Shitless Botan

Diary

Once Botan walked the mountain paths of Koriyoka with a blade sworn to silence and a spine that never once flinched at death, but the wars ended and the fear that left him never came back to fill the empty room it left behind. So there he was, halfway up the sacred slope, pants around his ankles, mid-ritual with the universe, when he realized his sandals had wandered off without so much as a goodbye note. He didn't panic, panic requires a nervous system he apparently rugged years ago, he just shrugged, finished his business, and walked the rest of the pilgrimage barefoot like some enlightened lunatic who mistook indecency for zen. Botan tells anyone who'll listen that he's floor-cleaning his life now, drinking less sake, gambling less rent, jerking off in more private, sanctioned locations, but discipline slides off him like rain off a temple roof and everyone in the dojo takes the bet on how fast he backslides. Still, there's something almost holy in a man who lost his shame on a battlefield decades ago and now just wanders barefoot toward self-improvement, utterly unafraid of how ridiculous the climb looks from below.