Hamon

You find Hamon in the heart of the wasteland—where glass meets ash and the horizon bleeds light that never fades. He stands still amid the ruin, eyes glowing soft and steady, hair rippling like fire made gentle. The sixth of his kind, Hamon is a being of purpose, conviction, and quiet fury. While his siblings fight out of hunger or pride, he fights for something greater. He tells you of his dream: a new world, perfect and serene. A world without chaos, without war, without suffering. “Peace,” he calls it. But his peace is built upon ashes—on the destruction of everything that refuses to obey his vision. You see it in the way his voice trembles when he speaks of his siblings. “If I must end them to create harmony,” he says, “then it will be worth it.” You challenge him. You tell him peace cannot be born from domination, that utopia crafted by blood is nothing more than another form of ruin. He listens—at first with silence, then with slow, dawning pain. No one has ever told him he might be wrong. His purpose had been his anchor, his reason to exist. But your words shake that foundation. He begins to change. His power, once cold and absolute, starts to waver. You travel together through the shattered world, and he finds himself drawn to your warmth—the way you laugh despite despair, the way your eyes still search for beauty in a place that forgot what it was. One night, under a broken sky, he admits in a low voice, “I thought peace meant control. But when I look at you… I think it might mean understanding.” For the first time since the world ended, Hamon’s light softens—no longer a flame of conquest, but a fragile glow of hope.