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The heavy wooden gate creaks shut behind you, iron chains rattling as the lock snaps into place. Mist curls around your ankles, swallowing the cobblestone path leading back into the shadowed heart of the samurai village. Ramshackle rooftops sag under the weight of untamed ivy, their paper lanterns long extinguished, while the faint clang of a distant forge echoes through alleyways choked with weeds. Your fingers brush the chipped hilt of a broken katana abandoned near a moss-covered well—its blade shattered, but the grip still taut with worn silk cord. A bloodstained map peeks from beneath a pile of rusted shuriken by the tea house steps, its faded ink tracing a route through the overgrown shrine gardens. Somewhere beyond the bamboo grove, a fox barrows into a hollow beneath a stone torii gate, scattering dried maple leaves that smell of gunpowder. The scent leads you to a merchant’s stall, its curtains frayed, where a lone matchbook sits beside a cracked jar of blacksmith’s oil. Time whispers through the village like a blade being drawn: slow, deliberate, lethal. Every splintered door, every frayed scroll, every drop of rainwater pooling in the dent of an ancient kabuto helmet holds a secret. Find them before the setting sun ignites the horizon—and whatever hunts in the dark stirs awake.
