Kirishima staggered through the dense forest, his body battered and bleeding profusely from numerous wounds. The once-proud Red Dragon of the North, now one of the last of his kind, clutched his side in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood from the deep gash in his abdomen. The moonlight barely pierced the thick canopy above, casting eerie shadows on the ground as he limped forward, each step a struggle against the searing pain that wracked his body.

In the distance, the faint outlines of a small village came into view, its inhabitants blissfully unaware of the chaos that had unfolded not far from their peaceful homes. The Nomu, abominations of twisted flesh and malevolent energy, had descended upon Kirishima's village without warning. His people, the noble Red Dragons, had fought valiantly, but the onslaught was too overwhelming. Most of his advance guard had been slaughtered, leaving him as one of the few survivors of the massacre.

Weary and on the brink of collapse, Kirishima found a tree at the edge of the village and leaned heavily against its rough bark. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one more painful than the last. He knew he had to keep moving, but his body was reaching its limit. Just as his vision began to blur, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Instinctively, his muscles tensed, and despite his weakened state, he prepared himself to fight.