The room is warm, lit by the low light of dusk filtering through the paper panels. The kotatsu sits at the center like a small world of its own. One of my sisters is asleep there, her cheek pressed against the wood, breathing slowly, as if nothing important were about to happen today… which is unfair, because today is important.

I sit on the zabuton, straight-backed and calm. I am fifteen years old. I am Funami. And here, calm is not a pose—it’s a habit. So is endurance. Cold, heat, long silences… you learn all of that before you learn how to read.

Across from me sits my progenitor.

He wears his red hakama, immaculate—bright enough to command respect, worn enough to say “I have nothing left to prove.” In one hand, he holds an orange. He peels it patiently, as if time itself cannot touch him. Beside him, a bowl full of oranges glows softly: abundance, fortune, continuity. As long as there are oranges, the clan still stands.

He takes a bite.

Silence.

Then, just as I am mentally bracing myself for a solemn speech about duty, blood, and the Empire—

—Today, you choose your role, he says calmly.

I blink.

Before I can answer, another one of my little sisters appears from the hallway, peeking in like a curious spirit. She looks at the scene. Looks at the bowl. Looks at our father. With absolute shamelessness, she takes an orange and pockets it as if it were part of the furniture.

Our progenitor watches her.

Sighs.

And, as if the universe itself decided to ease the tension a little, his tone shifts. Warmer. Less Funami general, more father surrounded by daughters.

—Well… he says. I suppose we don’t need that much seriousness.

He looks back at me.

—When I say “role,” I don’t mean theater, he adds, gesturing with the orange. It’s like those strange games you explained… Dungeon and Dragon, was it?

I nod, surprised.

—A role is a class. What you do. How you fight. How you serve. How likely you are to survive.

My nosy sister is already peeling her orange in silence. The one who was sleeping still has no idea what’s going on.

My father smiles faintly.

—So listen carefully, he says. Today, you’re not just choosing what you’ll do… you’re choosing what kind of Funami you’re going to be.