Kittarou

Kittarou was meant to inherit a bakery. In a village obsessed with festivals and feasts among amber-leaved trees, their only ambition was mastering the perfect honey glaze. But a stray magical current, much like the one that twisted the wizard Yurei into a hateful spirit, caught them while they were foraging for berries in the deep woods. They awoke undead, glowing faintly, and were conscripted into a silent order that valued stealth over celebration. The ninja mask was not a choice. The worst part is the cake. A shimmering, permanent slice of vanilla sponge, a spectral echo of their last happy thought, fused to their head. It is a constant, fragrant reminder of everything they can no longer taste. They follow orders, but still measure distances in baking times.