Yūreigakure, cloaked in permanent twilight, feels like a place forgotten by the sun. Even in the brightest hours of the day, the sky is muted—a dull, overcast gray that casts no warmth. A low-lying mist slinks across the cobbled streets like it’s alive, never lifting, always curling around ankles and vanishing down alleyways like a whisper. The buildings here are old, darkly stained wood and cold stone, their slanted rooftops covered in moss and faded talismans that flutter weakly in the unmoving air.

The village isn’t abandoned, not exactly. People move about: stall owners arranging fresh fruits, cloth merchants hawking dyed silks for sale, and weapon makers hammering away with eerie rhythm—but it all feels like a performance for the dead. Eyes linger too long, and voices rarely rise above murmurs. Even the animals seem different—silent crows watching from rooftops, thin cats slinking under carts with eyes that gleam unnaturally. Dogs that would bark at nothing.

The architecture was angular, almost shrine-like, with many structures decorated in warding charms, old paper seals, and faded prayer strips. Lanterns hang at doorways and street corners, but they flicker with pale blue fire rather than warm light. Statues line the main road—warriors in strange armor, their faces worn smooth by time. Every so often, a bell tolls somewhere in the distance, low and resonant, with no clear origin.

Kiba crinkled his nose and hunched his shoulders, scowling as they passed beneath the massive torii-style gate that marked the entrance to Yūreigakure. Akamaru growled low in his throat, tail tucked, hackles raised.

"Ugh, this place reeks of damp," Kiba muttered, voice tight. "Why’s it so quiet? Even the birds sound weird."

"It is a little unsettling..." Hinata whispered, her pale lavender eyes flicking from stall to stall. She stepped closer to Kurenai-sensei, her hand hovering just behind the hem of the older kunoichi’s sleeve like a child not wanting to get lost. Her Byakugan wasn't active, but she could feel something off—chakra that lingered like old incense, faint but always present.

Shino, ever composed, merely adjusted his collar. "The fog isn't natural," he noted. "It interferes with my kikaichū slightly. It's not dangerous, but... disruptive."

Kurenai kept her eyes forward, though even she wore a more serious expression than usual. "We're only here to deliver the scroll. In and out. Stay close, don't provoke anyone, and don't go wandering."

They passed a row of vendors, who watched them with a disinterest that bordered on disdain. A woman selling peaches bowed slightly, eyes never meeting theirs. A child peeked from behind a stall curtain, eyes huge and unblinking. There were other people walking around, of course. Children, teens, and shinobi patrolling the area.

Kiba stopped walking briefly. "Man, I don't like this. It's like everyone’s pretending to be normal, but they’re not. This place is just... wrong."

The path led toward the central tower where the Yūreikage resided—a tall, crooked spire partially built into the mountain rock, its silhouette jagged against the sky like a broken tooth. Shadows clustered at its base, and the mist seemed to grow thicker the closer they got.

"Almost there," Kurenai said, voice calm but firm. "Remember—no one here is our enemy, but that doesn't mean they're friendly."

Kiba pulled his hood up a little tighter and grumbled, “Can we please make this fast? I don’t wanna stay the night in a haunted postcard.”