Hanarin

Every morning, Hanarin climbs the highest stairs of rock to the temple overlooking the great cascade. They used to meet their rival there, another archer whose skill was a perfect mirror of their own. For years, their duels were the city's finest spectacle, arrows crossing over the plaza below. That changed the day Shinpi appeared among the crowd. The Demon's masked gaze said nothing, but their presence charged the air with impossible weight. Pushed beyond every known limit, Hanarin felt something ignite within them—a fire that matched their hair. The arrow they loosed that day was not just faster; it was pure will. Their rival simply lowered their bow, not in defeat, but in awe. Hanarin wanders now, but the ritual remains. They draw an arrow, aim at the rising sun, and hold it there. A silent salute.