Dawn stretched pale fingers across the horizon when Nick rose.
Yuna still slept near the embers of the dying fire, her hand loosely gripping the dagger by her side.
Ishikawa sat cross-legged, already awake, eyes closed in silent meditation.
The air carried the chill of rivers and the faint scent of ash from distant valleys.
Nick tightened the straps of his worn gear.
The wind brushed against him, playful yet insistent, tugging gently toward the east.
He understood what it meant.
The shrine of Tadayori waited.
He bowed once toward Ishikawa and Yuna, not to wake them but out of respect.
The old archer didn't move, though a small smile creased the corner of his mouth — as if he already knew the boy would leave at dawn.
Nick followed the whispering wind through the trees.
Birds stirred above, scattering dew as they leapt into the pale sky.
The forest floor gleamed, every leaf painted in morning light.
He moved in silence, his steps growing lighter with each breath, the rhythm of the island guiding his stride.
Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, the forest opened.
Before him stretched a sea of crimson.
Countless flowers swayed in perfect unison, their petals shimmering like drops of blood under sunlight.
The wind danced through them, weaving invisible paths that shimmered faintly with light.
No Mongol banners.
No corpses.
Only silence — deep, sacred silence that felt older than war itself.
Nick stopped at the edge of the field.
The moment he stepped forward, the air thickened.
Every sound fell away — even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He walked deeper, the petals brushing against his armor.
Each step echoed softly, like walking through memory.
At the center stood a small shrine, half swallowed by flowers.
Stone worn smooth by centuries, vines curling around engraved kanji too faded to read.
Upon the altar rested a weathered bow, its string snapped long ago, its body wrapped in crimson cloth.
A presence stirred.
Nick knelt, bowing instinctively.
He didn't know the right ritual, but respect came naturally.
He placed his palm on the cold stone, and the world shifted.
Wind roared — not against him, but through him.
The field blurred, petals lifting like sparks of fire until the world turned scarlet and gold.
When the haze settled, he was no longer alone.
Across the field stood a figure clad in deep purple armour, light glinting off lacquered plates.
The helmet bore the crest of a crescent moon, and the face behind it was hidden in shadow.
The bow in his hand shimmered faintly, as though drawn from sunlight itself.
Nick's heart pounded.
He knew who it was — or at least, what it represented.
Tadayori, the legendary protector of Tsushima.
The spirit didn't move.
It merely lifted the bow and drew it without an arrow.
Wind gathered around it, forming a shaft of light.
The unspoken message was clear.
Show me your resolve.
Nick breathed in slowly.
He reached for his own bow, hands trembling.
The string sang as he drew.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Only focus.
The spirit released.
The arrow of light streaked toward him — he rolled aside, petals exploding around him like rain.
He rose and fired back, his arrow slicing the air in a perfect arc that met the spirit's next shot midflight.
Light shattered against light, scattering into dozens of glowing petals.
The duel wasn't about speed or strength.
It was rhythm.
Harmony.
The wind's pulse became his own heartbeat.
He fired again, and again, moving in perfect flow with the breeze.
Every missed shot corrected itself in the next breath.
The spirit moved like a memory, fluid and calm, never hurried, never angry.
And with each exchange, Nick felt something within him aligning — his breath, his stance, his focus.
He wasn't fighting; he was listening.
Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed before the spirit lowered its bow.
It nodded once, the faint glow of approval flickering through its armour.
The wind stilled.
When Nick blinked, the field had returned to normal.
Only the shrine remained, the bow gone — replaced by a folded set of armour resting on the stone.
He approached slowly.
The air shimmered faintly around it, as though reality itself held its breath.
The armour was light — a blend of deep violet and crimson plates bound with braided silk.
The chestplate bore faint engravings of flowing petals, each line catching the light like ripples on water.
The shoulder guards curved outward like wings poised to catch the wind.
The fabric beneath was supple yet resilient, carrying a faint scent of pine and smoke.
Tiny charms of bronze shaped like arrows hung from the cords, chiming softly with every breeze.
As Nick touched it, warmth spread up his arm — not heat, but presence.
He could feel the spirit's watchful gaze.
It wasn't claiming him; it was accepting him.
He donned the armour piece by piece.
The plates fit perfectly, weightless yet solid.
When he tightened the final strap, the field erupted in motion — petals spinning upward, circling him in a spiral of red and gold.
The wind roared again, but this time it sang.
Nick raised his bow and drew an arrow.
The air bent around the shaft, petals following its path like tiny comets.
He released — the arrow flew true, splitting a distant blossom in half without bending its stem.
He exhaled.
It wasn't mastery.
Not yet.
But for the first time, he understood the path.
The wind quieted, and the petals drifted back to earth.
On the shrine's base, faint new markings had appeared — a single line of script in ancient ink.
He couldn't read it, but somehow he understood the meaning.
Protect the helpless. Listen to the wind.
He bowed deeply to the shrine.
The silence answered, warm and complete.
When he turned to leave, a single petal floated toward him, glowing faintly before fading into his palm.
His resolve pulsed in response — a gentle surge of energy, like the island itself breathing with him.
He smiled.
"Guess I passed the tutorial," he murmured under his breath.
The wind answered with a playful gust that nearly knocked him off balance.
He laughed softly.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm going."
As he stepped back into the forest, the field behind him shimmered once more, then stilled — as if closing its gates until another worthy soul arrived.
Nick adjusted the new armour and kept walking.
The wind whispered northward, carrying distant echoes of thunder.
Whatever awaited him next, he felt ready — or as ready as anyone could be in a world reborn from ghosts.
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