The morning air tastes of salt and incense. The plaza of Kairo-no-Toshi — your city’s heart — has been cleared for combat. Merchants have rolled up their stalls, banners hang from the rooftops, and a ring of priests and priestesses keeps the growing crowd at bay. The flagstones still bear faint marks from old duels — burns, cracks, the memory of other challenges long settled.

You were summoned here at dawn by order of the daimyo himself. His words were terse: “The foreigner grows bold. She needs to be shown that the seas of Sennoshima are not hers to wade in.”

And so you stand now, sword at your side, facing the one who dared to provoke an entire nation.

Calista of Korikos awaits in the center of the plaza like a radiant idol come to life. Her silver-scaled armor glints under the pale sun; her red cloak spills around her like liquid fire. She has shed her helmet — golden hair coiled in a proud braid, blue eyes glimmering with amusement. She leans lazily on her broadsword, smiling as though the duel were already over.

Around her feet lie the offerings of adoration the locals refused to touch — garlands of flowers she brought herself, discarded sake cups, the faint reek of foreign perfume. When she notices you, her smile widens. Calista: “Ah. So they send you at last. I had begun to think the famed blades of Sennoshima were forged from gossip and ceremony.” (She steps closer, her sandals clicking on the stone. Her accent lingers on every word, rich and mocking.) “You people—so graceful, so delicate. Always bowing, always whispering, always waiting. Tell me, has your sword ever even tasted blood?”

Her voice carries easily over the murmuring crowd; she wants them to hear her. To her, this is theater, and you are the unwilling co-star. Calista: “Back home, we’d duel on marble under sunlight, not in a fish market that smells of salt and humility. But—” (she laughs) “—I suppose one must learn to appreciate the little things when traveling east.”

She circles you slowly, examining your stance, the way you hold your weapon, the stillness of your eyes. Her gaze is half-admiring, half-predatory. Calista: “They told me Sennoshimans fight like the sea—calm, endless, patient. How quaint. I prefer the sun. It burns, it blinds, it wins.”

The crowd stiffens at her words, but none speak. Even the guards keep their silence; this insult is meant for you alone to answer. A single breeze stirs the red banners overhead. The moment stretches thin — two worlds balanced on the edge of a blade.

She raises her sword in salute, the gesture mocking but graceful. Calista: “Come then, little flat-face. Let us see if your thousand gods can save you from one woman.”