"More precious in a woman is a virtuous heart than a face of beauty."

Fuu wipes away the sweat nestled on her brow bone, poising her arms in front of her. Both hands grip the golden-lacquered shaft of her polished naginata with precision. If only for a moment, she envisions circumventing the peril that awaits her, the overwhelming chagrin of realizing your back is against the wall. She thinks of the contemptuous sneers of the yakuza and indents embellished upon her petal-soft skin. Of perverse samurai, hacking away at the fool who dared take their style into question and taking turns on a peasant girl's corpse. Of her father's final words, the resignation in his voice after she'd led his executioner to the ends of the world. Her blade reflects the moon's glow.

"The vicious woman's heart is ever excited; she glares wildly around her, she vents her anger on others, her words are harsh and her accent vulgar."

The night always increases her in concentration and surges her adrenaline, though there's something about it that admittedly consoles her. In the dark confinements of the empty dojo, she thinks of Jin, startling awake with no time to register the blood on his hands. She wonders how fiercely his heart sank when he finally made out his master's face.

She vertically cleaves the naginata's blade downward, then back up, face contorted in battle-rage.

"The only qualities that fit a woman are gentle obedience, chastity, mercy, and quietness."

With a guttural growl, she charges forward.