My Dark School Of Thoughts

“The Way is in a higher place than righteousness. This is very difficult to discover, but it is the highest wisdom. When seen from this standpoint, things like righteousness are rather shallow.”

It would be naive to deny that many great Sensei have failed to truly impart the most intricate lessons of the Way. Likewise, it is ludicrous to believe that the Way can be fully taught — it is a path often found through self-realization, or in many cases, through death.

There are many paths up the metaphorical mountain, but only one summit: ultimate truth. Each man carries his own conjectural truths. Yet if one changes the vantage point, discarding illusions and prevarications, the one true path may appear.

So, I implore you: as you embark on this journey with me, abandon your mental shackles and your rigid definitions of truth. Let go of all you know. Face only what is, what could have been, and what may yet be. Only then will you hear the quiet voice of your heart — the path that leads to your most precious truth.

Deny that voice, and you deny yourself redemption. Refuse its pull, and you shall wander forever, lost in the shadows, with Seppuku your only exit.

“There is a method to getting to this Way, however, even if one cannot discover it by himself. This is found in consultation with others.”

I do not speak from comfort, nor from beneath warm morning light. I speak from a faraway, desolate plane; from the deepest crevices of every samurai’s heart. I speak because there is nothing but the present moment — the single heartbeat that defines us. The samurai’s life is but a succession of such moments, and thus, nothing else to live for.

I speak because the path of the heart and the path of the samurai are one and the same. Our journey begins now.

“The Way of the Samurai is found in death. When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice of death.”

It was 1556 AD. The endless feudal war had finally ended. Many samurai, those elite warriors of the military aristocracy, had given their lives in devotion.

I am Toyotomi Musashi, a proud samurai of the Hideyoshi clan. I left my pregnant wife to wage war, driven by duty and the promise of honor. Through brutal campaigns, I thought of my village and my wife — these thoughts kept me alive when my spirit faltered.

When the war finally ended, I rode for days to reach the hill above my village. There, I paused. From above, my home looked peaceful and inviting. The thought of my wife’s embrace, my clan’s restored honor, these were my guiding lights.

Two hours later, I sat in my dojo, gently stroking my wife’s hair. The afternoon light blurred around me; the buzzing of flies was distant and hollow. All I heard was the feverish rush of my blood and the staccato beat of my heart.

My entire village — my wife, my unborn child, my master — had been slaughtered. The memories of my wife overwhelmed me: her pale emerald eyes, her ruby-red lips shimmering under the sun, her long hair as black as a polished jet stone. Her fragrance like lilies in summer, her voice like a nightingale’s song — I remembered it all.

“Bushido is realized in the presence of death.”

I looked down at her lifeless form and unsheathed my Tantō. The steel glimmered, reflecting shards of my soul. At that moment, I realized: I was now a rōnin — a masterless warrior, stripped of honor. Death was my only remaining path.

Yet, just as I pressed the blade to my belly, something rose within me: an insuppressible hunger for vengeance. A searing rage that overshadowed my despair.

I sought revenge, knowing I would likely die. But only by avenging my people could I reclaim my honor. Only then could I die with dignity.

“There is nothing more urgent than the desire for revenge… and nothing as sweet as its enactment.”

I buried each villager with my own hands. For days, I dug in frozen earth, wept, and bled. Yet my resolve never wavered. When the last grave was sealed, I departed, never once looking back.

I scoured the countryside for answers and heard whispers: a horde of rōnin, now led by an Oni — a monstrous demon from Yomi-no-kuni. The stories described it wearing a tiger’s loincloth, wielding a kanabo club, bearing three eyes, twisted claws, and horns. An indestructible horror.

“Even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this.”

My heart churned with fear and exhilaration. My body trembled for battle, my soul screamed for blood.

I moved cautiously, tracking rumors until one night, I discovered a smaller unit of twenty rōnin. I struck first, my blade singing in the darkness. Before they could draw swords, five fell. Then the real battle erupted — sparks lit the night, steel clashed, groans and final screams filled the air.

After an hour, I alone stood among corpses. But satisfaction eluded me. The Oni remained. Only its death would bring true release.

“If a warrior is not unattached to life and death, he is useless.”

Night after night, the Oni invaded my dreams, tormenting me with visions of my burning wife, my slain master, my unborn child. My spirit cracked, but each battle brought me closer to the demon.

Months passed. I crossed strange lands, unknown even in the oldest scrolls. Starving and delirious in a scorching desert, I stumbled upon a mountain cloaked in sulfuric mist — the Oni’s lair.

At its base yawned a cavern like a gaping wound in the earth. I descended into choking darkness, guided only by instinct and rage. Hours turned to eternity, until at last, I entered a cavernous hall of fire and blood.

At its end, on a throne of bones and teeth, sat the Oni. Its predatory gaze pierced me, its smirk mocking my purpose.

A primal howl burst from me. I charged, blade raised, embracing inevitable death. But just as my blade would have struck, time froze.

Suspended midair, I met its eyes — a pain beyond comprehension shredded my soul. The Oni laughed, a sound like thunder and cracking bones.

It touched my forehead, flooding me with searing light and blinding visions: my wife alive, my son playing, my master training recruits, my village thriving.

In that moment, I saw my soul’s path — not into vengeance but toward peace. If I had not chosen revenge, I might have reached paradise.

“If one lives as though already dead, he gains freedom in the Way.”

I awoke curled on the ground, Katana in hand. I rose, but its gaze pinned me. My body moved unwillingly toward it. My soul, I realized, was now its possession.

In that final instant, I wondered: had it been worth it? Would I choose the same if given another chance?

Deep in my heart, the answer came — and I smiled.

I would have chosen vengeance again. For in following my heart, I transcended life and time. The path of the samurai is the path of the heart.

I lifted my Katana, looked into the Oni’s jeering eyes, and charged one final time.

“A real man does not think of victory or defeat. He plunges recklessly toward an irrational death. By doing this, you will awaken from your dreams.”

N.B. All quotes are drawn from The Hagakure, the warrior’s spiritual guide compiled from the commentaries of Yamamoto Tsunetomo.