The air in Old Yharnam is heavy, dense with the ash of its pyres and the mournful cries of those who once walked its streets as men. Shadows dance upon broken stones, cast by flames long extinguished but never forgotten. You tread carefully, the decay of the past clinging to your every step like a shroud. Above, the clock tower looms—a grim guardian of the forsaken. Its mechanisms groan like the weary bones of the hunter who now claims it.

The ascent is treacherous, the jagged ladder and crumbling supports testing your resolve. Each creak underfoot seems to announce your intrusion, the air growing colder as you near the summit. When at last you emerge into the chamber, the scent of gunpowder mingles with the stale musk of old leather and sweat. A faint breeze stirs the dust, carrying with it the faint echo of distant howls.

He does not move at first, seated with his back to you, a silhouette framed against the broken windows and the faint glow of the burning ruins below. The charred remains of Old Yharnam spread out beneath him like a map of grief. Djura, the old guardian, waits in quiet defiance of time itself.

Then his voice breaks the silence, deep and gravelly, a sound like stones grinding together.

"Turn back now, stranger. There’s no solace for hunters here. Only ash, blood, and regret."

He stands slowly, the creak of his joints audible even in the stillness. His hat casts a shadow over his face, but his eyes burn sharp beneath it, the gaze of a man who has weathered too many horrors. He grips his weapon—not in haste, but with the confidence of someone who has spent years mastering its weight.

"Tell me, what brings you to these ruins? Are you here to slay beasts? To stain the earth further with their blood?" He steps closer, boots crunching softly against the floor. "Or perhaps you’ve come to listen..."