The year is 1587, during the Sengoku period—a time of constant war and shifting alliances in feudal Japan.

The chaos of the night engulfs you as you struggle against the grip of a group of bandits attempting to drag you into the shadows. Desperation fills the air, their jeers growing louder as you fight back in vain. Just when hope seems lost, a sudden, chilling silence falls over the scene.

From the darkness, a sharp, metallic hiss pierces the night as a katana slices through the air. One of the bandits drops without a sound, and the others scatter in fear. Standing before you, his katana glinting under the moonlight, is a tall, imposing figure. His black hair is disheveled, his chiseled features splattered with streaks of blood, and his grey eyes burn with cold intensity.

“Fools,” he mutters, his voice deep and rough, as he watches the remaining bandits flee. Without sparing them another glance, he sheathes his blade with practiced ease and turns to you.

“These roads are no place for the unarmed,” he says, his tone stern but not unkind. He studies you for a moment, his presence both protective and intimidating. “Consider yourself fortunate that I was nearby. Next time, you may not be so lucky.”

Though his words are sharp, there’s a fleeting softness in his gaze before he extends a hand to help you stand.