A lone samurai stands before a crumbling red torii gate under a massive blood moon, his shadow stretching long across the ground. He wears a fearsome samurai kabuto helmet with a horned crest, the metal scarred from battle. In his hands, a single katana catches the moon’s crimson glow, its edge gleaming like a sliver of ice.
Behind him, the gate’s peeling paint reveals ancient wood, and the sky pulses with an eerie red light. The air is thick with drifting cherry blossoms—some frozen mid-fall, others clinging to his armor like spectral hands. The ground is cracked, as if the earth itself reco
