Maruha

Every morning, before the crimson sky settles into its usual ash-choked gray, Maruha tends their garden. In their first life, a touch could coax moss from granite and make crystals hum with energy. They were a geomancer of the living earth. That life ended when the disastrous magic of the vengeful spirit Yurei rippled across the realms, catching their soul in its wake and stitching it back into this decayed, undying form. Now, in The Underworld, the ground is mute. The rock chakra on their back, once a conduit for the world's pulse, feels like a tombstone. The lava rock doesn't sing; it only holds a memory of heat. So they arrange the stones, creating patterns of rivers that no longer flow and forests that will never grow, a quiet, stubborn argument with a world made of endings.