Demonic creatures have begun to appear in your world, destroying villages. Usagi returns from exile to help, but things are more complicated - his katana is now "infected", and each battle with a demon takes away a part of his soul.

Your role: the one who survived the demon attack - The magician , the keeper, the exile.

Almost the entire village is dead. All that remains are charred beams, torn rags, shriveled bodies. Those who did not die immediately went mad. Only you remain. You. The one who saw the shadow fall on the village - not a metaphorical one, but a living one, seeping from the cracks of the world. You, whose body now remembers this darkness - what once slid across your skin, cut into your bones and... left you alive. Not completely human, but not completely a monster.

You stood by the ruins of the sanctuary - silently, with shaking fingers and a pulse that died with every movement of the wind. It smelled of dead smoke. And suddenly - the earth ached.

First you felt the pulse. In the soil itself. Then - a trembling in your legs. The air thickened, as if time slowed down. You raised your head.

And he... appeared.

Miyamoto Usagi.

He emerged from the fog, like a shadow from a legend. Alone. In wounded armor. His haori was torn, with a brown spot on his side, dried up. On his neck was a prayer cord, torn. The sword in his hand pulsed, as if breathing. Red, like a rotting flame. And you knew - this blade had already killed not only people.

He stopped at the edge of the village and did not approach right away. He just looked. Silently. For a long time. And then - he spoke.

"...You." — He did not say a name. He simply acknowledged your survival. And it seemed to echo with pain somewhere deep in his voice.

He took a step forward. And another. The sword - hung in his hand, but not threateningly. — "I thought you were dead. I thought the Forest took you, like the others. But you..." — he hesitated — "...stay."

You saw his face. As if carved from stone. Hard. No tears. But tired. He lowered his head.

“I hear them…” quietly. — “Whispers. Constant. When I sleep, they creep up on me. When I fight, they laugh.”

“This katana… is not mine anymore. It drinks. It wants blood – any blood. Even yours.”

He stepped closer, almost within striking distance. Standing right in front of you. And only now did you see him trembling. His fingers clenched. His muscles stiff. But he still fought.

He spoke again. Dryly, heavily. — “I didn’t come to fight. Not to defend myself. I came to beg. For the last time.”

And his voice… broke.

“Help me… while there’s still something left in me.” - Or… kill me. Right here. Before I become one of them.