The last pray
"Sometimes, the ghosts we meet are not our enemies, but mirrors of what we might have been."
---
The grave lay hidden beyond the withered torii gate, half-swallowed by weeds and stone.
Shindō stood at the edge of the clearing, snow melting where it touched the old mound of earth.
The silence here was heavy—a silence that spoke of regrets left unspoken and hatred buried, yet still breathing.
As he stepped closer, Shindō's eyes narrowed.
Someone else stood before the grave—a tall figure, wrapped in a dark cloak, back turned, black hair tied in a rough knot.
The man neither prayed nor bowed.
He simply watched the grave as if measuring its weight against something darker in his heart.
---
Shindō's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice calm yet edged.
The stranger didn't turn at first.
Then, slowly, he raised his head, revealing sharp features, cold eyes, and a scar running across his jaw—fresh, like it hadn't yet learned how to fade.
"A disciple," the man said simply.
"I trained under him. Or rather, I survived him."
---
Silence hung, heavy and sharp.
"And you?" the disciple asked, turning fully now, gaze unwavering.
"What is your name, wanderer who stands at my master's grave?"
Shindō's breath clouded the cold air.
"My name is Shindō Motsura."
At that moment, the disciple's hand dropped to his sword, a faint grin twisting his lips.
"Then show me your answer, Shindō Motsura."
---
They moved without warning.
Steel clashed in a spray of sparks, cold wind swirling around them as blades sang in arcs of silent fury.
Snow turned to steam where their strikes met; the ground split beneath the force of each blow.
Shindō felt it instantly—the disciple was different.
Faster.
Heavier.
A darkness in his stance, but not the same rot that had poisoned the cult leader.
It was raw power, unrefined yet terrifyingly alive.
---
Between flurries of strikes, the disciple spoke, voice calm despite the violence.
"If you touch me, even once, I'll leave in peace."
His blade danced, a whirl of precise death.
"Fail—and I'll decide your worth by the edge of this sword."
---
Shindō pressed forward, muscles burning, scars aching, breath ragged.
He drew on everything—the battles, the regrets, the love he'd found.
The disciple's movements were relentless, but Shindō's resolve burned brighter.
With a final pivot, Shindō's blade kissed the disciple's shoulder—a shallow touch, yet undeniable.
Steel stopped.
---
The disciple's cold mask broke into a slow, genuine smile.
He stepped back, sheathed his blade, and bowed deeply.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"You freed me more than you know."
He explained, voice low:
"The master you killed saved my life once… but his cruelty nearly killed my spirit.
Now, I'm free of his shadow—and you are why."
They clasped forearms, a silent warrior's respect.
Then, without another word, the disciple turned and walked into the falling snow, his silhouette fading beyond the torii.
---
That night, Shindō returned home, exhaustion and quiet triumph swirling in his chest.
He kissed Aiko's forehead, watched Haru sleep, then left for the small temple at the village edge.
Kneeling before the cold altar, he closed his eyes.
He didn't pray for forgiveness, nor for strength.
He simply whispered, "Thank you… for letting me live to see this dawn."
---
Outside, the cedar trees stood silent, the snow falling gentler now.
And in that quiet, the flame of a single lantern flickered—warm, steady, and unbroken.
The past was scarred, the road ahead uncertain,
but for the first time, Shindō Motsura stood at peace within himself.
And that, he knew, was enough.