Heitarou

Heitarou unsheathed their katana, practicing a swift, decisive draw in a clearing of amber-leaved trees. This was the solitary path of Musashi: discipline, focus, a mind like still water. The routine was shattered by a soft giggle. Standing by the edge of the woods was the village baker, holding a tray of freshly steamed buns. Heitarou’s composure evaporated. Their mouth fell open, and their eyes widened into a fixed, intense stare that had unnerved more than one opponent. The baker, however, seemed immune. “You look like you’re about to fight the wind itself,” they teased, offering a bun. Heitarou accepted, their hand trembling slightly. They were meant to be a mysterious wanderer, but it was hard to look intimidating with powdered sugar on your nose.