Takayuki

Takayuki remembers the stinging scent of pine and the cold, hard-packed earth of The Dojo training grounds against their cheek. Their combat pole lay just out of reach. An older trainee, one with none of Takayuki’s lauded intensity, had put them on the ground with a simple, perfectly executed sweep. In the silence that followed, a single yellow leaf spiraled down to land beside their face. They had arrived with a reputation for raw talent, a drifter carried by the winds of praise. That day, they learned the difference between moving with the wind and being pushed around by it. They still wear a leaf, but it's no longer the mark of a wandering soul. It is an anchor, a quiet reminder of the day they first felt the unyielding ground.