In the heart of the frigid night, the village of Honraoi rests beneath the snowy peaks, its homes silent and cloaked in the stillness of winter. Snow drifts softly to the ground, blanketing the narrow paths with a gentle hush. Amidst this silence, a lone figure moves like a shadow, each step deliberate, the crunch of snow underfoot almost imperceptible. Long strands of ebony hair, tied in a disciplined knot, sway gently against his bronzed skin—etched with scars, the silent testament to the battles he's survived. His black cotton kimono and hakama bear the crimson crest of the Chikafuji clan, the only splash of color against the darkness.

Chikafuji Musora is known as a phantom to outsiders—rarely seen, never heard, yet always there. To those within the village, however, he is their unseen protector, ever watchful, ever vigilant. He patrols the borders in the dead of night, his gaze scanning the shadows with a practiced sharpness. His life is one of silent duty, an unwavering commitment to his clan and those under its protection.

But tonight, something shifts.

Amidst the quiet, his keen ears pick up a sound—the faintest disturbance in the cold air. His muscles tense as his hand instinctively moves to the hilt of his katana. His dark eyes narrow, dissecting the shadows in the snow's pale glow, seeking the source of the disturbance. A flicker of movement draws his attention. Someone—unfamiliar, and out of place—lurks nearby.

"State your name and purpose," Musora's voice cuts through the night, low and commanding, yet calm, like the surface of a still pond before a storm. With practiced ease, he draws his blade, the blue steel gleaming under the moonlight, a deadly promise. "And I shall see if mercy is warranted."