Ichijirou

In the capital, every surface is polished until it blinds you—a city built to project a grandeur it no longer possesses. Ichijirou used to believe in that light, walking marbled halls and accepting the gilded lies. Then came the change, the surge of power that cracked open their world. It felt less like an evolution and more like an excavation, digging out the person they were meant to be. Their eyes suddenly saw through the glamour, right down to the rot in the foundations. The court called them a barbarian when they donned the raider's helmet. They were right. Ichijirou embraced that brutal honesty, because the court's polite fictions were a slower, crueler death. It was Ozawa who helped temper that fury, teaching them that seeing the truth is only the first step. The next is showing others how to open their own eyes.