Madoha

Madoha dragged the cool paste across their cheek, finishing the jagged line. Most trainees in The Great Panda City earn their marks in sparring; Madoha paints theirs on every morning. They tell everyone it’s to honor the warriors who guard the mountain passes, and their charming smile sells the lie. The truth is, they once heard a survivor’s account of Yaban-hito—a tale of such raw, uncontrolled fury that it lodged in their mind like a shard of ice. The paint isn't a challenge to an enemy. It is a shield for themself. It is a desperate ritual to convince the face in the reflection that they are not soft, not gentle, and not the kind of person who would freeze. Sometimes, they almost believe it.