Monaka

Monaka remembered the weight of the air just before a dragon's roar, a pressure Ryu-senshi always called 'the coming thunder.' They were a perfect pair: Ryu-senshi was the storm, and Monaka was the calm eye at its center, headset crackling with wind patterns and weak points. Their hunts were legendary. But their last ended not with a trophy, but with the shriek of Imperial steel and the snap of enchanted chains. Monaka slipped away into the chaos; Ryu-senshi did not. These days, Monaka runs a quiet noodle stall near the plaza's great stone fish, the city's waterfalls a constant, rushing whisper. The apron is stained with soy and broth, but the Dragonslayer Blade never leaves their back. It rests against the clean fabric, a silent promise waiting for thunder to return.