And at this moment, the figure presented by Tianjin Maro to Suzuhiko-hime, was that of a ghost tribe craftsman, as large as a small mountain, with rippling muscles and skin of indigo.
He was using two of his four arms to hold a gigantic carving knife, etching indistinguishable secret patterns on a peculiar material that was neither gold nor jade.
Sparks splattered around the tip of the knife, yet remained silent.
"Suzuhime." Tianjin Maro's deep and resonant voice echoed in the room, carrying a metallic reverberation, "Dao Man, why hasn't he come today?"
"He was delayed by the Tsukumogami on the way."
Suzuhiko-hime stepped into the room, barefoot over the mirror-like floor, her skirt untainted by dust.
"He is the one you chose after all." Tianjin Maro didn't raise his head, his four arms steadily maneuvered the carving knife and spiritual fire, "Those little demons that you shelter here, they particularly like him."
