Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma in the war because the name fit the work, and Akuma never bothered correcting anyone since a demon's reputation is good for business. On a misty morning built for exactly this kind of sin, he set out to rob a huddle of half-asleep degens counting their bags by lantern light, only to find his own coin purse lighter than a monk's promise by the time the fog lifted, some nameless thief having out-demoned the demon himself. He stood there in the wet grass laughing the kind of laugh that used to make men drop their swords, because the universe apparently thought his karma needed a tune-up. So now Akuma sits cross-legged at dawn, reciting sutras with the same hollow menace he once used for threats, chasing the discipline his samurai self wore like armor and finding only the itch to rob the temple donation box on his way out. He tells himself enlightenment is close, close the way the floor was close right before it wasn't, and somewhere behind his calm devil's smile the old hunger keeps score.