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.