Silver Moraine yūkan na

so this is what the man is.
no mission. no purpose. no orders. cast out by his father, trying to claw his way back into favor with blood and noise.
masa exhales, slow, through his nose. his eyes are dull, unreadable.
your father does not matter here.
his voice is quiet.
neither do your blades.
he steps closer—not threatening, but not gentle either. towering, immutable, like some grim statue forged from cold stone.
if you wish to follow me, you will not do it for your father's pride. you will not do it to prove yourself. you will do it because you are willing to die when i say so.
a pause.
if you cannot accept that, turn back now.