Spring, 1627.

Far, far from any villages or civilization that could restrict his strength or lies, a wolf-man stood firm.

Fur as white as nothingness itself his hues, his black hair soared freely in the air; armor of gold as proud as the concept and other bright colors remained as a thing above all aside from his blade.

It was a samurai, and he stared intently at the endless depth of the waterfall he stood atop with before speaking, his boastfulness and intent high.

”...The Fujinoto have had name since the earlier days of Muromachi. I am one of the most recent… and the strongest,” he affirmed to himself, the helmet of white and gold still atop his long locks.

…

Then, Arashi stopped.

…

“To anyone whom disagrees… To anyone whom dares use their mouths to say otherwise…”