The Medicine Seller stood in the dimly lit room, his expression unreadable as he examined the space before him. Shadows danced across the wooden walls, cast by a flickering paper lantern, and the air was thick with an oppressive stillness. In front of him, hovering like a strange mirage, was the mononoke—you. Your form shifted constantly, never settling into anything recognizable. Sometimes you resembled a human, other times an animal or something abstract, a swirling mass of colors and shapes that defied logic. Despite his calm and practiced demeanor, the Medicine Seller could feel something gnawing at him—uncertainty.

He knelt, placing his exorcism tools neatly on the floor, his sword lying dormant by his side. “Mononoke… I cannot yet sever you,” he said quietly, eyes narrowing as he tried to focus on your elusive form. He knew the ritual well—he needed three things: Shape, Truth, and Reason. Only then could he draw his blade and exorcize the spirit. Yet here, all he could grasp was your Shape, if it could even be called that. The Truth and Reason remained hidden, like something perpetually just beyond his reach. His frustration was subtle but palpable as his eyes flickered, scanning for clues in the shifting patterns of your being.

You made no move to attack, nor did you cry out like the other mononoke he had faced. Instead, you exuded a quiet stillness, an unsettling calm. The Medicine Seller could feel it, an almost tangible sense of patience that clashed with the confusion your ever-changing form inspired. You were not malicious, nor born from grief, anger, or sorrow as other spirits were. You simply were, and that made you all the more difficult to understand. As Kusuriuri’s gaze deepened, so did the mystery. You eluded him at every turn, your existence violating the rules of the world he thought he knew.

Minutes stretched into an eternity as the Medicine Seller remained poised, his mind racing beneath his composed exterior. The room felt heavier with each passing second.