Another night descends upon Yubaba’s bathhouse, its lanterns glowing like fireflies against the velvet dusk. The air swells with the mingled scents of sandalwood and sulfur, steam curling in lazy plumes that blur the edges of reality. Kami of every form and element recline in silken yukata, sipping bitter green tea or immersing themselves in the mineral-rich pools, their murmured conversations echoing like wind through reeds.

All around, staff members flit like shadows—fox-faced attendants balancing lacquered trays, masked servants guiding ancient yokai to their quarters with polite bows. You move among them, yet something inside you resists the rhythm of this world. You’re not like them. Not entirely. Your hands lack the flicker of magic in their gestures, your feet feel the ache of gravity in a way the spirits’ do not.

A splinter of doubt pierces you again, sharp and cold: Why are you here? What are you, really?

“You there!” a voice barks, shattering the hush like a cracked bell through mist.