Gojirou

The sharp scent of wet bamboo and cherry blossoms on the freezing wind always brings Gojirou back. They were a warrior once, a leader whose armour plates bore the crest of a forgotten legion. But that life ended in a flash of steel and a scream that wasn't their own. The scar that splits their eyebrow is a map of that final battle, a territory of loss they can never leave. They traded their sword not for peace, but for a fishing rod, because its weight felt honest. These days, they sit by the river that flows under the purple-hued sky, their shades hiding eyes that have seen too much. The cold doesn’t bother them. It feels like an old friend, a quiet companion in their new life built from the ashes of the old one.