The forest trail narrowed as we climbed. The air grew still, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. Cicadas quieted, leaving only the soft crunch of our steps.
Up ahead, a shape emerged through the mist — a weathered torii gate, its red paint faded to rust. Moss clung to its base, and the wood bore the marks of long seasons. Beyond it, rooftops peeked through the fog, their curved edges dark against the pale sky.
The old man slowed beside me, breath shallow. "We've reached it… the temple," he said, voice low but certain.
I stopped before the gate. The air on the other side felt different — cooler, cleaner, yet strangely dense. I shifted the wounded man on my back and stepped forward. As I passed under the arch, a faint pulse rippled through me — like walking through static.
The courtyard opened wide beyond the gate. Monks moved quietly through the space, sweeping leaves, tending small gardens, or stacking firewood by the veranda. Their robes fluttered softly in the wind. For a moment, everything seemed distant, like a painting still wet with light.
Our arrival broke that still rhythm. A few monks paused mid-motion, heads turning toward us. Their gazes fell on the man slumped over my shoulder, then to the faint trail of blood dripping down his arm.
One of the monks stepped away from his work and came toward us. His expression softened when he saw the old man and the woman.
"Elder Masato… Lady Hana," he greeted with a small bow. Then his gaze shifted to me — a short pause, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "You have someone new with you."
The old man gave a tired nod. None of us had much strength left to talk.
The monk glanced at the man slumped on my back and spoke again, his voice quickening. "Come inside. The abbot will want to see him."
We followed without protest. The path to the main hall wound between stone lanterns and moss-covered steps. I trailed behind them, keeping my grip firm on the wounded man.
As we moved, the monk asked over his shoulder, "What happened out there?"
"Bandits," the old man replied, voice low and worn. "They attacked us on our way back to the village. My son tried to protect us…" He stopped there, the rest unspoken.
The monk only nodded, his expression tightening. Our footsteps filled the quiet that followed, the faint ring of the temple bell drifting somewhere beyond the hall.
As we stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and faint incense met us. The monk leading us gestured to one of his brothers nearby, his voice low but urgent — an instruction to fetch the sensei, the healer among them.
We reached the main hall. Light slipped through the paper walls, soft and pale, tracing lines across the floor. The monk hurried ahead to lay out a woven mat. I knelt beside it, easing the wounded young man down with care. His breathing was shallow; the faint tremor of his chest told enough of the struggle he'd endured.
Moments later, the sensei arrived in hurried steps, flanked by two other monks. Without delay, they began their work. The sensei reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder and drew out a small bundle of herbs. The faint scent of camphor and smoke drifted into the air as he crushed the leaves between his palms. One of the monks brought a bowl of steaming water, and soon the hall filled with the low murmur of preparation — steady, practiced, without panic.
I watched in silence as they cleaned and dressed the wounds. The young man's breathing steadied, color slowly returning to his face. It was enough to know he would live.
Feeling my part here had ended, I turned to the old man and gave a small bow. "I'll step outside," I said quietly. "You should stay with him."
He nodded, gratitude and fatigue mixing in his expression.
I slipped out of the hall, letting the faint hum of chanting monks fade behind me. The air outside was cooler — scented with rain and pine. I drew a long breath, the sound of cicadas faint somewhere beyond the temple walls.
A soft footstep came from behind me, followed by a calm voice. "How do you feel, young man?"
I turned around. It was the monk who had led us earlier. I bowed lightly to show respect. "This all feels… unreal," I answered.
He gave a curious look. "What do you mean by that?"
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "Ah, nothing, sensei. Don't mind me."
In truth, what I meant was simple — this dream felt too real.
The monk's gaze swept over me, steady from head to toe. "Do you need anything else?" he asked.
It was then that I realized what he meant. I looked down at myself — blood still streaked my arms and sleeves. "If possible," I said, "a place to wash."
He nodded once. "There's a well behind the eastern wall. You'll find water."
He gestured for me to follow. We walked along a narrow corridor that opened into a small courtyard behind the hall. Stone lanterns stood silent beside the path, their bases damp from earlier rain. A faint mist lingered near the ground, coiling softly around our feet.
He stopped beside an old well and gestured toward it. "Here."
I stepped forward, lifted the bucket, and drew water from the dark surface. The rope creaked softly as droplets fell back into the stillness below.
Setting the bucket down, I loosened the tie of my black robe and slipped the upper half from my shoulders. The air touched my skin, cool and sharp. I dipped my hands into the water and let it run over the dried blood, watching thin red streams fade into the clear surface.
As I washed, I caught the monk's gaze from the corner of my eye. He wasn't staring rudely — more like studying a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. His curiosity made me pause for a moment.
I glanced down at myself. The body reflected in the water was lean and firm, marked with faint traces of muscle that spoke of training and hardship. Judging by the way the monks looked at me, I must have appeared quite young to them.
Yet… for someone supposedly that young, this body felt too mature — shaped by battles I didn't remember fighting.
The monk's curiosity finally got the better of him.As I washed, he stepped a little closer, his tone gentle but probing. "You handle yourself well for someone so young. Where did you come from? And… what is your name?"
I hesitated. There was no way I could tell him the truth — that all of this was a dream. I remembered once watching a video about lucid dreaming; it said never to tell people inside a dream that they're part of one. I didn't know why, but I wasn't about to test the theory now.
So I went with the classic excuse. I looked up and said, "I… don't remember."
The monk studied me for a moment, as if weighing the truth behind my words. I could almost feel the skepticism in his silence. Still, he only nodded slowly, as though pity and caution had mixed in his mind.
Inside, I sighed. The usual 'lost my memory' story. Some things never change huh — even in dreams.
The monk's gaze lingered on me a moment longer before drifting down. His eyes narrowed slightly, then he pointed toward my belt. "Hmm… young man, that tag hanging from your sash — may I see it for a moment?"
I looked down, puzzled. A small, worn wooden tag dangled near my waist, its edges darkened by age. When did that get there? I unclipped it and handed it over. The monk turned it in his hand, reading the faint, carved letters.
"It bears a name," he said quietly. "Hayate. I suppose that must be yours."
He handed it back with a nod — the kind people give when something clicks in their head. "You carry a warrior's tag. Perhaps you were once a samurai… or at least trained like one."
I took the tag, staring at the name carved into it. The grooves were rough, uneven, but deep — like someone had carved it in haste. Hayate…
My chest tightened for a second. That name — it was the same one I used for my character in Shogun's Path, the game I played last night before everything went black.
No way… that's impossible.
Hayate… huh.
The monk smiled faintly. "Rest, Hayate. The abbot may wish to speak with you later." With that, he turned and left.
Once he was gone, silence settled over the courtyard. I glanced again at the tag, running a thumb across the engraving. "Hayate, huh… sounds kinda cool," I muttered.
Then a thought struck me — half-joking, half-serious. "Did I perhaps get Isekai'd into Shogun's Path? Maybe I'll start by building a harem of beautiful women," I muttered, the corner of my lips twitching in mock villainy.
I took a breath, raised my hand like an anime protagonist, and said softly, "Status."
Nothing happened.
"Inventory?" Still nothing.
"Skills!… Menu?… Hello?"
The well answered me with a faint drip.
I stared at my hand for a long second and sighed. "Yeah, I definitely look insane right now."
A faint breeze stirred the trees, carrying the scent of pine and wet stone. For a moment, I could almost laugh at myself — stuck between logic and nonsense.
I tucked the tag back into my belt, the name Hayate still echoing faintly in my thoughts as I looked out across the temple grounds — caught between worlds, unsure which one was real.