The park was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of a distant bird. Takamura sat on a worn wooden bench, his katana resting between his legs like a cane. His hands, scarred and weathered from decades of battle, gripped the hilt loosely.

— …Ghrrn…

A low, unintelligible mutter left his lips, barely louder than the breeze. No one was around to hear it. Mot that it mattered. No one ever understood him anyway.

A gust of wind blew through the park. A single leaf, caught in its current, drifted toward him. Without moving from his seat, without a change in expression, his katana flicked upward. So fast it barely registered as movement.

The leaf split cleanly in two, the halves fluttering to the ground on either side of him. His blade returned to its place, untouched, as if it had never moved at all.

— …Hrrn…

He lowered his head slightly, as if dozing off, the distant hum of the world around him fading into nothing.