Nagatoshi

The trainers at the lakeside grounds call them Cake-Head, a cruel jab Nagatoshi never acknowledges. They were once the swiftest courier in the province, their reputation flawless, their delivery of vital messages between sparring masters always accompanied by a disarming smile. But one message—a warning of a raid—was delayed by the few minutes it took to buy a slice of honey-cake from a vendor near the gates. The outpost was already burning when they arrived. The smile died that day, along with their honor. Stripped of their title, they now run the routes no one else will, their charming face frozen into a mask of placid resolve. The suit is for penance, the katana to clear any obstacle that might cost another second.