The air was heavy.
Not with rain, not with morning mist — but with the ash of what had been.
The once-quiet fishing village now lay in ruin. Smoke rose in thin columns from charred rooftops, and the cries of the wounded filled the spaces where laughter used to live. Nick stood among the broken, his blade still dripping crimson. His chest heaved as he looked at his own reflection in the blood-slick metal — this wasn't a respawn screen. These were real people. Real death.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the tremor in his voice as a young boy tugged at his torn sleeve.
"Th-thank you, samurai," the boy stammered before running back to what was left of his home.
Nick turned away, unable to answer. He sheathed his sword with a click that felt more like guilt than pride.
---
By dusk, the villagers had begun to rebuild. Makeshift tents, patched walls, trembling hope.
An old blacksmith limped toward him, his arm in a sling.
"You fight like a storm, stranger," the man said, voice coarse from smoke. "But storms... leave ruin behind."
Nick didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to say something cool — "It's what I do," or "They started it" — but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he bowed slightly, the way Jin would have.
"I'll make it right," he muttered.
The blacksmith's daughter stepped forward then, a shy girl with soot on her cheeks. In her hands was a small cord necklace, a bronze charm shaped like a swirl of wind and flame.
"My mother used to say this keeps warriors safe," she said softly. "You'll need it more than us."
Nick took it gently. The charm was warm, faintly pulsing — almost alive. He tied it around his neck, and for a moment, something in the world seemed to hum in approval.
---
When dawn broke, he left the village. His destination lay to the north — a fortress where the Mongols were said to be holding prisoners. His uncle.
He remembered that much from the "game." Only now, it didn't feel like a mission objective. It felt like debt.
The forest greeted him with silence, disturbed only by the crunch of his sandals on damp soil. Every step carried weight — the kind of tension that made his fingers twitch toward his sword without thinking.
Then he saw it.
A mark carved into the trunk of an oak — three curved lines forming a crescent. His gamer instincts recognized it immediately.
"Yuna's mark…" he whispered.
If that symbol was real, she was close.
---
He followed the trail through the fog, deeper into the hills, until he reached an old shrine road. The banners hanging from the broken torii gate bore the Mongol insignia — tattered, flapping in the cold wind like ghosts of war.
Nick's eyes narrowed. He crouched, tracing the dirt. Fresh tracks — too heavy for villagers.
"Mongols," he muttered, scanning the ridge.
A sudden twang.
Arrows sliced through the mist.
He rolled aside, barely avoiding the first volley. His katana flashed free in a blur as a Mongol warrior charged from the fog. Nick parried — sparks flying — then countered with a perfect mountain stance cut, the blade splitting the man's chestplate clean through.
Another came from behind. He spun, but too late — the spear grazed his shoulder, tearing cloth and flesh. Pain seared, bright and real.
Then, before the next blow could fall — shhk!
The attacker froze. A dagger had found his throat.
From the fog stepped a figure dressed in black leathers, twin blades glinting under the pale dawn light. She moved like water, precise, silent, merciless.
Nick's breath hitched.
"You've got to be kidding me…" he whispered.
The figure turned, eyes cold and calculating beneath the hood.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
Nick blinked, heart racing — half from adrenaline, half from disbelief.
Because standing before him was someone he knew all too well.
For a long moment, the fog didn't move. Neither did they.
The forest was still except for the faint hiss of cooling steel and the soft flap of Mongol banners in the wind.
The woman's daggers gleamed red. Her eyes, sharp and dark, studied him with disbelief—then suspicion.
Nick—no, Jin Sakai to the world now—kept his sword half-raised, heart pounding.
"Easy," he said, voice steady but foreign to his own ears. Hearing Jin's tone come out of his mouth still gave him chills.
Her expression flickered. "...Jin?"
He froze.
Hearing the name like that—raw, uncertain, full of memory—hit harder than any sword.
"I thought you were dead," she said quietly, her grip on the dagger tightening. "They said the Ghost fell with Tsushima."
Jin's—Nick's—mind raced. He knew this woman. Yuna.
The thief who became an assassin, the one who helped Jin embrace the shadows. The woman who changed the fate of the island.
And now, here she was, very real, standing in blood and mist.
He forced himself to breathe. "Looks like the rumors were wrong."
Yuna's eyes narrowed. "If you're really Jin, prove it."
Nick's gamer brain scrambled. Right. In the game, she gave him that tanto… what was the line again?
He lowered his sword, slowly drawing the short blade at his waist. The same chipped edge she once stole from a Mongol officer and gifted him.
"You said this blade would remind me that survival has its own honor," he said. "I still carry it."
Her breath caught. The disbelief melted into something else—pain, relief, maybe both. She sheathed her dagger. "I buried you myself, Jin. What are you?"
Nick almost laughed. If only I knew.
Instead, he just said, "Alive, somehow. And the Mongols won't stay dead long if we stand around asking how."
That got a smirk out of her—tiny, fleeting, but real.
---
They moved through the fog together, silent but for the crunch of boots on wet soil. Yuna's movements were still as graceful as he remembered, every step calculated. Nick tried to match her pace, but his shoulder wound throbbed with every breath.
"You're bleeding," she muttered, stopping to glance at his arm.
"I've had worse," he said, then winced. "Okay, maybe not that much worse."
She crouched and pulled a small pouch from her belt. "Hold still."
"Oh, great. The traditional medicine treatment. My favorite."
"This'll sting."
"It always stings—AHHH!—yep, there it is!"
"Quiet," she hissed, pressing a bandage into place. "You scream like a noble."
"Thanks, I think?" he muttered through gritted teeth.
She tied the cloth and stood, her eyes sweeping the trees. "You've changed. The old Jin wouldn't have joked about pain."
Nick looked away. "Maybe death loosened me up."
She didn't answer, but the faintest shadow of concern crossed her face.
---
They climbed a ridge overlooking a ruined village. Blackened beams jutted from the ground like the bones of giants. Mongol banners fluttered weakly in the cold wind.
"Castle Kaneda's north of here," Yuna said. "If your uncle's alive, that's where they'll keep him."
Nick—Jin—nodded. "Then that's where we're going."
"You're walking into a fortress full of Mongols," she said flatly. "You can't fight them head-on."
He smirked. "I know. I'll just wing it."
"Winging it will get you killed."
"Maybe. But it got me this far."
She gave him a look. "You sound different."
"Guess dying does that to a guy."
---
The two set off again, their silhouettes swallowed by the fog.
Behind them, the Mongol horn sounded—long, deep, and promising blood.
Yuna drew her dagger, eyes scanning the ridge.
Nick's—Jin's—hand went to his sword, the charm necklace glinting faintly under the morning light.
"For now," he said quietly, "the Ghost still walks."
---
To be continued...