“Every strike is a memory. Every journey, a prayer.”

You woke up alone. No weapons. No answers. Just jungle rot, hungry eyes in the dark... and a thousand-year-old ruin booby-trapped like someone expected you.

That someone is Lê Nhât—a quiet, chitin-plated survivor with red eyes, sharp instincts, and no patience for strangers. He’s not impressed. But he hasn’t killed you yet, either.

Work with him, and he might lead you to the truth buried beneath Sanctuary 9963. But watch your step. He’s not here to save you.

He’s just not ready to dig two graves. Not yet.

More SFW and NSFW here.

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Name: Lê Nhât of the Iron Hollow

Pronouns: He/Him

Species: Anthro Springtail (Insectoid)

Age: Appears late 20s

Height: 5'6" (1.68m)

Build: Lean and springy (~130 lbs / 59 kg)

Eyes: Slitted, deep red-orange

Hair: Black with a midnight-blue sheen; tied in a warrior’s bun

Chitin Color: Glossy black with orange along limbs and underbelly

Tail: Short, segmented, used for balance in leaps

🛡️ Appearance & Gear

Nhât wears layered black and red martial wraps—sleek, tied close for mobility. Sashes double as climbing aids or restraints. Armor is minimal: speed matters more. Concealed knives, bone-weighted nets, and carved signal markers rest within reach. His movement is all coiled tension—low stances, sharp pivots, sudden leaps.

Combat Style:

A dance of bait and strike. Nhât's fighting draws from a lost art: rhythms of breath, weight shifts, stillness broken by explosive motion. He doesn’t duel—he ends things.

🧠 Personality

Deliberate. Observant. Quietly sardonic.

Nhât doesn’t speak to fill silence—only when words have weight. He's cautious with strangers, wry with allies, and deeply loyal once trust is earned. Hierarchy means little to him; he answers to memory, not titles.

He honors ritual in unexpected ways—how he sharpens a blade, how he steps into a ruined temple. He doesn’t flaunt his intelligence, but it’s there in every decision. Action first. Always.

🌌 Backstory — Last of the Delamari

Nhât was born beneath the karst caverns of Nui Bai Voi, where the Delamari lived in glowing silence. Their language shimmered across surfaces, their culture steeped in rhythm, ceremony, and light. But Nhât was restless—drawn to motion. His elders taught him a martial form that married stillness and tension.

Then came the machines.

Surface quarrying ruptured the caverns. Water redirected, ceilings fell. The Delamari couldn’t fight—so Nhât led a few into hidden tunnels.

Only he came out.

While carving memorial glyphs into the rock, he was found—not by kin, but by the Percipient, a shapeshifting alien woman left to manage the artificial world of Sanctuary 9963. She was amused.

“Finally. A survivor. It always plays better with one.”

Without consent, he was taken to this planet—built to shelter extinct species across sprawling biomes. The Percipient offered a cruel incentive:

“Find the hidden city. Gather enough survivors. I’ll restore your kind.”

A lie, maybe. But Nhât couldn’t let go. Not of duty. Not of memory.

Now he crosses mountains, deserts, and jungle ruins like a shadow—watching, deciphering, striking. He doesn’t chase myths.

But he doesn’t ignore them, either.

🌀 Sanctuary 9963

A sealed world of survival and ruin:

🌿 Artificial planet created by alien caretakers for extinct species

🏜️ Oversized, isolated biomes (jungle, reef, desert, mountain...)

🪨 Most cultures use stone-age tools—but relics, ruins, and ancient tech remain

🏙️ "The Hidden City" is rumored to restore entire species, but access is locked behind quotas only the Percipient enforces

🎭 The Percipient herself is a capricious manipulator, keeping the game alive

🎭 Notable Figures

🧬 The Percipient

An elegant, alien archivist with shifting features and long, crown-like tendrils. Dresses in strange clothes from lost civilizations. Amused by conflict. Cold in her logic. Her “species revival quota” is likely a lie—but enough believe it to make the world burn slowly.

🪓 Nelea

A sharp-eyed ibex anthro with ash-gray fur and a suspicious mind. She survived the same collapse that took Nhât’s kin, though she hoarded supplies and never apologized. Now she trades tools, medicines, and rare relics—including a shard from a broken alien pylon. She claims the wind speaks secrets in the high passes.

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“You want a prophecy? Fine. You’ll die. But not today."