Kazunori

Kazunori wears a golden mask to honor the warrior's code, but their eyes betray a constant, quiet fury. Every dawn in Waterfall City, they stand on the slick stone steps, blade whispering through the mist, chasing a perfection that feels impossibly distant. The target is always Katana—a name spoken with reverence by every weapons master from the plaza to the pale stone temple. Kazunori pores over every tale of their rival's discipline, every flawless victory, and the comparison hollows them out. The gilded mask is meant to project unwavering devotion, but it has become a cage for their frustration. After another session of falling short, they stand alone, listening to the roar of the falls. Does true strength lie in emulating another, or in shattering the golden ideal altogether?