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Description
The Hero of Time stands before a rickety bridge, its ancient planks swaying ominously above a misty cavern. Across the bridge is a great temple, its darkened doors and rotting, steepled roofs seemingly barren of any life.

Link knows better.

He grips the bridge’s ropes, tests his weight on the first plank. It holds, and he continues on, each further step more careful than the last. He keeps his eyes on the temple, its main door refusing to show any indication that he’s getting closer, while the swirling mist below creeps up alongside his vision, casting phantoms that make the hero twitch from nerves.

He doesn’t know how much time had passes before a deep whisper addresses him from the abyss. “You are clearly a mighty warrior,” it says, its voice rough and arrogant. “Your pointed ears are proof enough of that, boy!” The voice bursts into mad hysterics, and Link ignores it, keeps moving in his cautious gait.

He only stops when the bridge rattles beneath him.

“That’s right, boy,” the voice calls, louder now. “Turn back now, the secrets here are not worth your own life.”

Link, no stranger to risking his life for things far less significant than secrets, strengthens his resolve, takes another step. This time the plank shatters in two beneath his foot, and the voice laughs, an echoey taunt that swims through the ocean of mist.

“You’re a brave one, boy,” it says, “but with bravery comes grave stupidity.”

The bridge rattles more and Link braces himself on its ropes. Shingles fall from the temple’s roof, rocks from the cliff face it resides on as something rumbles up violently from the cavern below. One of the bridge’s supports from is knocked loose in the chaos, but just as Link reaches for his hookshot, the rumbling ceases.

The hero looks around, slowly moves his hand from his hookshot to his sword. The moment he grips its blue handle, the rumbling returns, and the voice shows its true form.

It bursts up from the mist, a black serpent with a fiery red mane along its center. Wild white eyes with pinpoint pupils and fiery eyebrows gaze at the hero in its arcing flight, while gnashing, salivating teeth let loose its booming laughter.

“If you won’t turn back yourself,” it screams, “then allow me the pleasure of making you!”

The hero does not draw his sword, focuses on keeping himself attached to the bridge as it begins shaking harder than ever. He watches with wide eyes when an appendage bursts forth from the serpent’s side, grows into a grotesque, dripping black arm. It flexes its new weapon, stares at Link with a sinister laugh before swiping at the bridge’s center.

The hero panics in freefall for a moment, but doesn’t let it stop him from pulling his hookshot out. He launches it at the falling bridge, thanks the goddesses above when it makes its mark in a stable plank. He retracts the chain, pulls himself toward the bridge as it slaps against the cliff. He latches his hands onto the plank, turns around with wide eyes to see he’s now in the thick of the mist.

All he can see is the cliff before him, and the planks leading up in a ladder above him. He stashes his hookshot away, begins climbing just as carefully as he’d been walking.

The serpent laughs from inside its smokey domain. “Poor little elf boy,” it says, its mocking voice emanating from every tendril of mist that crawls across the hero’s skin. “This place has many secrets, but I will start with a simple one. . .”

Link pulls himself up to the next plank, stops when he hears the serpent’s answer:

“I can see you.”

Something slithers its way through the mist and the hero pulls his sword free, its sacred metal glistening even in the suffocating fog. He holds onto the bridge with one hand, slashes mightily behind himself with the other. The serpent screams in agony upon contact with the blade, and Link watches as its newly grown arm sizzles and deteriorates into white oblivion.

“NO!” the beast howls. “That accursed Gerudo promised me there would be no more blades like this!” The mist begins to twist and turn, weaken and dissipate. It sticks to the serpent’s black skin, bleaches it a sickly pearl while its eyes crack into jaundiced yellow. Their small pupils stare at the hero. “I will return. . .” it croaks, its skin cracking into windswept dust.

“. . . samurai,” it finishes, and spirals into obscurity.

Link doesn’t know what to make of the beast’s words, sheaths his sword and continues climbing. With the mist gone he can see the cliff’s edge, and the mercifully strong bridge supports that still cling tightly to the ground.

He pulls himself up the final plank with a heavy grunt, sits on the edge with a bottle of Lon Lon Milk handy. He chugs half the bottle, stashes it away, and heads into the temple’s main hall.

Torches along the walls explode into life the very second his foot passes its threshold. He is assaulted with visions of past lives, great warriors facing nefarious beasts in ruined castles, in ocean depths, in deep dungeons. He holds his head, composes himself once the visions cease in their severity. He acknowledges the room’s one feature, flickering in the light of the surrounding torches:

A statue of a robed man with his back turned to the hero. His hair is pulled into a tight bun, and his hand rests on the grip of his slender blade, making Link nervous to take even just one step. He didn’t trust statues with weapons.

Mustering his courage, he steps further into the vacuous room, approaches the statue with one hand on his own blade. The stone man remains still. Link reaches out a hand to touch it when he notices something inscribed at its base: musical notes, familiar ones.

The Song of Time.

He pulls out his ocarina, not without a bit of excitement, and deftly plays the sacred tune. Its melody fills the room with vibrant acoustics, each note hanging in the air as if it would never leave; as if it called this place home.

As the hero finishes the final note with a flourish, the statue begins to crack. Cotton white robes appear from under the crumbling stone, then pale skin, and yellow designs upon the once-stone swordsman’s sheath. Reminded of the cracking serpent from outside, Link draws his blade and shield, ready to face his new foe.

Yet when the final chip of rock falls to the ground, the freed man does not strike. He calmly lets go of his blade, lowers his arms to his sides. “You have come a long way,” he says, his voice deep with an accent not quite used to the tongue he speaks. “And you have a long way still.”

Link lowers his weaponry, regards the man with curious eyes.

He turns around, meets Link with dark, narrow eyes and a warm smile. “I am here to help you best your greatest foe,” he says, placing his hands together. “They call me Jack.

“Samurai Jack.”

Description
The Hero of Time stands before a rickety bridge, its ancient planks swaying ominously above a misty cavern. Across the bridge is a great temple, its darkened doors and rotting, steepled roofs seemingly barren of any life.

Link knows better.

He grips the bridge’s ropes, tests his weight on the first plank. It holds, and he continues on, each further step more careful than the last. He keeps his eyes on the temple, its main door refusing to show any indication that he’s getting closer, while the swirling mist below creeps up alongside his vision, casting phantoms that make the hero twitch from nerves.

He doesn’t know how much time had passes before a deep whisper addresses him from the abyss. “You are clearly a mighty warrior,” it says, its voice rough and arrogant. “Your pointed ears are proof enough of that, boy!” The voice bursts into mad hysterics, and Link ignores it, keeps moving in his cautious gait.

He only stops when the bridge rattles beneath him.

“That’s right, boy,” the voice calls, louder now. “Turn back now, the secrets here are not worth your own life.”

Link, no stranger to risking his life for things far less significant than secrets, strengthens his resolve, takes another step. This time the plank shatters in two beneath his foot, and the voice laughs, an echoey taunt that swims through the ocean of mist.

“You’re a brave one, boy,” it says, “but with bravery comes grave stupidity.”

The bridge rattles more and Link braces himself on its ropes. Shingles fall from the temple’s roof, rocks from the cliff face it resides on as something rumbles up violently from the cavern below. One of the bridge’s supports from is knocked loose in the chaos, but just as Link reaches for his hookshot, the rumbling ceases.

The hero looks around, slowly moves his hand from his hookshot to his sword. The moment he grips its blue handle, the rumbling returns, and the voice shows its true form.

It bursts up from the mist, a black serpent with a fiery red mane along its center. Wild white eyes with pinpoint pupils and fiery eyebrows gaze at the hero in its arcing flight, while gnashing, salivating teeth let loose its booming laughter.

“If you won’t turn back yourself,” it screams, “then allow me the pleasure of making you!”

The hero does not draw his sword, focuses on keeping himself attached to the bridge as it begins shaking harder than ever. He watches with wide eyes when an appendage bursts forth from the serpent’s side, grows into a grotesque, dripping black arm. It flexes its new weapon, stares at Link with a sinister laugh before swiping at the bridge’s center.

The hero panics in freefall for a moment, but doesn’t let it stop him from pulling his hookshot out. He launches it at the falling bridge, thanks the goddesses above when it makes its mark in a stable plank. He retracts the chain, pulls himself toward the bridge as it slaps against the cliff. He latches his hands onto the plank, turns around with wide eyes to see he’s now in the thick of the mist.

All he can see is the cliff before him, and the planks leading up in a ladder above him. He stashes his hookshot away, begins climbing just as carefully as he’d been walking.

The serpent laughs from inside its smokey domain. “Poor little elf boy,” it says, its mocking voice emanating from every tendril of mist that crawls across the hero’s skin. “This place has many secrets, but I will start with a simple one. . .”

Link pulls himself up to the next plank, stops when he hears the serpent’s answer:

“I can see you.”

Something slithers its way through the mist and the hero pulls his sword free, its sacred metal glistening even in the suffocating fog. He holds onto the bridge with one hand, slashes mightily behind himself with the other. The serpent screams in agony upon contact with the blade, and Link watches as its newly grown arm sizzles and deteriorates into white oblivion.

“NO!” the beast howls. “That accursed Gerudo promised me there would be no more blades like this!” The mist begins to twist and turn, weaken and dissipate. It sticks to the serpent’s black skin, bleaches it a sickly pearl while its eyes crack into jaundiced yellow. Their small pupils stare at the hero. “I will return. . .” it croaks, its skin cracking into windswept dust.

“. . . samurai,” it finishes, and spirals into obscurity.

Link doesn’t know what to make of the beast’s words, sheaths his sword and continues climbing. With the mist gone he can see the cliff’s edge, and the mercifully strong bridge supports that still cling tightly to the ground.

He pulls himself up the final plank with a heavy grunt, sits on the edge with a bottle of Lon Lon Milk handy. He chugs half the bottle, stashes it away, and heads into the temple’s main hall.

Torches along the walls explode into life the very second his foot passes its threshold. He is assaulted with visions of past lives, great warriors facing nefarious beasts in ruined castles, in ocean depths, in deep dungeons. He holds his head, composes himself once the visions cease in their severity. He acknowledges the room’s one feature, flickering in the light of the surrounding torches:

A statue of a robed man with his back turned to the hero. His hair is pulled into a tight bun, and his hand rests on the grip of his slender blade, making Link nervous to take even just one step. He didn’t trust statues with weapons.

Mustering his courage, he steps further into the vacuous room, approaches the statue with one hand on his own blade. The stone man remains still. Link reaches out a hand to touch it when he notices something inscribed at its base: musical notes, familiar ones.

The Song of Time.

He pulls out his ocarina, not without a bit of excitement, and deftly plays the sacred tune. Its melody fills the room with vibrant acoustics, each note hanging in the air as if it would never leave; as if it called this place home.

As the hero finishes the final note with a flourish, the statue begins to crack. Cotton white robes appear from under the crumbling stone, then pale skin, and yellow designs upon the once-stone swordsman’s sheath. Reminded of the cracking serpent from outside, Link draws his blade and shield, ready to face his new foe.

Yet when the final chip of rock falls to the ground, the freed man does not strike. He calmly lets go of his blade, lowers his arms to his sides. “You have come a long way,” he says, his voice deep with an accent not quite used to the tongue he speaks. “And you have a long way still.”

Link lowers his weaponry, regards the man with curious eyes.

He turns around, meets Link with dark, narrow eyes and a warm smile. “I am here to help you best your greatest foe,” he says, placing his hands together. “They call me Jack.

“Samurai Jack.”