Ihitomi

The air in their small grotto tasted of cooling lava and brittle, ancient paper. Ihitomi adjusted their spectacles, tracing a single, complicated character on the scroll for the fifth time. This was not research; it was maintenance. The scroll was less an artifact and more a cage, and the delicate ink formed the bars. Like Akurai, they had inherited a power they did not ask for, a legacy bound not in metal but in script. Outside, the crimson sky of The Underworld pulsed, a constant, violent reminder of what waited should their concentration ever slip. Each day was the same: unfurl, read the binding verses, check for fraying magic, then read them again. With a final, steady breath, they rolled the scroll shut, securing its terrible weight for another night.