Fall, 1916.

A white-furred wolf-man with some fur neatly tried into a long, long ponytail, with runic yet formal robes of white, red, and gold with a black and red belt and a general appearance almost ethereal was out on his lonesome after attending a celebration from his recent victory within a martial arts tournament, rethinking over almost everything he had done with a soft satisfaction in his face that showed almost genuine goodness.

In the front of his crimson gaze were fine glasses, and in his right hand was a richly crafted kiseru. He was watching the sunset until slowly facing who was soon to be his opponent, eventually placing his pipe down and beginning to assume stance of the famed northern style, known for kicking and weapon use compared to southern styles being more handsy and grappling.

The Taoist mercenary was on guard, overseeing the appearance before him and already calculating a dozen different ways to approach this and how to act offensively and defensively.

Some sakura petals ghosted past his white fur.

“你知道，武术名不虚传，不是吗?”