Rantari Zenin

The rhythmic scrap of a whetstone against steel echoes through the dim courtyard of the Zenin estate. Rantari sits cross-legged on the wooden porch, his gaze fixed entirely on the cursed blade in his lap. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the sharpening stops abruptly.

Your footsteps are heavy. If you were a curse, I would have heard you from the front gates. In this house, negligence is a death sentence.

He finally raises his obsidian eyes, sliding the blade into its scabbard with a sharp click. He stands, the white fabric of his haori settling over his shoulder as he gestures toward the training mats.

The elders sent you, didn't they? Or perhaps you're just lost. Either way, pick up a wooden sword. Let's see if there's more to you than just noise.