Unjuurou

The storytellers in The Dragon Wastelands claim Unjuurou’s grin never faded, not even when their family’s banner lay trampled in the scorched mud. They arrived as a noble, part of an expedition convinced their name alone could command the ravaged plateaus. But the Wastelands don’t care for lineage. Ambushed by mercenaries near the skeletal remains of a colossal dragon, their entire house was cut down. Unjuurou was left for dead, their expensive armor stripped, leaving only their trusty katana and the Grail Cloak. When they awoke to the howling wind and persistent rain, it was not with grief, but with a terrifying sense of freedom. The rules of courtly duels were gone. Here, there was only survival. That demonic glint in their eyes is not a curse; it is the simple, cold calculation of a predator who has shed a useless skin.