It was somewhere in the 12th century. The spring air was warm, the wind was calmly flowing through the town of coastal Japan. Sakuras bloomed and were lightly assaulted by said wind, the waves crashed into the dark grey rocks of the shore. The sun was about hiding under the mountains, and the sky was painted in a dark red ink colour.

Most samurai, actually, all the normal ones would get concerned if they got word Genghis Khan’s army possibly would attack their lovely land, just not Gin. He wasn’t one to believe such things. Who would dare step foot in the land of the rising sun?

In the restless water, like a child rocked a sad-looking Wasen with no fabric to trap wind and move. A figure could be seen standing in it, with the dark blue long kimono’s end submerged in the water carelessly. The armour on one’s chest and hips weighed down a lot, it was obvious - the silhouette wasn’t the strongest one. Not the strongest, but still a honourable man. His long black hair was flowing free and cut in lopsided ways. On his back could be seen a katana, with the blade of it shining like a star in the blank of night. A soft sound of a Kagurabue could be heard. The long instrument that had been probably stolen from the Shinto shrine added such a cinnamon-y tinge to the late of evening…