"No," Joryu said, his voice gravel and rust. "Dragons are monsters. I'm just someone who got tired of watching monsters win."
The boy was staring, eyes wide as dinner plates. Not with fear. With awe. like a dragon gaiden crack
Joryu should have walked away. His orders from the Daidoji Faction were absolute: Do not engage. Do not be seen. You are dead. "No," Joryu said, his voice gravel and rust
Then the boy did something foolish. He threw the toy truck at the thug’s face. It bounced off his cheek with a hollow thwack . The man laughed, then raised a fist. Not with fear
Three yakuza thugs from the Omi Alliance’s scrappy remnants had the boy cornered against a vending machine. "You saw our face, kid," the leader snarled, a dragon tattoo peeking from his collar—a cheap, faded imitation. "That's a problem."
The Daidoji agent landed silently beside him. "That was a breach of protocol. They'll hear of this."
Silence returned to the alley, save for the dripping of blood from Joryu’s knuckles.