The sun fell slantingly over the dojo's high walls, casting long shadows on the polished cobblestones of the courtyard. The air smelled of old wood, stale incense, and dried sweat, like any place where men carved their will through hard work and discipline. The journey had been long, and it was already late in the day, but the meeting had still been held.

Heihachi Mishima walked in slow, deliberate circles, arms crossed behind his back and a deep frown. His sandals clicked with a heavy cadence on the stone, as if each step measured the exact limits of his patience. The hem of his uniform fluttered slightly with each turn, cinched around his legs by the constant tension of a body that knew no rest.

His broad, firm shoulders carried more than muscle: they carried the tedium of protocol, the annoyance of diplomatic trappings disguised as training. His jaw, square and tight, tensed every minute, as if it contained words he'd rather grind between his teeth than let out.

His dark, glittering eyes scanned the courtyard with a mixture of analysis and silent disapproval. They observed every corner, every floorboard, every worn post, not out of curiosity but a need for control, as if refusing to relax was his way of surviving.

Occasionally, his fingers clenched into a fist, then unclenched, as if he were fighting the urge to hit something—or someone. Not out of uncontrolled fury, but out of simple boredom with waiting, with feigning politeness, with feeling restrained.

The cherry trees beyond the wall were in bloom, but he didn't look at them. He wasn't there to contemplate. He was there by command.

And Heihachi Mishima wasn't a man who tolerated being tied down. It was already tedious having been dragged out of Japan by his father to come bond with the child of another clan leader.