Kurai Shiroyama knelt in the silence of his small, secluded room. The morning sun bathed the tatami floor in soft light, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch with the wind's whispering grace through the paper-thin walls. He was still—utterly still, like a statue of stone, betrayed by the movement of his chest rising and falling. His face was sharp and angular, his features carved with a stoic intensity. His black hair was pulled back into a tight, practical topknot, keeping it out of his eyes. His pale skin contrasted with the dark strands, emphasizing the sharpness of his jaw. The scent of incense hung in the air, curling like smoke around his senses, while outside, the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the earth filled the quietude.
He continued his breathing exercies, settling into the space where thought no longer reigned and the body became an extension of the will. His polearm—his naginata—rested beside him, its polished steel gleaming faintly in the soft light, the wooden shaft smooth from years of wear a reminder of the life he had left behind. The life of a warrior. A samurai.
In moments like these, where even time seemed to pause its movement, he had grown to understand the discipline of patience, the strength of quiet.
But nothing ever lasts. As if it came thundering with the gust of wind, a bad premonition took hold of his body. There seemed to be a sudden shift in the air. Subtle at first, a slight tightening of air. A pressure that bloomed at the edges of his perception.
Trepidation took hold of him, and Kurai rose to his feet. His movements fluid and deliberate. His fingers brushed the shaft of his naginata. Yet before he could fully grasp it, the world shattered.
In an instant, the ground disappeared beneath his feet. The tatami mats, the walls, the faint light—all of it was gone, swept away like dust in the wind.
The void stretched endlessly around him, silent and suffocating. There was no sensation of falling, no ground beneath his feet, no air to draw into his lungs—only the unbearable stillness of a world unmade. Time held no meaning here. Seconds, minutes, years—he could not tell if they passed at all. His body remained unchanged, untouched by hunger or thirst, as if he existed outside the bounds of life itself.
Despite a lifetime of discipline, of forging himself in the fires of hardship, an unfamiliar panic clawed at the edges of his mind. He had endured pain, war, and loss, but this… this helplessness was something else entirely. The walls of his resolve threatened to crack. And yet, just as fear threatened to take hold, the stillness began to shift. A thin mist curled around him, coiling like spectral fingers through the abyss.
The oppressive emptiness unraveled, replaced by sensation. Cool air brushed his skin. The damp scent of morning dew filled his lungs. The tickling of grass against his feet sent a jolt of awareness through his body. His fingers twitched—his body was his own again.
Then, pain.
It flared to life, surging into his skull. A sharp, electric agony tore through his mind, flooding it with fragmented knowledge—words and meanings, interwoven with something else. Something deeper. Something he could not understand.
And then, a voice.
"Welcome to the tutorial. You have 40 seconds until commencement. All required knowledge has been integrated."
It repeated, mechanical in its indifference.
"Welcome to the tutorial. You have 30 seconds until commencement. All required knowledge has been integrated."
The mist began to recede, unraveling in tendrils of white, revealing a world thick with green. Towering trees loomed in every direction, their trunks gnarled with age, lianas dangling like idle nooses. The air hung heavy with moisture, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant rot. Sunlight barely crawled itself through the dense foliage above.
Kurai exhaled, steadying himself.
The first sensation to register was relief—his body was his own again. No more suffocating void. No more paralysis. But relief was a fleeting thing, smothered quickly by the weight of uncertainty. Where was he?
Turning slowly, movements measured, Kurai watched attentitevly.
Surprise seemed to flicker in his eyes as he spotted six figures scattered around him.
They stood at varying distances, some shifting uneasily, others frozen in place. Their garb was strange—clean, precise, artifical. A stark contrast to his own worn down black kimono.
One man wore a stiff coat with a crisp collar, its seams unnaturally perfect, its shoulders squared as if molded rather than tailored. Another had fabric stretched across his chest, covered in symbols and imagery that meant nothing to Kurai. A woman fidgeted with something in her hands, her legs wrapped in a clinging material that left little to the imagination, while her upper half was draped in something loose, casual.
Even their footwear was unnatural. Some wore soft, padded contraptions that swallowed their feet entirely, others had sleek coverings that gleamed unnaturally, untouched by the earth.
Kurai's gaze flickered between them, assessing, calculating.
His hand moved instinctively to his back, fingers seeking the familiar shaft of his naginata—only to grasp at empty air. A chill settled in his chest, deeper than the damp jungle air, colder than the unknown that surrounded him. His blade, his most trusted companion through years of blood and discipline, was gone.
His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to breathe, to steady the unease creeping through him like a slow-moving sickness. His gaze flickered back to the strangers. Their waists and back seemed bare, unburdened by steel or weaponry. That was something, at least. If they were unarmed, then—for now—so was he.