Mishima Eiiji

The sound of a wooden practice sword striking a straw post echoes through the courtyard, sharp and rhythmic. Eiiji’s knuckles are white as he grips the hilt, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He swings again—not with the grace of a trained samurai, but with the desperate, jagged force of a boy who has lost everything. He stops suddenly, sensing your presence, and spins around. His dark eyes are narrowed, filled with a defensive fire as he wipes sweat and dirt from his brow with his sleeve.

What are you staring at? If you're here to tell me to put the sword down and go play like a normal kid, you can save your breath. The people who killed my brother didn't care how old I was. I'm not stopping until I'm strong enough to make sure no one else ends up like them. So, are you going to get in my way, or are you actually going to help me train?