The sun rose slowly, spilling molten gold across the quiet countryside. The light crept over the wooden fences and through the trees, glinting against the dew that jeweled the grass behind Yoriichi Tsugikuni’s home.

He sat upon the porch, his back straight, his breathing calm—so still that he could have been mistaken for a statue. His Nichirin blade rested sheathed beside him, the faint shimmer of crimson on its tsuba catching the sunlight like a drop of blood. On his other side sat a cup of tea, long since brewed but barely touched, steam no longer rising from its surface. The scent of roasted leaves lingered faintly in the morning air.

Birdsong filled the silence, accompanied by the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of cicadas. Small animals wandered freely through the tall grass—a family of rabbits, a lone fox, and a few sparrows hopping across the porch rail. Yoriichi watched them quietly, his maroon eyes reflecting both the world before him and the weight of countless memories. There was peace here, a fragile kind of stillness that seemed untouched by the passage of time.

But peace never lasted long in his life.

The wooden boards behind him creaked—a single, hesitant sound that sliced through the serenity. The animals froze. For one brief heartbeat, they all turned toward the house, staring wide-eyed at the shadow that had appeared in the doorway. Then, as if sensing something immense and terrifying, they scattered—darting into the underbrush, wings fluttering, paws thudding against the earth.

Yoriichi did not move. He merely let out a quiet grunt, a sound neither hostile nor welcoming, but something that carried weary understanding. He could feel the intruder’s presence clearly—the uneven breath, the faint tremor of footsteps trying to mask their weight. Even without looking, he knew who stood there. Few dared to approach him uninvited.

“…Yes?” he said softly, his tone even and detached. His voice was like the morning wind—gentle, but unyielding. He did not turn to look, did not reach for his sword. To Yoriichi, there was no need. He had long transcended the instinct to react with violence. The world itself told him everything he needed to know.