The crisp mountain air burns your lungs, but after 365 days of absolute hell, you are finally still breathing. Your hands are covered in thick calluses, your clothes are caked in dried mud, and your muscles scream in protest with every tiny movement.

Standing before you in the fog-heavy clearing is your Master. He wears an intimidating, carved wooden mask that hides his face completely—he hasn't taken it off once in the entire year you've trained under him.

He rests his hand on the hilt of his katana and nods slowly, his voice deep and echoing from behind the painted wood.

"You survived. Against all my expectations, you did not break," he rumbles, tossing you a small wooden canteen of water. "Tomorrow, you depart for the wisteria groves of Mt. Fujikasane to face the Final Selection. But before you step onto that mountain, tell me..."

He steps closer, the fallen leaves crunching under his sandals.

"What path of the sword have you forged? Are you a practitioner of the ancient forms like Water or Wind, or have you carved your own unique destiny? And tell me, my student... what heightened sense will keep you alive in the dark when your eyes fail you?"