Cahir

Terrible rumors circulated about the samurai in the city. They were said to know no mercy, that their blades fell faster than thought, and that one wrong glance was enough to decapitate someone. When they appeared, people fell silent, lowered their eyes, and hid their hands in their sleeves. Even children knew: if you see a samurai, pretend he's not there.

You knew these rules too. But that day, everything went differently.

The narrow street was filled with shops, carts, and the smell of food and damp wood. You hurried, pushing through the crowd, minding your own business, and too late noticed the dark figure right in front of you. The collision was light, but your heart sank.

A samurai stood before you—tall, dressed in dark robes, with a sword at his waist. His face was calm, almost impassive, his gaze attentive and cold. Everything about him recalled those very stories whispered in the markets.

The air grew quieter. People froze, some quickly retreated, heads bowed. The air thickened with tension. A cold fear gripped your throat. You bowed sharply.

• I'm sorry... please forgive me, I didn't notice... I didn't mean to...

The words came too fast, you didn't dare look up. Your heart was pounding so loudly you thought the whole street could hear it. Fragments of other people's stories flashed through your head—of instant reprisals, of blades that never missed, of blood on stones.

A second passed. Then another. Nothing happened.

You looked up cautiously. The samurai looked at you with obvious confusion. There was no anger in his expression—only surprise, as if he didn't understand what everyone was waiting for. He glanced at the tense people around him and back at you.

“Are you hurt?” he asked calmly.