Wakayo

Wakayo’s sakura-hilted katana was a beautiful, useless thing. It reflected the ghost dragons swirling in the mists of The Dragon Wastelands as a construct of rock and malice lunged. Cornered against a cliff of ancient bones, their tiger disguise torn and Giga Burger hat askew, Wakayo didn't swing. They roared. It was not a sound of defiance, but of becoming—a shockwave of vibrant energy that ripped through the air, turning the stone assailant to mere powder. For a heartbeat, the world was silent save for the sizzle of rain on their superheated skin. The power receded, leaving them trembling. Far away, in a tower of midnight stone, the great sorcerer Ozawa looked up from a scrying pool, having felt a new star ignite.