The ink of my sword

Horikoshi Miyomoto knelt before the alter of his bedroom, his hands clasped together as he bowed his head to the picture of his ancestor, Musashi Miyomoto. He often would sit in front of this alter for hours, even days on end, honoring the memory of the one who earned his respect with no display. His knees were callused from the endless hours of kneeling, his arms felt as though they were made of tungsten, and his back and chest muscles were screaming in agony. But he paid it no mind, for this was his ultimate way to show homage to that who saw the world for what it was. Darkness. Disease. A collapse just waiting to happen, just around the corner.

Horikoshi slowly opened his eyes, staring into the embers of what remained of the insence on the alter. Arose to his feet, giving another deep bow before exiting, his katana hanging from his hip. He seeked to create the world anew; unfortunately, without leads or any idea of how he may accomplish such a thing. He glanced out the window in disgust at what his once-beautiful world was. It was all smog, accompanied by the hustle and bustle of the world below, people yelling pointlessly at such trivial complications.

This world, which he once hoped for, now filled him with disgust and anguish.

He wished nothing more than for it all to fall and disappear into the murky waters of the sea.