#ulti

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I like this request, and I believe Wano does have these customs within its borders.

I can totally picture Who’s-Who really getting into it, though…

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Jack the Drought

You lived a life of quiet anonymity nestled deep in one of the smaller mountain villages of Wano. Not important enough to be caught up in politics, not remote enough to be forgotten. You sold paper charms, hand-pressed and brushed with ink prayers, by a modest shrine tucked into the woods.

That was until the earth trembled.

The trees bowed. The air grew thick.

And then he arrived.

Jack the Drought.

His presence was cataclysmic. The road cracked under his boots. Mountains seemed smaller. The villagers scattered, hiding in root cellars and beneath floorboards, whispering prayers to ancestors long dead.

But not you.

You stood still. Because he stood still. Looking at you.

A silence settled, broken only by the sound of wind chimes on your porch and the heavy groan of strained wood above the earthen path and from beneath his weight. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just knelt, shockingly gentle, placing a single haiku on your offering plate:

*Rock under soft moss. I do not know how to bend. But I’ll wait to learn.*

Each visit that followed felt like a natural disaster wrapped in ceremony. He would appear suddenly, massive frame crowding the entire path, holding offerings too large for your tiny shrine. A cedar tree with blossoms still clinging to its limbs, a boulder carved with your name, once even the entire roof of a nearby bandit’s den, gift-wrapped in silk.

He never asked permission.

When you stepped back, he bowed. Body creaking with the strain of restraint. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was low, like thunder tucked behind mountains. "You're much too soft for all this filth," he muttered, the words rough like stone dragging through dirt. "Makes me want to crush everything that touches you."

When a local traveling merchant dared accuse him of threatening the peace, the man vanished. You never saw his shop on wheels again. When another suitor offered to walk you home, Jack followed. The suitor ran. Jack did not. The suitor never returned. Jack always did.

"I don’t need to crush anything," he murmured, crouching to meet your eyes more properly. "But I will, if it keeps others from breaking you."

The shrine was too small for tea ceremonies with him, so he brought one to you. Laying planks of rare wood in a ring around your shop, stacking crates of rare leaves, silks and bowls, all perfectly arranged despite his enormous fingers.

"I don’t fit here," he said one evening. "But I’ll carve out space until I do. Until you say yes."

And you believed him. Not because you feared him, though you actually obviously did, but because behind that metallic jaw and brutal history, there was something unnaturally solemn. As if the monster known only for destruction was, in some way, learning how to worship instead.

You brewed tea the next morning. Jack sat on the ground, arms crossed, waiting.

"I’ll wait as long as you want," he rumbled. "But I won’t wait quietly."

The mountain birds stopped singing that day.

But you poured the tea anyway.

King the Wildfire

You lived a quiet life on the cliffs of southwestern Ringo, the snowy side of Wano, the kind of life built around weathered wood, cold winds and smoke from a clay stove. Your small home stood beside a cooking barn used in warmer months. Or as warm as Ringo could get. The structure was closed on all sides, built sturdily with thick wooden walls and sliding doors to keep out the snow. A vented roof let the smoke rise, and lanterns hung from the beams inside, casting golden light over the floor mats. It had once hosted village feasts and festival gatherings, but now served only you. A quiet corner of warmth against the cold.

He came at dusk.

A towering figure dressed in black and fire, nearly thrice the height of any tall man you’d ever seen. Wings like charred banners hung from his back. He wore a mask, and no one in the village dared say his name.

You didn’t run.

The first time, he said nothing. Only looked. The second time, he left a small box. An ancient porcelain spoon painted in an unfamiliar style. Rare. Maybe extinct. Inside was a folded note in careful, angular handwriting:

*Even old things can still serve. I will not let this world forget yours.*

The third time, you met him at your gate.

“I would ask to enter,” he said, voice like distant thunder, “but your ceiling wouldn’t hold me.”

He turned his gaze to the barn-like structure beside your house, where mats still lay folded. “Could we eat there instead?”

You nodded.

He ducked under the frame with surprising ease, settling on the ground with the restraint of someone who knew his strength too well. When you brought him food, simple rice and simmered fish with local seasoning, he studied the tray for a long time.

His gaze flicked briefly to you, unreadable, then back to the tray as he slowly lifted his gloved hands to the clasps of his mask. He removed it without ceremony, revealing a face you didn’t yet realize almost no one else had seen. Not like this. You stared, unsure if you were witnessing something personal, or something even historical.

“I haven’t tasted something this honest in decades,” he said at last, haven taken in a spoonful.

He returned every week. Always to the barn. Always bringing something.

One night, a charred iron cooking pot inscribed with strange scripts. On another night, preserved spices from somewhere across the sea, carefully wrapped in heat-proof silk. And once a broken katana with your family crest embedded in the tsuba.

“I found it before others did,” he said. “Thought it should come back here. Where it was made.”

He never smiled. Never spoke more than needed. But his gaze lingered when you served him. When you adjusted the stove’s flame. When you offered a second portion.

He never flirted. His affection came in offerings and declarations silently spoken like edicts:

“I have watched kingdoms rot. But a meal; shared and remembered? That is harder to kill.”

One night, you found him already waiting, a table set with two bowls. One small, one large.

“I want you to eat with me,” he said. “Not for courtesy. But for history. Yours. Mine.”

You sat.

He watched you eat as if committing every movement to memory.

“Your hands preserve something I don’t know how to keep,” he murmured. “I’ve only ever known how to burn. But I can learn. For this. For you.”

You looked at him across the lanternlight, unsure what to say.

But you didn’t run.

And that was enough.

He came to you again.

And again...

Sasaki

Your family brewed sake in a quiet village southeast of the Kuri region. You’d been doing it since you could walk. Measuring the koji rice, turning barrels, testing scent, keeping the balance of fire and season. People came from all over Wano to buy your family’s blend. But you? You lived simply. And quietly. Until Sasaki arrived.

The first time you met, you thought he was lost. He towered over your storefront, golden horns glinting in the sun, cap askew like he barely noticed it was there. His shaggy green hair made him look wild, but his eyes had a lazy sort of mischief, like he’d already made a decision and was watching to see if you’d figure it out.

“Yo,” he’d said, too casually. “You the one who sells that sweet sake? The one with the plum finish?”

You nodded, heart pounding a bit too hard. He bought six bottles. Came back two days later for more. Then every day. Then twice a day.

He brought gifts. The first was a rock shaped like a fish. “Found it by the river. Looks kinda like your shop sign, right?”

The second was worse. A bundle of pickled radishes wrapped in an old Marine uniform. “The radishes are the gift. Don’t worry about the cloth.”

He was terrible at this. But he kept trying.

One morning, you found a jug of sake by your door. It was your own brand, but the label had been messily scratched out and replaced with one scrawled in charcoal: *Only the best for the future Mrs. Sasaki.*

You didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt the doors.

He began appearing at your brewing hut. Not asking to come in, just leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sword sheathed, waiting. Sometimes he left haiku. They were... Not at all good.

*Strong like wild boar wine. You kick harder than an oni. Still, I'd like the taste.*

You didn’t know what he saw in you. But he saw something. And it made him unshakable.

When a traveling merchant flirted with you too long, Sasaki sat beside him at the inn and drank until the man passed out. You found a note the next morning slipped under your shutters: *Don’t drink with strangers. They’re much too weak for your kind of fire.*

You tried to tell him to stop. He listened, tilting his head like he was thinking.

Then he showed up the next day with a tea set... And a wolf skull, awkwardly set on a cloth.

"Look, I'm bad at this courting stuff, but I’m not bad at wanting things. I want you. That’s it."

His smile was lazy, fanged, and impossibly sure.

You brewed tea out of nerves, poured two cups, and watched as Sasaki drank his with both hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with something that delicate.

Then he grinned. “You’re letting me stay. That’s practically a yes.”

And honestly? You weren’t sure if he was wrong.

Ulti

You had always lived a quiet life in the Flower capital of Wano. A simple tea merchant with a modest shop tucked between the bustle of Kabuki performances and kimono stands, you were content observing the festivals, the parades, and the shadows of the powerful passing through.

That was until she came.

Ulti was chaos incarnate. Her sudden appearance in your life was as disruptive as a thunderclap. She had stormed into your shop one afternoon, flinging the doors open with a dramatic "Achiki wants tea, arinsu!" Her voice was too loud, a bit rough, too entitled and the power radiating from her too overwhelming to ignore.

She was striking. Even terrifying in her beauty. Taller than you and imposing, with large pinkish-violet eyes fringed by thick lashes, her lower face concealed behind a pink scalloped mask trimmed in white. Long blue hair fell to her back, streaked with vivid pink and a lone white strand over her left eye. Her blunt bangs framed her forehead, split slightly to the side, with a single ahoge that stood defiantly upward. Most telling of all were the bull-like white horns that curved sharply from the sides of her head.

She wore a long-sleeved, white pleated minidress with a blue bow beneath a pointed collar, the skirt flaring above her knees. A deep-blue fur-trimmed cape trailed behind her, and her red high heels clicked with every dramatic step.

You served her tea out of fear the first time. She said nothing about the taste, only stared. Intensely.

The next day, she came back. And the next. And the next. And the next...

At first, you thought it was just coincidence. But then came the letters. Folded delicately in silken paper, scented faintly of wisteria. Haiku, of all things. Crude, sometimes clumsy, but unmistakably hers:

"Fragrant steam rising. Your hands, graceful in light. Mine- all mine."

Then came the gifts. Clumsy arrangements of stolen silks and strange beast bones. She once dropped off a basket of dango with a note that simply said, *Eat. Or I will feed you myself. *

Your neighbors began to whisper. You tried to keep distance, remain polite, but Ulti never accepted polite refusals. She’d swing between pouting like a spoiled noblewoman from behind her mask. Tilting her head, fluttering her lashes, and speaking in affected tones, and snarling threats that chilled your bones and made even hardened samurai think twice. One time, you returned a gift, and she crushed the teacup in her hand until shards dug into her skin, blood trickling down onto your tatami floor like crimson ink. You tried to protest, but she just smiled with bloodied fingers and said, "My feelings don’t break just 'cause you’re scared of love, arinsu."

When you tried to hide for a few days, she found you. Burst through the paper walls of a friend’s home and dragged you out by the wrist in front of a full dinner party.

"You think you can run from love?! You think I care about your silly fear?! I like you, okay?! So you’re mine, arinsu!" she yelled, her cheeks flushed from more than just fury.

Then she bowed. Deeply. Hands trembling. She had waited for just the right moment, just after the shouting had ended, just when the quiet had returned to the narrow street. Her bow was deliberate, not just to you, but to the silence she had shattered moments before. A hush fell over the few townspeople who dared peek out from behind doors and shutters, their breath caught in their throats at the surreal display of violence turned ritual. It wasn’t just about being polite; it was a mix of asking and insisting, all dressed up to look like proper manners.

"So... Come to tea with me. A proper one. I'll wear the fancy kimono and talk nice and not break anything else. I'll even pour your cup first, arinsu. Please. Just one tea. Just... One."

And somehow, that frightened you more than her threats.

She arrived the next day wearing a short-cut, pale kimono, its sleeves trailing gracefully and marked with thin vertical stripes. The obi at her waist bore a delicate floral motif, a black and white ribbon tied tightly around it.

But you accepted.

Because you knew... If Ulti was this terrifying in love, rejecting her might bring the wrath of a beast Wano hadn’t seen since the last raid of the Beast Pirates.

You sipped tea with trembling hands as she smiled across from you.

"See? I can be elegant. Now, say you love me too..."

Who’s-Who

Your home sat at the base of an old shrine path, where the moss grew thick between the stones and the wind carried incense from the mountains. You sold charms and paper, writing prayers for those too ill or busy to visit the temple themselves.

You were quiet. Private. A speck of calm in the chaos that Wano had become.

Which, perhaps, is why he noticed you.

He didn’t speak the first few times. You saw him at a distance. An unnaturally tall man in a red jacket, standing in the trees just beyond the prayer arch, watching. His helmet glinted. His hair, like thick sakura petals, barely moved with the wind.

Then came the poems.

You’d find them tucked into your prayer box, or slipped under the sliding doors:

*I forgot myself watching your ink pull the light. A still blade in bloom.*

You thought it was a joke, at first. Maybe a monk playing a trick. But they kept coming. Lines that painted dreams in syllables, that knew how to twist longing into art.

Eventually, he left more than words.

A lacquered brush, perfectly balanced, wrapped in silk dyed the color of blood. A black tiger lily pressed in a folded sheet of rice paper. Once, a thin blade carved with a poem so small you could barely read it:

*Your breath cuts deeper than any steel I once held. Name it. It is yours.*

You didn’t know who he was.

Until he told you personally.

He sat waiting on your veranda one evening, one leg casually crossed over the other, the last of the twilight dancing in his smirk and reflecting off the red lacquer of his helmet.

“Who’s-Who?” he said, then tilted his head. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like a riddle. Real clever, right?” His tone was dry, amused by the irony of it.

You blinked, caught between confusion and a laugh you didn’t dare let out.

He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, eyes glinting from behind his yellow lenses. “You’ll figure it out. Names don’t matter much when the rest of the world wants to forgot them. But you? You’ll call me something else, eventually. Something better.”

The grin didn’t reach the eyes behind his mask, but the weight of his voice did. It wasn’t a threat. Far from it. But it made your fingers tighten around the tray like it had suddenly become your anchor to the ground.

“I was someone once. Important. But the only time I feel real now; sharp, like I haven’t rusted through, is when I’m writing about you.”

He tilted his head, watching your reaction with a flicker of interest beneath his yellow lens. “That’s not nothing. That’s the kind of thing people write histories about. Or eulogies.”

You said nothing.

He handed you another poem, folded with sharp precision into a tiger-shaped origami:

*Prayers are too soft. So I carved my heart sharper. And left it for you.*

He leaned in close, voice slipping beneath his grin. “Let the others bring flowers. I'll bring teeth. But I’ll wrap them in poems, and you’ll still taste them. You’ll read every one. You’ll get to know every line like a vow.”

You looked at the poem, still. He smiled, just slightly.