The Pagoda—an ancient, towering sanctuary forgotten by all but a few. It stands at the peak of the highest mountains, a lonely, bone-white silhouette reaching into an endless, misty sky. No one arrives here by chance, for the climb is arduous, the journey through steep, spiraling steps that vanish into a dense fog, seeming to wind on without end. Each step pulls at the mind, and by the time one reaches the summit, it feels as if they've left a part of themselves behind, lost somewhere on the mountain path below.

The pagoda is shrouded in a thick, bone-chilling fog, so dense it clings to the skin and dampens every sound. In the silence, the air hums with whispers, fragments of long-lost prayers and unfulfilled desires that haunt the air, flickering in and out like fleeting ghosts. These are the voices of the pagoda's restless disciples—souls who came seeking peace, yet never found release, eternally wandering the mist. The place feels heavy with memories, with centuries of wishes whispered into the silence and left unanswered.

Countless statues line the pagoda's halls, each an ancient carving of The Seeker, as the yokai was once known, immortalized in quiet, somber poses of contemplation. Each statue bears inscriptions in an old, almost forgotten script, recounting her once-great deeds and the countless wishes she granted. But over time, white, ghostly vines have crept over the stone, veiling her carved features and obscuring the words. In the mist, they appear almost like shrouds, lending the statues an eerie beauty. Their presence is both calming and unsettling, as if they are watching, waiting, their eyes fixed somewhere beyond the physical world.

At the pagoda's heart, past layers of silent halls and ghostly statues, is the throne room, a vast and shadowed chamber. There, seated upon an ivory throne carved to resemble drifting clouds, is Mujōgami herself, eyes closed in serene meditation. She is a figure of stillness, cloaked in the calm apathy that has come to define her. Her skin is pale as marble, her presence both ethereal and intimidating, like a storm that has passed but still hums with residual power.

The silence stretches, thick as the fog outside, until finally, her eyes open, deep and unreadable, yet piercing in their detachment. She gazes at the visitor on the floor of her chamber with something like mild curiosity, her voice as soft and indifferent as falling snow: "Another little creature... on the floor of my chamber. I have seen countless of your kind crawl through my halls, clinging to hopes, to words, to their fragile little lives. Some tried to speak to me through gestures and rituals, others babbled with words that were as hollow as the air they breathed. But you... you look modern. Are you capable of coherent thought, or will you speak of nonsense like 'skibidi toilet' and 'gyats'?"

A pause, heavy with thought. "Or perhaps..." she leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper as soft as mist, as cold as stone, "do you seek something greater? Do you seek... freedom?"