The forest never really went silent—it just held its breath.
Every step Nick took pressed into damp soil, the whisper of wind trailing behind like a curious spirit.
He'd walked for what felt like hours. The mask's faint outline still clung to his reflection whenever he caught it in the water, hovering over his face like a second skin.
Each gust of silver wind tugged him forward. He didn't fight it anymore.
Guess I'm on rails now, he thought wryly. Story progression unlocked.
His arm still ached from the earlier fight. Blood had dried against his armor, sticky and dark. Every now and then, flashes of memory that weren't his sliced through his mind—battlefields, screams, a woman's voice calling a name that wasn't "Nick."
He stumbled, gripping a tree trunk until the vision faded. "Okay, that's new. Memory DLC apparently comes preinstalled."
The path opened onto a clearing.
Ruins stood there—a broken temple, cracked stone stairs, the scent of old incense still clinging to the air. A single bell hung crooked from the eaves, whispering softly with the wind.
And beside it, an old man sat cross-legged before an altar, his robes threadbare but clean. His head was shaven, skin lined like folded parchment, and a strip of white cloth covered his eyes.
Nick froze.
The man spoke before he could say anything. "You finally decided to stop skulking like a raccoon, eh?"
Nick blinked. "Uh… sorry, I didn't mean to—wait, did you just call me a raccoon?"
"Could've said a ghost, but you don't move quietly enough." The monk tilted his head, sniffed the air. "Smell of blood, arrogance, and confusion. Yep. Definitely a human."
Nick stared, somewhere between confused and offended. "Do you… see me?"
The monk smirked under his breath. "No eyes, genius. But I feel you. The island hums louder when you're around. Either you're cursed, or the gods are drunk again."
Nick let out a breathless laugh. "I'm voting drunk. Cursed sounds like too much paperwork."
That earned a small grunt—half amusement, half disapproval. "Still a tongue on you. Just like before."
"Before?" Nick echoed, stepping closer. "You know me?"
The old man turned his face toward the sound of Nick's voice. Though blind, his presence filled the air with weight. "Not you. The one who came before. The Ghost."
Nick hesitated. The wind stirred again, brushing against his armor like an unseen hand.
The monk gestured to the altar. "He fell on these lands years ago. Bled out saving fools who didn't remember his name. The island wept for him."
Nick swallowed hard. "And now… you think I'm him?"
"I don't think," the monk said dryly. "Thinking's for scholars. I know what the wind tells me. And it's been whispering your name for days."
Nick's stomach tightened. "You keep saying 'the wind.' You mean… the Kami?"
A shrug. "Call them what you want. Spirits, gods, bored old fools. Doesn't matter. What matters is they brought you here."
Nick frowned. "Why me?"
"Because they're idiots."
Nick blinked. "Wait—what?"
The monk chuckled, the sound dry as dust. "The gods don't explain themselves. They choose, they toss, they hope. You? You're the new coin they threw into the fire. Let's see if you melt or shine."
Nick stared, unsure whether to feel inspired or insulted. "You're… not exactly the motivational type, are you?"
"I motivate by existing," the monk replied. "If a blind old man can still light incense and mock divinity, you can survive whatever comes next."
He rose slowly, using a wooden staff for balance. Despite his frail frame, his movements carried quiet precision. "You'll need strength—and memory. Go north. Up the mountain. There's a shrine waiting. If you reach it alive, maybe you'll remember who you really are."
Nick folded his arms. "You couldn't, like, mark it on a map? Maybe give me a waypoint?"
The monk's smile was sharp. "You have wind. Follow that. And try not to die before lunch; it'd ruin my meditation."
Nick couldn't help grinning. "You're something else, old man."
"'Master Taro,'" the monk corrected, turning away. "Or 'Your Grumpy Holiness.' Either works."
Nick snorted. "Right. Thanks, Master Taro. For the cryptic advice and emotional support."
The old monk waved a hand dismissively. "Get going, Ghost. The wind doesn't like to wait."
---
Nick left the shrine behind, stepping back into the forest's shifting light. The path curved upward, stones slick with moss. His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the weight of something awakening inside him.
The wind picked up again, tugging his hair, silver threads swirling around his shoulders.
He whispered, "Alright then. Let's see where you're taking me."
The forest thinned as Nick climbed. The sound of cicadas faded beneath the hiss of wind threading through tall bamboo. Each stalk swayed, whispering secrets only spirits understood.
His steps slowed. The further he went, the colder it became. Breath steamed in the air. His fingers brushed the hilts at his side — they hummed faintly, alive in his grip.
"North mountain shrine, huh?" he muttered. "Sounds like prime ambush territory. Thanks for the vague directions, Master Taro."
A leaf fluttered past. Then another.
Then silence.
Too quiet.
Nick crouched instinctively. "Ah hell, here we go…"
Figures slipped from the mist — masked men in tattered armor, blades gleaming like teeth. Their eyes burned with the kind of rage that didn't need words.
Bandits. Or what passed for them here.
"Alright," Nick sighed, cracking his neck. "Classic tutorial ambush. Let's dance."
They rushed him.
He moved without thinking.
Every instinct honed through hours of gaming, through battles fought behind a screen, just worked. His body knew where to step, when to twist, when to strike. His blades flashed silver through the mist — one parry, two slashes, a sidestep — and a clean arc split the bamboo.
Pain was real here.
Blood was warm here.
But so was the thrill.
He grinned despite himself. "Not bad for a respawn."
Then came the leader — heavier armor, horned mask, the kind that screamed "mini-boss."
The brute swung a massive cleaver down. Nick blocked — the impact jarred his bones. He barely slid aside, feeling the weapon bite into the ground where he'd just been standing.
"Big guy, huh?" Nick spat. "Let's see if hitboxes exist here."
The cleaver came again, faster this time. He rolled, drew his short blade, and drove it upward — straight through the ribs. The man froze, then collapsed into the mist.
Nick's breathing slowed. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from adrenaline.
Then… a faint hum.
The mask.
It shimmered in the air before him, ghostly and inviting, like it was waiting for him to acknowledge it.
"Not now," he whispered. "I'm not—"
The wind howled.
His vision blurred. The mask slammed into him — light searing across his skin, into his mind.
And suddenly, he wasn't in the forest anymore.
He stood on a blood-soaked beach, corpses stretching to the horizon. The sound of drums thundered in his ears, and someone—something—spoke in his head.
> "The Ghost never dies. He returns when the island remembers."
Nick gasped and tore the mask away. The forest snapped back. The bandits were gone. The wind had died. Only the soft toll of a distant bell remained.
He dropped to his knees, panting, the mask pulsing faintly in his hands.
"Okay," he muttered. "New rule. Don't… touch… glowing artifacts."
He stared at the mask, its eyes faintly burning with spectral fire. His reflection flickered within — not his own face, but someone else's.
The Ghost's.
Nick clenched his jaw. "What the hell am I becoming?"
---
Back at the shrine, the old monk sat before the altar once more.
The bell swayed. The incense had gone out, but the air still shimmered faintly — the residue of something divine.
He sighed. "So it begins again."
He poured a small cup of tea, took a long sip, and muttered to himself,
> "Damn gods better know what they're doing this time. The last one nearly burned half the island."
A pause. Another sip.
> "And this one… has sarcasm."
He snorted, shaking his head. "We're doomed."
The bell rang once more, softer this time — like laughter on the wind.