Under the bruised sky, the moon spills silver on rooftops where shadows sharpen their edges. The undead ninjas stir—bones clicking in rhythm, joints creaking like old hinges, their tattered garments whispering ghostly secrets as they rise. Each warrior’s mask is cracked, but their eyes gleam with eternal purpose. The battlefield calls them, and they answer—not with words, but with movement.
A flute wind howls, cueing the first step: a forward dash, blades flashing under night’s velvet cloak. Feet tap-tap-tap across crumbling tiles—silent as falling leaves, precise as a heartbeat’s stutter. They weave in and out of each other’s reach, like moths flirting with flame. This is no ordinary combat. No simple skirmish. It is a dance.
One leaps through the fog, spinning midair, katana slicing arcs through the night like ribbons of dark silk. Another counters, ducking low, bones clicking in perfect sync with the twang of a shuriken flung wide. Sparks erupt as weapons collide—flashes of light that burn for an instant, only to vanish, swallowed by the hungry dark. Their movements are feral yet deliberate, improvisation stitched over ancient choreography. Each warrior feels the others’ intent before it manifests—like lightning sensing rain before the storm cracks open.
The wind shifts, carrying the faint scent of old incense and burning parchment. They pivot with the breeze, never breaking the flow—leaping from walls, somersaulting through the air, vanishing into pools of shadow only to reappear behind an unsuspecting rival. It’s a game of whispers and steel, where strategy courts instinct and chaos flirts with precision.
Laughter echoes—thin, eerie, distant. It comes not from mouths, but from the battle itself. A playful mockery in every clash, as if the night knows this fight has no winners. These undead warriors have fought for centuries, locked in this endless ballet, long past the memory of why. Their bodies may be brittle, but their spirit is unyielding—a flickering flame refusing to die, dancing forever in the void between life and oblivion.
A final flourish spins one of them high into the night, kicking off a wall and vaulting into the misty air, kunai in hand. Another waits below, ready to counter—but not just yet. The timing must be perfect. A hair’s breadth too soon, and the dance will fall apart. Too late, and… well, there is no such thing as too late here. Time is as irrelevant as mercy.
And then, just as the mist thickens and the moon dips behind the clouds, they freeze. A perfect stillness. An elegant pause in mid-motion. Masks facing masks, blades poised to strike. For now, the dance halts, waiting for the next movement to arrive on a breeze, or the breath of dawn.
They are warriors without end, dancers without curtain calls. Underneath the stars’ dim glow, they shift, ghostly and eternal. When the night commands, they will begin again—another duel, another step in this macabre ballet.
For in the world of shadows, the only rule is to keep moving.
