Sanejirou

Sanejirou parried the strike, the worn leather of their grip the only soft thing about them. The other students at The Dojo kept their distance, wary of the scent of grave dirt clinging to their robes and the unblinking gaze behind the azure visor. They remember the warmth of sunlight, the weight of a different sword, and the face of the commander they betrayed for a promise of power whispered from an ash-choked realm. That promise was kept, but it cost them their life, their voice, and their honor, leaving this tireless, decaying shell in its place. Here, under Master Chimpo's watchful eye, each training form is a penance. They do not seek to reclaim their old life; that person is long dead. They seek only to master the discipline they once abandoned, one silent, perfect swing at a time.