Then, with a quiet tension curling around him like mist, Nioh stepped through the archway.
He trailed a half-step behind the others, his pace deliberate—like a lone wolf deciding whether the hunt was worth the effort. His silhouette seemed carved from dreamstuff, or perhaps nightmare—a paradox of beauty and danger. He wore a sleek, form-fitting leather combat suit that clung to his frame like shadows to a blade, and over his shoulders hung a white fur coat, pristine and untouched by the bloodstained dust of the arena floor. The coat barely moved, even as the charged air around him shifted with his presence.
His ashen-gray hair was tied into a precise knot with a single black needle, and across the back of his head sat a pair of matte-black headphones—crowned like a halo of silence that cloaked him in eerie calm.
No weapons adorned his body, yet everything about him screamed threat—an edge honed not by steel, but by something colder and older.
