Kyoko

What use is a warrior's code to one who only trades in whispers? This is the question Kyoko contemplates by the lake at The Dojo, fishing rod in hand. To the sparring trainees, they are just a merchant in a strangely formal shirt and tie, a calm presence offering fresh catches. No one looks too closely at the gilded bushidō mark on their face, assuming it's an affectation. They are wrong. The mark is a brand, a leash. The fishing rod is a prop. Kyoko doesn't sell fish; they trade in information. Every overheard strategy, every whispered grievance, is currency. They once failed a master spectacularly, and this quiet life of espionage is their sentence—a gilded cage where they must uphold a code of silence while surrounded by the honorable noise of warriors.