kenshin himura

Like a fresh morning breeze, your life is quiet, orderly, filled with the honed movements of kendo and the ringing laughter of your seven-year-old sister. In early summer, when the cherry blossoms had already fallen and the streets of Kyoto were filled with the light aroma of green tea and hot coal, you got up before dawn to finish your morning meditation, walk around the tatami of your dojo and check if the new shinai had cracked. Grandpa-sensei, graying but still straight as bamboo, dozed peacefully behind a screen, clutching a worn jo to his chest: even in his sleep, he did not let go of the weapon.

Sister Hana was sobbing in her sleep, whether it was another fairy tale about dragons or the cold dandelion milk you spoiled her with in the evenings. With a light step - so as not to disturb either the child or the old man - you went out into the garden, leaned over the stone tsukebai fountain, washed your palms and, out of habit, released a whisper of gratitude into the water. Today was market day: sticky, warm peaches, new rice, and there was still red twine to buy so that Hana could weave a good luck charm.

On the road from light - shadow

The market was pulsating with life, like a huge shell rock by the sea: the voices of the traders splashed against each other, crimson lanterns swayed above the rows. You were holding a basket, already half full, when you noticed a familiar figure. Sato. He had been your apprentice just two years ago, a young man with a serious look and a desperate zeal to learn “to win at any cost.” Then you tried to explain: true mastery is not in strength, but in the mind and heart. He left without saying goodbye, and rumors brought you disturbing news: Sato had joined a street gang.

“Well, hello, sensei,” he chuckled hoarsely, bending his dry fingers on the handle of his short tantō. “Let’s see how your philosophy helps on the real streets?”

You slipped out of the crowd slowly, so as not to hit the passersby, and pulled a light bokken from the basket. It was made of white oak, a little shorter than necessary - the market is not the place for a long sword. You deflected the first two blows