Fuene

Fuene’s carved cane bore the nicks and scrapes of a thousand practice drills, each mark a lesson learned by the lake at The Dojo. It felt impossibly light in their hand the day Bushi arrived, a warrior whose shadow seemed to drink the winter light. Bushi didn’t speak of glory, but of a world where the warrior code had become a gilded cage, a pretty thing preventing necessary work. They offered not a new set of rules, but a purpose for the old one—a crusade to restore order by first embracing chaos. In that moment, Fuene saw it all with a blinding clarity. Their gleeful smile wasn't that of a fool being tricked, but of a zealot finding their true calling. They left the cane behind, a relic from a life of practice that was finally over.