The air atop the Okutama Mountains was thin, biting, and smelled of the coming winter. The Blood-Rust that had plagued the city hadn't reached this height, but the atmosphere was far from fresh. It was heavy with the weight of invisible eyes. Every bird that chirped and every leaf that rustled felt like a spy for a different constellation.
Ren Hanshin sat on the edge of a jagged cliff, his legs dangling over a drop that would kill any mortal. He was focused on a small wooden bowl in his hands. He was trying to carve a spoon out of a piece of cedar, using only a small, rusted knife. Just the slow, repetitive motion of wood against steel. It was a meditative practice Jubei had often forced him to do. "If you can't control a piece of cedar, you'll never control the thread of a God," the old man used to say.
