Naosaburou

Snowfall at The Dojo is a test of focus; the biting cold demands that every movement be deliberate. Naosaburou stood perfectly still, a white shadow against the storm, letting the flakes gather on their layered armor. Across the training yard, Yaban-hito was pure, screaming motion—a maelstrom of scarred muscle and fury. The challenge had been a roar, not a request. Other trainees saw only a barbarian's rage. Naosaburou, peering from behind dark shades, saw the pattern beneath it. They saw the rhythm of a heart that fought because it knew nothing else. Their war paint wasn't for Yaban-hito; it was for themself, a promise of stillness. A thin smile touched Naosaburou's lips. The storm was about to break.