A single stroke

Perched atop the familiar rock, worn smooth by countless moments of contemplation and rest, Ryoshu allowed the weariness of his journey to settle upon his shoulders like a heavy cloak. The once vibrant flames of the campfire, now reduced to mere glowing embers, danced erratically, casting ephemeral shadows that played across the rugged terrain.

With a sense of urgency gnawing at his insides, Ryoshu reached for his Travel Scroll, its weathered parchment a tangible link to the unknown destinations that awaited him. With practiced precision, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to inscribe the coordinates of his next destination onto the scroll.

"The alley next to Angels' Whiskey," he wrote, his strokes purposeful and resolute, the ink flowing smoothly across the parchment as if guided by an unseen hand.

He finished, Ryoshu's gaze drifting beyond the confines of the scroll, his eyes alighting upon the distant horizon. There, amidst the vast expanse of the unknown, lay the haun