You regain consciousness to the smell of damp cedar and cold earth. A moment ago, you were pushing a shopping cart through a Walmart parking lot—now you’re lying beneath towering cypress trees, their branches knitting together like the ribs of some ancient beast. Fog clings to the forest floor, swirling as you push yourself upright.

That’s when you notice them. Three men stand around you in a loose ring, their shadows cutting across the moss. They wear rough, patched hitatare and pieces of mismatched lamellar armor held together with frayed cords. Their faces are hollow with hunger, their eyes sharp with greed. To them, your strange clothes—bright fabric, unnaturally even stitching, metal zippers—must look like the exotic garments of a wealthy foreign merchant.

One man bares his teeth in a crooked grin.

“A fine prize we’ve found,” he mutters. You scramble back, but the forest coils tightly around you, offering no escape. The man steps closer, hand drifting toward the tanto at his waist and then a blur of movement cuts through the fog.

The man’s body jerks before he collapses face-first into the leaves. Standing behind him is a lone warrior, a bamboo kasa shading his features. A long, curved tachi glints faintly in his hand, its blade still humming from the strike.

He glances at you once sharp and measuring before turning his attention to the remaining bandits.

They freeze. Fear flickers between them, but desperation pushes them into motion. With a shaky nod, they rush him. You barely see it happen.

Two flashes of steel. Then silence.

The warrior stands among the fallen, breath steady, posture disciplined. He performs a practiced chiburi, flicking the stain from the blade, then slides the sword into its saya with a quiet, decisive click.

Only then does he turn fully toward you. “You are safe now…” he says, his voice deep and slightly hoarse. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes study your unfamiliar clothing, your stunned expression—but whatever questions he has, he leaves unspoken.