A thick fog shrouded the mountain peaks, as if ancient spirits had hidden the land from prying eyes. At the foot of the holy mountain Takayama lay the city of Fusen, the heart of the Asahi clan, a place where honor was measured not by words but by the ringing of a katana. Narrow streets, tiled houses, and tall pagodas with bells ringing in the wind created a sense of a world in which time flowed, obeying the rhythms of nature.

But that evening the sky trembled.

First there was a hum - deep, almost unearthly. The earth trembled, the tea in the cups swayed. From the clouds, flashing with lights, strange masses began to descend - metallic, smooth, sparkling like a sword blade in the sun. Their shape resembled the armor of ancient warriors, but no blacksmith in Fusen could have forged something like this.

Crowds gathered in the streets, kneeling as the ships – for lack of a better name – touched down. People whispered: kami... gods...

From the wombs of these flying temples emerged beings – tall, in glittering robes, with glowing eyes and faces hidden behind masks reminiscent of Noh theatrical images. They carried not weapons but shining staffs, and spoke in a language that sounded like the rustling of leaves in the wind.

It was not divine chariots that descended, but angular, metallic structures, alien to earthly beauty. From the insides of these machines, as if from the mouths of mechanical monsters, they emerged - the new "gods".

Their appearance was far from the majestic humanoids that people imagined. They moved on two muscular legs covered in scaly armor, reminiscent of the shell of ancient reptiles. Their bodies were elongated and flexible, with long tails dragging behind them, like an extension of their mechanized vehicles.

The heads of these creatures were crowned with bony ridges and sharp spikes, and in place of faces there were gaping slits behind which cold, vertical pupils shimmered. Their jaws seemed strong and powerful, studded with sharp, jagged teeth. Their skin, visible through the cracks in their armor, was a greenish-gray tint, with a metallic sheen where it met their exoskeletons.

Their limbs ended in three-fingered paws with sharp claws that could easily tear through stone and metal. They moved with a sharp, angular grace, combining the swiftness of a predator with mechanical precision.

Their robes were made of hard, metal plates, organically woven into their scaly skin. Strange devices were visible on their shoulders and backs, emitting a faint blue glow, like sources of invisible energy. In their hands they held smooth, black objects that emitted a faint electrical crackle when they moved.

Their voices were devoid of melody, sounding like the grinding of metal and the hiss of steam, adding up to alien, guttural sounds incomprehensible to the human ear. Their cold, vertical pupils showed no compassion or understanding, only calculated cruelty and contempt for those they considered an inferior race.

These lizard-like creatures who descended on their thundering machines became the new gods of Japan, gods of fear and enslavement, whose alien appearance was forever etched into the memory of generations, like a nightmare from the stars.

The daimyo of the Asahi clan, Lord Kanjiro, was the first to step forward. His steps were confident, but his heart was beating fast. He dropped to one knee and said:

“If you are kami, coming from the Heavenly Realms, accept my respects. Lead us to the light, as Susanoo led his sword through the darkness.”

The beings were silent. But their gaze, piercing and calm, seemed to study each soul.

The light from the celestial ships cast long shadows, and these shadows trembled on the stone pavement like souls before a judgement. The armored samurai bowed one by one before their new masters - tall beings whose appearance defied earthly description. Their knees touched the ground, their heads dropped, their swords froze in their sheaths - a symbol of devotion and submission.

But one warrior remained standing.

He was tall, with eyes that glittered brighter than the steel of his katana. His armor was old, battle-worn, but unbroken. It was Rentaro of the Igarashi clan, whose name was known even in the north of the country. He did not move, and against the background of the bowed figures, his silhouette resembled a towering cliff in the middle of a stormy sea.

“These are not kami!” Rentaro’s voice echoed across the square. “These are not gods! I feel fear in their presence, not a blessing! True gods do not hide their faces, do not bring iron and lightning with them!”

The people froze. Even the wind died down, as if nature itself wanted to hear what would happen next.

One of the beings standing in the center raised his hand. A blinding light flashed in his palm. The next second, a crack was heard, as if thunder had struck the earth itself.

Rentaro collapsed before he could even reach his sword.

Where he stood, only a charred mark remained.

The samurai did not dare look up. Kanjiro clenched his fists, but remained silent.

Thus ended the first meeting with the gods. And thus began the division in hearts: between fear and faith, between submission and doubt.