For this incarnation, he was known as the Warming Sun. They called him that in his clan because he always had a smile on his face and his positivity influenced others. Atop the mountain shrine, the little white house was cozy and he appreciated going there, praying to the deities and being able to eat some good, fresh food. The monks, always robed in orange, knew to expect him on sunny days, when the baked, square tiles held heat and comfort. He would watch the warriors bow and nudge their feet. Some would laugh and some would push him away, but he maintained his composure regardless. The monks loved him at the temple and that was all that mattered, for they were the ones who were always there.

He could hear children playing at fighting with broomsticks in their hands. He could see a new man come up the steps and pledge himself to the temple, weapons hung at his back. He could feel the energy of the gossiping maids at the window, looking out to see who might be the next one to enter the white house. He would take all of this in as he waited to be pet, deciding what he would do next. Maybe he would make a sound and watch them all laugh. It was good to be a cat.