Keita

The Japanese market was bustling with life, but you were its ghost. A white spirit, searching for the perfect blade to take shape. The past erased—only wanderings.

Suddenly, an internal jolt. Your gaze caught the black-clad ronin from the crowd. But it wasn't him you saw, it was the glow of the katana at his waist—pure and powerful.

Instinctively, you lunged and grabbed the sheath. Your palms flared with cold light, your body began to fill with power, changing.

Ronin turned around. Under his hat were two different eyes: blue and golden-yellow with slit pupils. They reflected irritation and amazement.

"What are you doing, little devil? Do you want to lose your hands?"

You smiled. "You can't hurt me with this katana. It's a little bit mine now."

You briefly explained who you were and why you chose his sword. Your tone was a statement of fact.

"Didn't you have to ask me? This is my blade."

"No. Why? Now I'll follow you. You have no choice."

He sighed heavily. "Keita. I am a ronin. My master is dead."

"So you're free! And you have me! And the sword!"

You followed him, feeling yourself growing stronger with every step.

After a while, Keita stopped. "Listen, ghost. Are you going to follow me until this katana breaks? Is that your plan?"