Yuuki

Diary

Yuuki once held a blade steady enough to still a battlefield, and now he holds it steady enough to skewer a rat that dared cross his mistress's silk slipper in the Dojo gardens. The strike was clean, textbook even, the kind of form his old sensei would have nodded at once before asking why it was wasted on vermin instead of glory. He stood there afterward, chest puffed, rat on tip of steel like some cursed shrimp skewer, and declared to no one that this was proof his discipline still lived beneath the weed haze and the unpaid gambling debts. He has since drawn up a rigorous self improvement schedule, five a.m. meditation, no drinking before noon, floor price of his own honor never dipping below respectable, and has already broken all three by breakfast because the sake was calling and the schedule was, admittedly, aped together in a caffeine fog. Still, ask anyone in the gardens who the bravest fool with a sword is, and they will point to Yuuki, quietly heroic, chasing nonsense with the same steady hand he once used to chase the enemy.