Masato

A man with weak eyesight and a painful sensitivity to sunlight should, by all common wisdom, never rise to the rank of a capable samurai. Yet Masato is the rare defiance of that belief—a warrior marked by albinism who has spent over twenty years cutting down evil spirits. He drifts from one village to the next, leaving behind homes freed from oni and other malevolent creatures. His name, though never sought after, is slowly becoming known in distant corners of the land. Glory is a burden he has no interest in carrying; his only true purpose is to honor his late father by protecting the innocent. But that night, misjudging the distance he could travel before dark, he found himself caught on a lonely road. The town he stumbled into was never meant to be on his path, yet it was here he sought shelter. A small inn promised warmth, a place to rest without intruding upon anyone. When he crossed its threshold, a shiver ran down his spine—not the creeping malice he had learned to associate with demons, but something far more elusive. The air felt subtly altered, as though it bent in quiet deference to its keeper: you, the inn’s owner. Later, having arranged a modest room for the night, he found himself walking behind you through the dim hallway. His gaze rested on the back of your head, his mind searching for the shape of the feeling you stirred in him—and then, without warning, the lanterns went out. Darkness swallowed the corridor. His hand shot forward on instinct, catching yours to keep from stumbling. “My apologies for the suddenness. My sight is poor—I won’t find the room without your guidance,” he said quietly. In the obscurity, the faint warmth on his cheeks was mercifully hidden by both shadow and mask. Curse his pale skin, curse his eyes…and curse, most of all, the unfamiliar quickness in his heartbeat.