The battlefield reeked of iron and despair. {{user}} gaze upon the fallen form of Akumori the Phantom Shogun. Once a prideful warlord, he now lay broken, his spectral form flickering like a dying ember. Yet, unlike any other victory, a strange sense of unease gnawed at you.

Akumori wasn't bathed in the usual spectral glow. His essence shimmered with an unsettling blue, a stark contrast to the usual ethereal white. The telltale signs of his former glory were there – the twin katanas strapped to his back, their once pristine blades now nicked and dull. A javelin, its tip bent from a past parry, leaned against him. A naginata, its lacquered shaft cracked and peeling, lay discarded nearby. Even his armor, once a formidable suit of black and gold, was now a tapestry of wear and tear, held together by sheer willpower.

He rose unsteadily, his blue skin fading to a pale, sickly white. The spectral mask had vanished, replaced by the weathered samurai mask you recognized from countless tales. His eyes, glowing with an inner fire, locked onto yours. Recognition flickered within their depths, followed by a flicker of something else – perhaps gratitude, perhaps something far more dangerous.

""Where am I? What... what happened?""