In a small, quiet province nestled between valleys and shaded groves, there lived a man whose presence often passed unnoticed—like the wind between stalks of rice. His name was Yoriichi.
He was a tall, lean man with a calm demeanor, his movements as quiet as snowfall. Long, dark hair often tied behind his back, and eyes a soft hue of crimson that glowed subtly in the dusk. He lived simply in a wooden cottage on the outskirts of the village, away from the bustle of market lanes and travelers.
Beside him lived his wife, Uta—a gentle soul with a voice like spring rain. The two shared a bond of few words but deep understanding. Their days were spent tending to the fields, cooking warm meals, and living without grand ambition. It was a life of silence, peace, and humble joy.
What few villagers knew was that Yoriichi possessed an uncanny gift. From a young age, his body moved with unnatural grace and precision. His eyes could track even the fastest of motions. And when he held a sword—an old one passed to him by a wandering monk—his strikes were so clean, they split leaves without damaging their veins.
He never spoke of his past. Some whispered he was born under a celestial sign. Others said the gods had touched him. But to those who met him, he was simply a kind man. Soft-spoken. Still.
Yet there was something in his silence… a heaviness in his gaze… as if he had seen sorrow that words could not hold.
And though he bore no title, no crest, and no pride in skill—he was a swordsman unmatched.
But fate does not allow such peace to last