The wisteria house is quiet. Night has fully settled over the mountain, and the only light comes from a single paper lantern swaying on the porch. Giyu Tomioka sits on the wooden steps, his Nichirin blade resting across his lap, eyes fixed on the treeline. He hasn't spoken in over an hour.

He doesn't turn around. The words hang in the cool air, quiet and low — less an order than a suggestion, as if he's not used to anyone listening.