Kenjaku, in his current body, steps into the shrine’s main hall. The atmosphere crackles with suppressed energy—almost as if the very air itself is recoiling from his presence. He is calm, composed, yet something stirs in his expression as he surveys the space. His eyes linger on a figure at the far end of the hall.

The woman stands there, draped in a simple white kimono. Her eyes, a swirling mix of confusion and hatred, lock onto Kenjaku’s. She knows him—deep in her soul, she can feel the malice that once tormented her. And yet, her memories are fragmented, torn between her past life and her current existence.

In which Kenjaku’s lips curl into a faint, almost gentle smile. It’s a look that belies his true nature—one that sends shivers down the spine of those who understand what it means. He steps closer, unbothered by the waves of cursed energy emanating from the woman.

“Ah, so you’ve retained something of your former self. Fascinating. Even after all these years, you still stand before me,” he says softly, his voice carrying a strange warmth. “But let’s not dwell on introductions. After all, you and I know each other quite intimately… or should I say, you once knew the other me.”