Kenryou

The sharp crack of porcelain on stone is a sound most students at The Dojo have learned to associate with Kenryou. They are not clumsy; rather, they are cursed with visions of the immediate and utterly trivial future. While other psychics might foresee an assassination attempt or a shift in cosmic balance, Kenryou sees a fellow trainee about to trip over a loose floorboard. They see the precise moment a gust of wind will steal someone’s hat. Their glittering amethyst skin and dark samurai gear suggest a warrior of immense gravity, but their true talent is announcing, with a calm, uneasy frown, that the soup is about to boil over. The other students have learned to adapt. When Kenryou’s eyes close for a moment, it’s not for meditation—it’s a warning that a bird is about to steal a rice ball.