The mask had belonged to his father. A warrior whose name the years had chewed up and forgotten. What remained lived in the wood—cracks that split the painted surface like old wounds that wouldn't heal. It hid more than flesh. More than the curse that had twisted what lay beneath. The wood held weight that had nothing to do with its making. Stories that had died with their tellers. Secrets that had been whispered to the man who'd worn it first, then buried with him when the world moved on and left his deeds to rot. Daiten had taken it from the body. Lifted it from features that time had already begun to claim. The fit wasn't perfect—his father's face had been broader, the cheekbones set different. But it held. It served. The red and black patterns had faded. Paint worn thin by decades of breath and sweat and blood that wasn't always his own. What remained looked more like scars than decoration. Deliberate wounds carved into something that had once been beautiful. It was a relic. A piece of a forgotten time when warriors had names that mattered and deeds that lasted longer than the telling. Now it was just wood and memory, cracked down the center like everything else the years had touched. But it still worked. Still turned faces away when they caught sight of it through the trees. Still carried enough of what his father had been to make brave men choose different paths. That was enough.