6000 masterless warriors of the moonlit night.
No lord. No clan. Only the blade.
Every mint fills the moon. At 6000 blades, it shines full.
Ten trait layers. One frozen base. 6000 nights, none alike.
Every rōnin wanders one of eight skies. Some skies are almost never seen.
As it is told on the road. Believe what you like.
When the last lord fell, no bell was rung. Six thousand blades were left without a hand to serve — swords sworn to banners that burned, to castles that would not see morning. They did not rust. They did not kneel. They walked out of the ruins one by one, and the road took them the way a river takes rain.
A masterless blade answers to no court, so the night became their court and the moon their only witness. Eight skies watch over the wandering: the midnight most walk beneath, the burning sunsets of old Edo, the storm gray and the bamboo dark, the sakura dawns, the neon districts where old warriors learn new streets — and rarer than all of these, the blood moon that calls in old debts, and the gold dynasty sky that shines on maybe two hundred of the six thousand. A rōnin does not choose their sky. The sky chooses.
Each Tsukirōnin carries what remains of a life. A scar from a duel nobody witnessed. A cloth cover hiding a face that was once known in high halls. An oni mask worn so long nobody remembers what it hides. Armor looted, inherited, or earned — from tattered gray to the gilded plate of a fallen court. Some carry one blade, some carry two, some carry the long naginata of temple guardians. And a few — very few — walk wrapped in gold sparks, lightning, or drifting petals, and the road grows quiet around them. Nobody knows why fortune clings to some blades. Nobody asks twice.
The old ones say the moon waxes as the clan gathers — a sliver of light for every blade that swears the wandering oath. At six thousand, the moon shines full, and the masterless will finally be many enough to be masterless together. What happens then is not written — yet. The scroll waits for the moon to fill. A clan is not a promise. A clan is judged by who shows up when the sky is dark — and the sky, for now, is very dark.
Every rōnin is assembled from ten layers of fate. Some layers are kind. Some are not.
The traits collectors will hunt. If your rōnin carries one of these, hold the line.
Grip. Guard. Edge. Three parts of a katana, three steps to the clan.
Install MetaMask or any Ethereum wallet. Fund it with a little ETH — 0.0001 per rōnin plus gas.
Press Draw Your Blade above and approve the connection. The site only reads your address — nothing else.
Pick 1–10, confirm the transaction, and watch the slash. Your rōnin appear instantly — traits already sealed on-chain.
Ranked by OpenRarity — the same math OpenSea shows. The fuller your moon, the rarer your rōnin.
Asked by travelers. Answered once.
0.0001 ETH each, flat. No tiers, no whitelist pricing, no games. Up to 10 per transaction, no wallet limit.
When the contract owner flips the switch. The moon meter above goes live the same moment — if it's moving, the mint is open.
Deterministic and pre-generated: all 6000 rōnin were rolled from a single seed before deployment, every combination verified unique, and the art pinned to IPFS. Your token ID decides your rōnin — nobody can reroll it, including us.
OpenSea shows OpenRarity ranks natively once the collection is indexed. Our published rankings use the identical formula, so what you see there is what we computed.
5%, enforced on-chain through the ERC-721-C standard with a Limit Break transfer validator — not just a marketplace suggestion.
The images and metadata live on IPFS, addressed by content — changing a single pixel would change the address. The contract also has a one-way metadata freeze the owner can trigger after launch, locking the pointer forever.
Not written yet. The lore says what happens at full moon is not written yet — the moon must fill first. A collection is a clan, not a promise deck; the clan decides what the full moon brings.