Hanzaki’s eyes were too tired for a man so young; too baggy. Too darkened.

The tenth-generation shōgun closed them whilst suspended in temporary repose, sitting cross-legged as he ate from a small bowl of white rice.

Even his chopsticks’ motions were minimalistic.

“Kujosuki… Shihanyu…” he mutely prayed between bites.

Then, without any prior warning, the husky jolted up his bowl’s remaining rice grains, witnessing their aerial ascension before grabbing at the katana sheathed and hoisted at his waist, simultaneously switching his sitting posture to seiza.

Hishiro-Buzoku Battojutsu.

With that, in a moment’s notice—or lack thereof—the grains were severed into their halves. The shogūn had already stood up and began to slowly sheathe his katanas.

“…Father.”