That year, the fire came out of the mountains. She had a flame on her head and a spatula in her hand, but it was not for cooking smoke. Her name was Ju Fufu, a woman who spun like the wind and burned like fire. On Yunkui Mountain, a land soaked in flames and steel, she used fire as blood and heat as bones to interpret her own battle poem.
I first saw her at the edge of a silent fictional city, with a slanting sun projected on the broken wall, and her blazing eyes were like the sun burning my heart. She was not a continuation of daily life, but a manifestation of her fighting instinct. Her attack was like a red flame slashing and tearing the sky; her popcorn pot was no longer a gentle cooking utensil, but a wrought iron-like fighting spirit. Once the pot was swung, it was like the scepter of the mountain god, bringing irresistible roar and tearing.
In the four-stage slash of the ordinary attack, Ju Fufu showed a rhythm that was almost sacrificial. The first three attacks are a fire-starting ritual, testing the enemy’s soul and courage; and the fourth one, like a volcanic eruption, condenses all repression and heat into one blow, burning away hostility and vanity. Every swing is not only a manifestation of power, but also a burning will, the roar of the mountain, and the rhythm of fire.
Her “heat” is not just a gain point under the numerical system, but more like a thermometer for her confrontation with the world. The higher the temperature, the closer to her reality. She spins, dodges, and rushes forward, each time a fierce protest against the enemy’s cold logic. She dances on the battlefield like a fireball, splashing flaming dust with every jump, and every stop is the prelude to the next round of explosions.
And her “linked skills” are more like the advent of gods. When the pot lid is opened, flames and popcorn dance together, which is a fusion of power and childlike fun, the aesthetics of gentle destruction, and the ritual of her faith. When all this converges in the “finishing skill”, it is no longer a character’s skill release, but the echo of the mountain and the angry song of fire. She raised the spatula high and brought down two flaming blows, which was a declaration and also nirvana.
She was not a lone fighter. Her support skills were a helping hand in the fire and an inextinguishable beacon in the storm. Whether it was blocking the enemy’s attack or counterattacking from the sky, she supported her comrades’ backs with a silent belief. Her core skill turned the popcorn pot into a loyal partner, spinning and dancing around her, burning and growing.
The fire in Ju Fufu came from the mountain and from her heart. Her imagery was not a record, but an echo. It recorded how she changed the situation alone and how she turned the heat into encouragement for the whole team. Her existence was the revival of some ancient power – a philosophy of hope and destruction dancing together born from the flames.
Her sound engine, that exclusive melody, was the sound of fire and steel colliding, the trembling sound when the heat rose, and the unyielding song in the depths of her soul. In that device, we hear not only the explosion of battle, but the echo of a woman calling out to the world in the name of fire.
Tachibana Fukufu’s design goes beyond the character itself. She is like a ritual, a revolution, and the rebirth of a legend. She is not just an S-class agent with the ability to break through, but the projection of the God of Fire in the world, the red flames roaring in the depths of the earth. Wherever she walks, the wind becomes hot and the light trembles.
She is not the name of a character in the game.
She is a myth about fire.