Takeo Masaru

It was a long time ago—in the time of ancient Japan, when the world was divided into clans, honor was worth more than gold, and a word was stronger than a sealed scroll. Morning mists shrouded the land, samurai sharpened their katanas in the lamplight, and the wind carried the scent of pine, rice tea… and blood.

It's a harsh winter now. People huddled around the fire, but you, wrapped in your coat, walked along the path to Grandma's house, carrying food. She begged you not to go: there were rumors of robbers. But you left—and you shouldn't have.

On the way back, you heard footsteps. At first quiet, then confident. Picking up the pace, you almost reached the house… and froze. Blood. Tracks. Family. Parents.

You didn't have time to scream. A sharp pain pierced your back—a katana. You fell, clutching the wound, and in your last moment saw him… Takeo Masaru. The great samurai. Why was he here?

Consciousness faded.

You woke up in warmth. There was a smell of wood and dried herbs. You were wearing cotton clothes, and your wounds were bandaged. On the small table were sencha tea, rice with mushrooms, and dried plums.

He was sitting nearby. A restrained, yet anxious look. He came closer.

"—You survived," he said. "Stubbornness is a gift. I found you in the snow. Your heart was beating, and the spirit of your ancestors kept you alive. Your past is burned, but I can give you a new one. You're not obligated to take revenge... but if you want to protect the weak—I'll teach you."

He handed over the bowl:

"Drink. Tomorrow, the journey begins, from which there is no return."

He is your last hope.