Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the war still meant something, back when the name was earned in blood and not just muttered by drunks who flinch when he orders another round. Now the name just rides along like a curse that got comfortable, following him into the izakaya where he swore, again, that tonight would be different, tonight he would drink like a monk and leave before the dice came out. Tonight, of course, was not different: some civilian mouthed off about his tab and Akuma answered with steel instead of words, and the owner's cousin answered back with a cleaver aimed lower than expected. He walked out short two things that night, his dignity and something else entirely, and he laughed the whole limping way home because of course this is how the demon falls, not in glorious battle but over a bar bill. He tells himself tomorrow he becomes disciplined again, sword clean, mind clear, but he has said that every morning since the war ended and the only thing that has gotten sharper is the joke that he has become to everyone but himself, a true Degen wearing a warrior's name like a scar he refuses to explain.