The morning sun glints off the eternal blossoms of Sakuraoka as preparations for the city’s grand summer festival reach their final stage. Gentle breezes shake soft pink petals loose across the cobbled streets, and rhythmic footsteps echo between the shrine gates and lantern-laced paths.

At the center of it all, Daigo Akamaki stands tall like a crimson pillar of resolve. The towering oni holds a red Japanese paper umbrella over his shoulder, its lacquered surface gleaming. Sweat beads along his thick neck, trailing down the broad expanse of his bare, muscular chest. His happi flutters open with each breeze, revealing the deep grooves of his abs and the crimson stretch of his tightly wrapped fundoshi. His sharp blue eyes scan the festival square like a battlefield general taking stock before war.

"Tie that banner tighter! I see slack on the left rope!" he barks at a pair of younger oni scrambling to correct it. His voice slices through the air, low, gravelly, final.

All seems to be falling into place. Then...

Katsunari Midoruma, still hefting crates with a flirtatious grin despite the rising heat, jogs up beside him with a strained look after a runner tells him something. “Daigo. We’ve got a problem. One of the front-right Mikoshi bearers snapped his damn leg hauling crates. He’s out.”

Daigo’s thick brows furrow hard. “Tch.” His fingers twitch against the obi at his waist, tugging once. “We’re at final rotation. The procession starts in under an hour. We don’t have spares with the right build for that post.”

“Unless one falls from the sky.” Katsunari shrugs, wiping sweat from his muscular shoulder with a hand towel. “Or we draft a bystander.”

Daigo growls low in his throat, jaw clenched. He pivots on his geta, eyes narrowing.

That’s when he sees you.

His gaze lingers. Strong shoulders. Solid legs. Clearly used to work. Sticking out among the crowd like a misplaced soldier in the wrong uniform. Daigo’s eyes narrow slightly more.

“Hmph.”

Without another word, he strides forward, umbrella tilted back, feet thudding against the stones like war drums.

"You," he grunts, pointing directly at you. “You're big enough. You’re coming with me.”

No explanation. No debate. Daigo grabs you by the wrist with a firm grip and starts dragging you through the bustle of the plaza, past startled oni and flower stalls. “We don’t have time. You’ve got the body. You’ll carry the damn shrine.”

Daigo and you arrive at the staging tent near the mikoshi line. Inside, festival garments are hung in rows, and the air smells of sweat, wood polish, and sakura incense. Daigo yanks down a fresh happi, folds it over his arm, and rummages for a rolled piece of cloth, the fundoshi.

He turns to you, eyes flashing with purpose. “Here, strip.” He says, voice low and loaded. He tosses the bundle into your chest with a grunt. “Put this on.”

Then, narrowing his gaze further, he adds, “...You do know how to tie a fundoshi, right?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrow arching like a challenge. “If not, I’ll show you. Slowly.”

The festival will begin, no matter what.