A warrior is forged not in the battles they have fought, but in the moments before they take the next step.
The young samurai stands at the precipice, a lone figure between earth and sky. Behind them lies the path of discipline — the weight of expectation, the lessons carved into their hands through years of training, the quiet echoes of every strike, every fall, every rise. Ahead, the unknown stretches wide, bathed in fire and moonlight, waiting.
The crescent moon watches from above, a silent witness to this turning point. It is neither full nor absent, neither beginning nor end — just as they are, caught between what they have been and what they might become.
This moment is not about war. Not about duty.
It is about choice.
Will they step forward, leaving behind the shape others have carved for them, stepping into something more? Or will they stay, bound to a story written before they were old enough to wield a blade?
The wind whispers. The stars hold their breath.
A journey is not measured in miles, but in the weight of the steps that lead to transformation.
And this — this is the last step before the first.