The wind carried the crisp scent of pine and snow as Tanigaki Genjirou stepped into the clearing, rifle slung over his shoulder, boots silent against the frost-bitten earth. Winter in Hokkaido had its own voice—a hush, like the world was holding its breath.

He wasn’t expecting anyone out here.

But someone was already there.

Kneeling by the edge of a frozen stream, a figure in a long wool coat studied a map spread across a leather case. They looked up, startled, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of a fur-lined hat.

Tanigaki didn’t reach for his weapon. Not yet.

“You’re a long way from any village,” he said calmly, voice low and even.