The smell of smoke was the first thing that pulled Nick back from the void.
Then came the pain — a deep, full-body throb that reminded him he'd actually fought, bled, and won. He blinked until the blur became a dim hut lined with cracked paper walls. Outside, gulls cried and a lonely wind rattled bamboo chimes.
His katana lay beside him, cleaned and set across two stones to dry. Someone had even wrapped his arm in fresh linen. For a second, he thought of respawn timers and health bars. Then the ache in his ribs reminded him: there were none.
He pushed himself upright with a groan.
"Note to self," he muttered. "Mountain stance comes with mountain pain."
A shy face peeked through the door-frame — a young woman, soot streaked on her cheeks, clothes smelling of forge smoke. She set down a bowl of steaming rice and disappeared before he could say thanks. The clink of a hammer echoed from outside.
Nick managed a few bites, staring at the faint reflection on his blade. The shrine's vision haunted him: the spirit's bow, the voice that had whispered Jin.
And his uncle. Always his uncle.
"A blade isn't for pride, Nick," the old man's voice echoed from memory. "It's for sheltering the weak when storms come."
He rose, stepped into sunlight, and saw the storm his uncle had warned about. The village lay half-broken — charred beams, empty fields, faces thin with hunger. Every sound was a whisper.
An old farmer eyed him warily. "You're the one who fell from the mountain. The Ghost, they said."
"Just… a traveler," Nick replied.
"Traveler or ghost, you'd best keep your head low. The Mongols took Lord Sakai north. Said they'll hang him at the fortress in three days."
Nick's grip on his sword tightened. His pulse roared louder than the ocean.
He walked the village edge where children played in silence and mothers patched roofs that might never stand another raid. A map began to form in his head — not digital, but instinctive. He could almost see waypoints glowing: the path north, the watchtower ridge, the marshes beyond.
If this world still follows the game's logic… then she should be near the coast, he thought — the assassin who'd once trained Jin in stealth. One day, I'll find her.
But first came blood and rescue.
The sun dipped lower, painting the mountains crimson. The blacksmith's hammer fell in steady rhythm, like a heart refusing to die. Nick bowed slightly toward the sound, then faced the northern horizon.
"Hang on, Uncle," he whispered. "I'm coming."
That's when he heard it — a distant, steady thump that didn't belong to any forge.
Boom.
Boom.
War drums.
They rolled through the valleys like thunder, shaking dust from the roofs and sending crows screaming into the sky. Villagers froze. Children clutched their mothers.
Nick's eyes narrowed as silhouettes appeared far off on the ridge — banners snapping crimson and black.
Mongols.
The wind curled around him, warm and sharp, carrying a faint murmur he was beginning to recognize — the breath of the Kami.
> Stand firm, Ghost.
Nick drew his sword, the mountain's weight settling into his stance.
"Yeah," he said under his breath, half to the wind, half to himself. "Round two."The drums drew closer, slow and heavy, until they stopped just beyond the rice fields. Then came the clatter of hooves, the scrape of iron against armor.
Nick moved to the main path, the villagers shrinking behind half-collapsed fences. Dust rose as a column of Mongols appeared — no more than a dozen, but enough to erase this place in minutes. Their leader sat on horseback, a scar splitting his face like cracked porcelain.
Nick breathed once. The soreness in his legs pulsed with every heartbeat.
This isn't a controller anymore, he thought. This is me.
The lead rider barked something harsh and foreign. One soldier spurred forward, spear lowered.
Nick stepped aside. The world slowed to breath and instinct.
His katana flashed upward — one clean draw, the kind he'd practiced a thousand times in digital form — and the man fell from his horse, the sound of steel against flesh real and sickening.
Silence followed. Then the rest charged.
Nick dropped into the stance that had nearly broken him on the mountain — knees bent, center low, blade angled down like a falling cliff. He felt the tremor of it, the weight, the raw energy waiting to burst.
A second spear came; he shifted left, let it glance off his shoulder, and cut through the haft in the same motion. Pain flared but he didn't stop. Another man swung wide — Nick caught the blow on his blade, twisted, and drove his knee into the man's chest. The crunch of ribs echoed through the street.
He wasn't graceful. He wasn't the Ghost.
But he was alive.
A Mongols with twin hatchets rushed him. Nick parried the first strike, barely ducked the second, and stumbled into the mud. The man grinned, raising a boot to crush him. Nick rolled, drove his sword up from the ground, and felt it bite through armor.
Mud splashed. Warm blood hit his cheek. He gagged, blinked it away, and forced himself to stand.
Three left.
His stance wavered. The Mountain wanted stillness; his body wanted to collapse.
He exhaled, remembered Taro's words in the shrine: Be the ground beneath the storm.
The next attacker came screaming. Nick held his ground. The man's blade struck — once, twice — and on the third swing Nick stepped forward, let the blow slide off his guard, and brought his own strike down with everything he had.
The sound was final.
The last two hesitated. One ran. The other charged in blind fury, cutting through the air with a curved saber. Nick met him halfway, blades locking. Their faces inches apart, Nick saw his own reflection in the man's eyes — not a hero, not a gamer, just a man fighting to breathe.
He twisted, broke the lock, and drove his hilt into the man's throat.
The Mongol fell gasping, clawing at the dirt.
For a long moment, the only sound was Nick's breath and the distant cry of gulls.
Then the villagers emerged — silent, wide-eyed.
A child pointed. "The Ghost…"
Nick wiped the blade clean, sheathed it, and looked toward the northern ridge. Smoke curled above it, black and thick — the fortress where his uncle waited.
He felt the ache in his arms, the tremor in his legs, and the faint whisper of wind circling him again.
> Stand firm, Ghost.
He didn't answer the voice this time.
He just looked north and started walking.
To be continued…