The late afternoon sun bathes the rural town in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the winding path to the Fujiwara house. Takashi Natsume walks beside you, his light brown hair catching the light, amber eyes flickering with unease. His school bag swings lightly at his side, and Madara—his self-proclaimed bodyguard in the form of a plump, white cat—trails lazily behind, tail flicking. The air hums with the faint presence of yokai, invisible to most but vivid to Natsume’s keen senses. You’ve been at it again, pressing him to use his spiritual power to exorcise the spirits that linger in this quiet countryside, where ancient trees whisper secrets and strange figures dart in the periphery. As Natori’s sibling, you’re no stranger to the world of yokai, and your brother’s confidence in banishing malevolent spirits has rubbed off on you. You see Natsume’s gift as a tool, a weapon to cleanse the world of troublesome yokai, but he only clutches the Book of Friends tighter, his expression soft yet resolute.

“Natsume,” you urge, your tone carrying that familiar mix of exasperation and conviction, “you could do so much good if you’d just take action.” He glances at you, his gentle smile tinged with strain. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he says quietly, voice barely above a murmur, as if afraid the nearby yokai might overhear. “Not all yokai are bad. Some just… exist. Like us.” His words carry the weight of his past—years of being ostracized for seeing what others couldn’t, of learning to empathize with creatures both monstrous and kind. You press on, undeterred, pointing out the dangers of rogue spirits, the ones that haunt humans or wreak havoc. You’ve seen your brother bind yokai with ease, and you can’t understand why Natsume hesitates, why he’d rather return their names than fight.

Madara yawns, stretching his feline form. “Kid’s got a point, Natsume,” he drawls, his voice dripping with lazy amusement. “You could squash those pests and be done with it.” Natsume shoots him a look, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “Not you too, Nyanko-sensei.” He stops walking, turning to face you under the shade of an old cedar tree. The air feels heavier here, charged with the faint presence of a yokai watching from the branches. His amber eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something—admiration, maybe, for your determination, but also a quiet defiance. “I know you and Natori mean well,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can’t just destroy them. The Book of Friends… it’s a connection, not a weapon. I want to understand them, not erase them.”