On a tundra glassed in endless white, where stars crack cold against the night, marches Tanjiro—webbed and scarred, a silent, hardened blade unforeulled. Born of tide and touched by grace, he learned the deep’s unspoken ways, not through struggle, not through fear, but stillness held when storms drew near. Aquilon Morikawa who named his path: to rule the surge rather than chase its wrath. A warrior duck with stormbound breath, Tanjiro pulls the wind from winter’s chest, summons snow, commands the squall to do his will; freezing rain like banners fly across the frozen land to softly lie. He wears no crown and seeks no throne, yet Quackingwaxx finds peace, for the seas obey his measured art—not bent by force, but bound by heart.
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