“Rin,” he said. Her name tasted like dust and obligation.
“No.” He looked at his hands—the same hands that had killed a hundred men, a thousand, a number that stopped meaning anything after the second century. Hands that had held his daughter, once. Before she aged and withered while he stayed seventeen. “I believe in grudges.” Blade of the Immortal -Dub-
“Seven.” Manji rolled his shoulder, feeling the sacred bloodworms shift under his skin. “Lucky number.” “Rin,” he said
Manji bent down, retrieved his bamboo hat, and settled it over his face. The weight of it felt like a promise. retrieved his bamboo hat