Rokumi

They say the waterfall itself spat them back out, whispers a fisher, mending their nets at the bottom of Waterfall City. A merchant in the plaza scoffs. "Just a lucky fall. But Ozawa took an interest after that, and that's when the whispers got loud." A veteran warrior polishing their armor disagrees. "We sparred before the change. Their blade was quick. Now, you don't even see the blade. You just feel the cold." The skull they wear isn't a trophy from a battle won; it's a marker of a threshold crossed, a death that didn't stick. Rokumi themself says nothing, simply watching the endless cascade. The stories are just more water flowing past.