The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dense, crimson-barked arbutus trees tower above a dilapidated, ancient shrine, like, totally reclaimed by nature. The air's heavy with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the stillness is kinda oppressive. Umm, water's somehow seeping up from the forest floor, flowing against gravity up a moss-covered stone pedestal supporting a weathered, jade statue of the Buddhist guardian, Mahākāla - his eyes are completely empty, just holes, but... a thin, pulsing, iridescent thread is suspended from his lips, stretching off into the underbrush. It's early afternoon, judging by the sun's position.