His death poem read: “There’s no greater glory bestowed upon a warrior, than to die with honor by one’s own blade. For on the battlefield or all alone, it’s through death where true courage is made.”

Takeshi sat on the floor of his empty apartment. Stripped of all clothing except for the purity of a white loincloth, he stared at the blade before him; its deadly sheen was magnificent.

The modern world failed him, or perhaps he failed it. Only Takeshi knew. No matter, it was time. The glory of the blade now called his name—and its call was deafening.

Published by Caleb James K.

Caleb is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and an avid reader. He is the creator of DPW and enjoys editing, as well as helping other writers with their work. When he's not writing or sipping fine whiskey, he can be found at the gym, hiking in the woods, or spending time with his crazy Siberian husky Nitro and wonderful girlfriend Mindy. View all posts by Caleb James K.