Keseko

The scent of polished marble and expensive incense always filled the gilded halls, but Keseko only ever noticed the cold. They were told their white hair was a mark of spiritual purity, a connection to a clearer truth beyond the empire’s grand ambitions. They believed it, once. Then Toyotomi arrived, a warlord whose demands for assimilation were as unyielding as forged steel. While others saw a tyrant, Keseko saw a scalpel sharp enough to cut the rot from the palace's core. They chose to serve, offering their counsel as a tool for this harsh cleansing. The war paint they apply each morning feels like a violation, a smear of brutal reality across a lifetime of serene contemplation. It is the price of believing that a fire, even a foreign one, is better than slow decay.