A/N – I have reposted this story. Thanks to all who reviewed it before, and welcome to all those who haven't seen it.
Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.
Prologue
In this modern, commercial age, there was little scope for martial artists. What was the point of striving for ultimate excellence in body and mind when the whole world was obsessed with money?
There was no money in training endlessly, day after day until his palms bled, until he was so tired he could no longer keep his eyes open. There was no money in the balanced, controlled sweep of a blade, in the shifting grace of perfect footwork, in the perfect balance of trained muscles and a calm, disciplined mind. There was pride, and honour, and strength – but these, as his father pointed out with such crushing practicality, would not pay the bills or put food on the table.
He was eighteen years old now, and it was time to start living in the real world.
Hiko Seijuro, Kenshin's sardonic shishou, listened gravely to his concerns, and then dismissed them out of hand.
"Baka deshi, I didn't put so much effort into training you all these years to see you give it all up to become a salary man." He glared at Kenshin, daring him to make a comment – intimidated by the fierce light in those black eyes, Kenshin shut his mouth and listened respectfully. "You're one of the best swordsmen in Japan, now, and one day, if you train hard enough, you might even approach my level of brilliance. But if you give it all up – or, even worse, turn a genuine calling into a hobby…"
"But Shishou," Kenshin pointed out reasonably, "my father wants me to move out. There's no money for university, and I can't work at McDonald's forever."
"Money?" Hiko stared at him in disgust. "Money should be the last of your worries. The practitioners of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu are concerned with the defense of the people, not the pursuit of money."
Kenshin looked about him at the dojo where, every single day for the last ten years, he'd poured his heart and soul into learning the sword. For the first time, he noticed the leaking, badly patched roof and the dingy, battered walls. The wooden floorboards were scuffed and dulled, and there was an air of general neglect about it – mostly, he thought, because Shishou was drunk more often than not, not caring about anything beyond his sake and his swords.
"But there is something…" Hiko took another, reflective swig from his sake bottle. "I wasn't always a drunken recluse in a run down dojo, baka deshi. I know someone, from long, long ago, who might be able to help you…"
Kenshin waited, as he always had, ready to absorb his shishou's words of wisdom.
"What do you think about acting?"
