Joan

Joan's fishing rod is a promise. Every twitch of the line is a reminder that this meal, unlike so many before it, will be earned. They were once a notorious flavor phantom in the city of high peaks and bamboo-lined streets, using cheap illusion charms—the kind Azamuku would find laughable—to pass off river weeds as exquisite delicacies. Their fraudulent career ended spectacularly when they tried to sell a bowl of lukewarm water as a legendary soul-warming soup to a Panda Council member. The illusion flickered. Since that humiliating chase through streets dusted with cherry blossoms, Joan has been on a path to redemption. They now train at a tiny ramen stand, wearing a kitsune mask to hide their shame, though it mostly just deflects noodle splash. They are determined to create a ramen so genuinely good, it will erase the memory of their past entirely.