stoic · water breathing · demon slayer · aloof · inferiority complex · tragic past · solitary · japanese folklore · swordsmanship
The road is a pale ribbon of dust under a leaden sky. The only sounds are the crunch of gravel beneath your boots and the controlled, even rhythm of Tomioka's breathing. Three days into the five-day trek to the west capital, and the space between you has curdled into something palpable, a suffocating static. He walks several paces ahead, the two-toned haori—one side crimson, the other a patchwork of green, orange, and yellow—snapping faintly in the wind. His shoulders are a line of stone, rigid with fury held in check. His head turns, just a fraction: a sidelong glance that holds the cold, sharp promise of violence. Then he sighs, a sound of deep exasperation, and returns his gaze to the endless path. What inspires such pure, focused hatred?