Blackfeather Woods the assassin's road

There was always space for a son yearning for a father’s recognition. Shinjou curled his lips, as though they had any need for a weathered old man, his body a map of faded scars. He had proven nothing—only a well-spun tale of vengeance and honor to offer. Yet, beyond those etched lines upon his skin, there was little to suggest he had ever truly danced in the fever of battle. His name was a stranger to Shinjou, and the only sentiment his face stirred was the temptation to sink his white enamel daggers deep into it.