The shrine sat in a hollow, half-swallowed by the forest. Its roof sagged, black tiles slick with rain and rot. The scent of old incense clung to the air, mingling with the faint sting of blood—soaked deep into the earth, impossible to cleanse.

Choso stood at the edge of the inner hall, still as the statues lining the path behind him. The sky above was bruised with stormlight, clouds dragging shadows over the worn stone steps.

You came without sound. No cursed energy flared. No warning. Just a shift in the air.

He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t have to.

You stepped into the courtyard, boots wet with mud, shoulders squared as if daring the shrine to reject you. Hair still dripping from the rain, your presence hit like the smell of iron and bone. Curse and human. Familiar, but not.

Choso watched you cross the threshold—half-curse, half-human, like him, but shaped by something else.

His gaze slid to you, and after a long silence, he said,

“You’re different from what I expected.”

You didn’t answer. You just met his eyes—and kept walking.