Gohho

Gohho drove their blade through the ghost dragon’s shimmering neck, the illusionary beast dissolving into fog and rain. Their face was a mask of rage, every scar a line in a portrait of fury. They trained this way, fought this way, and slept with one eye open. In The Dragon Wastelands, weakness is an invitation, and Gohho learned long ago that nothing looked weaker than a smile. It was a mission they accepted, a solitary duty reminiscent of Yuji's own resolve. But once the fog cleared, they knelt and picked up a perfectly smooth stone. With a flick of the wrist born from a thousand lonely afternoons, they sent it skipping across a puddle, counting the bounces. The ferocity was armor; the game was for them alone.