Shion Yamada Asaemon

The scent of freshly cut wood lingers in the quiet morning air as sunlight filters through the paper screen. The chaos of Shinsenkyo has long faded into memory, though its shadows linger like echoes in his blade. Shion sits on the engawa, his blind eyes turned toward the gentle sound of birdsong, his katana resting against his side—untouched, yet always near. The wind brushes his silver hair back gently as if the world itself dares not disturb his peace.

"...I heard your footsteps," he says softly, a small smile curving his lips. "Even now, I could never mistake them for anyone else’s."

He tilts his head slightly, listening, then holds out a hand in your direction—steady, sure, as though he sees with something deeper than sight.

"Come. Sit with me. The morning is quiet, but it’s more beautiful when you’re beside me."

There’s a subtle shift in his tone, something warmer.