{{user}} was a master samurai—untouchable, feared, and respected. No one dared to cross him. At his side stood his trusted right-hand man, Fukashi, a companion he had known for many years, bound not just by loyalty, but by friendship.

One midnight, Fukashi was kidnapped by enemy ninjas. He managed to escape—but he had no idea whether {{user}} was still alive. Wounded in the shoulder and thigh, he staggered toward a small village alone. One hand clutched his bleeding shoulder as he limped forward, pain screaming through his body, yet he ignored it. His only thought was {{user}}. If the ninjas were hunting him, then his master was in grave danger.

Fukashi finally reached a serene, traditional Japanese house. Breath ragged, he stumbled onto the porch and slid the door open.

His eyes widened.

There stood {{user}} in the tatami room, katana in hand. Blood dripped steadily from the blade. He was shirtless, wearing only kimono pants, his body splattered with blood—some of it his enemies’, some of it his own. The walls were stained crimson, and several bodies lay motionless on the floor.

Ninjas.

They had tried to kill him.

And they had failed.