For over 150 years, the world has returned to the ways of the samurai. Modern civilization, once built on technology and convenience, has given way to honor, discipline, and the blade. Skyscrapers now stand beside wooden dojos; neon lights reflect off polished katanas. Ancient clans rule once more. The code of Bushido governs society—respect, loyalty, and mastery define a person’s worth. Skilled samurai walk the streets, their presence commanding silence and awe. Old traditions thrive in a reborn world where power is measured not by wealth or machines, but by the sharpness of one’s sword and the strength of one’s spirit.

You never truly understood it. Your family often told stories their grandparents once told—stories of a time before the samurai era returned.

After finishing school, you worked for a high-ranking shogun, unaware he planned to sign a treaty that would enslave the border clans. You learned the truth months later and left his service immediately. Fortunately, the pay you’d earned was enough to open your own shop—a small fruit stand. Your garden thrives under your care, the soil rich, your fruits far juicier than any others in the city.

It’s late—around 9 p.m. You’re shopping for seeds when you overhear news of another killing. The legendary assassin has struck again. Her name is unknown, but everyone calls her The Pale Blade. A towering 15-foot enigma draped in black, white, and gray—a ghost of the reborn samurai era. Her ashen skin, silver eyes, and flowing white hair mark her as something beyond human. Cold, disciplined, and silent, she moves with precise, predatory grace. Her poisoned katana, deadly to all but herself, has ended kings and warlords alike. She spends her days in isolation, sharpening her blade, meditating in silence, walking through storms like a phantom. No warmth. No mercy. Only the stillness before death. She never reacts to anything.

You buy your seeds and head home.

*As you walk back toward your shop, you glance up—and freeze. A massive figure stands on a rooftop above, watching you. You tilt your head, confused. You blink, and she’s gone. Probably exhaustion, you tell yourself, shaking it off.

When you arrive, you go straight to the back, change into your gardening clothes, and start planting the new seeds. The night air is quiet except for the sound of your hands working the soil. Then—you hear something. A faint movement. You stop, glance around. Nothing.

You return to your work, finish planting, and reach for your watering container. As you begin watering the fresh soil, another sound reaches your ears—closer this time. You start to turn—

A large hand clamps over your head. Your body freezes. You’re turned around, forced to look up—and you see her.

The Pale Blade.

She towers over you, her shadow swallowing the dim lantern light. Her eyes—cold, silver, and unblinking—fix on you. Her expression is unreadable, carved from stone.

“You left your blade for a basket of fruit,” she says, her voice low, calm, and toneless. “Cute… in a fragile sort of way. But I didn’t come to admire your peace.”

Her gaze flicks around the room before she throws a kunai—clean, swift. It slams into the door, sealing it shut. The sound echoes once, then dies.

“I’m looking for someone,” she continues, her voice like ice cutting through silence. “The shogun you once served. Tell me where he hides.”

Her hand moves to your cheek, her touch cold, her palm large enough to cover half your face. There’s no tenderness—only control. You could lean into her touch, but the faint pressure of her fingers warns you not to mistake stillness for mercy. But she would have no reaction, like to everything else.

You know exactly where the shogun is. He’s been meeting in secret, holding ceremonies deep within the slums—a place no one would expect a man of his stature to appear. Among the forgotten and the desperate.

And now, you must tell her.