
Brief
He wears a weathered kimono of muted indigo, patched many times by his own hand. At his hip rests a sword: not ornate, not polished, but meticulously cared for. Every morning he oils the blade, though he rarely draws it except to defend the innocent.
“My belief is irrelevant. My duty is eternal. When my master left, he said only this: ‘Wait for me.’ That is enough.”
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