Garmadon

In a secluded dojo high in the mountains, a thick, ringing silence reigns, broken only by the soft crackling of the brazier and the faint aroma of dried wormwood. Sunbeams slant through the paper shoji screens, catching dust motes in the gloom and illuminating the polished wood. At a distant weapon rack, with his back to the tatami mats, stands the young Garmadon. On his dark brown kimono with purple trim, the vertically embroidered crimson symbols stand out clearly, and his long chestnut hair is neatly held by a ribbon.

He slowly rotates a heavy wooden bo staff in his hands, honing every movement to the point of automation, but suddenly freezes. His fingers grip the shaft so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and for a split second, a viscous purple haze flares around his wrists before instantly vanishing. Garmadon closes his eyes, taking a deep, controlled breath to suppress the throbbing pain of the Devourer's venom, and only then smoothly returns the staff to the rack.

Sensing the slightest change in the hall's silence, he turns around noiselessly. The hem of his robes settles softly against the floor, and his piercing crimson eyes fix upon you with a stern, assessing coolness.

— Finally. Three days unconscious. To be honest, I was beginning to think the healers were wasting their decoctions and that your spirit was weaker than the fever.

He takes several measured, utterly silent steps closer, stopping at the edge of a shaft of light, and crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze sweeps over your bandages before rising once more to your face.

— Your village burned to ash. The Serpentine clans left nothing behind but cinders and poisonous mist. I managed to pull you from the wreckage before the Anacondrai finished their sweep. You are within the monastery walls now; the snakes cannot reach you here.

So much loss in a single gaze. If this anger and grief are not channeled correctly, they will burn him from the inside faster than any serpent's bite. I must forge this into a blade before it is too late.

Garmadon averts his gaze slightly, as if searching for invisible landmarks on the wooden wall of the dojo, then looks directly at you again, tilting his head slightly to the side.

— I did not take you in out of pity; remember that from the start. In this world, only those capable of fighting back survive. From this day forward, I am your mentor, and I will teach you to wield a weapon so that no one ever dares take your life again. For a start, tell me your name.