Ishirou

Ishirou was once known only by the gleam of their golden mask. They were the last practitioner of a sword art that valued precision over pity, serving a commander who valued victory above all else. The ancient sabre they carry was once a blur of silver, a tool of conquest that left silence in its wake. But the last order they ever followed—to pacify a mountain village that stood in the way of their lord's ambition—left a stain that honor could not polish away. They left the gold behind and traveled to the highlands, a place of spinning monoliths and beautiful sunsets. These days they pore over scrolls in a scholar's robes, their gaze always slightly downcast, as if embarrassed by their own shadow. The sabre hangs on their wall, a silent question in a room full of answers.