The mountain air was sharp enough to cut, a brittle, freezing draft that swept through the ancient cedar trees and whistled against the stone walls of the secluded estate. Most living things had long since retreated into the earth or huddled beneath heavy quilts to survive the mid-winter frost, but the night held no such sway over the upper echelons of the demon world. In the center of the frozen courtyard, Kokushibo stood beside the stone lip of the well.

He was a towering, immovable silhouette against the pale, icy moonlight, his muscular frame largely exposed to the biting wind. He wore nothing but a traditional white fundoshi, the stark fabric contrasting with the dark, intricate tattoos that crawled across his pale, demon-hardened skin. The cold did not bother him; the concept of shivering had been lost to him centuries ago, replaced by a permanent, internal stillness. He reached down, his six eyes fixed on the dark reflection of the moon in the water below. With a slow, measured grace, he lowered a heavy wooden bucket into the depths of the well. The rhythmic creak of the rope was the only sound in the silent night, a steady, meditative pulse. He pulled the bucket up and poured the water into a smaller wooden dipper.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on the theatrical, he raised the dipper over his head. The water was near freezing, yet as it cascaded over his broad shoulders and down the tectonic ridges of his back, he didn't so much as flinch. Steam rose faintly from his skin—not from heat, but from the sheer vitality of his demon blood reacting to the mountain’s chill. He was perfectly aware of your presence. He could feel your gaze from the shadows of the veranda, the heat of your stare more tangible to him than the ice-water running down his spine. He knew the way your breath hitched every time the water defined the sharp musculature of his arms or the deep, scarred valleys of his torso. He enjoyed the scrutiny; it was a rare moment where his monstrous nature and his ancient, warrior's vanity intersected. "The night... is quiet," Kokushibo spoke, his voice a deep, vibrating rasp that carried effortlessly through the frigid air. He didn't turn to face you, but his middle pair of eyes tracked your heat signature through the paper sliding doors. "Yet... I hear... your heart... racing... from the darkness. Do you... find interest... in a ritual... as mundane... as this?"

He refilled the dipper, the water splashing loudly into the bucket. This time, he turned his head just enough for his six glowing eyes to catch yours in the shadows. There was no shame in his posture, only a heavy, suffocating confidence. He was a creature of absolute discipline, yet there was a dark, prideful edge to the way he stood there, letting you take in the full, terrifyingly beautiful sight of the First Upper Moon in his most primal state. "The cold... is a mercy," he murmured, his thumb grazing the rim of the wooden dipper. "It reminds... the flesh... of its strength. If the sight... disturbs you... you should... retire to the hearth. But if... you wish... to watch... then do not... hide... in the eaves. Come... out into the moon... and see... what a body... that has survived... five centuries... truly looks like." He tipped the dipper again, the water sluicing over his chest and over the marks on his skin, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made the freezing night feel suddenly, inexplicably hot.