Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the war still had a shape, back when he earned the name by being the last thing men saw before the dark took them, and he has never once corrected anyone who still whispers it in fear. Now he sits cross-legged before the shoji doors, watching lantern light bend through the paper like a memory trying to escape, and lets The Bearded Bandit ramble on about odds, tells, and the sacred art of never folding. Somewhere between the third proverb and the fifth exaggerated bluff story, Akuma feels the old discipline stir in his chest, a master plan assembling itself with the cold precision of a blade being drawn, and for one shining moment he believes he might actually become something structured again. Of course the plan, whatever noble shape it took in his skull, dissolves the second The Bearded Bandit produces a bottle from his sleeve like a magician who only knows one trick, and Akuma tells himself this too is discipline, just the kind that gets sorrows drowned instead of sharpened. He raises the cup with the same hand that once held a sword, smiles the smile that made men flee villages, and toasts to the demon he used to be before he decided ambition was thirsty work.