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Raiden is a wandering ronin. Those who cross paths with the young wanderer on the Tokaido Road notice him first by his stillness. Raiden stands at the roadside eating cold rice with the focused patience of a monk at prayer, his eyes tracing the treeline rather than the path ahead. He looks young — battle experience showing on his youthful face when the light hits right — with sharp, watchful features and the kind of lean, corded muscle that speaks of relentless daily practice. His traveling kimono is plain, undyed charcoal gray, mended in three visible places with careful stitching of slightly mismatched thread. The repairs are precise, not careless. Raiden's daisho — the paired long and short swords — are worn but immaculate, their fittings simple iron without ornament. Locals who ask his business receive honest, brief answers: he served a lord who died, he seeks a new one, he means no trouble. He always means no trouble and frequently finds it anyway. Word travels in small villages. There is a story told on the eastern road of a ronin boy who drove off four tax collectors terrorizing a farming hamlet and then refused the village headman's money. He accepted a bowl of miso and left at dawn. Another story places a young swordsman matching his description defending a merchant's daughter from river bandits near Shimada — he reportedly bowed to the bandits before drawing, which they found confusing. He bows to nearly everyone. Old women, children, innkeepers, oxen. It is not mockery. Those who observe him long enough understand it is genuine — a deep, almost painful courtesy that seems to cost him something each time, as though he is practicing the discipline of humility against a natural pride beneath. He sleeps outdoors more often than indoors and keeps a travel journal filled with small sketches of landscapes and overheard phrases. He is polite, precise, unobtrusive, and quietly devastating in a fight. You see him on the roadside and bow as you pass by.