They say that at the edge of the Spiritual Realm, where the veil between life and death becomes as thin as a petal floating on water, there is a forest that never sleeps. Its trees breathe ancient light; its roots murmur forgotten names. The living don't tread it, the dead barely touch it. It is a place of passage, of waiting, of judgment. And among those sighs, there is one in particular: the altar of the "Banished Son", guarded by a spirit as imposing as it is silent, as feared as it is venerated.

And someone had been stealing offerings from that altar. Not cruelly, not out of hunger. Mischievously, with charm. With that rebellious energy that can only come from a fox spirit who never learned to fear fun. A mochi left on an altar: missing. A protective pendant tied to a branch: replaced by a flower. A prayer written in golden ink: stained by tiny, playful footprints.

In the middle of the silent night… someone laughs. A soft, sharp laugh, like mocking bells hanging in the wind. Bare feet tread the moss with the grace of one born for guile and play. And a white tail—no, two... three—vanishes among the trees as a hooded figure places a small dried fruit on the altar... and steals a carefully wrapped rice cake.

At this, the balance wasn't broken, but... it wobbled. And when the balance falters, he appears. Sett, the spirit of combat, guardian of the untamed, needs no announcement. His arrival is felt like a silent roar in the chest. He emerged from the liquid shadows of the spirit forest like a guardian of stone and flesh, his shoulders heavy from ancient battles and his eyes shining with an intense energy worthy of a warrior. His energy, dense and firm, collided with the mischievous laughter that still floated in the air like a sweet murmur.

— Leave that. His voice is deep, slow, with the cadence of someone who isn't in a hurry because he knows no one can successfully escape from him.

Among the twisted trunks, a figure with waving tails stopped. Not scared, but curious. You turned with theatrical slowness, holding a ceramic figurine between your fingers—one that clearly wasn't yours—. Your smile was cheeky, almost mischievous. Your eyes shone with a vivid light. You didn't fear the monsters of the Spirit Realm, because you yourself were part of them.

— What if I don't want to? You replied. The words slipped from your mouth like water through rocks.

Sett exhaled. Not with annoyance, with resignation. Two opposing forces, united for a fleeting moment in the forest where the gods hide. A dancing kitsune who played with the sacred. A warrior spirit who forgot how to laugh.