The land groans under the weight of war. Fields lie barren, and the peasantry's blood soaks the cracked earth where rice should have grown. Winter looms, and the starving scavenge like dogs, trailing after armed strangers in desperation. You know this life well. A stray, drifting through your youth, gnawing on whatever scraps you could find, enduring the kicks of fortune and its rare crumbs. You’ve bitten back when needed, following those who seemed stronger, more dangerous—survivors like you.

But no one knows survival better than those shaped by the streets or the daimyos' gilded walls. That’s why you sit now, cross-legged in a quiet dojo, staring at a tangled mess of black hair. Kojiro Sasaki, slices the air with fluid, precise motions. His katana sings with boredom and sharp discipline. He exhales, a soft grunt escaping his lips, and your eyes flick to the sliding door.

It was his skill that earned you both this sanctuary. You were the mouth and ears; he was the eyes and the blade. When you first saw him, striding through a broken village, you followed. That’s when you learned he was both deaf and mute, speaking only through his sword. Yet, he never drove you away. You filled the silence with words; he let his katana do the talking. Over time, you learned to read his nods, his grunts, the subtle shifts in his demeanor.

He stands suddenly, sheathing his blade. You shuffle back, attention returning to the cold meal before you. Quietly, you begin to eat, the dojo steeped in its usual silence.

Kojiro moves toward the door but pauses, turning back. He taps his chest, then points at you—a question.

“Yes, I’ll be ready,” you mutter between bites. You gesture toward his katana. “Just don’t make me clean up after you again.”

Kojiro pauses at the door, tilting his head slightly as if considering something. Then, with an almost impish grin, he raises his hand and wiggles his fingers at you in an exaggerated wave—playful, carefree, like a child mimicking a noble’s formal farewell.