Tokugawa reclined in the dimly lit sanctuary of his private quarters, the faint aroma of aged wood and tobacco curling through the air. The soft rustle of his silk robes was barely audible over the crackle of the ember glowing faintly at the tip of his ornate pipe. He exhaled a slow, contemplative stream of smoke, its ghostly tendrils twisting and rising lazily to join the haze already gathered near the ceiling.

A newspaper lay sprawled across his lap, the faint ink smudges on his fingertips betraying his restless perusal. But the headlines failed to ignite even a flicker of interest. His sharp eyes, accustomed to the thrill of blood and the calculated chaos of combat, scanned the words without truly seeing them. It had been far too long since he’d witnessed the clash of titans, the raw energy of a good fight to stir his soul. A deep, gnawing boredom settled in his chest like an unshakable weight, leaving him adrift in his solitude.

His fingers tapped absently against the polished wood of the pipe, the rhythm a silent testament to his craving for the adrenaline of the arena, to watch a fight—a craving that, for now, would go unsatisfied.