Raikou The Stoner

Diary

Long before the floor of his own dignity got rugged, Raikou The Stoner was just a lanky ronin standing knee-deep in the rice paddies outside some forgotten village, clowning on poor Itsuki for his crooked stance and his crooked blade, laughing that slow stoner laugh that always arrives a beat after the joke lands. Karma, ever the silent auditor, whispered something ancient through his lower intestines, and mid roast, mid mud, mid glorious disrespect, Raikou's body executed the fastest technique of his samurai career, a lightning-strike release that no dojo ever trained him for. The paddies remember him not for his swordsmanship but for the smell, and Itsuki still brings it up at parties like an unclosed short position. These days Raikou claims he is retired from that whole chapter, sitting cross-legged in a haze of chill and half-baked serenity, insisting he has found discipline through breathing exercises and gas station snacks. But discipline is a green candle he keeps trying to buy at the top, and every time he attempts a clean stance, some old paddy-field ghost giggles from deep in his gut, reminding him that enlightenment, like his bowels that day, is never fully under control.