He had left his family behind,
To grieve the last breaths of a father dying in time.
He kissed his son and held his wife tight—
He would be gone many a cold night.
Through the day he galloped, his entourage behind,
By full moon’s light, he dreamed of her kind eyes.
Time passed, and he reached his old home,
A house between the old and new, wrapped in pine and stone.
He spoke to his father one last time,
And offered his final bow, his last goodbye.
But peace was brief—
A scroll arrived, sealed in grief.
No words, just a mark scorched deep in red,
And petals… soaked in the scent of the dead.
He rushed back home, a storm in his soul,
His blade by his side, his heart not whole.
He arrived to silence, fire, and stone—
No laughter. No light. Just ash. Alone.
He felt it then—being watched, being followed.
So he drew his sword in valor.
He saw the shadows whisper, the darkness take shape.
A figure danced… but took no form.
And in the stillness, a voice took form—
Not loud, but deeper than any storm.
A figure stood where shadows weep,
His feet untouched by soil or street.
“Do not tempt me, demon!”
“I do not wish to kill you!”
He shouted with all his might—
But the entity wasn’t there to fight.
Clothed in night and woven in silence,
The spirit knelt and offered violence… in verse.
The Message from Her Soul
Delivered by the Shi no Shijin
Oh my beloved, Akihiro Takeda
Do not let anger consume you.
The past is now our future,
And only you can stop this endless suffering.
Let the rivers flow, let the lightning strike,
Let your blade be your truth, your might.
The emperor has betrayed you—
And only you can finish this fight.
I wait for you…
Not in this world, but in the silence beyond.
Live with honor.
Die with purpose.
Let your name echo through the trees.
Before the Shi no Shijin returned to the afterlife,
He turned once more, and whispered:
“You cannot kill me…
For I am already dead.”
He felt her voice within each line,
A message from love, beyond breath, beyond time.
The fire in his heart roared back to life—
And from its blaze, he summoned strife.
Armies gathered beneath his cry,
Not for vengeance, but to purify.
With her words carved in his war-torn soul,
He marched to make the broken whole.
And then—
As he stood before the gates of the imperial city,
Sword drawn, fire behind his eyes—
“You sit on a throne of bones,” he growled.
“But remember this—”
“EVEN EMPERORS BLEED!”
And with that,
the final war began.
Sinister †Publications 
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