Miyora

Miyora wears the haori of a traditionalist, but their grin belongs to a riverboat gambler. That grin is currently directed at a rival warrior whose blade is half-drawn on a quiet, bamboo-lined street in The Great Panda City. Miyora makes no move for a weapon, instead leaning casually on the batch of bamboo they carry. They were once the most rigid student in their dojo, all sharp angles and textbook forms, until an ambush left them disarmed and cornered. All they had left was their voice. That day, they learned a quicker parry than steel: a well-timed compliment, a question about an opponent’s family, an absurd offer for tea. The rival hesitates, blade wavering, utterly confused. Miyora’s grin widens. The fight is already over.