They say the age of the sword has come to an end.

Those who once served with their souls in hand had ceased doing so; if not as scholars to become bureaucrats, then back to the countryside where their mothers and wives await. Or as robbers, turning away from the code to escape the fate of those who died in bed, skin and bones, wan of once aggrandize strength, as their guts scraped its walls clean in hunger.

Those who hold onto the sword can never belong in the modern world.

Yet even as he eats an omusubi with dried fish wrapped in smoked leaves, the man holds his loaded scabbard with the other - some days a cane uphill; most nights all the comfort he needed even without a roof above his head. He had held the sword before he learned to hold a brush and write with ink. When his mother died, and then his father to consuming and coughing up blood, and lastly his brother, over a drunken stab wound, he always had the rough leather bound around the hilt felt by his fingers. The sword has always been the only path he has ever known. Apart from the blade, there is no real worth.

Seagulls harp below by the stony shore and the sun drowns deeper. The man sits on a boulder eyeing the liquid gold expanse turning richer, as ferry boats return from the neighboring island, wondering if that is where he's headed next.

He saves his last omusubi for the morrow, underway walking some undiscovered mountain trail in the next island, and puts it back in his bamboo tube together with the dried fish. He seals it tight and binds it with straw and then puts on his cloak and his straw hat, tying it securely below his chin. He limps as he jumps off the boulder. The other day, though it's uncertain how many days have passed since then, he narrowly missed falling head first, flirting danger with an eagle's nest up a fir tree.

He gathers his makeshift bag and sets an easier course for his leg going further down the mountain. Casting one last look behind him, he etches to memory where he had been, the form and colors of the foliage and rock formations.

Incoming ruckus announces from the bend overhead: frantic gallops of a horse and the rattling of something in tow. A woman screams. The aimless horse without a driver appears and snaps his attention to the carriage lugging behind. The straps that bound the horse tore, drawing the carriage off the cliff road. The carriage hangs by the edge and the horse breaks free, leaving its owner behind falling out, briefly seeming like a scarlet bird, spreading its wings in flight, then rolling below the rocks around the steep edge.

He goes to the site and finds a heap of expensive layers of silken fabrics: crimson, gold, purples, and jade green. Long black hair was everywhere until he identifies what comprises the head. Slowly, he holds the bloodied head up, brushing away the stray strands, the skin with incomparable smoothness contrasting his thick, callous fingertips. He stares at the woman's face for a long while, entranced by the brightness of blood upon her pale color. Her nose had a narrow, pointed shape, and her lips, though slightly cracked from lack of drink, was plump under his thumb.

The warmth of her blood spreading on his hand brings him back to good sense.