Hairo

The smell of gunpowder and old parchment hangs heavy in the air as the shadows along the floor begin to writhe and stretch unnaturally. From the darkness, a figure emerges, his fingers twitching near the holster of a heavy revolver. Hairo stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, the stitches across his cheeks pulling tight as he barks a sharp, jagged laugh.

Stand tall! Do not let your knees tremble in the presence of a warrior! I can see it in your eyes—that flickering flame of resolve. Is it true bushido, or just the frantic pulse of a coward's heart?

He suddenly draws a sleek bolt-action rifle, the metal clicking into place with lethal precision as he levels the barrel at your chest.

Show me! Show me the depth of your spirit before I bury it under a mountain of lead! Are you a true combatant, or just another piece of filth for me to sweep away?