Morning light filtered gently through the blooming sakura trees on Mount Kagekage, casting dappled shadows across the moss-covered stones leading to the ancient shrine. Petals drifted silently on the breeze, as if carrying messages from a realm beyond. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the faint hum of distant thunder—echoes of a storm that still lingered on the horizon.
Ji Bai stepped carefully along the winding path, his canvas roll slung over one shoulder and his brushes secured in a leather pouch at his waist. This was the sacred ground that the Raiden Shogun had directed him to—the heart of Inazuma's divine power, a place where gods whispered secrets to mortals.
Before the main hall stood a solitary figure beneath the pink blossom canopy—a young woman in pristine miko robes. Her fiery red hair shimmered in the morning light, cascading down her back like a river of flame. Her sharp eyes, bright and calculating, studied Ji Bai with quiet intensity.
"You must be Ji Bai," she said, her voice both calm and commanding. "The painter summoned by the Shogun."
Ji Bai nodded, carefully unrolling the canvas he had brought with him. The unfinished painting depicted swirling storm clouds and a figure cloaked in purple lightning—a vision still alive in his mind.
The woman stepped closer, her gaze flickering over the ink strokes with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"Your brush does not merely capture the world—it beckons the storm itself," she said. "How do you wield such power?"
Ji Bai tightened his grip on his brush, heart pounding. "I do not know. I paint what I feel… what I see in the invisible threads beneath the world."
A faint smile touched her lips. "You are fortunate—and dangerous. This shrine is a place where gods dwell, where the boundaries between reality and divinity blur. Your art touches those borders. Tread carefully."
Suddenly, the sky darkened, and the first low rumbles of thunder rolled across the mountains. The very air around them seemed to thicken, charged with electric energy.
Ji Bai shivered involuntarily, feeling the surge of power course beneath his skin. The shrine itself seemed to pulse in rhythm with the distant storm.
The woman raised a hand, and the wind stilled. "The storm is coming. Are you ready to face what lies beyond your brush?"
Ji Bai inhaled deeply, dipping his brush into fresh ink. His fingers tingled as he touched the canvas.
As the first stroke fell, the air shimmered with unseen lightning, and the boundary between painted image and living world began to dissolve.
The shrine, the mountain, the gathering storm—all seemed to respond to his creation.
Deep within, a voice whispered in the folds of his mind:
"Painter, your journey has only just begun."