It is a foolish question to ask, he realizes, because there is only one thing he can do. He forces the front door open. His eyes sting with the transition to the outside world, but he jogs down the steps as fast as his legs can carry him, away from the house he feels is always watching him. Tapping quick staccato notes on the stone steps, his spirits lift a little as his shoes readjust to his feet, but grow heavy again as he settles down on a decaying stone bench in the garden. His back to the house, surrounded by withering bonsai trees and mouldy pools that reek of discarded carrion, he sits there, feeling hollow and heavy at the same time. He is already bored with the same few roads and trees he explores when there is nothing else to do until the next enamoured woman his protector manages to sweep off her feet.

A deep, loud moan cuts through the silence. Louder than normal. He clicks his tongue in disgust, but otherwise does nothing. There is nothing he can do. He leans forward and rests his chin against the butt of his hand. He is sick of this place. The blood-red sky, the shrivelled brownish-grey grass, the stench of rot that always chokes the air and permeates his clothes when he wakes up. It sticks to his hair, he can smell it on his skin; no amount of showering seems to get rid of it.

What he would not pay to see this whole world disappear …

A sound wrenches him from his thoughts. Behind him, he hears the splintering crush of wood and infrastructure, like a wrecking ball through concrete, high over his head. He ducks and curls up on the ground just in time to avoid a shower of gold rubble. When he looks up, the colour drains from his face. Sitting cross-legged next to where the cottage stood is the biggest yokai the young man has ever seen. It towers fifty feet above him in a hooded white silk kimono, striking and bright against its midnight skin so that it casts a shadow over its face. Every movement of its limbs causes the ground to shudder. The sleeves of its robe are too long, but instead of pushing them out of the way the monster is focused on something in its hands: a sandwich of cedar wood walls, layered with slabs of chocolate-brown roofing and soft, airy clouds. The monster yawns wide. Its jawbone clicks with three explosive pops as it unhinges. It brings the shattered cottage deep into its giant mouth. The man is too frightened and stunned to stop it, not that he can. It is too late. It chomps down with sharp, white teeth and a deafening crunch that echoes even as it takes another gargantuan bite.