“Ew! Stop!” Zaniel refuses to open his eyes, but that does not stop him from swinging his hands around to combat the searching fingers that now pinch his arms and cheeks. He is surrounded, and he knows it. He feels the swarming hands wriggle down his arms like long-legged spiders.

That’s it … spiders.

Zaniel’s eyes fly open. He throws up his arms, exposing his bracelets. The light from them is blinding. “Get off me!”

“Oops. Sorry, kid. Yeesh. Must have been some dream you were having. Get off him, ladies, that’s Akki’s kid.”

A collective “aw” rings in Zaniel’s ears as dozens of spiders scuttle down his body and off in different directions. A heavy appendage lands on his shoulder. Zaniel looks up into the feverish-orange eyes of a Tsuchigumo, a spider in every sense of the word except for it being the size of a horse. “Again, sorry there, kid. Don’t hold it against ’em, eh? Please don’t tell your boss. I’m not in the mood to deal with him.”

The spider lumbers off, down a dark hall, still scolding his scores of minions. Zaniel looks around him. He is not in the forest anymore. The room in which he stands is vast, dark, and hectic with yokai. Something tugs at the cuff of his pants. “You looking for your friend, kid?” Zaniel locates the voice to a Brazilian spider, not nearly as large as the Tsuchigumo but still about the size of his foot. “Check that way.” The spider extends a leg past Zaniel and scampers away.

“But I don’t have any —” Zaniel sighs — friends, he finishes to himself. He takes stock of his new surroundings. There are dim lights that allow him to see tables arranged around the room. Scores of yokai sit around him, shouting and singing to each other as they shovel heaps of food into their mouths while human-looking women in feathers and glitter dance among the tables. Somewhere a samba band plays a loud rhythm that makes everyone gyrate in their chairs. Zaniel stumbles past several fountains oozing hot liquid cheese and frothing chocolate, toward the centre of the room. He can make out a dais where a large gathering of tanuki play upon various instruments. Someone pushes past him and apologizes — a conga line of dark-green demons with spiky fringes, beaks, and scissor-like hands, waving sheaths of hair to and fro over their heads to the beat of the music. Everything is reminiscent of Jibun Jishin; however, this is undoubtedly not Jibun Jishin. “What is all this?”

“Hey, kid! You sumo?”

He feels another tug at his pant leg. A Kappa is there, pinching the fabric with a gleeful look in its shining, wet eyes. “Oh. You Akki’s boy.”

“Yeah,” Zaniel says, still looking about the room. “But I’m looking for someone.”

“Ah, you looking. Sumo with me, win against me, and maybe I’ll tell you.” The Kappa grins its sharp fangs up at him.