Ochimusha Link

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.

One autumn evening, rain fell in gray sheets. Kenshin found shelter in an abandoned shrine to Hachiman, god of war. The wooden statue’s face had rotted away, leaving only a serene, blank expression. He built a small fire and stared into it. ochimusha

He crouched down. The fire crackled behind him, casting his shadow across the boy’s face. “What is your name?” Kenshin, for that was his true name, now

Perhaps the fallen could learn to bend.

“Tomorrow,” Kenshin said, “we will go to the nearest jizamurai’s estate. He owes my dead clan a debt. He will shelter you.” All that remained was a tattered horo cloak