Harutarou

Every morning, Harutarou touches the jagged scar that splits their cheek, hoping to feel a sting of memory, of pain—anything other than the placid joy that greets them. They recall fragments: a sparring partner with a kind laugh, the weight of a different uniform, a promise made under pale trees. Then the memory cuts to the crimson glow of The Underworld. It wasn't a blade that broke them during the ambush, but a cultist's dying curse. It didn't just wound their face; it scooped out all sorrow and fear, leaving only a permanent, gleeful sheen. Like the amnesiac Kiti they've heard tales of, a core part of their identity is gone. They still train with their katana, the movements flawless and deadly, but it's the smile of a stranger wielding the blade.