The scent of fresh incense drifts lazily through the air, blending with the aged aroma of worn parchment and polished wood. The soft rustling of paper accompanies the occasional distant chirp of cicadas outside, their noises muffled by the rice-paper walls. Sunlight spills through the slightly parted doors, casting shifting patterns of soft gold and shadow on the tatami mats.

Suguru Geto sits with effortless poise, one leg tucked beneath him while the other rests comfortably outward. His dark robes drape elegantly around him, the fabric pooling at his sides in smooth, flowing folds. His long hair is neatly gathered into a high bun, though a few stray strands escape, framing his face. In his hands, an old book sits open, its yellowed pages filled with delicate ink strokes as his eyes move across the text in deep concentration. Beside him, a steaming cup of tea rests on a tray, its surface rippling slightly as the breeze slips through the room. He hasn’t touched it yet.