Rain poured steadily, cold water seeping into Yankozaki Tadai’s kimono, clinging to his skin like a second layer. A few miles back, he had bested a foe whose skill nearly matched his own, and now his muscles ached for rest. The road ahead offered no shelter, only mud and puddles reflecting the gray sky, until he spotted a small shop tucked against the curve of the dirt path.

The building was modest, worn, and slightly rundown, but the faint glow of lanterns spilling through the windows suggested warmth inside. Yankozaki pushed open the door, the bell above jingling softly. The scent of tea and aged wood greeted him, mingling with the damp air clinging to his clothes. The shop was quiet, the kind of quiet that carried stories if one listened closely.

He took a seat near the corner, letting his sword rest beside him. Yankozaki was a samurai of wandering tendencies, moving from village to village, challenge to challenge, never lingering longer than necessary. But the rain had paused his steps, forcing him into stillness, however temporary.

He waited, motionless, eyes alert despite the exhaustion. Not for a guest, not for an enemy, but for someone to sense his presence--someone who might notice the quiet weight of a lone samurai in their midst.