It's been around two weeks since I fucking drop-kicked a man out a window. I told Miyamoto how to place an IV, giving Celeste's life. So, I’ve gotten the help of Celeste's magic with healing.

  While we rested, the crew, including the dog, had drop-kicked me into the closest source of water and chucked a piece of soap in with me.

  So I took a good soak and a shave.

  I have never been a huge fan of facial hair.

  Even if it does fit my everything, I like a clean face more.

  Too bad the damn hair grows back in less than five hours.

  A five o’clock shadow all hours of the day.

  I do keep my hair long.

  Too much of a damn hassle.

  Taking a good look at myself while shaving with my Bowie knife.

  I saw that my hair went down to my shoulders, and a coarse, dark brown that looked damn near black. There were also a good number of white streaks that had popped up throughout my scalp.

  I was also able to get a real good look into the hole that once held my left eye. Due to the removal of my bandana that covered the hole and the tilting up of my sunglasses.

  Odd.

  What else will I lose?

  I told Miyamoto that I will tell the two when the time is right. I bet they knew something was off.

  I checked my amount of cigarettes left in the box, revealing a mere twelve left. I returned it to my coat's inner pocket.

  I took a swig from my flask and started to look through all my equipment.

  First were my two beloved Jerichos.

  Both were still working, but a lot more banged up. After riding that one room in the underground tunnel system, I got around two hundred and four rounds that can fill about twelve magazines.

  I’m going to rush through the rest of these.

  My shotgun now has one hundred and eight shells.

  My Colt Model 1860 Army revolver had thirty-four rounds and got no new bullets.

  And my Winchester Model 1892 lever-action rifle still only had a hundred rounds of 44-40 (44 WCF), and I didn't find any new ammunition.

  I have four grenades left that all look like pineapples.

  After a nice long soak and dry off, I put my clothes on and took a hit from my flask.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I believe I brought this up before, but the booze in the flask changes every twenty-four hours, and I do not know why.

  I returned to camp when Miyamoto appeared out of the ether.

  “Jesus Christ, Miyamoto, where the fuck did you just come from?”

  “Your left side.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “I wasn’t joking, V. I was walking on your left side for the past five minutes.”

  “And you didn’t say anything.

  Why?”

  “Because I wanted to see if you noticed me, and you had failed such a test.”

  “No shit, I did think I had to.”

  “That’s the same thing you would say in the afterlife if I were a combatant.”

  “Why does this matter?”

  “I heard in your fight with Keyser, you won out of sheer luck and tricks.”

  “That's how I win most battles.”

  “I realize such a thing through us fighting together. You seem to have no formal training, but you kill like a soldier.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you can’t keep relying on such things; you need to train.”

  “With whom?”

  Miyamoto threw a katana and a wakizashi, both with old wooden sheaths on each.

  “I will.”

  With that, Miyamoto started to walk.

  “What do you mean you will?”

  “I will teach you the same as my master did, but I leave out the magic parts of the training.”

  “I mean, I don’t need training, Miyamoto. What I have been doing has worked…”

  “Yes, it has worked, but nothing does forever; the battlefield and enemies aren’t as easy to trick. What are you so against learning the blade?”

  “It’s a personal thing.”

  It's nothing deep.

  I just don’t want to.

  Ha, maybe it was that, or I just don't like blades. Reminds me too much of most of human history.

  In a mere millisecond, Miyamoto points his once-sheathed, now unsheathed, katana at my throat.

  “V, you may be called a genius with tricks or with your unusual fighting style, but your head can be taken cleanly off your shoulders if a man like me were to ever battle you. I know you, V. You're stubborn and hard to kill, but

  with a slash of your throat,

  a straight strike to the head,

  or being pierced through the heart

  You can’t live through that.”

  Miyamoto's eyes were as sharp as his blade with that statement. But he returned his blade back to his sheath.

  “Ok.”

  The two of us walked in silence after my words fell out of my mouth.

  Miyamoto was leading me through the forest we were standing in through an overgrown trail.

  An opening was revealed through the brush. The light breaking through wasn't much, but there was weight behind it.

  The trail spit us out into a larger opening. There was a clear circle with, of course, trees surrounding the land.

  A mid-sized rock sat in the middle of the right side next to the tree line.

  The grass was low, only touching the top of my heel.

  “This will be the training field. I will teach you two things here: combat and the philosophy I was taught. Of course, that will be taught during combat.”

  We walked in the middle of the field, Miyamoto with his weapon still at his side. I stood six feet from him.

  I knew Miyamoto ever since I got to this shithole, but I never asked him about his past.

  People like us don’t dabble in the past.

  I wonder how he was before we met…

  Pow

  “Ahhhh!

  You just punched me in the face.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to teach you both the blade and martial arts.”

  “You could've just told me that instead of slugging me.”

  “It was to show that this training will be painful. V. You may have felt worse before, but you will never forget the pain during this training. Now, first we work on the basics.”

  I feel like I'm back in high school learning about Algebra 1 again.

  Wack

  “Pay attention, V.”

  He bashed his sheath into my stomach.

  “I do soliloquies; that’s what I do.”

  “During every fight you’ve been in, you’ve been talking to yourself. What would be so important that you need to think about live combat?”

  “Anything, really.”

  Wham!

  “How are you still alive?”

  “I doubt I’ll still be alive if you keep hitting me this hard.”

  “You’ve been through worse. Now unsheathe your blade and tie the bandana around your head.”

  “Fine.”

  With a blade in my hands and my eye covered, the only thing left to do is train.