Soul of a Samurai

A dull, throbbing pain spread through Kyojin's body as he drifted into consciousness. Every breath felt heavy, his limbs refusing to move.

His eyes barely opened, the world around him a hazy blur.

He could feel something—someone—touching his body, wrapping bandages around his wounds. A faint warmth pressed against his forehead, a damp cloth wiping away the sweat that clung to his skin.

His instincts screamed at him to move, to defend himself—to fight.

But his body wouldn't listen.

He felt weak.

Too weak.

—

With great effort, Kyojin slowly turned his head, his blurry vision sharpening just enough to see the figure tending to him.

White hair.

Trembling hands.

Hollow eyes.

His father.

Kyojin's breath caught in his throat.

His father's arms shook violently as he tightened a bandage around Kyojin's shoulder. His movements were clumsy—unlike him.

The hands that had once been steady and unyielding, the hands that had guided Kyojin through years of training, were now frail and uncertain.

And then Kyojin heard it.

A whisper.

Barely audible at first.

But repeated over and over, like a broken mantra.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Kyojin's breath shuddered.

He tried to sit up, but a wave of exhaustion crushed him back down. His body refused to move, the aftereffects of his overwhelming chakra usage still tearing through him.

Still, he forced himself to focus.

To listen.

To understand.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

The words never stopped.

His father's voice was hoarse, his eyes dark and hollow. His face—once filled with quiet strength—was now haunted.

Kyojin's chest ached.

Not from his injuries.

Not from the exhaustion.

But from seeing his father like this.

—

Kyojin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he stared at his father—the man who had always been unshakable.

The man who had trained him.

The man who had been his guide.

The man who had been too late to save them.

Kyojin felt something in his throat—something painful, something suffocating.

And then, for the second time in his life—

He cried.

Silent tears rolled down his cheeks as he lay there, watching his father break before him.

His father didn't look at him.

Didn't acknowledge the tears.

Didn't stop his trembling hands.

Didn't stop whispering those words.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Kyojin wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault.

That there was nothing he could have done.

That it was the enemy's fault.

That it was his fault.

But the words wouldn't come.

So he just lay there, crying in silence—

As his father continued to tend to his wounds—

And continued to apologize to ghosts that would never answer.