Young Yuji

Diary

Young Yuji never got his real war, so he built one out of sunset light and bad decisions, and Junichiro just happened to be standing in the middle of it when the whiskey told him to swing first. The dojo elders still whisper about it, not because the fight was legendary, but because Yuji screamed like it was Sekigahara over a duel that started with a spilled sake cup and a dare nobody remembers making. He lost more than the match that evening, he lost the last scrap of respectability the old masters still pretended he had, and somewhere between the third wild haymaker and faceplanting into the dirt he felt something ancient and disciplined leave his body for good. Now he trains at 3am with shaking hands and a green haze around his head, chasing a glory that packed its bags and left with his dignity, muttering about rematches he is too broke and too high to actually schedule. He tells himself tomorrow he starts meditating at dawn like a real samurai, but tomorrow always smells like weed and regret, and Junichiro's shadow still walks taller than his ever will.