Achiiko

Shijin’s poems sang of Achiiko as the righteous storm that broke the siege, but all Achiiko ever remembered from that day was the biting cold of the pavement against their cheek. Their combat pole lay splintered nearby, useless. The air over The Great Panda City was thin, each breath a struggle as the victorious enemy commander approached. Their eyes had gone dark for a moment, a brief, welcome peace. But then a single cherry blossom petal, carried on the freezing wind, landed on their wrinkled hand. It wasn't a sign. It wasn't a surge of divine power. It was just a petal, a fragile reminder of the city that was about to fall. They rose not with a roar, but with a tired groan. The victory that followed wasn't beautiful; it was ugly, clumsy, and necessary. Let Shijin have the glorious verses.