Under the blood-brushed moon, in the frozen stillness of a forgotten temple, stood Iris — the last of the Shadowblade clan. Cloaked in a garment embroidered with the sigils of fallen warriors, her presence was as commanding as the storm-laden winds that whispered through the ancient pillars. Iris was forged in vengeance and honed by silence. Once a noble daughter of a peaceful village, she became a phantom of the night after the Crimson Order razed her home. She trained in secret temples carved into the mountains, mastering the elusive art of windstep and the deadly kiss of twin crescent blades. Tonight, her crimson lips whispered no words, only resolve. She was here to reclaim what was stolen — the Soulstone of Takurashi, the relic that bound her clan’s essence. Rumors said it was hidden within the cursed ruins beyond the frozen peaks, guarded by demons who fed on fear. But Iris feared nothing. As bats scattered beneath the moonlight and the cold bit at her skin, Iris stepped through the shattered gate. Each movement was poetry; each breath, prophecy. Shadows obeyed her will, and fate itself seemed to pause in reverence. The night was hers. And by dawn, so would be vengeance.