Oleg Of War

Diary

Oleg Of War once commanded silence with a glance, a blade that never needed sharpening twice, discipline etched into every bow he gave his old masters. Now he lies in the Dojo's dim quarters, mushrooms coursing through him like a mutiny he invited, and somewhere between the melting walls and the whispering floorboards a rash bloomed across his skin, unexplained and unrepentant as the man himself. He does not seek a healer. He does not seek forgiveness. He simply stopped leaving, as if the Dojo itself became the only kingdom worth ruling once his legs forgot how to trust the outside world, and he tells anyone who asks that this was always the plan, that stillness is strategy, that a villain rests when a villain chooses. The old sensei in him, the one who once counted breaths before dawn training, watches from some dusty corner of his mind, disappointed but unsurprised, knowing full well that discipline left this body the same night the spores did their work.