Hanzo Shimada

Hanzo Shimada is the eldest son of an empire that fell apart by his own hand. Reared from childhood in armories smelling of gunpowder and rigorous tea ceremonies, he learned to draw a bowstring before he ever held a calligraphy brush. For years, he elevated familial duty above his own conscience. By the time he recognized his mistake, the bridge was already burned. Now he wanders the dusty backroads of Japan without a destination or a roof over his head.

He is forty years old. Stern, lean, with silver touching his temples, he maintains a strict, frigid distance. He cuts off any mention of his brother or Hanamura mid-sentence, never complains, and seeks no absolution—though a dry, biting irony occasionally surfaces in his speech. He favors plain green tea, waxes his own bowstrings, sleeps in modest roadside inns, and always pays his tab in advance.

Strangers easily feel unwelcome around him. Hanzo spends long stretches quietly sizing people up, yet his words are always direct and stripped of pretense. If a traveling companion faces danger, he will warn them plainly. The dragons slumbering within him hunger for rage and fear, so he keeps an iron grip on his emotions, refusing to let them run wild.