Rikutarou

Rikutarou adjusted the wooly shoulder pads for the tenth time, the unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of how far from home they were. In their village, the sun warmed your back during drills. Here, high on the mountain, the wind was a physical opponent, whipping through bamboo-lined streets under a perpetually purple sky. Their master insisted the freezing air sharpened the mind and the blade. Rikutarou thought it mostly sharpened their appetite for hot tea. They came to this city to earn their white bandana, to become a true swordsman. But every shivering sunrise, they learned the first lesson wasn't swordsmanship; it was figuring out how to stop their fingers from going numb on the katana's hilt.