He sheaths his katana against the overwhelming waves. His ten or so men stand behind him, ready to obey his command. The wind blows their loose, cotton clothes, as if it is exalting them as heroes. The battle outcome has already been decided. They will be drowned by the onslaught of men and sweat.

What makes them warriors, however, is not victory or defeat. In a glimpse behind their weapons and cold stares, they possess an aged wisdom. In face of a hopeless battle, they know when to retreat. None of them have had to weigh the men’s lives against honor. The answer has always been straightforward. As the opposing side had gained in number and force, they knew to retreat rather than throw lives to the dust—lives necessary to fight on and endure.

He has lost a tangible purpose to keep fighting. The Emperor, the Bakufu—all have become distant, amorphous clouds that he would like to match up with some arbitrary image. Who is he fighting for? What should he fight for? The people? The future? He has time to think of these things a moment before charging.

The breeze carries a message to them. A growing pound of heartbeats and trumpet of gunshots create a battle symphony. As they charge, they know they will not return to their flag that stands in the wind. They shall never lose conviction. They are loyal, not to the Tokugawa Shogunate, but to themselves. To their comrades.

The metal of the katana bends against the weight of bullets. Blades slash against flesh and blood splatters like paint off an artist’s palette. The modern age is here: blades are no match against guns. The time to retreat has long past. He knows the battle is lost, and there must be someone to go down with it.

What are they dying for? Their honor, nobility, and pride must be preserved. Just as they had found life together, they must die together, as one. The scent of uncut flowers in a distant place engulfs their senses. It is comforting to know that spring will come again, always. The breeze accepts their dying breaths to scatter beneath the earth, nourishment to the budding cherry blossoms.

Fighting for his country, maintaining unwavering loyalty to his comrades, hanging on to shreds of conviction threatening to join the frequently visiting wind—these do not make him a warrior. These come together to form his purpose and his honor. The invisible string that cuts through his path leaving corpses and black—the tightly strung path he chooses to follow to death—a warrior is one who endures.

A breeze scatters the leaves of time. The corpses eventually disintegrate or are burned by fires. The smoke rises as though it carries their spirits away. Grass sprouts to cover up the scars of battle. In a distant place, a cherry blossom tree starts to bloom. The early blossom already scatters its petals into the wind. The breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers as an act defying time, a forever message.