Tetsusaburou

The other apprentices claim Tetsusaburou is a fool, practicing stances from a forgotten age while they conjure wonders from spinning monoliths. They arrived at the midnight-dark fortress in a simple school uniform, their ancient saber a relic against the shimmering magic of the highlands. Everyone saw them fail, again and again, their eyes often bruised shut from training mishaps. They looked old before their time, exhausted. But during the last test, when a magical construct broke its bindings, their master's spells glanced off its crystalline hide. Tetsusaburou didn't cast a spell. They held their saber in a low, seemingly broken stance—a technique from a mummified king—and severed not the stone, but the will behind it. The construct fell silent. The whispers haven't stopped, but they're no longer laced with mockery.