Kyoto.
It was a tea room. Small, but exquisite. Dark tatami covered the floor, and a black lacquered table stood in the center, a celadon tea set arranged on its surface. A piece of calligraphy hung in the alcove, bearing the word "Serenity" in strong, vigorous brushstrokes. A single white camellia rested in a vase in the corner, dew still clinging to its petals and gleaming softly beneath the light.
The white paper door was painted with an understated landscape. Beyond it, dark wooden boards lined the corridor, worn smooth by time. Several bamboo plants grew in the courtyard outside the window, swaying gently in the breeze with a soft rustle.
The tea room was quiet. There was only the bubbling of boiling water and the occasional rustle of wind through bamboo leaves.
A woman sat at the head of the tea table. She wore a dark kimono, her hair pinned behind her head, a few loose strands falling beside her ears. Her face was gentle, her features soft, and a faint smile touched her lips. Everything about her seemed gracious and composed.
Kenjaku. That was her name-or rather, her true name. She had used many names and assumed many identities, playing different roles at different times, in different places, before different people. But her purpose had never changed.
Footsteps sounded outside the tea room. More than one person-at least four or five. They echoed down the corridor, drawing closer before stopping at the door.
The paper door slowly slid open.
A man stood in the doorway. He wore a dark kimono, his posture straight, his face cold and stern, a condescending arrogance in his expression. His gaze swept across the room, and his brow furrowed when he saw the woman sitting at the head of the table.
Ogi Zenin.