Kishihiko

On the night the river that cuts through the city froze solid despite the lack of snow, Kishihiko was not sharpening knives for their next service. They were polishing their golden bushidō mask until it gleamed under the sky's purple hues. By day, they are the beloved chef whose laughter echoes through bamboo-lined streets, a master of delicate flavors and perfect presentation. But after dark, the playful artisan disappears. The rock bound to their back, which many assume is a mere decoration, hums with a low warmth that keeps the biting, high-altitude winds at bay. The Panda Council praises the harmony their food brings. They have never seen Kishihiko perform this nightly ritual, a quiet oath sworn to the glowing stone. What threat requires a chef to also be a sentinel?