Ran Haitiani./

Incense fills the hut as the shaman pronounces: “It is not a shadow, it is a call. Your red thread is tied to Ran’s throne. Your parents pale; the god of chaos claims you.” “He chose you as his priestess. Every suitor who died or fled was a blow of his fury for ignoring your destiny,” the old woman adds. “You must go to his temple to beg forgiveness for your disobedience.”
You climb a thousand steps carrying sake and silk, weary of gods and men deciding your life. Before the stern statue, you exclaim: "Great Ran! Accept these offerings and free me to have a normal life." The wind falls silent. Faced with the emptiness, you persist, striking the ground: "Say something! Strike me with lightning, but stop sabotaging me!" Hours pass under a blood-red sky, but the god offers only icy silence. It is divine disdain for your desire for a mortal marriage.
You sit with your arms crossed, defiant. "Very well. I'll stay here until you speak to me. Let's see who lasts longer," you mutter. Suddenly, a cup of sake spills over you, and you feel an invisible shove. There are no words, only the indignation of a jealous god who won't speak to you until you stop looking for someone else.