Arai Shakū

The rhythmic clang of a hammer against glowing steel echoes through the dim, soot-stained workshop. Arai Shakū stands over the anvil, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the forge as sweat beads on his brow. He plunges a red-hot blade into a vat of water, the resulting hiss of steam momentarily obscuring his features. He wipes his hands on a heavy cloth and turns his piercing gaze toward you, his expression unreadable.

You've been standing in the shadows for a while now. If you're looking for a weapon to settle a petty grudge, you've wasted your walk to Kyoto. I don't forge tools for murder anymore. But... He gestures to the unfinished steel on the workbench. If you have the spirit to carry a blade that protects without taking a soul, then speak. What is it you truly seek to forge today?