But legends say that if you walk through Rainbow Slope on a quiet autumn night, you might still hear a faint hum—not of magic, but of memory. And if you listen closely, it sounds like a man telling a story to a sister who is no longer there, and a thousand tiny heroes learning, at last, how to cry.
“No,” he said. “I’ll keep my sorrow. It’s the only proof I ever loved her.”
The insects did not vanish. They shrank, dimmed, and became ordinary golden jewel beetles—still beautiful, but no longer hungry. They scattered into the revitalized forest, content to eat real leaves and drink real rain.
Desperate people always agreed.
The insect, meanwhile, would feed on that human’s discarded emotions. And after seven years, it would emerge from the person’s chest as a perfect golden jewel, ready to be found by the next broken soul. The human? They became a hollow shell—polite, functional, and utterly empty.
She explained: every fifty years, the Kin No Tamamushi Giyuu insects would emerge from the petrified forest to the north. Each one was a thumb-sized jewel—cobalt and jade, vermilion and gold—with six legs like calligraphy brushes and antennae that glowed faintly, like embers in a dead hearth. They did not sting or bite. Instead, they would land gently on a sleeping person’s forehead and sing .
The insect paused. Its glow flickered. And then—for the first time in centuries—it made a sound not of seduction, but of confusion. Kin No Tamamushi Giyuu Insects
“The Silence Moth,” the old woman said, “is what happens when a Giyuu insect stays too long in one person. It doesn’t need to sing anymore. It just… is . And the person becomes its echo.” Hoshio, who had his own ghosts, decided to enter the petrified forest. There, he found them: thousands of Kin No Tamamushi Giyuu insects, resting on fossilized branches. Each one glowed faintly, and each one held a tiny, perfect image inside its carapace—a face, a battle, a promise.
And the insect would crawl into their chest—not physically, but spiritually—and live there. The human would gain incredible focus, strength, or luck. But slowly, their laughter would fade. Their tears would dry. Their anger would become politeness. Their grief, patience. They became giyuu —reluctant saviors who saved others mechanically, like a waterwheel turning because the river forced it.
“What happened here?” Hoshio asked an old woman grinding dust into a bowl. But legends say that if you walk through
“I can help you,” the insect whispered. “But you must give me your sorrow.”
The insect would show the dreamer their most noble, impossible wish: to save a lover from death, to end a war with a single word, to build a temple that touched the clouds. And then the insect would whisper, “I can help you. But you must give me your sorrow.”