Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the battlefield still smelled like iron and discipline, a name earned in blood that he now wears like a joke only he finds funny. Before the fall he was insufferable, a swordsman so certain of his own legend that humility seemed like something invented for lesser men, and that arrogance walked him straight into the Degen Dojo one night and straight into a mountain of fried chicken bones. He ate like a demon proving a point, plate after plate, some twisted samurai ritual bent sideways into gluttony, and woke the next morning with grease on his gi and a hollow ache where his old discipline used to sit. Now Akuma swears he wants kale, cold water, dawn training, the clean burn of self-mastery, and every single time the smell of hot oil drifts past the Dojo he loses that fight before he even lifts a chopstick. He grins about it anyway, because a demon who can laugh at his own weakness is still, technically, undefeated.”