The climb should have broken him.
The path twisted along knife-edge cliffs, cold air biting through every seam in his armor. Yet the wind never turned against him—it pushed, steady and sure, as if nudging him onward.
When Nick finally reached the top, the forest fell away. The mountain plateau stretched before him: a field of ancient stone and silent statues, half swallowed by moss. At its heart stood a torii gate, fractured but still upright, framing an altar of black marble.
A single gust circled him, whispering through the torii.
He exhaled. "So this is the shrine. Nice view. Zero rest points."
His voice echoed back, swallowed by the wind.
Nick stepped forward. Every stone felt older than memory itself. The air thickened—heavy with the scent of ash and rain, the kind of atmosphere that made his skin crawl with déjà vu.
When he reached the altar, he placed a hand on its surface.
Instantly, the world bent.
The sky bled red. The ground shook. Shadows of warriors appeared around him—phantoms locked in endless combat, their blades striking with silent fury. And at the center, a lone figure in tattered armor fought against a samurai wreathed in black smoke.
Nick's breath caught. The Ghost.
The duel unfolded like a memory replayed by the gods themselves. Sparks flew, the mountain trembled—and when the phantom Ghost fell to one knee, the darkness consumed everything.
Nick staggered back. The vision shattered, but one echo remained: a low, rumbling growl behind him.
He turned.
From the edge of the altar rose a warrior's shape—taller than him, armor cracked and corroded, face hidden behind a mask split down the middle. Wisps of black mist leaked from every gap. Its sword, broad and heavy, dragged sparks as it moved.
"Corrupted samurai…" Nick muttered, half in awe, half in dread. "Guess this is my welcoming committee."
The spirit lifted its weapon and took a stance—low, grounded, both feet rooted in perfect balance.
The mountain itself seemed to shift with the motion.
Nick swallowed. "Okay, tutorial boss number two. Let's make this quick."
He charged.
The clash rang out like thunder. Sparks lit the air as steel met steel. The spirit's swings were slow but devastating—each one carrying the weight of a landslide. Nick dodged, ducked, rolled; every impact cracked the stone beneath them.
He countered, fast and fluid, but his blows barely scratched the armor. The spirit didn't flinch.
Too strong, he realized, breath ragged. It's defending perfectly… like it's part of the mountain itself.
The next strike caught his shoulder, sending him sprawling. His vision blurred, a sharp metallic taste in his mouth.
The spirit advanced, sword raised high.
Nick forced himself up. "Alright… think, Nick. How did it move?"
He replayed the stance in his head—low center, stable footing, energy flowing from the ground up. It wasn't speed that beat power here—it was balance.
He mimicked it. Feet apart. Knees bent. Breath in sync with the wind.
When the spirit swung again, he didn't dodge—he absorbed the force, pivoted, and redirected it. The motion felt alien yet natural, like muscle memory borrowed from someone else's life.
Their blades crossed once more—this time, Nick held firm.
The wind roared around him, spiraling like a storm unleashed.
He pushed forward with a shout, driving the spirit back a step. Then another. The ground cracked beneath his heels, but he didn't yield.
The corrupted samurai faltered. For the first time, its stance broke.
Nick seized the moment, twisting his blade upward—clean, decisive.
A flash of white light tore through the mist.
The spirit froze, sword trembling. Slowly, it lowered its weapon, bowing deeply before dissolving into a thousand fragments of light that scattered into the wind.
Nick collapsed to one knee, gasping. The echo of the battle still buzzed through his arms.
Then he felt it.
Something shifted inside him—an anchor settling, his pulse syncing with the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
A whisper brushed his ear, carried by the wind:
> "Stand firm. As the mountain endures, so shall the Ghost."
Nick's hands trembled. "Mountain… stance," he breathed. "I get it now."
The wind answered with a soft, approving gust.
He stood slowly, looking down at his blades. The stance felt right—solid, immovable. His first true step toward mastering this world.
---
The wind died suddenly.
Only the quiet hum of the shrine remained, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Nick straightened slowly, feeling the pulse of power fading into his body. The Mountain Stance wasn't just a fighting style—it was a connection. His feet no longer pressed against the ground; they were part of it. Every heartbeat echoed through the stone beneath him.
He exhaled. "Okay… not bad for a first boss fight. Achievement unlocked: Don't Die Horribly."
His voice felt small against the vast silence. The corrupted spirit's light drifted upward, scattering across the torii gate like dust returning home. As the final fragments faded, the black marble altar began to glow—soft, rhythmic, like a sleeping heart awakening.
Nick approached, blade still in hand. "You gonna throw another ghost samurai at me, or are we good now?"
The altar answered with light.
It spread across the stones, weaving symbols he didn't recognize. The air shimmered—images flickering through like memories out of reach. He saw flashes: the original Ghost's blade, a woman's hand reaching for him, a battlefield drowned in fire.
Then the voice came.
Soft. Distant. Like the echo of a dream carried on the wind.
> "Jin…"
Nick froze. Every nerve in his body turned to ice.
The voice spoke again, clearer this time.
> "Why did you leave me?"
The ground shook. The torii split further down the middle, cracks spidering across the stone.
Nick stumbled back. "Hey—hey! Not me, wrong guy!"
The wind surged violently, spiraling around the altar. Symbols burst into light and shot upward into the sky like fireflies escaping the earth.
The shrine responded to his awakening—the first pulse of something ancient stirring beneath the world.
Nick shielded his eyes as the light grew blinding.
Then, just before it swallowed him whole, he heard the faintest whisper—calm, divine, fading with the wind.
> "One stance found. Three remain. Do not fail us again."
Everything went white.
---
When Nick opened his eyes, he was lying on the cold stone at the mountain's edge.
The altar was quiet again. The air smelled of rain. The only sound was the slow toll of a distant bell.
He sat up, wincing. "Okay… not a dream. Definitely not a dream."
His blades gleamed faintly, etched now with faint sigils that hadn't been there before. The Mountain Stance had marked him—claimed him.
Nick looked toward the horizon. The sun was rising over the forest, painting the world gold. For a brief second, he felt something stir inside him—calm, steady, unyielding.
He tightened his grip on his swords. "Alright then. If this is level one, I'm scared to see level ten."
The wind swept past him in response, like laughter.
He smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Let's see what comes next."
And with that, Nick Yamato—the new Ghost—descended the mountain.
---
Back at the temple below, Master Taro poured another cup of tea, head tilted toward the north.
The wind brushed through the shrine, tugging faintly at his robes.
He sighed. "So the mountain accepted him. Hmph. Maybe the gods haven't completely lost their minds after all."
He sipped. Then, quieter—almost to himself—
> "But if this fool fails too…"
He set the cup down, eyes narrowing beneath the blindfold.
> "There won't be a world left to rewind."
The bell chimed once.
And somewhere far above, the wind carried a single, ghostly whisper—neither prayer nor promise, but something in between.
---