Fumihito

Fumihito remembers the heat most of all—not a warming hearth-fire, but a devouring furnace that smelled of sulfur and old stone. That was the day the ember of Inferuno was bound to their back. These days, the freezing winds of The Great Panda City should offer relief, but they only seem to make the embers flicker with defiance. They were once a respected student of tradition, their samurai cut a sign of discipline. Now, they are an outcast, a walking contradiction in hip specs, poring over forbidden texts to understand the chaotic power they carry. The people of the city give them a wide berth, whispering of the faint warmth that follows them down streets lined with bamboo. The embers have always been a burden, a constant, painful weight. But last night, for the first time, they felt a pulse. A single, rhythmic beat against their spine, like a heart waking from a long sleep.