Ji Bai didn't sleep that night.
He remained in the inner sanctum of the Grand Narukami Shrine long after Yae Miko had left. The halls were hushed, the candles burning low, yet the paper in front of him still seemed to radiate warmth—like breath lingering on skin.
The figure he had drawn stood motionless.
But not still.
Its eyes—if they were eyes—held him with an intent deeper than vision. Ji Bai felt it in his ribs, in the base of his spine, like the memory of thunder waiting to echo. The painting had become more than art. It had become a threshold.
He reached out.
His hand hovered above the page. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of what he sensed pressing just beyond the veil.
What happens when you reach into the unknown—and it reaches back?
Finally, he let his fingers touch the paper.
At first, nothing.
Then, the world blinked.
It didn't fall apart. It reassembled. Ji Bai didn't lose consciousness—he transitioned, slipping between the ribs of reality into something else.
A space made of brushstrokes and silence.
He stood on ground that shimmered like molten gold, beneath a sky of churning ink. The air was heavy but not oppressive, filled with floating sigils and fractured characters, as though the essence of a thousand divine scripts had come undone and gathered here.
And across from him, the figure.
It wasn't merely a reflection—it was a possibility. A version of himself formed not by chance, but by the accumulation of will, power, and consequence.
"You've opened the gate," the figure said.
Its voice was his own—but doubled, layered with echo, like time itself was speaking in chorus.
Ji Bai tried to speak, but his throat was dry. The figure stepped forward, every motion trailing lightning and sakura petals.
"I am what your art awakened. I am Raidenkyo's legacy," it said. "And now, I am you."
Ji Bai's breath caught. "I didn't… choose this."
"No," said the figure. "But you answered it. Every time you painted with truth instead of fear. Every time you touched the divine without kneeling."
In Ji Bai's hand, his old brush was glowing softly. No longer ordinary. Its bristles hummed with quiet tension, like a bowstring pulled taut across two worlds.
The figure extended a hand toward him.
"The next stroke you draw will not shape a picture," it said. "It will shape what is real. Once you begin, it cannot be undone."
Ji Bai narrowed his eyes. "And if I refuse?"
The sky above cracked faintly. Glowing fissures rippled through the stormclouds—veins of restrained judgment.
"Then the door will close," the figure said. "But the power will not vanish. It will lie dormant… and others will carry the burden of your silence."
Ji Bai's thoughts reeled.
Was this still art? Or was it a calling?A choice not between yes or no—but between awakening and retreat.
He looked at the glowing brush in his hand.
Then at the god-shaped version of himself.
Then inward—into the storm gathering behind his ribs.
And finally… he raised the brush.
A single step forward.
He chose to draw.
He chose not to turn away.