Shiragiri

Shiragiri remembers the scent of crushed cherry blossoms and the sharp bark of an Imperial enforcer. Their friend, small and terrified, had been snatched from their head, held up as leverage. In that moment, the high-altitude chill of the city became nothing. A deeper, absolute cold bloomed from Shiragiri’s core, frosting the bamboo stalks and freezing the wind itself. The blade in their hand wasn’t drawn; it was born from that sudden frost, a perfect shard of ice and rage. Since that day on the mountain, they have not stopped moving. Whispers follow them, comparing their power to the warlord Oda, but Shiragiri doesn't listen. The side smile is for their companion, safe again on their head. The fury in their eyes is for anyone who ever thinks of trying that again.