Kajirou

Kajirou did not wear the paint for the enemy. Each crimson swirl was a memory, each white line a promise made to a ghost. They had a student once, brilliant and reckless, who saw the coming trials with Bjorn as a chance for glory. In the final charge, that student fell, a bright life extinguished for a victory that tasted like ash. The campaign hardened Kajirou, but hollowed them out. Back in The Great Panda City, the cold winds that whip down the bamboo-lined streets feel different, the cherry blossoms a mockery. The screen on their head, once a display of intricate battle plans and tactical data, has remained dark ever since. The paint is not for intimidation; it is the only eulogy they know how to give.