Taikichi

The air between the giant, spinning monoliths always tasted of ozone and starlight, a static hum that vibrated deep in the teeth. Taikichi once found comfort in it, a predictable rhythm for meditation. That was before they were granted a look into Horoguramu’s pools. The vision wasn’t of falling empires or rising heroes; it showed them wearing a golden dragon robe, an adventurer’s sword on their back, and a single piece of sushi balanced perfectly on their head. There was no context, no explanation. Just the image, absolute and strange. So they left. They found the robe, commissioned the sword, and learned to balance the rice. They wander now, a walking prophecy with no destination, waiting for the moment their ridiculous appearance makes perfect sense.