Part 5: It Rains the Same Old Rain

Autumn winds batter the door, the fire quietly burning, gathering warmth.
Inside, a bed has been conspicuously added, the hanging masks knocking into each other with a dull clinking sound.
Shamane: Hm...
In the house, the man twirls his dagger nimbly around the deer's neck, instantly slitting its throat open perfectly.
Shamane: ♪...Not bad.
The blade gently cuts between the muscles and fur, and in no time, with the crisp sound of the dagger dropping, the whole deer skin is neatly peeled off.
The blood-soaked right hand gently picks up the deerskin. He tilts his head, stepping on the skin's end with his right foot, proudly appreciating the unfurled work in hand.
Shamane: Phew! Looks like this little guy will make a good drum skin.
Shamane: Let's see...what the old man wants today—
He releases his right foot pulling the deerskin, and uses his relatively clean toes to pinch the note lying slightly out of reach.
Shamane: Hmmm...Mhmm...
Shamane: ...
Shamane: This old guy's serious?!
He bolts up, nearly punching a hole in the ceiling.
Startled, the magpies behind the house call out loudly.
Shamane: Huh...he really wants me to die in those woods...
Shamane grumbles, but still washes the dagger clean in the basin, and turns to put out the fire.
"Creak-"
Pushing open the wooden door, a strong wind blasts in, blowing over many jars.
It's a gloomy autumn day; the skies are overcast, and the forest is steeped in gold.
Shamane: Phew— let's go.

A familiar place.
The thorn has expanded further, encompassing dozens of towering trees.
Spikes entwine the roots, nests on branches sealed off, feathers hooked on the spikes.
Shamane: Remember what happened when we first met?
Shamane: You nearly blinded one of my eyes.
Below, a gray rabbit is hooked by its skin, blood-staining its fur.
It's exhausted, no longer struggling.
Shamane: Hah, what a shame...I know how to deal with you now...
Shamane: I need to borrow...something from you.
He cuts his palm, blood dripping down, seeping into the soil.
Shamane: ...
He lowers his head, deep syllables spilling from his throat.
The thorns sip the blood, slowly retreating like a snake back to its nest.
The spikes pull out of the rabbit, which quickly escapes.
A clear path appears ahead.
Shamane: Oh, thank you so much! Let me see... A flower crown... Hmm...can this be called such a thing?
Brushing aside dead leaves, he scans the exposed patches of earth.
"Crack."
Shamane: Hm...?
Lifting his foot, a withered ring of thorns, hardly worthy of being called a "crown", reveals itself.
Shamane: Oh well...didn't say it had to be intact, right?

Another old friend long unseen.
It sits here, enduring storms and invading winds. Despite the erosion of time, it doesn't budge an inch.
Stubborn, obstinate, rigid...indifferent to all criticism.
Shamane: Oh, you used to be...this small?
He raises his solitary arm, trying to measure its change.
Shamane: I remember back then, you were at least five, or six trees wide...
Shamane: Hah! After I left, you must've given quite some people headaches, big guy.
The boulder's surface is scarred all over—carved, burnt, pummeled...anything imaginable to get back at it.
Shamane: But I've grown some.
He touches the scars, lightly pressing his forehead against the hard boulder, and stepping back.
Then he kneels, bowing his head, letting his forehead sink deep into the damp soil, paying due reverence.
He hears the soil loosen, and the boulder rises from its haughty throne, shifting aside.
Shamane: Hah! Thank you, my proud friend.
Under the boulder's throne, a verdant plant is bent over, Shamane gently picks it.

It remains, the pulse of the hills, ceaselessly night and day, dividing the land in two, like an insurmountable chasm.
The gurgling waters surge forth, even more turbulent than before.
Shamane: ♪—
Shamane steps barefoot into the river, steady as a boulder.
Shamane: Tch— It's so cold.
He slowly submerges into the icy river, until the waters pass over his head.
Shamane: ...
Inside the endlessly turbulent river, it's as tranquil as the womb.
Here, the ripples vanish, the bottom clearly visible.
The river tenderly receives Shamane, enveloping him.
Shamane: ...
This river was once called "Krupi". It's said those close to her can obtain her gifts on the riverbed.
He opens his eyes, below in the river. The glowing aquatic plants flourish, like stars in the water.
Shamane: @%$...
Shamane reaches out, gently plucking one.
Shamane: Splash!
By the time he returns ashore, the waters are churning once again...

Eight! Shamane followed the bizarre old man for eight harsh winters.
But something changed in the third year after they met.
It was a stormy snowy night, and he held the wolf pup saved from the bear's belly, as if holding his past self in the flames.
Shamane: ...
—He thought he had shed all his tears.
But the heart-wrenching pain was merely swallowed and kept silent.
The fear of death is nothing more than a shield over a pair of eyes.
Until in the cold winds, drenched in blood, trembling...
He held the sole survivor.
And discovered fear and pain once more.
He dwelled with them again day and night.
Only this time he would no longer flee in defeat.
Shamane: Hmm...I think that's about everything.
Then, the taciturn shaman began teaching him all about nature.
He hadn't found life's meaning, but he no longer searched for one.
Shamane: As long as I keep going...keep moving forward...
The nightmares halted before his bed.
Shamane: Good—
Shamane stands at the forest entrance—he has one last item left.
Fine rain scrapes his face, the forest drizzling, and he quickens his steps.