth,
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steadying myself against the blast. I came to
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remember you. Aloham vibrated through the ground,
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shaking dust loose from the ruined homes. The
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air shimmered with flickering illusions, faces
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of people long gone laughing and dancing under
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banners that once hung in the square for a moment
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folly oaks lived again. Ink trex quail past our
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paused midair Temporal echo phenomena detect
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it glyph is channeling residual memory through
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atmospheric compression Translation I said ducking
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under a swirling beam of wind she's showing me
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the past Affirmation Or annoying sorry affirmative
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suggest emotional diplomacy rather than brute
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containment. The fans spun faster, its green
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tassels glowing brighter. They stopped listening
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to my song. The voice cried, layer like a choir.
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So I sang louder until the walls broke and their
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voices were gone. The storm grew wild. Debris
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tore through the square. I anchored my boots
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and reached for my captured Pyramid my glyphid,
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but before activating it. I looked straight into
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the storm and said then let me be your listener
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The wind faltered for a heartbeat silence Then
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like a breath drawn and after a lifetime of stillness
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the fan drifted lower The emerald glow dimmed
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to a soft light I opened the pyramid, its energy
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filled, paused outward, drawing the fan gently
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inside, no fight, no resistance, just acceptance.
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When it sealed shut, the winds around us softened
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into a gentle lingering breeze. The fountain
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rippled quietly, its waters clear for the first
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time, and who knows how long since we've been
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here. Capture confirmed. Ink Trek said quietly.
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I sank into the fountain's edge, exhausted. Wind
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burnt, but relieved, the town was quiet again,
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not haunted, resting. An ink -trek floated near
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me, his pages turning. I remember when I was
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metal and gears, he murmured. I wonder if she
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misses her old form too. I smiled faintly. We
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all change ink check. But as long as someone
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remembers us, we're still alive in some way.
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A soft wind brushes my face, almost like a thank
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you. And for the first time since the town fell
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silent, Folly Oaks exhaled. Glyph entry. Kazunora.
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The Whispering Fan. Type. Wind slash spirit.
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Appearance. A green and black oriental fan of
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silk and lacquer, shimmering with faint jade
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runes that pulse like distant lightning. Temperament.
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Once wrathful, now mournful and gentle, speaks
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in the voices of those who listened to her centuries
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ago. Sorry, listened to her centuries ago. Abilities.
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Summons wind illusions, commands air pressure,
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and can conjure echoes of lost times through
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memory storms. Habitat. Abandoned towns, mountain
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ridges, or shrines where wind once carried prayer
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songs. Bond note. Responds to listeners, not
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orders. When I took the glyphid back to Orion,
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his face went pale. That wasn't the reaction
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I expected. Usually when I returned from a hunt,
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he's all smiles, or he would literally be yelling
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at me and sarcastic remarks would, you know,
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ensue. Or he was proud of me, but trying not
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to show it. This time, though, he just stared
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at the pyramid in my hand like it was a ghost
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that shouldn't exist. Lang was there, too. He'd
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been sitting at the observation desk, scribbling
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reports in his usual messy handwriting. He looked
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up when I entered, and for a moment I thought
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he'd jump out of his chair and scream with excitement.
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But Lang lives for monster catching. It's in
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his blood. He's the kind of guy who dreams about
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new field missions and debates, glyph theories
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for fun. But not that day, not when he saw Kazunora.
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What's wrong, I ask, setting the pyramid gently
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on the counter, the emerald light inside pulsed
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calmly, the fan resting in suspended motion.
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Beautiful, harmless. You totally look like you've
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seen a ghost. Orion didn't answer right away.
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He slowly took off his gloves, rubbing his temples
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like he was fighting off a headache. "'Where
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did you find this?' he asked, his voice quieter
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than usual. "'Folly Oaks,' I said. "'The ruins
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by the western ridge.' It was buried near the
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fountain. Why?' Lang stood up, walking closer,
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his expression shifting from disbelief to something
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darker. Should have gone there, he muttered.
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Not alone. Since when is Folly Oaks off limits,
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I ask? It's just an abandoned town. Lane gave
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a hollow laugh, no humor, just tension. That's
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not just an abandoned town, Stale. Folly Oaks
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was quarantined decades ago. Every field report,
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every aerial scan, even old data files, all redacted.
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The last team that went there vanished, and the
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only thing the recovery drones picked up was
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whispering in the static. My stomach turned.
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Let me guess, I said quietly. It said her name.
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Orion finally looked up. His eyes were steady,
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but his voice was firm, the tone he only used
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when he was scared, but trying to hide it. Kazunora
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isn't supposed to exist anymore. She was neutralized
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during the great containment cycle. The entire
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record was sealed in the vault of air. That can't
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be right, I said. She's in there, Orion. Alive,
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conscious, she talked to me. Lang leaned over
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the glyphid, studying the glowing fan through
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the transparent field. The light reflected in
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his eyes like flickering jade fire. Then the
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records were wrong, he murmured, or something
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reawakened her. Orion paced the room, his boots
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echoing against the metal floor, laying run -
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a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a
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- a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a -
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a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a
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- a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a -
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a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a
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- a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a -
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a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a
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- a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a - a -
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a - a - The energy signature within the glyphid
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is fluctuating. There are layered frequencies,
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not one entity, but several, overlapping. Ling
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frowned, that's not normal. Glyphs don't share
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vessels. They fight to the death over space.
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The fan flickered, the pyramid pulsed once, then
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twice, faster. The air in the lab grew colder,
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stirring loose papers and making the lights tremble.
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Orion took a step back. Still a Pharisee, he
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said slowly. What did she say to you before you
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captured her? I hesitated. The words still echoed
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in my memory, slow but sharp as a blade. Then
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write my name in the wind. When I repeated it
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out loud, Lang went completely still. He looked
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at Orion, then at me. That's not her voice anymore,
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he whispered. My pulse spiked. What do you mean?
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Ling's jaw tightened. That's the wind's voice.
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Before I could respond, the fan inside the glyphid
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twitched, its silk edges fluttering. Even though
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it was sealed, the light flickered again, and
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from somewhere deep inside the device came a
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faint, haunting whisper. The wind remembers those
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who listen. Oren slammed the containment locks
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shut, his expression grim. We're not opening
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that pyramid again, he said, not until we know
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what's really inside. And for the first time
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in a long while, I saw something in both of their
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faces that I've never seen before when it came
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to a glyph, fear. Orion was about to put the
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pyramid away in a safe airlock container when
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it shattered into a million pieces. It didn't
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crack. It didn't spark. It exploded. A binding
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surge of green light filled the lab, tearing
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through with the air -like lightning trapped
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in a bottle, too small to hold it. The blast
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threw me backward into the wall, hard enough
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to make the whole world tilt sideways. I heard
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Lang shout, then the shriek of twisting metal
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as containment alarms welled through the sedation.
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When the light finally dimmed, the room was unrecognizable.
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The pyramid was gone. Every fragment scattered
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like glittering dust. The glyphid containment
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circle was smoking, flickering with dying energy.
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And standing in the wreckage, floating in a swirl
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of green mist, were seven shapes, shifting unstable
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and wrong. At first, I thought they were echoes.
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after images from Kazunora's release, but then
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they moved. Their bodies rippled like ink and
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water, constantly changing forms. Sometimes they
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looked human, sometimes half -formed creatures
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made of smoke and shattered glass. Their faces
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flickered between smiles, screams, and black
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emptiness. Their eyes glowed the same eerie green
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as Kazunora's fan. They're not illusions, Ink
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Trek said. His page is fluttering violently their
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mimics glyph class parasites born from corrupted
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memory streams Laying stumbled to his feet grabbing
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and containment baton from the wall or sorry
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baton from the wall mimics from one glyph That's
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impossible Tell that to them I shout it One of
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the mimics screeched its voice distorted like
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a wind howling through a broken flute the sound
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made the air vibrate And suddenly the lab lights
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burst, showering us in glass. Orion pulled me
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behind the control console. His face was pale,
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jaw tight. They were inside her, he said, hidden.
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That's why her signature was layered. I glanced
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over the console. The seven mimics were spreading
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out, gliding through the air like smoke with
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claws. Their movement mirrored each other. synchronized,
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almost ritualistic. Wherever they passed, papers
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curled to ash and static flickered on every screen.
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Leng swung the baton through one, but it passed
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clean through, leaving only a hiss of green vapor.
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The thing reformed behind him, grabbing his arm
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with a sound like breaking glass. Ink Trek, I
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shout it, analyze. They are fragments of Kazunora's
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storm essence. Ink Trek, replied rapidly. His
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cool scratching symbols across the air, each
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one carries part of her. Rage, grief, memory,
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silence, sorrow, pride, and the void. She wasn't
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just sealed. She was split apart. One of the
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mimics turned towards me, its shape flickering
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into the faint outline of a woman in flowing
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robes, Kazunora's silhouette. Before warping
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back into shadow, bright my name in the wind,
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it was spurred again, all seven or none at all.
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And suddenly, I understood. I hadn't captured
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Kazunora, I'd captured a piece of her. And by
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doing so, I'd broken the seal that kept the others
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contained. The fan's silk tassel materialized
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in midair, swirling like a serpent of smoke,
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and the wind in the lab turned violent. Monitors
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ripped free from their bolts. Oxygen lines snapped
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and whipped across the floor. Orian, we have
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to shut down the airflow system. I yelled. He
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was already at the console, fingers flying over
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the keys. Too late, he shouted back. They're
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inside the vents, riding the air itself. A metallic
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shriek echoed from above, followed by the sound
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of something slamming into the ductwork, laying
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back toward me, panting. They're spreading still.
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They're headed for the upper levels. Inktrex
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quail scratched faster, the symbols glowing bright
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white now. New directive, initiative, are initiated.
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Recapture protocol. Seven mimics. Fragments of
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Kazunora's soul. Warning. Containment failure
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will result in atmospheric corruption. I grabbed
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my gear, my hands shaking. Then we recaptured
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them before they reached the turbines. If they
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merge with the wind generators, or if they merge
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with the wind generators, the entire base becomes
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a storm. Orion finished grimly. The lights flickered
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again, and a whisper slid through the vents,
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soft, mocking, familiar. The wind remembers you,
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Stella Ferris. I swallowed hard. Then I guess
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it's time I remember it too. We armed ourselves
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and ran towards the corridor, the air glowing
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colder, with every step behind us. Folly Oak
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wasn't just a memory anymore. It had followed
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us home. And that was the scariest part. To be
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continued, the rest of this episode will be next
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week, and I hope you enjoy. And may the light
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of Nibiru shine its beautiful essence down on
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you. Goodbye for now.