The mist clung to the tall grass of the Sekigahara plains, smelling of damp earth and impending iron. Two men stood twenty paces apart, motionless as weathered statues.

Should I focus more on the of the fighters? Would you prefer a more supernatural or realistic tone?

To the east stood Lord Sakai, his armor a deep crimson laced with gold. He was a man of the old world—heavy, deliberate, and bound by the weight of his ancestors. His hand rested on the hilt of a blade forged in the fires of Bizen, a soul of folded steel that had tasted blood for three generations.