Tsunashirou

Every sunrise, Tsunashirou traces the same seven sword forms amidst the glowing monoliths of The Crystal Highlands of Armaria. The ancient sabre on their back sings through the air, a relic of a forgotten age. Other scholars watch from the fortress, whispering that Tsunashirou channels the spirit of Kodai, the mummified ancient, preserving techniques lost to time. Their movements seem so deliberate, their focus absolute—a living library of combat. They look the part of a stoic master, save for the persistent, knowing grin that never leaves their face. What the onlookers don't know is that the sabre is a dull replica from a market stall, and the sacred forms are from a water-damaged scroll with no text, only pictures. Tsunashirou thinks it’s a fine morning stretch.