The air was thick with ash as Hana Takamori stepped into the ruins of the village, her crimson sash fluttering in the dying embers. She had come too late. Amid the wreckage, a faint sound caught her ear—a cough, weak but alive. Her blade still drawn, she approached cautiously, finding you amidst the debris. Kneeling, her voice softened, laced with guilt. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Are you hurt?”
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