In the smallness of his early remembrance, he stood witness in a shadowed confine and watched as his father cowered and then fell to his knees-only to kiss the mud encrusted boots of a passing, perennial warlord. Even in his childhood estimation that profound loss of face thundered into his awareness like a ferocious summer storm. In spite of his youthful perspective, the weight of that excruciating moment hung heavily about his neck like a millstone of deepest humility. He hung his head in sullen disgrace, the moment etched into his soul like a monument carved out of poor quality jade. But a time later, as season eclipsed season, three wandering warriors-dressed for unknown battle foes-emerged god-like, as armored sentinels from the depths of darkened woods. Their imposing presence portended a promising example of a future free from humiliations' grip. As the young man groped for a resolve for his family's shame, he quietly left and hastily followed in the warrior's disciplined shadow. As days turned into months, he lingered ever so closely, clandestinely watching their every move. But the day finally came, when his childhood charade was finally exposed for its farcical foment. The garnered scraps he plundered from the remains of the day did not fill his hungered being. In desperation, he plunged headfirst into the warrior's camp. But their reception was tempered with the recognition that they had known full well of his attempted deceit. Their aloof and steadfast countenances did not entertain the likes of a peasant boy-a mere child. He was far too frail, too enabled by poverty's imposing grip to be of any use. But his persistent, persevering presence eclipsed their initial, calculating assessment. In spite of his slight frame of being, his ruthless determination portrayed a soul with some lasting merit-a spirit that, with absolute control-could be shaped into a man of lasting promise. A Samurai.