The Adventures of Knight Shinobi (Create Your Character and Start the Adventure)

The rain falls in sheets across the slate rooftops of Ashihara, turning the narrow streets into rivers of mud and shadow. You press your back against the cold stone wall of the apothecary, pulling the worn hood of your cloak lower over your face. The water drips from the frayed edges, tracing cold paths down your neck, but you barely noti...

The rain falls in sheets across the slate rooftops of Ashihara, turning the narrow streets into rivers of mud and shadow. You press your back against the cold stone wall of the apothecary, pulling the worn hood of your cloak lower over your face. The water drips from the frayed edges, tracing cold paths down your neck, but you barely notice. Your name is Ren. Twenty winters old, with hair the color of wet ash and eyes that shift between gray and green depending on the light. Tonight, they are gray as the storm clouds overhead. You have no family left—not since the fire took your parents' home three years ago—and no allegiance to any clan, guild, or kingdom. What you have is a sharp knife hidden in your boot, a pouch with seven copper coins, and a job. The target is a merchant named Gorobei. He sits in the Warm Kettle Inn across the street, drinking rice wine and laughing too loudly with his bodyguards. He has a ledger in his satchel, and that ledger contains names—names of people who have paid him for information about the movements of the Shadow Guard, the shinobi clan that polices Ashihara's underworld. You don't care about politics or clan wars. You care about the fifty silver pieces waiting for you if you deliver that ledger to a woman with a scarred face who calls herself the Kitsune. The inn's door swings open, spilling lantern light and the smell of grilled fish into the rain. A drunk stumbles out, cursing the weather, and lurches down the alley to your left. You count the seconds. Three bodyguards, all armed with curved swords. One merchant, soft-handed and arrogant. The Kitsune's instructions were clear: Take the ledger. Leave no witnesses who can describe your face. Your fingers brush the hilt of your knife. But something holds you back. A flicker of movement on the rooftop across the street—a silhouette, darker than the night, crouched against the chimney. You freeze. The figure is watching the inn. Watching the same door. Another player in this game, or perhaps something else entirely. The rain muffles sound, but you catch the faintest whisper of cloth against tile as the figure shifts position. The drunk has disappeared into the maze of alleys. The inn door remains closed. Your target is still inside, warm and dry and unaware. And you are not alone.

You tear your gaze away from the rooftop silhouette and force your eyes to scan the alley. The rain has turned the ground to slick mud, and the shadows pool thick between the buildings. Your hand leaves the knife hilt. Heko. The word surfaces from somewhere in your memory—a length of iron pipe, or perhaps a wooden beam, something solid e...

You tear your gaze away from the rooftop silhouette and force your eyes to scan the alley. The rain has turned the ground to slick mud, and the shadows pool thick between the buildings. Your hand leaves the knife hilt. Heko. The word surfaces from somewhere in your memory—a length of iron pipe, or perhaps a wooden beam, something solid enough to crack a skull without leaving the telltale mark of a blade. The Kitsune said no witnesses who can describe your face. A knife is quick, but it's also personal. Blood tells stories. You crouch lower, running your fingers along the base of the apothecary's wall. Nothing. Just wet stone and moss. You shift to the left, toward the mouth of the alley where the drunk disappeared, and your boot brushes against something half-buried in the mud. A length of iron. Old, rusted, maybe a broken hinge from a gate or a piece of cart hardware. You stoop and pull it free. It's about the length of your forearm, heavy at one end where the rust has flaked into jagged edges, lighter at the other where it might have once been a handle. Not elegant. Not clean. But it will do. You weigh it in your hand, testing the balance. The rust flakes off against your palm, leaving a red-brown stain that the rain quickly washes away. It's not a weapon you'd choose, but it's a weapon you have, and that's what matters. The rooftop figure hasn't moved. You glance up again, squinting through the curtain of rain. Still there. Still watching. The silhouette is too still for a drunk or a curious onlooker. Too deliberate. Whoever they are, they're waiting for something. The inn door creaks. You press yourself flat against the wall, the iron rod held tight against your thigh. A servant steps out, a young woman with a shawl pulled over her head, carrying a bucket of slops. She empties it into the gutter without looking up, then hurries back inside. The door swings shut, and the street falls silent again except for the drumming of rain on slate and wood. Your heart beats steady. Controlled. You've done this before, though never for this much silver. Never for a name like the Kitsune. The Warm Kettle's windows glow with warm lantern light. Through the blurred glass, you can see the shapes of men moving, laughing, drinking. Gorobei's silhouette is unmistakable—broad-shouldered, gesturing wildly as he tells some story. His bodyguards sit at a separate table, close enough to react, far enough to give him space. You have the weapon. You have the plan. But the figure on the rooftop remains a question mark, and questions get people killed in Ashihara.

The words leave your mouth before you fully decide to speak them, low and rough, carried by the rain toward the rooftop. "There's no where else you can go!" The sound hangs in the wet air, swallowed almost immediately by the drumming of water on slate. For a moment, nothing happens. The silhouette remains frozen against the chimney, a da...

The words leave your mouth before you fully decide to speak them, low and rough, carried by the rain toward the rooftop. "There's no where else you can go!" The sound hangs in the wet air, swallowed almost immediately by the drumming of water on slate. For a moment, nothing happens. The silhouette remains frozen against the chimney, a dark cutout against the deeper black of the sky. You wonder if they heard you at all, or if the rain stole your voice before it reached them. Then the figure moves. Not a flinch or a shift of weight, but a deliberate turn of the head. You feel the weight of their attention settle on you like a hand on your shoulder. Still they don't speak, don't rise, don't flee. They simply watch, and the silence between you stretches taut as a bowstring. You grip the iron rod tighter, the rusted metal cold and rough against your palm. The rain runs down your neck, under your collar, but you barely feel it now. Every nerve is tuned to that shadow on the roof, waiting for the moment it decides to act. The inn door creaks again. You force yourself to look away, just for a heartbeat. A drunk stumbles out into the rain, fumbling with his belt, and lurches toward the alley wall to relieve himself. He hasn't seen you yet. His back is turned, his attention fixed on the simple business of emptying his bladder against the wet stone. The moment stretches. You could move now, slip past him while he's occupied, circle around to the inn's side entrance. The plan is still there, waiting for you to pick it up. Gorobei's ledger. Fifty silver pieces. A name that could open doors or close them forever. But the rooftop figure hasn't left. You glance up again, and this time you catch something new—a shift in their posture, a slight lean forward as if they're about to stand. Your heart ticks faster, but your hand stays steady on the rod. You've been in worse spots. Cornered in tighter alleys. But never with someone watching from above, someone who saw you pick up the weapon, someone who heard you speak. The drunk finishes, belches, and shuffles back toward the inn door. He doesn't see you. Doesn't hear you. The door swings shut behind him, and the street is empty again. The silhouette on the roof rises slowly, unfolding into a standing position with a fluid grace that sends a cold prickle down your spine. They're tall. Lean. And they're looking directly at you. The rain keeps falling.