Ochimusha !!better!! Guide

Kenshin’s hand went to his sword hilt. The weeping came from behind the altar—a child’s cry, raw and desperate. He crept forward, firelight dancing on his gaunt face. There, curled against the rotting wood, was a boy of perhaps eight winters. His kimono was torn. His left cheek bore a fresh bruise the color of plums.

Kenshin picked up his sword. The chipped edge caught the firelight. “I have not used this blade in anger since the day I shamed it. Tomorrow, before we go, we will find your village. We will find the bandits.” He turned the blade so the edge faced him, then turned it away. “A fallen warrior cannot reclaim his lord. But he can protect one child. That is not redemption. It is simply… what is left.” ochimusha

“And you?” the boy asked.

“Boy,” Kenshin said, his voice rusty from disuse. “Who struck you?” Kenshin’s hand went to his sword hilt

“Takeshi.”

He reached for his sake gourd. It was empty. He crushed it in his palm. There, curled against the rotting wood, was a

Takeshi considered this. Children have a way of cutting through the poetry of sorrow. “If you’re fallen,” he said, “you can stand up again.”