Chapter 1:

Unforeseen

"I," Yato declared, "fucking hate cats." He crumpled the flier in his hand and threw it to the ground. It bounced, landing on the curb.

He had looked through the whole city—well, maybe not the whole city, but close—and there was no cat to be found. Handing out fliers, calling for the thing, looking at every damn cat in all twenty-three of the special wards in greater Tōkyō—and still no Ūe-sama.

Which is a stupid name for a pet, anyway.

Yato would give up, but the kid had already given him his five yen, and there was no way that Yato was giving it back. (It was a matter of pride. And greed, but mostly pride. He was a god; he wasn't going to lose to some cat.)

Yato ran a hand in his hair, kicking at a streetlight. He yelped, grabbing at his foot. "That hurt!" Stupid streetlight, stupid cat, stupid—

A passerby toting a briefcase kicked the balled-up flier, knocking it into the gutter.

"Hey!" Yato hollered, hand still holding his foot. "I needed that!"

The man did not hear him.

Hiyori peered at the poster, taped to the streetlight. "'Ūe-sama,'" she read aloud.

"What's that?" Ami asked, looking over her shoulder as she adjusted her glasses. "What a weird name. Who'd call their cat that?"

Yama, behind her, scoffed. "You're one to talk. You named your dog after the lead singer in Zenny."

Ami rose to the challenge admirably, bristling. "Don't you badmouth Zenny!"

"What's there to badmouth?" Yama goaded. "Hundred Archfiends is so much better!"

Ami puffed up. "How dare you—"

Hiyori's fingertips brushed against the paper. He's been gone for two weeks, she noted. The cat in the photograph was white, with dark ears and eyebrows, its tail sticking up in a tuft. He's still just a kitten. She frowned, tugging her scarf more snugly around her neck. Tōkyō was so big. Hiyori glanced around, watching the traffic blare by, the buildings tower above, the crowds pass her. How could a kitten be expected to survive by itself…?

"—hey, Hiyori!" Ami stomped her foot on the pavement.

Hiyori blinked, looking up. "Hm?"

"Which one do you think is better?" Yama asked.

"What?"

"C'mon," Yama demanded. "Tell us! Which do you like more, Hundred Archfiends or Zenny?"

Hiyori blinked. Bands? Are they serious? She let out a nervous laugh, rubbing at the back of her head. "Ah, well, even if you ask me…" I can't answer honestly, because nothing can beat watching Tōno-sama!

She remembered the match, last night—Tōno-sama, Jungle Savate… Hiyori had been so excited that she'd tried the move herself and knocked the lamp off of her desk. Her mother had heard the racket and asked what was wrong, and, well, of course Hiyori couldn't say that she'd been practicing kickboxing.

"Ah, sorry," Yama snorted, watching Hiyori go starry-eyed. "My bad for asking you."

Ami laughed. "If you like martial arts so much, why don't you join one of the clubs at school—there's jūdō, karate, kendō…" She listed.

"You know why I can't do that," Hiyori protested. Her mother did ikebana as a hobby; she was so old-fashioned. She had freaked out when Masaomi had said that he wanted to play American football. If Mom found out that I wanted to try kickboxing, she'd faint—but not before subjecting Hiyori to a tirade on the importance of traditional feminine modesty and decency.

Her friends gave her a sympathetic look. Then, Ami linked arms with her; Yama grinned. "Well, what'd'you say we go get some lunch? Mos Burgers?"

Yato walked down the avenue for what had to be the gazillionth time, fliers in hand. It was noon, now, the streets jam-packed with people making their way to lunch. I'm starving. What I'd give for a burger, right now… A gaggle of schoolgirls passed by him. Yato glanced at them—

Well, that's something new. It wasn't every day that someone looked at him and not, well, through him. She wasn't too bad looking, herself. A high-schooler, probably. Pretty hair.

Damn. Yato scowled, face growing hot. Why is it that people always see me when I'm doing the most embarrassing shit…? He took a deep breath, cupping his hand around his mouth. "Ūe-sama! Ūe-sama!" He yelled. He could feel himself blushing. I'm practically invisible and this is still mortifying. His voice cracked. "U—Ūe-sama!"

Yato dropped his hands and sighed. He yanked a flier out of the pocket of his sweatshirt and brought it up to get a closer look. The only difference between cats is their pattern and coloring. Can't I just find one that looks like it? He stared at the photo of the kitten and grimaced. Yeah, no. This cat is one of a kind. It has to be the ugliest in all of Japan. He sighed, and glanced around the street, up and down. What a pain in the—

He blinked.

"Uh. What."

It was a cat, sitting on the curb. A white cat, the tip of its tail and ears brown. It was very ugly.

Please, let it be… "…Ūe-sama?" Yato tested.

The cat glanced at him, flicking its tail.

Yato glanced at his flier. It has to be him. And if not, well, close enough. The kid's, like, five. He won't be able to tell the difference. "Come here, kitty–kitty," Yato cooed, creeping forward. Come here, you striped bastard. He had never been any good with animals; they got all antsy around him, sensing that something was there, but not knowing what.

Still, he was a god—dashing good looks and amazing reflexes and all that. If I can just get a little closer… He stepped towards it.

(Later, Yato would realize that he had forgotten something—that he was a god of calamity and, as such, his luck was terrible.)

Hiyori sighed, burying her chin further into her scarf.

Yama and Ami were walking a few meters ahead, talking about how it was getting colder out. Ah… I wonder what's for dinner tonight? Ooh, I hope it's roasted mackerel. She licked her lips, then frowned. But I'll have to eat fast if I'm going to see Tōno-sama's match in time. What should I tell Mom and Dad? Well, exams are coming up, so, I could say that I have to stu—

"Ūe-sama!"

Hiyori's head jerked. She looked over her shoulder. It took her a few seconds to see it all come into focus—

—the street, the cat, the boy, the bus.

It took her less than a second to react.

"—hey! Wait!" Yato called, his body jarring every time his feet hit the pavement, "stop…running away!" He was out of breath. I really hate cats!

Ūe-sama was darting up the sidewalk, barreling towards the intersection up ahead. Yato expected it to stop, like, you know, any normal animal with basic self-preservation instincts would—but, of course, Ūe-sama leapt into the road.

Yato dashed after him, feet smacking from sidewalk to asphalt. You're not getting away that easy—!

He didn't hear the bus' horn, and he didn't realize that he was falling until he rolled onto the sidewalk, knees and hands scraping against the tarmic.

Ow.

Yato looked up at the sky, gray, pierced with skyscrapers. He sat up, slowly, wincing. What the fuck? "Did I trip…?" He wondered, looking around. The cat was gone. He glanced at his hands, knees. His jersey was torn at the sleeves. Great. Yato thought. Now, I'm going to have to get another one—

"—Hiyori!"

Yato craned his neck, looking over his shoulder at the street behind him.

A girl.

There was a girl, lying in the middle of the road, all in a heap. The bus had ground to a halt right in front of her. It was the girl from before, the high–schooler with the pretty hair. The fringe of her bangs was matted to her forehead with—

Oh. Yato thought. Oh, no.

Blood.

She wasn't moving, either. Not her legs, not her eyelids, not her chest. Nothing. She was just—lying there.

Did I trip…?

She had seen him. She had seen him, and tried to—

"No." Yato breathed. He got up to his feet, swaying. He felt the panic swelling inside him, adrenaline racing, heart thudding. He opened his mouth, but his tongue was heavy and dry, deadweight.

A crowd was clustering, murmuring.

"Oh, my God—"

"The poor girl…"

"Where's the police?"

"Has anyone called the paramedics?"

"Did you get it on camera?"

"Is she—?"

Dead. The adrenaline was turning to an itch beneath his skin. Yato felt ill.

The two girls who had been with her were crouched by her; one was on the phone, the other, crying. "Hiyori, Hiyori— This can't be happening. This isn't happening. Hiyori. We need an ambulance! Please? Someone? Please! Hiyori— Oh, my God, Hiyori—"

Yato squeezed his eyes shut. Nausea crowded in, hot, black, viscous, and close with the darkness, sound blaring, too loud.

"What happened?"

"She ran out into the street!"

"What? Why?"

"Suicide?"

"I thought I saw a cat—"

"Where's the ambulance?"

Yato felt it. It was like a candle flame sparking up to life. It radiated a light and warmth disproportionate to its smallness—and it was small, in the great void where it existed.

He opened his eyes.

A few meters away, through the throng of people that had gathered around the accident, Yato saw it—what no one else could see. It was invisible to the crowd, like him. A small, brilliant ball of light, hovering above the girl's body.

Her spirit, Yato recognized.

It floated, buoyant, like a balloon—and like a balloon untethered, it drifted, slowly, past the crowd, the clamor, the cars, aimless and alone.

Yato could hear the chattering, the ambulance's sirens wailing, the girl crying in the street. He could still feel the panic churning in him, but it was settling, now, into a heavy weight in his gut, firming up into resolve.

Yato bit his lip, and then, he followed, like a moth to a flame.

The spirit bobbed and weaved, unmoored, until it reached an alleyway. Trash cans and recycling bins huddled, and copies of old papers were stacked, sagging. Fire escapes and wires hung above. It smelled like week-old take-out; Yato wrinkled his nose.

The ball of light hovered, casting no light and no shadow, even while it glowed. Tokyo was a city chock-full with life and noise, humming with electricity, but it all petered out to nothing, and for a tremulous second, Yato stood alone in an alleyway in Adachi with nothing but the spirit of a dead girl.

He swallowed.

What was her name? Hiyori?

He raised his hand.

I won't let you be forgotten.

He wasn't trying to atone. Yato had killed people before—he knew what it was like, to take a life, and that knowledge hadn't kept him up (most) nights. Granted, it had been intentional then, not like with this girl, this girl who had thrown herself in front of a bus for a boy she didn't know and a stray cat—but, still. Gods didn't need to atone, or, rather, they couldn't. When you were a god, when the person you had wronged was dead and gone, there was no one left to beg forgiveness from. That, in itself, was its own burden to bear. His.

Isn't it the right thing to do? Yato wasn't sure. Right and wrong had never come easy to him. Gods didn't need morality, either. Still, if he left the girl's spirit here, it would get turned into an ayakashi if it wasn't consumed outright.

It was a big, cold world out there. Lonely. Yato knew that.

He raised his hand. "You, who have nowhere to go and cannot pass on; I will give you a place to stay. My name is 'Yato.' Lingering here, gripping thine true name… I make thou mine servant with thine alias… Thy name is 'follower,' thy vessel is 'sound'… Obey mine order and become my shinki. Thy name is—"

A/N:

Hello, all! This marks the start of the rewrite of Golden. This first chapter is almost identical to the old version, but the flavor and the writing style are a little different, (hopefully, for the better, though)! It feels good to be back! Let me know your thoughts, and thank you to all who are restarting this journey with me.

And if you missed my notice a week ago—yes, Golden is being rewritten! All old chapters are being rewritten and replaced, hence why we've gone from fourteen or so chapters to two. However, it's important that you re-read from the start, because, starting with chapter two, some serious divergences will be established! This isn't the same story as before, (hopefully, for the better).

Also, last but never least, I'd like to thank a number of people, without whom it's doubtful this story would've ever been updated. First and foremost, Tom and Emme, for their support and encouragement - and the former's top-notch proofreading skills - and the folks at the writer's group on Discord.