Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma on the battlefield because demons don't apologize, and he wore the name like armor long after the wars went quiet and the only enemy left was his own liver. On the switchbacks of Mount Hotaka, lungs burning, knees screaming discipline he'd long since sold for cheap whiskey and cheaper bets, he ran into Haru, who talked to him like a man and not a myth, and something in that plain kindness cracked the demon's shell just enough to let a little light of confidence pour in. Akuma tried, briefly, nobly, to turn that spark into resolve, swearing on the mountain air he'd train at dawn, quit the tables, become the disciplined blade he once was. By the time he reached the summit that vow had already rolled downhill faster than he had, chased off by the thought of a warm bar and a cold drink waiting in the valley. He regrets nothing, not the climb, not the collapse of his own promises, because a demon who's honest about his failures is still, in his own twisted way, walking a path toward something like peace.