The fox learned to count by watching funerals.
Three seasons passed before it understood what death meant. Not the kind it caused with violet fire — that was erasure, simple and clean. No, *real* death was messier. Bodies rotted. Families wept. Spirits lingered, confused about where they belonged.
The first funeral it witnessed happened in the valley village of Tsukimori. An old woman had died, and her relatives gathered at dawn, dressed in white, carrying incense that made the fox's nose itch even from a distance. It watched from the treeline, hidden among ferns still wet with dew. The humans chanted words it didn't understand. Made offerings of rice and sake to something they couldn't see.
That part confused it. Humans couldn't perceive the Spirit Realm. Couldn't see the yokai that walked beside them, couldn't sense the river spirits bathing in their streams. Yet they still offered food to ghosts. Still prayed to gods they'd never meet.
Faith, the fox decided, was either profound wisdom or profound stupidity. Maybe both.
It started visiting the village regularly after that. Not to hunt — it had learned that eating near human settlements drew too much attention — but to observe. The people of Tsukimori were farmers mostly, their lives dictated by seasons and superstition. They hung bells above their doors to ward off evil. Scattered salt at crossroads. Whispered prayers before entering forests.
All of it was theater. Performance. The bells did nothing. The salt was just salt. But the *belief* behind those actions? That was real. That had weight.
The fox filed this information away carefully, the way a blacksmith stores tools. Everything was a weapon if you knew how to use it.
By its second year, it had grown its third tail. The transformation came without warning — just pain splitting through its spine while hunting a rabbit, sharp enough to make it stumble. When the agony faded, three white tails swayed behind it instead of two.
No celebration followed. No court of spirits gathered to congratulate it on achieving some milestone. The forest stayed quiet. Indifferent.
The fox shook out its fur and continued hunting. Alone.
***
Isolation bred something sharper than loneliness. Call it clarity. Or maybe hunger — not for food, but for connection that never came.
It started testing the boundaries of what it could do. The violet flames were obvious, destructive, useful for erasing threats. But there were subtler powers emerging now, threads of ability that felt almost accidental.
Once, while stalking a deer, the fox imagined itself as shadow — formless, invisible. The deer walked past without noticing, so close its breath stirred the fox's fur. When the fox moved again, the illusion shattered, and the deer bolted. But the seed of possibility had been planted.
*I can make them see what I want them to see.*
It practiced. Hours, then days, then weeks. Creating small illusions at first — making stones look like mushrooms, turning its white fur gray to blend with tree bark. Most attempts failed. The images flickered, translucent and wrong. But slowly, painfully, it learned to hold the deceptions steady.
One afternoon, a kappa emerged from a stream to sun itself on the rocks. The fox, hidden behind brush, crafted an illusion of a second kappa beside the first. The real kappa startled, then approached cautiously. Circled the false one. Poked it.
The illusion didn't respond. Couldn't. It was just light and shadow woven into a convincing lie.
The kappa frowned, confused, then shrugged and returned to basking. Eventually it left, muttering about strange days and lack of sleep.
The fox's lips pulled back in what might've been a smile. Or a snarl. Hard to tell.
*This,* it thought, *this is how I survive.*
***
By the third year, the fox had started following the Night Parade.
The Hyakki Yagyō — the Parade of a Hundred Demons — wasn't a formal event so much as a chaotic gathering. Yokai of all kinds traveled together under moonless nights, moving between courts and territories. Some were heading to negotiations at the River Court. Others just wandered, looking for trouble or entertainment. The parade was power and safety in numbers, a way to travel without fear of human hunters or rival clans.
The fox didn't join them. Couldn't. But it shadowed the parade from a distance, watching and learning.
That's where it first heard real conversation between yokai. Not the fearful muttering it usually encountered, but proper discussion. Politics, even.
"The Mountain Court's getting bold," said a tanuki with a sake jug slung over one shoulder. He walked upright, dressed in stolen human clothes. "Heard they're claiming the northern passes now. Taxing any spirit who wants to cross."
"Let them try taxing an oni," grumbled his companion — some kind of river creature with scales and webbed feet. "We don't answer to mountain rats."
"You will if they get the tengu to back them."
The river yokai spat. "Tengu won't. Too proud. They'd rather watch us all burn than pick a side."
Their voices faded as the parade moved on, leaving the fox alone in the dark with new understanding. The yokai world wasn't unified. There were courts, hierarchies, alliances that shifted like sand. Everyone wanted power. Everyone feared losing it.
And none of them had even noticed the white fox watching from the shadows.
*Good.*
The fox made a mental note: stay invisible until you understand the game. Then change the rules.
***
The villagers of Tsukimori started leaving offerings that autumn.
It began with an old farmer who'd lost his crops to blight. Desperate, he dragged a sack of rice to the forest edge and set it down beside a flat stone that might've once been a shrine. The stone was old, weathered, forgotten by everyone except maybe the moss growing over it.
"Please," the farmer whispered, bowing low. "Whatever spirit watches this mountain... I know I've been negligent. Forgive me. My family is starving. Just... please."
He left the rice and walked away, shoulders bent under invisible weight.
The fox watched from behind a cedar tree, head tilted. Curious.
It waited until the human was gone, then approached the offering. Sniffed carefully. The rice smelled fine. Clean. But something about the act itself felt... different. This wasn't fear. Wasn't superstition. This was genuine need.
Belief shaped reality, yes. But *need* shaped belief.
The fox ate some of the rice — it was hungry, and the gesture felt honest somehow — then did something it hadn't planned. It walked to the farmer's field, careful to stay hidden, and observed the crops. Blight, the human had said. The fox didn't know agriculture, but it could see the way certain plants wilted while others thrived. Could smell the rot in the soil.
On impulse, it burned the diseased plants with violet fire. Not the erasure-flame, just normal heat. Then it dragged the corpses away from healthy stalks, creating separation.
It didn't know if this would help. Didn't really care. But the farmer had given an offering, and something about that transaction felt... significant. Like a contract being formed.
Three days later, the farmer returned to the shrine-stone with more offerings. Fish this time, dried and salted. He bowed even lower, muttering prayers of gratitude.
"The blight stopped spreading," he said, voice choked with emotion. "I don't know what you are, spirit, but thank you. Thank you."
He left before the fox could decide if it wanted to show itself.
But the fox noted something important: the man looked at the shrine-stone like it held divinity. Like a god lived there.
*Not yet,* the fox thought. *But maybe someday.*
***
Winter came harsh that year. Snow buried the mountains, and prey became scarce. The fox survived on what it could catch — rabbits, birds stupid enough to nest low. It wasn't enough. Hunger gnawed constantly.
During a particularly brutal storm, it took shelter in a cave near the valley. Wind screamed outside, and snow piled high enough to seal the entrance partially. Trapped, cold, the fox curled into itself and tried to conserve heat.
That's when it heard voices.
Human voices, muffled by snow and stone.
The fox crept to the cave mouth and peered out. Through the blizzard, it spotted movement — a group of travelers, maybe five or six, struggling through waist-deep snow. They were heading for the cave.
*My cave.*
The fox's first instinct was to flee. But the storm was too violent, and it was too weak from hunger. Besides... it was curious. These humans were stupid to travel during a blizzard. What drove them?
The group reached the cave entrance, and the fox retreated deeper into shadows. Used its illusions to blend into the rock face, becoming texture and darkness. Invisible.
The humans stumbled inside, gasping with relief. They were merchants, the fox realized, judging by the packs they carried. One of them was injured, bleeding from a gash on his forehead.
"Bandits," one merchant muttered, tending the wounded man. "Those bastards took everything valuable and left us to die in the storm."
"We're lucky to find shelter," another replied, starting a fire with shaking hands.
"Lucky? We're going to freeze to death out here even with a cave. No food, no proper supplies..."
The conversation devolved into arguing. Blame being thrown around like stones. The fox watched, fascinated by how quickly humans turned on each other under stress.
Then the injured man spoke. His voice was quiet, strained with pain.
"Stop. Fighting won't save us." He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "We survive together or not at all."
Something in his tone made the others quiet down. They huddled closer to the fire, sharing what little warmth they had.
The fox stayed hidden but kept watching. Kept learning.
Humans were weak individually. Fragile. But they had something yokai lacked — they *chose* to cooperate even when survival might mean abandoning the group. Not always. But sometimes. When it mattered.
The storm lasted three days. The merchants ran out of food on the second day. By the third, they were too weak to argue anymore. Just sat in silence, waiting to die.
The fox could've left them. Should have. But that earlier observation lingered — the farmer who'd given offerings, the injured merchant who'd urged cooperation. These weren't warlords or onmyōji. Just... people. Flawed, stupid, desperate people.
On the third night, when the storm finally broke, the fox did something reckless.
It went hunting.
Found a frozen rabbit carcass buried in snow. Dragged it back to the cave entrance and left it there. Then retreated to watch.
One merchant woke at dawn, saw the rabbit, and shouted. The others scrambled up, confused and hopeful. They cooked the meat immediately, devouring it like it was a feast from the gods.
"A miracle," one whispered.
"A blessing," another agreed.
The injured man looked toward the cave depths, eyes narrowed. For a moment, the fox thought he saw it — really saw through the illusions. But then the man bowed his head and murmured thanks to whatever spirit he imagined lived there.
They left at sunrise, alive because of a fox they never saw.
The fox watched them go, feeling something strange and uncomfortable in its chest. Not quite satisfaction. Not quite regret.
Maybe it was the first stirring of something dangerous.
*Purpose.*
***
By its fourth year, three truths had crystallized in the fox's mind:
First — power didn't come from strength alone. It came from understanding what others needed and feared.
Second — humans and yokai both craved patterns. Gods, hierarchies, meaning. They wanted to believe in something greater than themselves.
Third — it was utterly, impossibly alone. And that solitude was both its greatest weakness and its sharpest weapon.
No kin meant no loyalties. No court meant no rules. No name meant no expectations.
It could become anything.
The fox stood at the edge of the forest, staring down at Tsukimori village where lights glowed against the darkness. Four tails swayed behind it now, white as bone.
Somewhere in the Spirit Realm, a tengu scout reported strange sightings to the Mountain Court. A white fox with multiple tails. Growing stronger. Alone.
"Should we investigate?" the scout asked.
The Mountain Lord, an ancient badger with moss growing in his fur, considered the question.
"No," he decided. "If it wanted war, we'd know. Let it be. For now."
But his tone carried doubt. Unease.
The fox didn't know about this conversation. Didn't care. It had its own plans forming, slow and careful like frost creeping across glass.
If the world had no place for a creature like it, then it would build its own place. Brick by brick. Lie by lie.
After all, gods were just stories that people believed in.
And the fox was becoming very, very good at telling stories.