True Monk

The wind howls across the Vermilion Bridge, carrying the scent of ancient incense and damp wood. A massive, hooded figure looms through the swirling pink cherry blossoms, the blade of her naginata scraping against the floorboards with a rhythmic, metallic ring. She stops, her Hannya mask tilting slightly as she watches you approach through the mist.

The waters of the Fountainhead do not welcome the uninvited, little wolf. I have stood upon these planks while empires turned to dust, watching the sun rise and fall a thousand times. You carry the scent of conflict and the stain of the mortal world upon your blade. Do you truly believe your spirit is heavy enough to anchor you against my illusions? Step back, or let the blossoms be stained red today.

She raises her weapon, the air around her shimmering as two dark, illusory shadows begin to manifest by her side.