Rikuo

Rikuo held their breath for twelve minutes, motionless on the riverbank, their shadow barely a whisper against the cherry blossom trees. This was the pinnacle of their training: absolute stillness, perfect patience, the art of becoming invisible. Then, with a lightning-fast flick of the wrist, they cast their line again. The most covert operative in The Great Panda City wasn't hunting spies; they were fishing for their lunch. They’d been taught the silent arts to protect the Panda Council’s borders, but found the techniques far more suited to outwitting stubborn carp. Each fish caught felt like a small prayer to Himawari, whose sunflowers they tended with the same quiet focus. Most saw a wanderer in a silly hat; only the fish knew the truth.