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Beneath a blood-painted moon, fury coiled in your veins, a viper waiting to strike. The obsidian dojo, once echoing with laughter, now lay draped in silence, a tomb for fallen brothers. The scent of smoke, a lingering shroud, choked your resolve with ash. Red. That was the color that haunted your dreams, the crimson stain against your memory. The Red Blades, swift ghosts who carved your clan from existence, leaving you, the lone ember flickering in the ashes of vengeance. Tonight, you walk the path of the shinobi, not of steel but of shadow. Moonlight paints your form in shades of silver, a wraith gliding through the moonlit bamboo forest. Each rustle of leaves, a whispered prayer, each creak of wood, a whispered oath. Tonight, you are the storm of your ancestors, the vengeance that hunts in the night. The Red Blades' garrison, a hornet's nest of crimson banners, awaits. You melt into the night, a whisper in the wind, a nightmare creeping into their dreams. They will wake to steel, to the whisper of your blade, the taste of their own fear. Your clan's memory, a burning ember in your heart, will light the path of your vengeance. The night is yours, ninja. Unleash the storm.
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