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Quoted By: >>5873549
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otcdGm4X14U&list=PLC80P4gsPr-ZsXghoROjNQltUr_PJ7U0u&index=1
“<span class="mu-r">Draw first boy. Don’t you ever draw second. Cut them down.</span>”
“<span class="mu-r">To the last man.</span>”
Your father’s words ring in your ears as you rip the <span class="mu-r">headband</span> off of the dead man. A swordsman, he died when you were 7 years old. Feeling the tattered cloth, you run it through your fingers. You’ve heard the tale of the <span class="mu-r">headbands</span>, every boy has. 100 all the way up to 1 and all the legendary figures who’ve worn them. The number two, the cursed being who as a final challenge must fight off every warrior in the land who wants an easy path to number 1. And the number 1, the legendary God who surpassed every challenge, overcame every warrior to reach that misty mountain and with it, obtained ultimate power.
Finally your eyes come upon it. The <span class="mu-r">headband’s</span> rank. This one is the 100th. Looking down at the corpse who once was the previous owner, you see nothing special. A young man, not much older than you are now. He’s got several arrows piercing into his chest, with one straight through his eye. Must’ve tried to step up to the 99th and got shot down. Your ears prick up, and gooseflesh runs its way down your arms. There’s a rustling behind you. Gripping your Father’s sword, you turn around. One hand on the 100th <span class="mu-r">headband</span>, the other on your old hand me down sword, you turn around. For a moment, the only noise is the sound of the screeching wind and the clinking of the lucky coin tied at the end of a silk string at the hilt of your father’s sword.
Then out come the men.
From the bushes, from behind the trees, from around the corner of that ancient and half decayed Buddha statue. Four men. Dressed in flea bitten rags, except for one who managed to hold onto an old and frayed wooden do-maru, it’s red paint peeled off in most places. In some places, the paint was replaced with blood. “Heh, lucky us boys. It’s just a brat. He your daddy or somethin’, boy?” The man, what you’re guessing is the leader, drawls out in a thick southeastern accent.
“<span class="mu-r">Draw first boy. Don’t you ever draw second. Cut them down.</span>”
“<span class="mu-r">To the last man.</span>”
Your father’s words ring in your ears as you rip the <span class="mu-r">headband</span> off of the dead man. A swordsman, he died when you were 7 years old. Feeling the tattered cloth, you run it through your fingers. You’ve heard the tale of the <span class="mu-r">headbands</span>, every boy has. 100 all the way up to 1 and all the legendary figures who’ve worn them. The number two, the cursed being who as a final challenge must fight off every warrior in the land who wants an easy path to number 1. And the number 1, the legendary God who surpassed every challenge, overcame every warrior to reach that misty mountain and with it, obtained ultimate power.
Finally your eyes come upon it. The <span class="mu-r">headband’s</span> rank. This one is the 100th. Looking down at the corpse who once was the previous owner, you see nothing special. A young man, not much older than you are now. He’s got several arrows piercing into his chest, with one straight through his eye. Must’ve tried to step up to the 99th and got shot down. Your ears prick up, and gooseflesh runs its way down your arms. There’s a rustling behind you. Gripping your Father’s sword, you turn around. One hand on the 100th <span class="mu-r">headband</span>, the other on your old hand me down sword, you turn around. For a moment, the only noise is the sound of the screeching wind and the clinking of the lucky coin tied at the end of a silk string at the hilt of your father’s sword.
Then out come the men.
From the bushes, from behind the trees, from around the corner of that ancient and half decayed Buddha statue. Four men. Dressed in flea bitten rags, except for one who managed to hold onto an old and frayed wooden do-maru, it’s red paint peeled off in most places. In some places, the paint was replaced with blood. “Heh, lucky us boys. It’s just a brat. He your daddy or somethin’, boy?” The man, what you’re guessing is the leader, drawls out in a thick southeastern accent.
