Kiyose

Kiyose never intended to stay. The city, with its constant roar of falling water and sprawling stone steps, was just a place to disappear between contracts. Their gilded mask was a warning, their rebel eyes a promise to be left alone. They spent days training near the pale temple that straddled the rushing river, a lone figure in a Nexus Suit. Then they met a boat builder, someone whose hands were stained with varnish, not blood. This person asked not about Kiyose's victories, but about the strange weave of their grey bandana. In the quiet strength of their new companion, Kiyose found an echo of the peace spoken of in tales of Monku. The rigid warrior's code had always been a solitary burden. But devotion, they learned, is not only for abstract principles. It can also be for the person who waits for you at the bottom of the stairs when the day is done.