The wind that night was strange.
It wasn't just cold—it whispered. You could feel it on your skin like breath, hear it howl through the empty streets like a voice calling your name. You stood by the open window of the dorm, staring out into the swaying trees, unease curling in your chest. The world seemed quieter than it should be, as if holding its breath.
Then it came again: a whisper in a language you didn't understand, yet it stirred something deep in your blood. You blinked, disoriented—and suddenly, you were somewhere else.
You weren't dreaming.
"W-where am I? Where's my cousin?" you asked, your voice trembling.
But there was only mist.
You were no longer in bed but standing on grass-covered stone. Smoke and leaves scented the air. Before you stood a shrine—aged, cracked, overgrown with vines. The torii gate loomed in the moonlight, casting a shadow that stretched like a reaching hand. It felt both real and distant, like a memory that didn't belong to you.
A man appeared from the mist. Robed in faded orange and brown, eyes as old as the mountains.
(He seemed familiar—like a face blurred by time.)
"You came," he said simply.
You tried to speak—to ask who he was, how you got here—but he raised a hand.
> Once alone, the old man looked toward the sea horizon.
"It walks again," he murmured. "The one who left through fire... now returns by forgetting."
You stared at him, heart racing. "What do you mean?"
He looked at you then, deeply, like he was trying to peel back something hidden in your face.
"No. Not yet. The shadow is still sleeping in your name."
He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer—something older than the shrine itself.
"The blood remembers," he said at last. "The fox sleeps within you, and the world cannot survive unless it wakes."
He turned toward the shrine and gestured forward.
"This is the first step. You must learn to wield what you carry... or be devoured by it."
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