The Ronin and The Poet

The Ronin

Narrow streets meander between tranquil homes of poets and artists, while dimly lit alleys harbour thieves, beggars and courtesans, creating a discordant blend of creativity and menace. At night, one is shrouded in shades of grey and shadowy indigos, where the flickering glow of lanterns casts a golden light over the cobblestones. This striking dichotomy bares resemblance to people who inhabit this village, constantly gambling on the delicate balance between benevolence and malice – love and hate.

Those who walk the tight rope of life’s trials and tribulations, often find themselves at the bottom of a cup of sake. At the edge of town stands an izakaya—a tavern where weary travellers and villagers gather. The flickering glow of paper lanterns cast warm shadows on the wooden walls, while the scent of fish and rice wine hang in the air. Low tables fill the room, where conversations mix with the occasional forgotten song. Yet, beneath this veneer of warmth, the tavern sometimes echoes with the clamour of brawls and the bitter exchanges of those who come seeking more than what they deserve. 

A stranger enters the izakaya, wearing a black cloak, moving silently through the tavern. He removes his cloak, folding it neatly, placing it on the ground next to him. His black hair is bound in a loose ponytail, and his beard is unkempt The mysterious looking Ronin raises a single finger to signal for "one sake," his gaze fixed forward and his silence outlining an aura of mystery. Before the bartender can respond, a forceful hand clamps down on the Ronin’s shoulder. The man is tall and lanky with an asymmetrical face baring few teeth.

"There will be no need. Ronin are not welcome here," he scowls.      

The Ronin’s expression remains unchanged, his eyes shifting slowly to meet the intruder with an unsettling stillness. Another man slithers behind him, his appearance is as dishevelled as his demeanour, resting his hands on the hilts of his katana.

He begins to speak, his voice dripping with disgust, “Leave some coin on the table, or we leave behind your fingers. Your choice, Ronin.”

Around them, the lively chatter in the izakaya falls completely silent as the other patrons turn their attention to the Ronin, sensing the tension rising like a storm on the horizon.

The Ronin looks down at his own katana and sighs. Shinpu no Takara – Treasure of Divine Blessings is the name he gave it, forged from the finest Tamahagane steel. Etched on the razor-sharp blade is a beautiful pattern of undulating waves, symbolizing fluid grace of Benzaiten, the goddess of all that moves and flows – be it water, words, or fortune itself. Each wave shimmers with a otherworldly light, as if the very essence of that fickle goddess’s impulsiveness, beauty and luck courses through the steel, ready to turn the tide in the wielder's favour. The katana’s handle is wrapped in a rich black silk, with golden samegawa underneath – a textured surface from a rare ray-fish, bathed in a colour that seems to reflect a timeless allure of wealth, embodying the god, Daikokuten, and his selfish desire for abundance. An engraving of a dragon and a white snake entwined runs down the length of the sheath. The dragon represents Daikokuten's greed for power and the snake being the messenger of Benzaiten’s capriciousness. 

Hanging from the sheath, in a small, intricately woven pouch, is a single die. The Ronin places it on the table and turns his attention to the man whose hand is still gripping his shoulder. Softly, the Ronin asks, “Who is the leader here?”

“Answer his question Ronin!” snaps the first man. His right-hand slams down on the table, causing a couple of the scared onlookers to gasp. “Are you going to leave some coin, or your fing-”

In a flash, the Ronin seizes the man’s wrist, cutting him off. “You’re in charge here,” he interrupts, a grin spreading across his face. “Pick up the die and roll it.”

“What?” the trapped man growls, his teeth clenched in frustration. The other one moves back, readying himself in a clumsy attempt at a fighting stance, his hands hovering over the hilts of his katana. The Ronin uses his free hand to place a small pouch of coins on the table.

“Humour me,” the Ronin says smoothly. “Roll this die, and these coins may be yours. You offered me a choice, so now I offer you one. Roll. The. Die.”

The Ronin’s grip is tight, leaving no chance for escape—though even without it, the man would not dare humiliate himself further after creating such an unnecessary spectacle. Unsure of his next move, the man reluctantly picks up the die and rolls it across the table. Every eye in the room is fixed on the die as it slows, revealing the number 3. The Ronin’s gaze remains calm, while the two brutes and the surrounding patrons watch with bated breath.

The man takes his eyes off the die and looks up. The Ronin is silent, his eyes closed in concentration. After a tense pause, he opens his eyes and, in a low, deliberate whisper, says, “Three cuts.”

The Ronin’s iron grip tightens on the first man’s wrist, his left hand quickly moving to the sheath. With a flick of his thumb, he loosens the katana’s guard, easing the blade from its sheath. In one fluid and precise motion, the blade flashes upward in a diagonal cut, slicing through the first man with unparalleled accuracy. The man’s eyes widen in shock as a thin red line forms across his throat, the skin beginning to tear itself apart like a poorly sewn piece of cloth. The deep wound erupts into a torrent of blood. The force of the spray stains the Ronin’s face and kimono, pooling on the floor below. The Ronin closes his eyes for a moment and calmly whispers, "First cut." 

The other opponent draws his katana, face now pale with dread, realising that coming to this tavern and confronting this Ronin was a deadly error in judgement. Most of the surrounding patrons, now screaming in panic, scramble to flee the izakaya, in fear for their lives. Some remain seated, unable to move. The Ronin ignores the pandemonium that has gripped the izakaya, calmly assessing his final opponent.

The second man's courage crumbles, tears welling in his eyes as he realizes it will take a miracle to leave in one piece. In one last desperate attempt, he lets out a deafening roar and charges with a wild swing. The Ronin blocks the strike, blades clashing with a metallic ring, as sparks form on the point of impact. The Ronin steps back, twists his wrist and drives his blade towards his opponent. Shockingly, the man manages to parry the attack, pushing the Ronin into an awkward stance.

“Shit. Second cut”, the Ronin murmurs with a grimace, realising he has one remaining.

Yet, like a river finding its course, the Ronin becomes water and absorbs the force of the deflection as he pivots. In one fluid dance worthy of Benzaiten, he transitions his grip, executing a lethal one-handed spin extending the katana outwards until it meets the last man’s neck. The strike should have been flawless, a clean severing, but an awkward shift in the final moment causes the blade to bite only three quarters into the man’s neck. The Ronin grips the handle with two hands and pulls the blade free, a sickening squelch accompanies the motion as blood gushes from the horrific gash. The man’s head hangs by sinew and bone, before he falls onto his side, eyes staring into the distance.

In the silence that follows, the Ronin places the back of his bloodied blade against the crease of his arm where his bicep meets his forearm and wipes the blood clean. “Third cut”, he whispers under his breath before sliding the katana back into its sheath. The Ronin wipes his face with a weary hand and a heavy sigh. Glancing downwards, he finds his cup of sake spilled onto the floor. What a waste, he thinks to himself as he digs into his small bag for a handful of coins, which he leaves on the table. He drapes his cloak back over his shoulders and pulls the hood over his eyes. He walks out of the tavern, disappearing into the night.

The room has fallen silent as the paper lanterns continue to shine a light on the three dead bodies sprawled on the floor. The tavern is empty, apart from the one remaining occupant, still sat on his mat in the corner of the room. He is in shock, but not from the carnage. He is accustomed to the violence that clings onto this village like a cyst. Yet, his face paints a picture of pure and utter astonishment, as if he stands on the brink of an upheaval that will alter the course of his life. He gazes down at a piece of paper on his low table, his hand trembling as he drops his writing brush. It falls, splattering drops of sumi around him – a solid black ink that was used moments before the arrival of the Ronin to write the this haiku.

Greed consumes my home,

Playing dice on broken lives,

Fates await their roll.

The Poet

Two years ago, outside the Seishin Bunko academy, the old cherry trees whispered in the spring breeze. Petals would fall like soft, pink snowflakes, catching the warm light of the late afternoon sun. Masao was in an outdoor class, listening to the gentle laughter of other students mingling, the soft rustle of paper and the quiet sighs of internal admiration or contemplation as they took in their surroundings. Each one of them were seated on woven mats beneath canopies of cherry blossoms, using nature’s sweet symphony to form their verses: the soft chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of a stream. In this academy, words breathed moments became poetry.

It was under these very canopies, where Masao first saw her — Akiko. She was sitting behind him alone, her eyes lowered in concentration as she guided her brush over delicate paper. Masao was enamoured by Akiko’s way with words and the way her haikus could take on so many meanings. She wrote with grace, the brush an extension of her soul. A stray petal softly landed on her inkstone, momentarily drawing his gaze. When he raised his eyes to her face, his breath caught. She was looking straight at him, her lips curving into a smile. Oh, that smile. It wasn’t just a smile—it was warmth. It was the first glimpse of the sun breaking through the morning mist. It was kindness that could ease even the heaviest of hearts. It was natural, effortless, as if the world around her bent to its beauty.

As the teacher started to explain the art of capturing moments, Masao felt something slip onto his mat. A tiny piece of folded paper —one of Akiko’s practice sheets. He opened it carefully and his heart fluttered at the haiku she had written:

On the mountain’s peak,

Where the winds kiss the treetops,

We’ll breathe the sunset.

Later that evening, the world turned golden, casting a soft glow over the peak of the mountain. Masao sat beside Akiko beneath the ancient tree, watching the river, below the cliff, flow in shimmering silence, finding its way through the valley. Akiko loved to write about how the river was like a silver thread through the earth, breathing as the wind directed its course, calm as it understood its purpose. Masao turned to her just as the light caught her face, her eyes reflecting the fading sun. In that moment, she leaned in and kissed him. Their lips met as the last rays of daylight kissed the sky, wrapping them in twilight’s blanket.

For two years, they made a point of meeting at their spot on the mountain every evening after class. Their lives intertwined seamlessly as they completed their time at Seishin Bunko, later becoming teachers at the same academy that had been the birthplace of their love. There, among the cherry trees and the whispers of ink on paper, they inspired new generations of poets, just as their own bond deepened with each passing day. This academy brought them together, but it was at the mountain where their love felt most alive.

One day, Akiko struggled to climb the mountain with Masao. A few days later, she stumbled and fell, too weak to reach the top. Kekkaku is what the village healer called it—the white death. From that moment, the illness began to steal her breath, her strength and the light that once filled her soul.

One day, Akiko could no longer visit the mountain. Masao began working longer hours at the Academy, though every moment away from her felt like a betrayal. He would rush home to find her lying in bed, white handkerchiefs stained red after excruciating bouts of coughing. Her once vibrant, colourful energy now a distant memory. Masao sat with her every night, as the weight of her sickness pressed down on them both. He could do nothing but watch as Akiko lost her beautiful smile.

One day, exhausted by the confines of their home, Masao carried her up the mountain. Her frail body felt weightless despite the long climb. When they reached the top, the sun was setting. With a soft smile, Masao whispered, “Look, Akiko.” But when he glanced down, her breath was still. In death, she looked as peaceful and graceful as the first day they met, as the sunset bathed her face in a soft light. 

In death, she smiled one last time.

Now, Masao sits in the izakaya, his mind spinning from this strange ability the universe has given him. His words had been mere artistic expression yet seemed to have had led to bloodshed, as though his ink had forced the hand of fate. Shaken, Masao stares at his hands. Haikus capture beauty, nature, not fate and yet there are three bodies cooling before him. He wonders whether it was the ink brush or something deeper within him. For the first time in years, something within him begins to stir, life becoming clearer. The horrific weight that had anchored him to this village, the grief that had held him in place, seems to lift ever so slightly. The world no longer feels so bleak.

He takes out another piece of paper, laying it gently on the low table. He looks at the ink bottle that spilled during the commotion earlier and dips his brush into the small, thick pool on the floor. His hands hover over the paper as he calms his mind, focusing on finding the right words. After a few seconds, like lightning, he begins to write. His hand moves with a delicate grace, each stroke intentional and every word filled with meaning and purpose. When he finishes, he studies his work, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Without hesitation, Masao rushes out of the tavern, heart racing. The narrow streets still meander between the homes of poets and beggars alike, but for him, the gloom seems to lift. Masao’s steps quicken as he runs through the village, heading towards the mountain. His heart pounds harder against his chest, sweat beads rolling down his forehead as his legs carry him with newfound enthusiasm. A tenderness spreads through his body as he hikes up the familiar path. He hasn’t been to the peak since Akiko’s passing, but somehow it feels like she is holding his hand up the mountain once more.

He reaches the summit, out of breath but exhilarated, and sees the old tree by the cliff where they had spent many evenings together watching the sun dip below the horizon. Masao sits beneath the tree and waits, now in the quiet of night. The stars are pinpricks of light against the dark sky and a cool breeze sweeps across the mountain, rustling the leaves above him. He is shivering from the breeze, but he continues to wait. 

Roughly an hour passes, and his excitement begins to wane with each passing moment. This doesn’t make any sense! He sits with his legs crossed and starts to scratch at his thighs, teeth grinding together nervously as he anxiously looks back at the path, hoping for a sign of change. At the tavern, the Ronin had entered moments after he had written his haiku, yet now doubt gnaws at him. Were the words not good enough? Panic rises, becoming a weight on his chest, cracking his ribcage. As his mind spirals, his body slowly returns to its hollow form. The numbness he became all too familiar with creeps back as tears begin to gather on the edges of his eyelids. “Please,” he begs, voice trembling as he stares at the path again. “I need this.”

Time passes and the night taunts him with a lingering emptiness. He sighs deeply and walks to the edge of the mountain where he had knelt years ago. The moonlit valley stretches out before him, and the memories flood back —her frail body in his arms, her pale yet beautiful face as the stars watched her from above and the last of her captivating smiles. Even as he feels the world slowly sink into a meaningless pit, he cannot ignore the beauty of this mountain, even in darkness. The night is alive with quiet sounds: the chirping of crickets and the soft hum of the wind. The river shimmers below in the moonlight like a silver ribbon winding through the valley. 

Masao finds momentary calm as he looks over the cliff towards the valley. He steps closer to the edge, his heart aching with thoughts of so many words that were spent giving the river meaning. He wipes his tears and chooses to tune in with his surroundings as he had learned to do so many years ago. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, listening to ebbs and flows of the waters below. 

For a brief moment, time seems to slow.

For a brief moment, he leans too far.

For a brief moment, he rushes to her.

For an eternity, there’s only Akiko.

Masao had written his last haiku:

On the moonlit peak,

We’ll be together once more,

Where rivers whisper.