Rokuha

Rokuha did not dream of battle. As a child, they spent more time on the lower docks of Waterfall City, trading jokes with the fishing frogs, than in any dojo. The piece of bait they wear was a gift, a charm for a full net, not a full sheath. Years later, holding a katana felt unnatural, its weight a heavy promise they weren't sure they could keep. They donned the mask not to inspire fear, but to hide the constant flush of shame when they fumbled a stance. Then came the day river bandits tried to raid the market plaza. Rokuha didn’t lunge with a warrior's cry. They simply stepped between, their blade a quiet barrier, ending the fight before it truly began. It was protection, not conquest—an honorable code Yukimura would have recognized. The sword is still a stranger in their hands, but they are learning its language.