The sound of weeping broke the rain’s monotony.
“And you?” the boy asked.
Kenshin, for that was his true name, now walked the muddy roads of the eastern provinces. His sword, once a treasure passed down seven generations, was chipped along its edge like a broken comb. His armor had been sold for rice. All that remained was a tattered horo cloak and a hollow behind his ribs where his honor used to live. ochimusha
The old warrior’s name was no longer his own. They called him Ochimusha —the fallen warrior—a ghost who had outlived his lord. The sound of weeping broke the rain’s monotony
The boy looked up. His eyes were large and dark, like a deer’s. “Bandits,” he whispered. “They came to our village. They killed my father. My mother told me to run. I ran.” His lip trembled. “I ran away.” His sword, once a treasure passed down seven
The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Are you a bandit?”