In the quiet solitude of his mind, Shintarō Mayoi knew the truth: the line between protector and monster was a thin, shifting thing. It existed only as long as you were on the right side of the wall.
The wall in question was made of gray, unmortared stone, a simple barrier surrounding a clearing in the endless, fire-prone forests of the Land of Fire. Within the clearing sat his home and the small collection of houses that comprised his village. It was peaceful. It was safe. And that safety was bought with a terrifying price tag.
At eighteen, Shintarō was a quiet, unassuming young man with dark, observant eyes. He often tended the fields or a small, peculiar garden near the forest edge—a garden he cultivated with great care. He was a self-taught ninja, a ghost from another world who had arrived at thirteen with the memories of a psychology major and film enthusiast. The occasional bandit raids of his youth had ceased long ago, replaced by a pervasive, chilling silence.
Tonight, the silence was broken.
A group of shinobi from the Hidden Stone Village, dispatched on a mission to investigate the rumors of a "haunted forest" and secure a potential tactical advantage in the region, approached the clearing. There were four of them, each arrogant and confident in their power.
"A simple stone wall," the leader, a bulky man with a scar across his nose, scoffed. "They say a single genjutsu user lives here. This will be an easy mission."
They had heard the rumors, of course, but as proud, battle-hardened ninja, they dismissed them as local superstition. The barrier was invisible, a passive field tied to the perimeter. Shintarō watched them approach from the window of his home, a faint flicker of chakra in his eyes as he monitored their movements through the seal network he had laid five years prior.
The first ninja, a scout with a chakra-enhanced body, stepped over the threshold of the invisible line.
Nothing.
"It's just talk," the scout reported back, a smug grin on his face. "No barrier, no genjutsu."
Shintarō, miles away from the fight, allowed himself a small, cold smile. The genjutsu had begun the moment he crossed the line.
The four ninja entered the clearing, their movements confident. The air was still. The only sound was the crunch of their boots on the gravel.
Suddenly, the scout in the front thought he saw something move in his peripheral vision. A shadow, a fleeting shape behind a large stone. He spun around, kunai in hand.
Nothing.
"Everything alright, Jiro?" the leader asked.
"Yeah, just... thought a squirrel or something," Jiro muttered, his heart beating faster.
They continued. The path seemed to stretch longer than it should. The air grew colder. A faint sound began: drip... drip... drip...
"Hear that?" another ninja whispered.
"Water," the leader replied dismissively.
They looked around. There was no water source. The sound continued, its source impossible to pinpoint. Paranoia began to seep in. Jiro, now hyper-vigilant, started seeing shadows more frequently. Not squirrels, but shapes that looked almost human, vanishing as soon as he looked directly at them.
Shintarō simply observed. The ninja hadn't created the monsters. Their own brains, filling in the gaps of his subtle suggestions, were doing that. They were walking into their own Silent Hill.One of the ninja, a young man who was beginning to feel a sense of overwhelming dread, stopped.
"I don't like this," he said, his voice shaky. "My 'Kai' isn't working. We should turn back."
The leader turned, his face a mask of contempt. "Turn back? We're Stone Village ninja. We don't retreat from a ghost story. Keep moving."
The young man hesitated, then, filled with a surge of pride, marched forward, away from the path of easy escape.
Shintarō Mayoi watched the screen of his mind and noted another participant had chosen their fate. The games had just begun.