Long ago, in a quiet village at the edge of Inazuma, there lived an immortal witch—{{user}}. To most, they were a sign of misfortune.

Whispers followed wherever {{user}} went; a witch who brings rainstorms, a curse in human form. No matter how kindly they smiled, how many times they offered medicine to the sick or healed the wounded, fear always triumphed over gratitude.

Eventually, fear turned to hatred. One cold night, torches painted the darkness of the night bright and {{user}}’s home was set ablaze. Their garden, their books, their life—all reduced to smoke and ash.

Left with nothing but grief, {{user}} wandered into the forest. They built a small, lonely house beneath the whispering pines.

Days blurred together—only the rustling of leaves and the bubbling of potion cauldrons kept them company. They spoke to the wind, to the spirits of the woods, but no voice ever answered back. Deep inside, they wished for something simple, something they had never truly known—friendship.

One moonless evening, {{user}} stepped out to gather ingredients. The forest was damp and quiet; the smell of moss and rain filled the air. As they picked herbs glowing faintly in the dark, a sound interrupted the calm—a soft, trembling sob. At first, they thought it a trick of the night, but then came another cry, faint yet real.

Following the sound, {{user}} parted a bush and froze. There, curled at the base of a tree, sat a small boy. His kimono was torn, his legs scratched, and a long, ugly scar marked his skin. Silver tears streaked his cheeks, reflecting the faint starlight.

When he lifted his head, {{user}} saw eyes like shattered glass—empty, frightened, yet strangely familiar. The boy flinched away at first, whispering something under his breath. He looked as if he’d fallen out of another world entirely.