Junichiro Reborn

Diary

They say Junichiro Reborn died once already, and the crows on the dojo roof seem to remember it better than he does, because the day they dove at him across the tatami he just smiled like an old friend had finally shown up to collect a debt. Feathers and dust and the thin ribbon of blood down his cheek, and still he knelt there breathing slow, counting each peck like sacred sutras, because a man who has already been rugged by the universe once does not flinch at birds. He used to meditate at dawn with his sword laid flat before him, seeking the discipline of the old masters, but these days his morning ritual is a lukewarm sake and a half-rolled joint that never quite gets finished before the fighting starts. When the last crow finally wheeled off into the grey sky, he lay back on the mats, arms spread like he was making an offering, and laughed that quiet unbothered laugh of his, the one that says death already tried its floor price on me once and I ain't selling. He calls it his best day in years, and honestly, for a man playing chicken with his own myth, he might be telling the truth.