Shirokurou

The katana Shirokurou carries has not been drawn in a decade. Its edge remains flawless, a cruel memory of a time when they were the city's finest blade mystic, teaching clarity of spirit in the high plaza where a great stone fish gazes over the falls. But clarity is fragile. During a sudden raid, a single moment of hesitation sent their youngest student over the precipice. Shirokurou saw only a flash of a training robe against the white spray before they were gone. They have worn a mask ever since, hiding from the faces that remember their promise, not their failure. They abandoned the pale stone temples of the upper city for the docks below, where the endless roar of the water drowns out everything but the guilt. The sword is a penance they can never set down.