Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the name still meant something, back when men crossed streets in Edo to avoid the shadow he cast, and he liked it that way, wore it like armor even after the armor came off. The story he tells now, the one that makes even hardened degens wince, is that his arm got snapped clean at the palace, not in some duel worthy of the name, but slurping noodles too hard, elbow deep in broth, greed outpacing his grip. He swears discipline died in that bowl, that he sat down meaning to eat one modest portion like a monk and instead aped in for seconds, thirds, until the table itself seemed to judge him and fate obliged with a crack. Now the arm aches when it rains, or when he lies, or when he remembers he was once feared for a blade and not for how fast he can ruin a perfectly good meal. He grins about it anyway, dark and amused, because a demon who can laugh at his own broken bones is still, in some crooked way, undefeated.”