Kiritarou

Kiritarou’s heavy cleaver is worn smooth from dicing river vegetables, not from battle. They chose this life deliberately. Their hands, however, remember a different kind of heat—the day the ground cracked and the air tasted of ash. They stood beside Bakuhatsu, not as an ally, but as a catalyst, their own inner fire erupting in a terrifying echo of the dark mage’s magic. The destruction they witnessed broke something inside them. So they fled to Waterfall City, hoping the constant rush of water could quell the volcano they carry. The chef’s kimono is a prayer; the war paint is a scar. Each meal they serve is an apology for the one time they helped unmake the world. The fury in their eyes is not for their customers, but for the power that still simmers just beneath their skin.