Petals in the wind, what a pretty picture they paint. Tributes have to climb upward to find the source of them, follow the rising path or clamber up the wet stones to find the edge of the forest. Red arches loom tall where the path meets the trees, the water around giving way to wet rock giving way to packed earth, the cherry trees root system holding everything together. At first, fog bounces against this invisible line in the arena, hiding the way through the trees, but once it clears, it’s a swirl of pinks and whites. The forest is littered with falling blossoms, a slow untangling, thousands adrift along the skyline. They collect under hopeful feet, kiss the tribute's cheeks, gossamer thin sweetness. It feels like waking up, watching the petals fall like a curtain. A singular wide path made of stones overgrown by grass and earth meanders its way through the trees, which cluster and clear around smaller pre-beaten paths offshooting like spider webs. Small lanterns line the edges, lighting the path, so one may even find their way in the dark.

The first thing tributes notice are the looming arches, their squared off structure, the elegant red against a landscape of green and blue. Stepping through the gates, there’s a change in the air, a different whisper to the wind as everything seems to quiet. Red maple leaves drift through the air, landing on the porches around empty shrines, bright against faded tatami mats. The path winds through the gardens, stone bridges lined with red fences arc over waterways that connect every pond. The koi dance in the water, swimming under lily pads and floating blossom petals. The fish are infinite in their variety, splashes of orange and white shine through the dark water, catching, reflecting, endlessly wonderful. They collect by the edges, mouths outstretched, wanting someone to feed them.

Flowing and winding past the tributes is a shallow stream with clear, shimmering water that feels just right if you were to dip your toes in, and for some, there is the aching desire to do so. The gentle rush of the water is a soothing sound as it splashes against small stones. Some onsen hot springs make appearances throughout the stream's waters, their heat enough to relax the muscles in one's body if you were to indulge in them. Perhaps relaxing in them could wash away your worries. It's mellow at this stream: almost peaceful. One should know better, however, than to believe that anything could truly remain peaceful for long in the arena.

Endless fields are stacked precariously on top of each other. Each ledge steep, but not high enough to get hurt if you were to fall. The fields have been scrupulously planted. Hundreds and hundreds of rows of rice, each plant placed the same exact distance apart, never touching the one in front nor the one in back. Don’t bother wasting your time to count them, the fields seem to stretch on for ages. So much so that you have to squint in order to see the pavilion at the center of the zen garden. The ground under your feet is boggy and wet, but sturdy enough to keep your footing without slipping. The air is damp and carries an odd mixture of mud and rice. Abandoned tools to maintain the field are scattered about, some rusted, some still pristine. This area seems harmless enough, but what secrets might it hold?

The red Torii arch at the base of the path stands tall, as if announcing the new area to anyone who comes by. Rock beds, some pulsing and glowing what seems to be an odd, electric purple color, are all around. Tiny veins of water flow down the slope of the path toward the shallow stream in the distance. The path appears to be carved into the stone of the mountain, meandering through a forest of bamboo, maple trees, and tall, slender cedars as one traverses further up the pathway. Clouds can be seen getting closer as you go, and the occasional little rodent scurries nearby, as if trying to avoid you but always running down the mountain, never up.

What once used to be a beautiful tribute to an unknown power is left in shambles. The walls of this magnificent temple crumble before you. It appears to have been three or four stories, but now all that is left are broken walls, loose shingles, and a gaping hole in the side instead of a proper entrance. Most of the walls have been reduced to a mere few feet, except the far one which somehow stands relatively tall, its staircase still attached to its side. It breaks off after a few feet upward, just high enough to break a bone or two if you were to slip off its edge. Overgrown foliage covers the walkway and what remains of its once beautiful walls. However, the Tori that frames the entrance remains untouched aside from a singular broken fox statue by its side. Even when you’re alone, you get this eerie feeling that you are still being watched.

It feels like the path must wind up into the clouds forever, but you can see the top of the mountain above. The crumbling stone walkway switchbacks time and time again, building itself into the clouds until finally tributes step through them and can see where the valley peeks up at them from below. It’s an intrusive thought, walking on the clouds, feeling like you could step out onto them and they might be solid underfoot. The cliff faces rise up alongside the steep, skinny path as it winds up the incline. Familiar plant life gives way to strange, glowing flora. Long stem flowers that look like lilies except they glow a blue, the pistil bright with aqua light. At nighttime, the forest is neon electric, seelie bouncing through the trees, ungrounded, casting strange purple shadows with their crackling. Occasionally tall red gates loom up over the path, leading tributes towards and away from the ruins that are nestled along the cliffside. Small growths of purple rock, condensed into small stone chunks gather along the path, glowing in the night. A strange sight they can’t see from anywhere else: the mountaintop, floating, untethered, and a path leading right towards it.