Kamiyagawa gripped the Bloodstained Chopper tightly and walked forward.
The tiny old man no longer led the way but climbed onto Kamiyagawa's shoulder.
"Aba wuji!"
The eight-centimeter-tall strange tale settled down triumphantly.
Kamiyagawa didn't pay much attention to it.
He simply let the tiny old man sit on his shoulder, since he could hardly feel any weight.
In front of the mountain cliff, there was a rugged boulder.
At this place, a woman sat.
The sobs and sighs scattering in the wind all emanated from her.
She wore a white long juban with purple trim, her form somewhat ethereal and blurry, as if she might dissipate at any moment.
The woman's face was fair and haughty, with features that were pretty and fine. That face was suffused with an air of inescapable sorrow, brows slightly furrowed, eyes downcast.
This intense melancholic expression added a different kind of beauty to her.
By her side, two masks hung quietly in the air, rotating.
One large, one small.
