The Futility of the Warrior's Spirit
After a year of wandering across Europe, Boro's life began to lose its meaning.
The only thing that still kept him training, still earning money through steel, was the promise he had given to his grandfather.
In that time, he had learned several languages, educated himself on many subjects—but as a warrior, his only livelihood was earned through blood.
And for that… he felt shame before God.
Every night, he prayed for forgiveness.
But as always, a time comes when one must pay for his sins.
During one of his usual walks—he had a habit of walking alone after training or completing contracts—a band of mercenaries, who had been stalking him for a week, decided to strike.
On the very day Boro had planned to sail for England, he was attacked at the harbor.
The bandits knew he had allowed himself to be caught—so they were extremely cautious.
They locked him up in the back of an old brewery—he recognized the place by the smell of hops and the old barrels.
Each door was guarded. They all knew who he was.
But Boro… never lost his composure.
He knew they feared even the sound of his breath.
So he began to breathe heavily—to confuse them.
After a minute, one of the guards left. Now only one remained.
Boro calmly said:
— "It's just the two of us now. And these ropes… they've loosened."
The fool stepped closer to check.
Boro slammed his knee into his gut and drove his forehead into the man's face.
He spotted his sword, bit down on the hilt, and escaped—still tied to the chair.
It would've been comical—if he hadn't come back for revenge.
He knew one of them would betray the others.
And he was right—Pierre, one of the bandits, sold out the meeting place in exchange for gold.
Boro, without hesitation, cut off his head—and used it as bait.
A little past 3 AM, Boro placed Pierre's head on a spike outside an old bookstore.
When one of the bandits saw it, he froze.
But Boro was behind him, sword to his throat.
And whispered:
— "Don't. Even. Breathe."
The others inside were drinking, unaware.
Only the leader—the one who had ordered Boro's capture—stayed seated.
From the ceiling rafters, Boro dropped down.
With two swift strikes, he severed both of the man's arms.
Whispering:
— "You chose the wrong man. At the wrong time."
The next day, Boro sailed for England.
There, he had a contact.
A scoundrel, but the only one who could get him men and resources.
Three years passed. Boro had money. Influence.
But inside—he felt empty.
Though he secretly sent aid to his homeland, it was never enough.
He wanted vengeance.
He wanted to liberate his people.
But anyone with power… makes enemies.
One night, Boro wandered again—desperate.
He sought answers from God.
That's when he felt it—he was being followed.
Instead of hiding, he rushed toward the pursuer.
The clash of blades was brutal.
Boro pierced the man's stomach—but suffered a deep wound to his arm.
Bleeding, he hid in an old dockside warehouse.
There, after a long night, his contact arrived—Jonathan Patterson.
Boro eyed him with suspicion as he bound his wound.
He whispered:
— "How did you find me? How!?"
After a moment of silence, Boro muttered:
— "I'm sorry… I was dying…"
But when he glanced at the documents Jonathan carried—
the truth hit him.
He was the traitor.
Boro looked at him.
— "History knows many betrayals… but not as many as I do."
With a sudden motion, he pinned Jonathan's hand to the table with a knife,
then whispered:
— "With every traitor like you, my warrior's spirit starts to die…
But I won't give up. Not for you. Not for anyone.
Because of faith.
And it's worth more than all of you—vermin."
He saw a bottle of rum on the ground.
He lit it.
By morning, all they found in the warehouse was the charred corpse of Patterson.
Boro had escaped.
But tripped—falling through an old crumbling wall… into a hidden chamber.
And there he saw it—
The Samurai Armor.
Majestic. Fearsome. Divine.
For a moment, Boro—a man hardened by battle, nearly two meters tall—
felt like a child before its grandeur.
Then a soft voice, as if from the heavens, spoke:
— "It is not time to return… but believe.
Step away now, and you will find the shorter path."
Boro's eyes caught a crate marked:
"English Carpets for Japan."
That… was his next path.