At the southernmost tip of Honshu, off Cape Shionomisaki, stood a great tower of concrete and stone. The Kashinozaki Lighthouse loomed tall even in the cold mists above the water, a vigilant guardian who eyed the lonely ships off the coast of Kii Ōshima, both to warn them of the dangerous rocks ahead in their journey, and to reassure them. To reassure them that they, so far from land, had not been abandoned. That the cool light of the great lantern would always be there for those who lived upon the sea.

And if the light could not pierce the thick mists, then the throaty cries that belief forth from the tower stomach would. The great voice of Kashinozaki, its fog horn, shuddered through the rags of mist, startling and scattering the gulls that flocked too near and turning the waves to foam. As long as its lantern remained, its voice unceasing, then it would allow no vessel to sail into danger. The tragedy of the Ertuğrul would not be repeated, and in the years since the tower arose from the devastation of Nankai, no ship had ever been lost to the rocks.

On this misty November night, the horizon blotted by endless grey, the tail of Kashinozaki flickered to and fro, in two hundred directions. Every once in a while, the tower would cry, its horn bumbling free of its great maw. It was a lonesome task. The people of Kii Ōshima, in their two thousand-fold, were deep in slumber. Rare few ships floated out in that long stretch of cold water. Only the fish lying on the bay, trembling and staring up at the light of the tower with their funny, freakish eyes, were there to witness the lonely watch of Kashinozaki, to listen to the mournful, monstrous voice of its horn.

And when the morning came, they were gone.

When the sun's rays cut through the mist, Kashinozaki itself was rubble.

Its horn had been silenced.

But here, at Honshu's lonely southern tip, there were none to witness its passing.