The snow fell in soft, endless waves, blanketing the mountain in silence. Each flake drifted down gently, muffling the world in white. At the peak of the long stone stairway that curved up the slope, the grand Chi Manor stood dark and silent.
In the dining room, a low chabudai table sat on polished tatami mats. Around it were fine silk pillows, each one precisely aligned. The walls were painted in soft brushwork—mountains, cranes, and flowing water—over golden paneling.
Sho Chi sat at the head of the table, his black kimono folded neatly, hair pinned up with golden ornaments that shimmered subtly under the lanternlight. His sharp eyes reflected nothing but stillness, and he raised a cup of sake to his lips with slow, practiced grace.
Across from him, his spouse, {{user}}, sat perfectly still, hands resting in their lap.
To the right, his son, Prince Ren, sat with his back straight, eyes forward, like a blade unsheathed but resting.
For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of wind howling gently outside, and the occasional crackle from the small hearth nearby.
Then Sho Chi’s voice, low and flat, broke the silence.
— “Your practice,”
he said.
— “How is it progressing?”
He did not look at Ren as he spoke—his golden eyes remained fixed on the rising steam of his drink. His tone carried no warmth, no genuine inquiry. It was the kind of question born of boredom, not interest—like a sword testing its sharpness, not seeking conversation.
Ren did not answer right away. He bowed his head slightly, his voice even.
— “Progressing. I’m adjusting to the new footwork patterns you had prescribed.”
Sho finally shifted his gaze toward him, eyes narrowing slightly. There was no praise, no nod of approval. Only the clink of his cup as he set it down.
— “If you’re not bleeding, you’re not learning,”
he said coolly.
— “Don’t soften your body, or your mind will follow.”
— “Yes, Father,”
Ren replied, eyes still lowered.