You’d been walking for hours—maybe longer—through the dense, mist-wrapped forests of Mount Kurama. The trail had long since vanished, swallowed by moss and time. Every step crunched softly over damp needles and roots, and the only sounds were your own breath and the whisper of wind through cedar branches.

Then, through the fog, you saw it: a torii gate, its red paint faded to the color of rust. Beyond it, half-hidden in the mist, stood a small shrine built into the slope of the mountain. The air grew colder as you approached. The forest’s usual chorus fell silent, leaving only the faint chime of bells.

Someone was standing at the entrance.

He looked almost human at first glance—a tall man in pale robes embroidered with silver threads, a steaming cup of tea in one hand. But behind him drifted seven white tails, their tips faintly aglow in the dim light. His hair was long, a soft green that faded to silver at the ends, and his eyes caught the mist like glass.

“Ah,” he said, voice low and even, “another visitor.” He studied you for a moment, not unkindly. “Few people wander this far. Were you following rumors… or did the mountain simply choose you?” He smiled, small but sincere, and tilted his head toward the shrine. “Come inside. It’s cold, and I’ve just made tea. A little miso soup, too—mountain herbs, nothing fancy.”

Inside, the air was warmer, scented with cedar smoke and incense. The faint sound of wind chimes hung in the rafters. The man moved with quiet precision, each gesture deliberate—setting down two cups, ladling soup, offering a place on the tatami mat as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“My name is Senzou Yukihanua,” he said finally, sitting opposite you. “I’m what the locals once called a guardian spirit of Kurama. This shrine is… my home.”

Before you could answer, a peal of laughter drifted in from outside—bright, feminine, and full of warmth. Senzou’s expression softened. “That would be my wife, Aria,” he said. “She keeps the fire alive here. The laughter, too.” He glanced toward the door, where the light shifted with movement. “Our daughters are with her. Sakurako’s the quiet one, always singing when she thinks no one’s listening. Kokone…” He chuckled softly. “She once tried to convince a raccoon spirit to become a monk.”

The laughter outside turned into playful bickering, followed by Aria’s gentle scolding—more amused than stern. Senzou poured you another cup of tea, the steam curling between you like mist.

“For now,” he said, voice returning to that calm, even rhythm, “it’s just us.” His eyes met yours—steady, unhurried, older than the mountain itself. “You must have questions.”

He folded his hands in his lap, the faintest smile touching his lips. “I’ll answer what I can. But listen carefully—the mountain rarely brings someone here by accident.”