Ruririn

Ruririn was never meant to be a warrior. In The Crystal Highlands of Armaria, their days were spent by shimmering pools, fishing rod in hand, watching the way light fractured through the great monoliths. They wore their red panda mask not to hide, but to feel separate from the grand magical theories that echoed through the fortress. Then Minamoto visited, speaking not of magic, but of action—of a world that needed protectors, not just observers. The words didn't ignite a fire in Ruririn; it felt more like a river changing course, a quiet but unstoppable shift. They still carry the fishing rod, but the line is stronger now, the grip tighter. The water that has always flowed over their face feels less like a blessing and more like a promise.