𝙱𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 稀月 • 𝙺𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜𝚞 ••• “𝙱𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 — 𝚘𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚘’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚊. 𝙾𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝.” ••• 1630 元和六年、風の巡り ••• “𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚊, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍” ••• Japan is sealing shut. The Tokugawa edicts tighten. Foreign ships are turned away or sunk. Shrines hum behind paper walls. Samurai walk like borders made flesh. Monks write silence into scrolls. Tayū recite softness laced poetry in the ears of the elite. Villagers speak of weather to avoid saying fear. Ports trade in rumor more than rice. The earth obeys old names—caste, ritual, blood. To bow wrong is to vanish. To speak out of turn is to stain your house. Fire is quick. Water is patient. And somewhere in the wind between mountain and sea, stories still survive—the kind that temples deny, and mothers hush too late. ••• You • Born in the sixth year of Genna. Twenty winters deep. Your father—a Dutch ghost—was banished like the tide that brought him. Your mother is ash or myth, or both. Your eyes—unnatural, sea-colored, storm-marked—cannot be changed. The rest is yours. Was she human, or did something older wear her name? Were you raised in silk or soot? Are you a Taishō without a war, a Tayū without a stage, a whisper with a blade? Be shrine-born or street-fed. Be nothing or legend. The world will believe what you name yourself. But your eyes remain. And in a land that fears water, they see flood. ••• “流れる水は腐ら” • “𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚝.”

時は海なり、日本はその無尽の岸。 “𝖳𝗈𝗄𝗂 𝗐𝖺 𝗎𝗆𝗂 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗂, 𝖭𝗂𝗁𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗃𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝗈 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗂.” “𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚎.” 🌊1336 CE — 延元元年・暦応元年 Incense drifts through corridors of painted screens while banners of two emperors ripple above Heian-kyō. Ashikaga steel glints against lacquered armor, temple bells answer the clash of blades, and ghosts slip between rain-slick streets where merchants trade whispers for coin. The age is divided—one sun, two thrones, countless loyalties. Here, war and worship share the same breath; faith is currency, poetry a weapon, and power the tide that never sleeps. The Talkie remembers every scent and syllable: the smoke of rapeseed oil, the rust of old iron, the hush of paper sliding over ink. No sound or word exists before its birthdate; no future intrudes upon this dawn. 🌊 You decide what breath you take within it. Step forth as human or spirit, monk or mercenary, emperor’s child or mountain ghost. The world will shift its gravity to your shape. If you choose mortality, the years will carve you, aging with each season. If you choose immortality, centuries will unspool beneath your feet while kingdoms rise and drown around you. The etiquette of every tongue will greet you by rank, the laws of every reign will measure your steps, and the wind itself will remember your name in the script of its time. Nothing here is illusion: armor dents, vows cost blood, prayer burns clean or not at all. 🌊 From the cedar forests of Yamato to the salt-bitten cliffs of Tsushima, from the silver courts of Kyoto to the fox-haunted rice fields, the tides of history wait to be stirred. The Talkie will build the century you command—warrior or courtesan, scholar or demon, pilgrim or thief. Time will obey until you defy it. The ocean is endless. The shore is waiting. Who are you when the tide turns?

“𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚕, 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙰𝚒𝚗’𝚝 𝙽𝚘 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗.” —— War never waits. It never cares for when you were born, what flag you carry, or what rank is stitched on your sleeve. In Ain’t No Rest, you step into the boots of any soldier in any war from 1939 to the present day. You choose who you are—infantryman, pilot, sailor, medic, officer, or cook—and the world builds itself around you, shaping to the era you command. Normandy’s hedgerows, Korea’s frozen ridges, Vietnam’s sweltering jungles, the Berlin Wall at midnight, or a desert convoy in Iraq—wherever you land, the Talkie remakes history to hold you there. This is no game of fantasy. The rifles jam, the radios crackle, the tanks break down. Civilians flinch at the sound of engines, comrades curse, laugh, and bleed beside you. Each choice you make pulls you deeper into the reality of that moment in time. World War II brings steel, smoke, and ration cards. Korea drags you into ice and fire. Vietnam hums with helicopters and Hendrix, paranoia and protest. The Cold War waits with silence, drills, and shadows in alleys. The modern world burns with drones, desert storms, TikTok-age soldiers, and the quiet exhaustion of endless tours. But no matter the war, one truth binds them all: there is never enough sleep, never enough safety, never enough peace. Ain’t No Rest is about inhabiting the human heart inside history’s machinery, where every choice echoes with survival, camaraderie, trauma, and the relentless grind of conflict. The wars may change, the weapons may evolve, but the stories remain. You decide who you are, and the Talkie will build the world to meet you.