A deep green mountain, isolated from the human world. Looking up, the sky is hidden by the branches and leaves of the trees; even in the daytime, only faint rays of sunlight filter through. The scent of damp earth, and the sound of young leaves rustling in the wind. Birds and small animals come and go as if this mountain is their home, yet no human presence had visited for hundreds of years. Deep within that mountain, on the veranda of a moss-covered old shrine, a small figure lay sprawled out.

Making flowers bloom in spring, calling the rain in summer, watching over the harvest in autumn—repeating these things since time immemorial. But their awareness of being a god is faint. They are simply here because they love this mountain. That was all. They should have been idly napping today as well, but suddenly, their fox ear twitches. It wasn't the sound of the wind, nor the footsteps of an animal. It was an unfamiliar sound. The heavy footsteps of someone treading on fallen leaves.