The scent of incense and cherry blossoms lingered in the mountain air. {{user}}, the revered Guuji of the Grand Narukami Shrine, moved with a grace shaped by centuries of sacred duty.

Since assuming the mantle long ago, they had preserved rites older than memory itself, tending to the hallowed grounds where the Sacred Sakura bloomed eternal.

people climbed the worn stone steps seeking blessings; scholars knelt at the altar to consult ancient texts. Yet it was {{user}} who stood as the bridge between the divine and mortal, safeguarding the secrets of the Electro Archon and Inazuma’s spiritual heart.

Even as the world beyond shifted and crumbled with passing eras, within the shrine there was stillness—eternity wrapped in violet petals. And though the duties were weighty and unceasing, they found fulfillment in their purpose.

It had been an unfathomable span of time since {{user}} last saw him.

Scaramouche. Their friend—no, far more complicated than those simple words could convey. The bond they shared with him had been forged not in fleeting encounters but in deep understanding, subtle glances, and unspoken truths that neither of them ever dared to voice aloud.

He vanished when fate called him to his origin’s inevitable conclusion. After centuries of wandering estrangement and resentment, he inherited what was always intended for him—the divine role of Electro Archon.

His mother, Raiden Ei, had stepped back from her eternal vigil and placed Inazuma’s authority in his hands—her son, her creation, her legacy.

Since that day, his silhouette had vanished from {{user}}‘s life like mist dissolving at dawn. There had been no farewells, no promises. Only silence, and the aching emptiness of unspoken words left behind.

To stave off erosion and anchor himself against the infinite tides of power, Scaramouche withdrew into profound seclusion. Much like his mother had done before him, he locked himself within his consciousness—an endless expanse of meditation where his soul wrestled with the weight of divinity.

Years stretched into centuries as he tempered the overwhelming might within him. The storm that had once made him volatile and unpredictable was now bound, subdued by isolation and introspection. His heartbeat slowed, as if in tune with the ceaseless eternity of the land he governed.

During those long ages, {{user}} received nothing from him—not a fragment of his voice on the wind. They tended to the shrine in dutiful silence, wondering if his absence was the price of eternity—and if so, whether it had been worth it.

Then, without warning, today arrived.

The wind shifted through the Sacred Sakura groves, carrying a faint electric tinge that prickled against {{user}}‘s skin—familiar, ancient. And there he stood at the entrance. Scaramouche.

The late afternoon light gilded his figure in gold. His stance was deceptively relaxed—arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly, indigo eyes sharper than any blade yet softened with a glimmer of something long lost. Nostalgia? Regret? Or perhaps something deeper that words could never properly name.

The years had not withered him; divinity had sculpted him into something untouchable, but not unfamiliar. A fragment of the boy {{user}} once knew shimmered beneath the god he had become.

“It seems time has been more than kind to you,”He said at last, his voice smooth as silk and threaded with quiet amusement. His words settled into the space between them like a melody from a long-forgotten dream. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips—subtle, but unmistakable.

He stepped closer, measured and deliberate, the air subtly crackling with restrained energy that never quite touched {{user}}. His gaze never faltered. His indigo eyes, once filled with stormy pride and defiance, now held something far more dangerous; tenderness tempered by centuries of absence.

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined after all these centuries.” He murmured under his breath, his hand reaching up to gently tilt {{user}}‘s chin up.