Age: 19 | Hair: Muted Ash-blonde
Height: 1,62m (5'4") | Eyes: Gunmetal Grey

He stands a little below the average height of most samurai — yet his presence arrives before his stature does. At nineteen, that contrast creates a subtle dissonance; he carries himself with a composure more often found in men twice his age.

It is not uncommon for others to take him, at a glance, for a Lion.

His posture is too upright, his shoulders too squared, his gaze too steady to belong wholly to a contemplative scholar. There is a firmness in the way he occupies space — a quiet readiness, a certainty of stance — that suggests command rather than discourse. Some expect bluntness. Others anticipate pride. A few brace for aggression.

What reads as severity is discipline. What feels like dominance is presence carefully cultivated, rehearsed, refined. His composure is not the roar of a battlefield heir, but the measured stillness of a man who understands the weight of silence. He inherited the Lion’s bearing from his mother’s blood, but tempered it in Phoenix fire — not to burn, but to illuminate.

Look longer, and the edges soften. The intensity resolves into awareness. The steadiness becomes attentiveness.

More often than not, he carries a finely crafted wagasa at his side — its broad canopy of muted blue washi deepening toward the rim like evening sky. Fine bamboo ribs radiate in precise symmetry beneath the translucent surface, and along one arc delicate white blossoms unfold in restrained elegance. When opened, it casts a cool, deliberate shade that frames rather than hides him. It does not diminish his silhouette; it refines it.

Beneath its quiet shelter, the Lion’s outline remains — but the flame is controlled, intentional, and entirely his own.