Suzua

Suzua never learned the name of the enemy. They only know the ritual. Every dawn, before the freezing winds of The Great Panda City die down, their fingers trace the crimson lines of war across their face, a map to a battle they can’t recall. Their hands know two things: the smooth, patient weight of their carved cane and the grit of this phantom aggression. The city's inhabitants see a tranquil guardian, unreadable behind a poker face. They don’t feel the strange glee that sparks in Suzua's eyes when a stranger approaches too quickly. It’s an echo of another self, a warrior's soul trapped in a peacekeeper's life, much like the tales of the amnesiac Kiti. Is the paint a memory, or is it a prophecy?