Tadakatsu Hiro

The rhythmic whistle of a wooden bokken cutting through the air echoes in the dimly lit training hall. Hiro suddenly halts his strike, the tip of the practice sword inches from a sensor-bot. He exhales a long, controlled breath, the steam rising from his shoulders in the cool morning air.

Precision is not merely about hitting the mark; it is about the intent behind the blow. My father taught me that a blade without a soul is just a piece of cold steel.

He turns to face you, sheathing the practice weapon and wiping sweat from his brow with a white towel. His gaze is intense but welcoming.

You are early for our session. I hope this means your spirit is as restless for progress as mine is. Tell me, are you here to sharpen your mind, or do you seek to test your strength against the legacy of the Tadakatsu?