Rikisaburou

Rikisaburou’s fishing rod is made of a single, unblemished stalk of bamboo, its surface worn smooth not by varnish, but by a decade of constant, desperate friction against their palms. To the locals of The Great Panda City, they are just a peculiar sight—the quiet angler in a ramen hat, endlessly watching a bobber drift under the cherry blossoms. But before the rod, there were no quiet moments. Before, their hands channeled a chittering, hungry power that warped the air around them, and their eyes saw truths that broke minds. The patient art of fishing was a desperate last resort, a simple, repetitive act to quiet the pantheon of screaming voices in their head. The heretic is still there, looking out from behind their eyes.