Blade of the Immortal -Dub-
18th century writer Samuel Johnson once said, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
Much has changed in London since the 18th century, but the sentiment of Johnson’s statement is perhaps more apt than ever. London has developed into one of the most exciting and vibrant cities in the world. It’s steeped in history, diversity and regardless of where your passions and interests lie, you’ll find an outlet for them in this wonderful city. If you’re preparing to live in London, here’s a little teaser of what’s in store and what to look forward to as a new Londoner.
The voice came from the doorway. Low, female, unimpressed.
Rin knelt beside the last body—a boy, really. Sixteen, maybe. His waki-zashi was still clutched in his death grip. She closed his eyes with two fingers, murmuring something Manji pretended not to hear. A prayer, or a curse. With Rin, it was hard to tell.
“You move like a man who’s forgotten how to die.”
He stood in the wreckage, wiping a clot of gore from his kama chain with his thumb. Around him, the corpses of the sword school’s finest twitched in their death throes. His own haori hung in ribbons, revealing a chest mapped with scar tissue—each mark a story he didn’t owe anyone. He’d stopped counting after the first fifty years.
“Seven.” Manji rolled his shoulder, feeling the sacred bloodworms shift under his skin. “Lucky number.”
He didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an answer for a hundred and fifty years.
“Rin,” he said. Her name tasted like dust and obligation.
“No.” He looked at his hands—the same hands that had killed a hundred men, a thousand, a number that stopped meaning anything after the second century. Hands that had held his daughter, once. Before she aged and withered while he stayed seventeen. “I believe in grudges.”
The voice came from the doorway. Low, female, unimpressed.
Rin knelt beside the last body—a boy, really. Sixteen, maybe. His waki-zashi was still clutched in his death grip. She closed his eyes with two fingers, murmuring something Manji pretended not to hear. A prayer, or a curse. With Rin, it was hard to tell.
“You move like a man who’s forgotten how to die.”
He stood in the wreckage, wiping a clot of gore from his kama chain with his thumb. Around him, the corpses of the sword school’s finest twitched in their death throes. His own haori hung in ribbons, revealing a chest mapped with scar tissue—each mark a story he didn’t owe anyone. He’d stopped counting after the first fifty years.
“Seven.” Manji rolled his shoulder, feeling the sacred bloodworms shift under his skin. “Lucky number.”
He didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an answer for a hundred and fifty years.
“Rin,” he said. Her name tasted like dust and obligation.
“No.” He looked at his hands—the same hands that had killed a hundred men, a thousand, a number that stopped meaning anything after the second century. Hands that had held his daughter, once. Before she aged and withered while he stayed seventeen. “I believe in grudges.”
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