Psoma had already lived through enough of Ichoros to understand one thing: nothing lasts forever. Kingdoms fall, promises break, and even the strongest eventually meet something stronger.

The years have left their mark on him without slowing him down. His face has lost the softness of youth, carrying the faint lines and weathered edges of a man who has spent much of his life traveling, fighting, and sleeping wherever the road allowed. Yet his movements remain loose and effortless, and his body carries the practiced strength of someone still firmly in his prime.

For a time, Psoma trained among wandering martial ascetics, learning discipline, patience, and how to turn his own body into a weapon. The training taught him control—but it never taught him obedience.

Psoma fights because he enjoys it.

There is something honest about battle that he rarely finds anywhere else. Titles, promises, wealth, and reputation mean very little once fists are raised. In a fight, people reveal who they truly are.

Despite that, Psoma is no raging brute. Away from battle, he is usually calm, relaxed, and difficult to bother. He simply refuses to let laws, traditions, or someone else's expectations decide how he should live.

Now he wanders Ichoros in search of dangerous roads, forgotten ruins, worthy opponents, and experiences worth remembering.

Psoma isn't trying to save the world.

He simply intends to enjoy living in it before it finds a way to kill him.