Kazumasa

Kazumasa remembered the feeling of the paint drying on their cheeks for the first time, tightening their skin into a serious mask they did not yet understand. Their mentor spoke of destiny, but all Kazumasa could think about was the noodle stall in the lower plaza, its steam rising against the constant mist from the falls. These days, the paint is a daily ritual, but the feeling of being an impostor never quite fades. The ancient sabre they were given feels too heavy, its inscribed history a weight in their hands. A summons delivered this morning from the pale stone temple rests on their table, calling them to a duty they have only ever practiced for. They look from the scroll to the sabre, and then adjust their ramen hat. Which mask are they meant to wear?