The leather on Shunsaburou’s katana hilt is worn smooth, not from glorious battles, but from countless nights spent gripping it in silence. They once wielded it for coin, their charm a sharper weapon than the steel itself, cutting through loyalties for petty warlords. That life ended in a fog-choked canyon littered with the bones of ancient beasts, where they faced Bjorn. Shunsaburou expected a swift end, but the titan offered only a single, crushing truth: strength without purpose is just violence. They were left in the ceaseless rain with a shattered ego and a blade that felt impossibly heavy. Since then, they don the armor of an elder, guiding lost travelers through the howling winds. The sword remains, no longer a tool of ambition, but a constant, uneasy reminder of a debt.