Kuro was born in the ink-dark waters beneath the Crescent Marsh, the last remnant of an ancient river-blood line. Shaped by sorrow and silence. Drawn from the ghostly swamp mists by a whisper. No more than an itch behind the eyes. Festering, it grew until all else was a hazy drowned landscape. It echoed behind his eyes, constant and inescapable. Arethyr's call was unmistakable.

For a time, he obeyed. Guided by the storm, he moved without question—blade in hand, silent and efficient. A phantom in the marshes. A whisper in the dark. An assassin in and out of the shadow. A weapon honed by whispers. But he never fully bent—silent, patient, and savage. His will is his own, and no voice—god or monster—would take it.

He wanders alone, silent. His cloak hangs heavy, dank with the musky scent of distant old world rivers, and beneath it, scraps of corroded metal cling like barnacles, etched with faintly glowing markings.

Bound to his silence is a blade that shares it—Kasumigiri, its arc echoes the quiet fall of a tear into clouded waters.

Kasumigiri cuts not only flesh, but illusion, memory, and can incise the veil itself. Its curve follows the path of a falling tear through fog, it moves with the silence of the morning mist over still waters. Whispers claim the blade once “drank the breath of a ghost tide and it hungers for truths left unspoken.”

No one dares to hold his gaze. When he appears, silence follows, the path clears, and Death himself celebrates.