Angry Ikari

Diary

Ikari once rode at the head of a bandit column through the hills outside Kyoto, and men sang about it before the dust even settled, calling him a legend with a straight face, which only made the vein in his neck throb harder because legends are just angry men whose enemies finally ran out. Now there is no column, no horse worth mounting, no bandits left to lead or slaughter, only a folding chair outside a ramen stand and a jar of pickled eggs he treats like a rival clan. He tells anyone who'll listen that anger is a fire that either forges the blade or burns the whole dojo down, then he flips his own table over a bad hand of cards, proving his point in real time. He swore off the sake, swore it on his father's name, on Hachiman himself, and by sundown he's three cups deep explaining through gritted teeth that discipline is a leash for lesser samurai, even as the leash lies obviously snapped at his feet. They still whisper the old title around town, Ikari the legend, and he hates it, hates that the rage never found a new war so it just keeps riding in circles through him, forever, with nowhere left to charge.