Ochimusha ❲Fresh ›❳

He reached for his sake gourd. It was empty. He crushed it in his palm.

Kenshin, for that was his true name, now walked the muddy roads of the eastern provinces. His sword, once a treasure passed down seven generations, was chipped along its edge like a broken comb. His armor had been sold for rice. All that remained was a tattered horo cloak and a hollow behind his ribs where his honor used to live. ochimusha

Takeshi considered this. Children have a way of cutting through the poetry of sorrow. “If you’re fallen,” he said, “you can stand up again.” He reached for his sake gourd

“No.”

“Takeshi.”