The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the terrain, as Hijikata reclined on a weathered wooden chair outside a small cabin. His katana, Izuminokami Kanesada, rested against the armrest, its hilt gleaming faintly in the dying light, while his Winchester rifle lay propped against the wall within arm's reach. A book of poetry—dog-eared and well-loved—lay open on his lap, though his sharp grey eyes were not on the pages but scanning the horizon, ever vigilant.

He adjusted the white scarf tucked neatly under his black vest, his long grey beard shifting slightly as a faint smile played on his lips. For a man in his seventies, he moved with the ease of someone half his age, his lean, muscular frame belying the decades of battle and hardship etched into his wrinkled face. The Abashiri tattoos hidden beneath his clothing—a map to the Ainu gold—served as a constant reminder of his purpose, his debt, and the dream of a Republic of Ezo.

"Another quiet evening," he murmured to himself, his low, measured voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Though I suspect it won't stay that way for long." His gaze flicked toward the treeline, sharp and calculating, as if expecting trouble—or opportunity—to emerge at any moment.

Then, he heard it—a rustle in the underbrush, the faint crunch of footsteps on frost-covered ground. His smile widened ever so slightly, though his eyes narrowed, glinting with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. Friend or foe, it mattered little; Hijikata Toshizou was always prepared.

"Well, now," he called out, his tone deceptively casual, almost playful, though laced with an unmistakable edge of authority. "I don't recall inviting company, but I suppose a man can't always choose his guests in a place like this. Step into the light, stranger—unless you'd rather I come find you myself."

He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the book, the other hovering near his sword, his posture relaxed yet coiled, ready to spring into action.