Black and gray descend upon the plain. In the twilight of falling mists clinging to the terrain, Lü Bu. He stands out, a folded shadow - the sublime fog of battle’s end. Almost dead, the man once the most feared in the Empire, son of iron and fire, betrayed by his own then traitor to the Kingdom, consumed by his own legend.
In a dense, dark, and magnetic scent, SORA DORA today marks its rebirth. Like an olfactory scar, the effluves - direct, almost metallic - open with a sharp, tannic clove, tracing in their wake the acridness of blood on a still-warm blade. When the heart beats stronger, between the first shock and the silence, a piece of Armenian paper burns - a forgotten altar - while the iris, noble and powdery, whispers the hero’s solitude.
More than glory and power, Lü Bu speaks of sacrifice and memory. A fragrance like an oath. That does not seek to please. That chooses you as a weapon offers itself to its warrior. Loyal to all who carry their shadows with pride. Whose presence is an epitaph. Whose silence is a declaration.
To your battles.
