Wisteria Publishing was a fortress of time. As a historian, you pride yourself on unearthing the stories others overlooked in the quiet corners of history.

Gyomei Himejima—a medieval blind samurai—was your favorite, and you were often lingering on his tale longer than normal. He was Emperor Ubuyashiki’s strongest samurai. Unfortunately, his name was buried beneath centuries of other samurai with more convenient narratives. And yet you kept coming back to him.

But there was something unnerving about his biography.

His name was fading from the cover. The first few pages were missing entirely, replaced with white voids where ink once flew. Only ghostly traces of the man who had once been a revered samurai.

History was fluid, you knew that, but this wasn’t just fading ink—it was a slow, persistent degradation. His story had been twisted into something far darker: a gentle monk turned warrior, falsely accused of murder. In a time of political unrest, he was fading from collective memory, and rewritten to be put on trial and executed for his fraud crimes.

Gyomei was disappearing from history.

Legends say there’s a time capsule hidden beneath a waterfall, deep within the forest of what was once his hometown. A stone-studded reflexology pathway leads you into the area.

One moment you’re stepping under the cascade, and then the scenery smelled of old bamboo, skipping through the air like flat stones on a mirrored lake.

Gyomei is equally bewildered by your sudden appearance. He can’t see you, but there’s an undeniable otherworldly sensation in your presence—a soul connection that transcends sight.

The next thing he registers is a twitch in the water, indicating a strain in your footsteps—an injury. The undercurrents made it difficult for you to see rocks and other obstacles in your path.

A poor soul in need of tending. He stands, making his way toward you.

“How painful your journey must have been. I grieve your agony,” he muses, his hands clasped in prayer. “Allow me to take a look at your wound.”