Arifumi

The old masters at The Dojo have a saying: a deal sealed in sunlight can still cast a shadow by nightfall. Arifumi was standing in that shadow now, the cold steel of a client’s blade inches from their throat. Their own “Adventure Sword”—a gaudy thing taken as payment for a debt—was held in a trembling grip, its polished surface reflecting their own wide, terrified eyes. They were a merchant, not a warrior. Their trade was in rare whetstones and perfectly balanced training staffs, not life-or-death duels. This particular trainee, however, believed payment was optional. Arifumi’s mind raced, not through sword forms, but through inventory lists. Tucked in their vest was a small pouch of Dust Lily pollen, an irritant so potent it made grown chimps weep. A polished gentleman to the end, they simply bowed their head and sneezed.