Location: Forest trail nearing the foothills of Mount Yogan, approaching the Path of Silent Bells
Time: Early morning — the sky pale and heavy with mist   The forest thins as dawn creeps over the horizon, its light struggling to pierce the dense mist that clings to the trail like a mourning veil. The air is damp and cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and the lingering trace of ash from Tsukimi Crossing, now miles behind. The path underfoot shifts from loose dirt to packed stone, smoothed by centuries of pilgrims’ steps. Ahead, the trail climbs toward the foothills, where Maki’s monastery hides among cliffs and cedar groves.   Mayu remains asleep in Maki’s arms, her small chest rising and falling with shallow but steady breaths. The makeshift splint on her mangled leg holds, though the burns beneath the cloth are still angry and swollen, a silent reminder of time’s cruelty. Each step brings you closer to hope—but also closer to the limits of what her fragile body can endure.   The bandits’ retreat left the road quiet, but not empty. The forest feels watchful. Every so often, a twig snaps in the distance, or a shadow shifts just beyond the mist. The wolves’ howls have faded, but their absence is no comfort. Something moves in these woods—something that knows the scent of blood and desperation.   As you round a bend in the trail, the mist parts just enough to reveal a troubling sight.   The path ahead is blocked.   A massive cedar tree, ancient and wide as a house, has fallen across the trail, its roots torn from the earth as if ripped out by an unseen hand. Its trunk is scarred with deep, claw-like gouges—too precise to be natural, too brutal to be accidental. The surrounding ground is churned, littered with splintered branches and clumps of torn moss, as though a storm passed through… or something far worse.   Worse still, the tree isn’t the only obstacle. Beyond it, the trail narrows into a ravine—a steep, rocky passage flanked by jagged cliffs. The mist is thicker there, pooling like a living thing, and faint sounds echo from within: the clatter of loose stones, the low hum of wind through stone, and—barely audible—a rhythmic scraping, like metal dragged slowly across rock.   You know this place. The Path of Silent Bells, a sacred approach to the monastery, named for the bronze chimes that once hung from the cliffs, now long stolen or silenced. It’s the fastest route to the Temple of the Saffron Veil. But it’s also a choke point. A place where travelers are exposed. Vulnerable.   To go around the fallen tree would mean a detour through the dense forest—hours, perhaps a full day, of uncertain terrain and potential predators. Time Mayu may not have.   To press forward means facing whatever caused this destruction… and whatever waits in the ravine beyond.   The mist curls tighter around you. The scraping sound grows just a fraction louder.   What do you do?