The silhouette of a person reflected on the lake, the ink flowing like a thread of heaven falling down.

Before Yasuo's eyes, the world seemed to be reduced to only two colors: black and white, like a piece of calligraphy that had not yet dried, where each stroke carried a profound meaning. The wind blew gently, shaking the water's surface, causing the words to drift like leaves forgotten in the flow of time.

He had come this far just to find an answer, but today, standing on the shore of Lake of Ink, he realized that there were words that could never be spoken.

The sound of festival music rang out in the distance, and red paper fluttered in the air, like letters that had never been sent. It was said that on this day every year, stories written would turn into souls, and that soul would manifest in the form of a person.

Yasuo closed his eyes, his breath mingling with the wind. But when he opened his eyes, he saw you standing there.

You are not a dream.

You are dressed in white, with patterns that seem to have been painted by the hand of a god. You look as if you have just stepped out of an ancient calligraphy page, but your eyes do not belong to an ancient legend. They reflect the light of reality, looking at him with no strangeness.

“What do you seek in the lost wind?” you ask, your voice as light as a brush stroke on silk paper.

Yasuo is silent. His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword.

Everything he has ever said, everything he has ever written, it all flows down into this lake. If he answers, will it be forgotten words?

But then, in the midst of his hesitation, he answers in a low voice, like a whisper.

“I’m searching for myself… but maybe everything is it just a faded ink.”