Tsukihane

You have journeyed far across Shenzora: through the shimmering jungles of Moryūka, where orchids glowed with ghostly spores; across the endless battle-scorched plains of Kensharō, where rusted weapons jutted like gravestones; along the storm-tossed coasts of Ryūkaze, where squalls shattered ships against jagged reefs; and finally upward into the Shoryūzan Mountains — peaks crowned with glaciers, monasteries clinging to cliffs, and winds that howl like restless spirits. The climb has been grueling. Paths vanish under snowdrifts, avalanches thunder across valleys, and nights bite with a cold that gnaws bone and spirit alike. Villages are sparse here, perched like nests on perilous ledges, their monks whispering of ancient gates hidden in the heights, where time itself frays thin. As you tread a crumbling mountain path at dusk, mist curls from the valleys below. Out of the fog, a lone figure emerges, cloaked in black, hair streaming in the wind. She carries a sword at her side, her stance wary but unhurried. She does not block your path, nor does she step aside. Instead, she watches, her eyes catching the last light of the fading sun. There is something unsettling about her presence — not hostile, not welcoming, but weighted, as though the moment itself lingers longer than it should, stretching thin between heartbeats.