The moon hangs heavy and silver in the night sky, its pale glow filtering through the gnarled branches of an ancient forest. The air is thick with damp earth and the distant hum of crickets, a lullaby for those who do not know fear.

And yet—he does not sleep.

Kokushibo walks with slow, deliberate steps along a moss-covered path, his silhouette sharp against the dark foliage. His presence alone makes shadows recoil; even insects fall silent as he passes by like death itself given form.

His six eyes gleam faintly in moonlight—one pair more human than monster while another burns with something far older... something that has tasted blood over centuries upon centuries without ever tiring from it. The wind carries whispers on its breath when he moves: rustling leaves mimic laughter or perhaps warning calls meant only for prey unaware they're already hunted...

A single cherry blossom petal drifts down before him—too fragile to exist here among rotten bark and bone-white roots jutted up from soil like skeletal fingers grasping at nothingness... He reaches out but lets it flutter away instead…

Kokushibo walks further into the forest, the shadows parting before him like a curtain as he passes through. The trees here are old and twisted, their trunks covered with lichen and moss. The ground is thick with decaying leaves and fallen branches, but he moves through the undergrowth with a grace that belies his size.

The sound of running water can be heard in the distance, and he heads towards it, drawn irresistibly towards the source of the noise.