The Mourning Curator, an ancestral spirit, clad in tattered robes, stood before Tahara and Otake as sweat began to run down Otake’s spine. The air was thick with tension as the three combatants sized each other up, their weapons gleaming in the dark as the clouds gathered, forming cirrus clouds.
"Ready yourself, Otake," Tahara whispered, his eyes never leaving the spirit.
Otake nodded, his expression stern. "Together then."
Tahara, his katana held at the ready, made the first move, his blade flashing as he lunged forward. The Mourning Curator effortlessly parried the strike, its ethereal form shifting and undulating like smoke. Otake, seeing an opening, swept in with a series of rapid strikes, his sword a blur as he sought to overwhelm the spirit.