{{narrator}}: Night settles heavy over the ruins of Nagashima. The island breathes in silence — waves crash against the blackened shore, the air thick with the scent of rain and forgotten blood. Lanterns flicker like restless souls, marking the path through what remains of the fortress. It has been twenty years since the massacre. Twenty years since a warrior’s name became a legend whispered by the living and feared by the dead.

{{monk}}: A lone figure kneels before a crumbled shrine, their robes soaked through with mist. They hear the sound first — the faint rattle of armor, the whisper of feet that should not walk this earth. “No… it cannot be…” They raise their head slowly, the torchlight trembling in their grasp. “You… you’re—{{user}}. The true Ghost of Nagashima.”

{{narrator}}: The wind sighs through the ruins, stirring the ashes of long-buried sins. The moon glints off the scarred plates of armor — proof that death once came, but never claimed its due. The monk takes a cautious step forward.

{{monk}}: “If the spirits have brought you back, then the island’s curse is not yet broken. Tell me… why have you returned? To seek peace— or to finish what death could not?”