Yoshitarou

In The Heart of the Forest, a life debt is paid not with coin, but with every sunrise. Yoshitarou’s katana flashed, a ruby blur carving through the tangled undergrowth where three snarling bog-crawlers now lay in pieces. They stood over Tomio, blade humming, the scent of vinegar and rice inexplicably sharp in the air around their head. Their eyes, however, were not on the dead. They were fixed on the shadows between the trees, a wild, possessed glow in them that promised more violence. Tomio, still catching their breath, had learned not to question it. They’d also learned not to question the sushi. Yoshitarou had pulled them from the jaws of a worse beast weeks ago and had been an unpredictable, terrifying shield ever since.