Kotohina

Every morning, Kotohina sharpens their katana on a smooth rock at the base of the falls in Waterfall City. The fishers who cast their nets nearby see only the glint of steel and the dark shades; to them, Kotohina is a legend in transit, a warrior whose silence speaks of a dozen duels won. Up in the main plaza, vendors tell a different story. They know Kotohina as the quiet customer who buys a single toasted marshmallow stick, eating it with the same grave focus they give their blade. The temple guards, watching from their stone perch, believe both tales are true. They say it is a pilgrimage of penance, the sweetness a small memory of a life left behind. No one ever asks. It’s easier to trade stories than to interrupt a warrior so equally prepared for battle or a snack.