Bitsuki

“They read the opponent, but not the world.” The observer’s voice was low, cutting through the chill air of the training grounds. On the polished wood, Bitsuki was on the defensive, their movements technically perfect but rigid. Their sparring partner pressed the advantage, a wooden blade aimed for their chest—a loss they had experienced a dozen times. But this time, as the blow neared, the world through Bitsuki’s glasses shattered. Not into pieces, but into possibilities. The opponent's lunge, the dust motes in the air, the ripples on the distant lake, all became one flowing current. Their oceanic hair surged, and they moved. It was not a block or a parry. They simply stepped where the attack wasn't, their own blade resting gently on the opponent’s shoulder. The first thing they thought wasn't of victory, but of a question only Katana could answer.