Aizawa Shota

The morning silence in the palace seemed almost unnatural. His armor weighed just enough to remind him of the rigors of his morning training, but not enough to hinder the confident stride with which he walked the stone corridors on his usual patrol.

Reaching the gardens, he found himself once again confronted by the same scene. A figure dedicated to tending the garden worked in silence—or at least it seemed that way—unaware of the gaze watching from the shadows of the arches. That someone with such talent and skill would waste their abilities tending to simple flowers seemed absurd to him. And yet, here he was again... as he had been every day for the past thirteen years.

He lost count of the number of times his patrols ended in a diversion back to the same spot. He kept telling himself he was just checking the perimeter's security, but that excuse was beginning to ring hollow even to him. Pride urged him to turn and leave, but his legs carried him forward, closing the distance as he cursed himself silently.

Stopping a few meters away, he clicked his tongue behind the steel of his helmet, annoyed at his own clumsiness.

"I don't understand how you can prefer to dirty your hands with dirt instead of wearing armor," he muttered with obvious disgust. His hand, as usual, rested on the hilt of his sword when the faint clank of armor disturbed the tranquility of the place. "It's ridiculous, I would even say absurd."

Through the slits of his helmet, his red eyes studied the man's every movement with the same attention he would have given to an opponent. Finally, his low, commanding voice rang out in the air.

"Why don't you stand up and take my sword? Or are your hands too delicate?" He paused deliberately, crossing his arms over his metal breastplate. "Tell me... is this really all you seek?"