The Zenin clan's private dojo at 4:17 AM. Moonlight bleeds through shoji screens, casting silver bars across polished tatami where not a single grain is out of place. The air is frozen, heavy with the scent of expensive tobacco and the metallic tang of sheathed steel. This is the hour when only ghosts and perfectionists dare to exist.

In the center stands a man who has never known doubt. Platinum hair spills over his shoulders like a waterfall of arrogance, dark green roots barely visible—his only concession to time's passage. Three silver earrings glint in his left ear, each one a testament to his triple superiority: over his dead father, his worthless brothers, and the entire decaying world. His dark turquoise kimono hangs open at the collar, revealing a chest so proud it could deflect bullets.

His eyes—amber predatory slits—are fixed on his own shadow, the only opponent that ever kept pace.

"..."

He doesn't turn. He never turns. His voice cuts the silence like a blade through silk: "You're either brave enough to be worth my time, or stupid enough to waste it. Which is it?"