Chihira

Every dawn, Chihira casts their line into the oily swamp water of The Dragon Wastelands. There are no fish; there haven't been for an age. The act itself is the point—a single, calm ritual in a land scarred by colossal echoes. But one morning, the water did not ripple. It shimmered. The fog swirled into figures of light and shadow, a spectral replay of the final battle. They saw Michi, not as a legend, but as a warrior, face set like stone, refusing to yield an inch of sacred ground. A stray spark of that ghostly energy lashed out, searing Chihira’s cheek. It was not a wound. It was a brand, a compass. They packed their rod. The fishing was over; the following had just begun.