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He’s sure he should hate the way his sword still feels perfect in his grip. Should hate how easy it is to face death and not flinch. But he's gone past the hate. He's too tired to care. It creeps in his veins like a poison and makes his mind shut down until all he can think about is how there is no remedy.
He needs peace. And rest. Or maybe he just wants nothing and everything. To exist but not have a purpose feels pretty close to explaining how he is now. He thinks death wouldn't be so bad after all.
But he knows death is anything but peace and rest. It's war and loss and everything in between. It's leaving two kids behind for his own selfish reasons and he decides they have seen enough death. So he stays. Stays alive with an inkling of an idea of what he's here to protect. It's a stupid seaweed obsessed girl with violent tendencies and a walking pair of glasses and his terrifying sister. Sometimes it's the gravelly woman downstairs who's always hounding him for rent money and her anything-but-normal workers. A stupid mayo freak paired with a sadist and a stalker gorilla.
(Kids outside the burning dojo of a man who only wanted to give them a purpose.)
Or maybe that's all wrong and he's just here to pass the time. He likes to think though that his time spent here is worth it. He only knows that after all this time, whatever it is, hasn’t changed.