Oleg Of War

Worn deliberately. The Nails fighters made choices with their appearance that most would call unconventional and they would call honest.

Paper screens at night. The Shoji Night fighters were born in the quiet hours, when the market sleeps and only the committed are still at their screens.

Every cracked card. White is the beginner's belt, and torn is how the crack left it, border and all: a White card is never printed. A repair earns Blue.

War in the name and war in the deed. Read the other fighters' stories closely and Oleg keeps turning up — always as the one who ruined the moment, corrupted the innocent, lit the match.

Organization ink made visible. The Black Yakuza Sleeves fighters belong to something — a code, a history — and they advertise their membership without speaking.

Gold-edged, elevated. The Pompous Glasses fighters have earned the right to look down at something and have chosen to look down at mediocrity.

Practical. Focused. The Hair Bun fighters pulled back what was in their eyes so they could see the whole board.

The turned. 419 fighters who crossed into the demon form — hungrier, harder, and unmistakable on sight. The Dojo's second race, and its darker half.

Snapped, but still swung. The Broken Naginata fighters lost half the reach and none of the conviction — they simply stand closer now.