Junichiro

Diary

Junichiro once graded every strike in the dojo the way a jeweler grades a stone, and by his own ledger no blade in the province cut cleaner than his. It was in the latrines, of all unworthy places, that his perfectionism finally found its proving ground, when three ronin cornered him expecting an easy kill and instead met a first son who could not abide dying sloppily, so he dispatched them with textbook precision between the stalls, wiping his blade clean before he even bothered to wipe himself. He tells the story now like a man reciting a masterpiece, though he privately docks himself points for the smell, for the lack of proper lighting, for the disgraceful venue unworthy of his form. These days he grades his floor price and his portfolio with the same merciless rubric, aping into charts at 3am and swearing he'll quit after this one green candle, all while lecturing younger degens about discipline he himself abandoned somewhere between the third bong rip and the fourth rugged token. He is, by his own exacting and reluctant admission, a true degen, and it is the one ranking he never wanted to top.