Ji Bai stepped through the gate forged from thunder and ink.
The familiar shrine—its stone steps, vermilion torii, drifting cherry blossoms—faded behind him, replaced by a realm woven from strokes of ink and bursts of light.
Beneath his feet, the ground felt like layers of unfinished sketches, each sheet of parchment textured and worn, stitched together by faint glowing threads that pulsed with a quiet energy. The seams between the pages shimmered subtly, as if bound by invisible silk weaving them into a single tapestry.
Above him, strings of characters floated in the air—words that trembled gently, drawing close then drifting apart, whispering secrets like echoes from someone's distant dream. Some were clear, others blurred, as if drawn from the depths of his own subconscious.
The sky above slowly rotated, unfolding like a vast scroll. Ink-dark clouds pulsed with veins of lightning, while cherry petals floated upward against the wind—as if time itself had reversed and the laws of the world had bent.
This place did not belong to the Raiden Shogun.
It belonged to Ji Bai.
Ahead, a bridge of glowing light spanned the void, and on it stood Raiden Shogun herself. Her flowing purple hair streamed like living electricity, and her eyes pierced with quiet authority—sharp, deep, and unreadable.
She watched him silently, the weight of centuries in her gaze.
"You have crossed the threshold," she said, voice calm yet commanding.
Ji Bai nodded. "And so have you."
She said nothing for a moment. Then the air around them pulled taut like a tightened string, creating an invisible barrier between them.
"You carry within you a power that does not belong to this era," she said. "The lingering spark of Raidenkyo—once buried, now unearthed."
"I chose to awaken it," Ji Bai answered steadily. "Through brushstrokes, through silence, through choice."
A flicker of complex emotion crossed her eyes. "You are not the first to try to wield that power."
"I do not wield," Ji Bai replied softly. "I respond."
A thunderclap echoed distantly—not fierce, but solemn, like the toll of an ancient bell.
Below the bridge stretched a boundless sea of blank parchment. Beneath the surface, shapes stirred—faces, mountains, gods, battles—unfinished visions of his own creation, waiting patiently for completion.
"This realm holds all you have summoned," Raiden said, "and also what you have tried to avoid."
Ji Bai stepped forward. With each step, new strokes blossomed beneath his feet—light and ink weaving together, the world growing at his will.
"You still do not understand," she said, voice steady and firm. "Creation is not unbounded freedom. It is a heavy responsibility."
Ji Bai met her gaze without flinching. "Then teach me."
A tense silence followed.
Then she raised her hand.
The world convulsed.
Skies tore open with jagged streaks of lightning. The sea below roared alive with ghostly dragons and ancient gods—his drawings, now alive with divine power and fury. This was no betrayal, but a trial.
A test of truth.
"Show me," she said, voice low and unwavering, "that what you create is not mere illusion. Show me it can withstand the storm."
Ji Bai's brush burst into radiant light, the crackling energy merging with his ink.
He ran—not to flee, but to face headlong the dragons, gods, and stories he had once sketched and never finished.
Each step, each stroke pulled threads of power and self together.
He was no longer merely a painter.
He was the brush itself.
And the world waited—holding its breath—to see what he would paint next.