The wind howled like a beast in mourning as Naku Hizusuki and Roshi stepped through the veil of mist into the forsaken highlands. Beneath their feet, the ground was laced with snow, brittle leaves, and the shattered bones of long-dead warriors. Far ahead, half-swallowed by frost and mountain, stood their destination—the Shrine of Echoes.
"Naku," Roshi said, clutching her prayer beads. "This place… it's not just ancient. It's haunted by memory."
He nodded. "It called to me during the flame vision. It holds something from my family. Something buried."
As they approached, crows scattered into the sky. The shrine's architecture had once been beautiful—a sweeping roof crowned with curved onyx tiles, wooden walls carved with celestial dragons and swords—but centuries of decay had left it cracked, leaning, forgotten by both gods and men.
Inside, silence reigned. Not the peaceful kind, but the stifling silence of a place where screams had once echoed and were never answered.
Dust blanketed the floor. Time-worn statues of long-forgotten ancestors stared down at them with hollow eyes. At the far end, an altar remained—blackened by soot, marked with strange sigils in dried blood.
On the altar rested a sealed crimson scroll, bound not with string but with a line of ancient blood.
Roshi's eyes widened. "This isn't a normal binding… it's sealed by lineage."
Naku stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat. There was something about the aura of the scroll—familiar, yet heavy. Like holding a blade meant for your own throat.
"The spirit said I'd find answers here," Naku murmured. "But I didn't expect this kind of truth."
He sliced open the seal with his thumb, and his blood sizzled as it met the scroll. The room trembled. A wind surged through the chamber—though no door or window moved—and from the shrine walls, the voices of the past began to echo.
A booming male voice. Stern. Regal. Familiar.
> "Toren Hizusuki, you fool. You would dare turn against your own blood for the sake of peace?"
Another voice—gentler, wounded.
> "I swore an oath to the people, not to your thirst for power, Simo."
Naku's breath hitched. His father… and Simo Roy.
The scroll unrolled itself, revealing a painted vision. Toren and Simo stood beneath a crimson sky, swords drawn, the Shrine of Echoes behind them. They were not enemies—they were brothers, bound by war and honor… and then torn apart by betrayal.
Naku staggered backward. "He was… my uncle."
Roshi moved beside him, voice trembling. "Your father tried to stop something. And Simo… he chose power."
As they stared at the scroll, another presence entered the shrine. It was slow, deliberate. The floorboards didn't creak, and yet the temperature dropped, breath fogging in the air.
A shadow detached itself from the far wall—tall, armored in blackened steel, one red eye glowing beneath a cracked helm.
Simo Roy.
"You've grown, nephew," he said calmly, his voice as sharp as obsidian. "Toren's blood runs thick in your veins. But so does mine."
Naku's hand went to his blade. "You killed my parents."
"I ended a betrayal," Simo replied. "Toren tried to shatter the legacy. I am the legacy."
"You're no legacy. You're a ghost kept alive by hate."
Roshi stepped between them. "This shrine was meant for remembrance, not war."
Simo's eye narrowed. "Remembrance only has meaning when someone survives to remember."
Suddenly, Simo raised his hand. Shadows surged toward them like ink spilled through air—a technique forbidden to even the Oni clans.
Naku drew his blade, his left hand pulsing with ember-light from the spirit's mark.
Their weapons met, steel and will clashing in a cry of thunder.
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The battle in the shrine was fierce, a dance of fury and memory. But even as the echoes screamed and the spirits wailed, Naku knew something had changed. This wasn't just about revenge anymore.
It was about uncovering the full truth of his legacy.
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