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.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.