Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
The Forgotten Samurai: The Map and the Memory
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode two of the Forgotten Samurai series. So let's go ahead and let's get into it. The train hissed as it slowed to a stop. The train hissed as it slowed to a stop, steam curling along the cold platform like a whisper meant for someone else. He stepped down slowly, boots echoing on wood planks, worn smooth by people who no longer pass through this town. The fog here didn't just sit. It moved, crawled, coiled, across lampposts and mailboxes, like it was hiding something it couldn't bear to speak out loud. He adjusted the fedora, pulled his coat tighter, the mask wrapped and stowed deep into the satchel. The map was folded in his coat tighter, the mask wrapped and stowed deep into the satchel. The map was folded in his coat. Pocket edges soft now from worrying repetition. The ticket crumpled in his fist. One way. The town had a name, but no one spoke it. Not on the train, not on the sign, just two letters left intact IN.
Speaker 1:He walked down the street past shuttered shops and the faint smell of old pine and rain. A barbershop chair sat empty and a window full of dust. A neon sign blinked open even when the lights were off. And then the end Brick Moss growing in corners, a single yellow light above the door, humming, like he didn't want to just die just yet. He stepped inside. The bell above the door didn't ring. The man behind the desk looked up slowly Gray suit, thinning hair, eyes that held too many winters and not enough questions. Checking in, the man nodded, name, a pause. He didn't answer. The man didn't ask again, just handed over a key attached to a rusty brass fob.
Speaker 1:Room three end of the hall. The room smelled like mothballs and forgotten prayers. One lamp, one chair, one bed. He dropped the satchel by the wall, the coke over the arm of the chair, took the flask from his pocket and drank once, now twice. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. It was too quiet, it was too still, too much, like something was waiting. He laid back, closed his eyes Just for a moment.
Speaker 1:The dream came in like a flash Fog parting to reveal a red door and a field of ash, a boy kneeling, a sword snapped in half, his own hands bleeding and a voice that said you never finish the last page. He jolted awake, but the room was cold. Now the lamp was off, only the hallway light leaking under the door. He rubs his eyes, sat up slowly and opened the nightstand drawer looking for anything to anchor himself. And there it was A small worn book, leather bound, faded gold leathering Confidence protocols. He blinked. Ompa did Inside the cover, his name, his handwriting, but he didn't remember owning this copy, didn't remember ever reading it. On the third page, a line circled in red ink you are not broken, you are unfinished. He closed the book slowly, stared at the ceiling and for the first time since this all began, he felt like maybe, just maybe, the past hadn't left him. It had simply been waiting in the drawer.
Speaker 1:The next morning the fog had lifted, it had thickened a heavy rolling hush that blurred rooftops and swallowed sound. It didn't move like normal fog, it lingered like it had somewhere else to go. He dressed slowly. Same coat, same flask, the confidence protocols now tucked inside his pocket, a strange comfort, like carrying an unsent letter from someone he hadn't met yet. Like carrying an unsent letter from someone he hadn't met yet. He touched the circled line again before tucking the book away you are not broken, you are unfinished.
Speaker 1:Downstairs, the front desk sat unmanned, a half-filled cup of coffee still steamed on the counter, the chair pushed back. Whoever had been there had left in a hurry or expected to be back. The town, as he stepped outside, felt quieter than it did the night before. There's no cars, no dogs, no wind, just fog and the low hum of a neon sign blinking in the diner window. Across the street. He crossed and stepped inside. The bell didn't ring. Inside the diner felt older than it should. Every table had dust in the corners, the walls were worn the stain of years. The lights buzzed faintly, one of them flickering in protest. He slid into a booth near the window, the waitress approached, already pouring coffee. She didn't ask if he wanted it, just filled the cup, left the chipped menu and vanished through the swinging door like a scene on a loop.
Speaker 1:That's when he noticed the man at the far end of the counter Long coat, thin shoulders, pale eyes reflecting the diner lights like glass marbles. He hadn't been there when he entered. He stared, unsure why he couldn't look away. The first glance was curiosity, the second was recognition, the third was unease. Then the man looked back. You sleep in room three, he said, not even turning fully. He blinked. How do you know that? The man smiled faintly. It didn't even reach his eyes. No one stayed in that room since 62, except you. The line froze in his bones. He looked down at his coffee Heart ticking faster now, tried to steady his breath. Did we meet before? He asked More carefully this time.
Speaker 1:The man didn't answer, just reached in his coat and slid something across the counter, a matchbook. It looked like it's been through a fire, sinned edges. The logo half-melted. He picked it up, turning it over. The name of the hotel on the front was illegible. The name of the hotel on the front was illegible, but beneath it, in black ink scrolled like an afterthought third mark under the floor. He opened it. Three matches remained. None looked like they've ever been struck.
Speaker 1:You're not just here for answers. The man said. You're here to remember what you chose to forget. The man stood Wait, how do you know me? The man paused. You know yourself better than you admit. Then he walked out, but the door never opened. No bell, no swing, just gone.
Speaker 1:He sat there for another long minute staring at the matchbook. Then, without finishing his coffee, he left Back in the room. He threw the rug with the kind of urgency he hadn't felt in months. The floorboards groaned beneath him. He tapped at them one by one until the hollow note gave it away. The third plank, lifted carefully.
Speaker 1:Dust Wax paper Inside, not a weapon, not a relic, a photo, black and white Grainy, a shrine. In the background, a man half-turned the mask, his mask in the man's hands and in the corner, just faint enough to miss a sigil Burned into the image itself, like it had always been there. He flipped the photo over, four words written in tight, looping ink You've worn this before. He looked up slowly toward the mirror above the desk and just for a second the face staring back at him was not his. It wore the mask and it stared into him. He blinked, then it's gone, just his own tired eyes again and the fog outside the window still unmoved. But something inside of him began to shift, like an old memory clawing toward the light. The hours bled together. The photo stayed clutch in his palm, edges bent now from the weight of his grip. He sat on the edge of the bed, coat still on, hat tilted forward, casting his face in shadow. The fog outside had saw the town whole.
Speaker 1:He tried the map again, opened it carefully on the desk and stared. A third mark now pulsing. Not ink, burn. Faint heat radiated from that spot like the ghost of fire. Long gone, cold, three marks, one.
Speaker 1:He found One he hadn't reached. One was this? What did it mean? He stared at the mask in the satchel, unwrapped it slowly, held it close. It didn't weep this time, but he swore In the dim lamplight. He saw the jaw twitch. He dropped it fast. It landed like porcelain but echoed like a heartbeat. He didn't pick it back up. Instead he turned to the book, the Confidence Protocols. Sat down at the desk, opened it it again, third page, circled line. But this time he noticed another mark in the margin, a symbol, one of the sigils from the photo, drawn lightly and penciled beside the line. He flipped through more pages Wasn't just a book anymore, it was annotated, detailed. He flipped through more pages. Wasn't just a book anymore, it was annotated detailed, layered with thoughts, questions, all in his handwriting, or someone imitating it with terrifying accuracy.
Speaker 1:The first time I wore the mask I bled from the nose. She said the armor speaks in dreams. I didn't believe her. Then I stopped dreaming. I left something here Underneath, always Underneath.
Speaker 1:His stomach turned. He closed the book fast, then turned back to the floor, not the plank, he had lifted the ones around it. He moved the rug further, dragging it like peeling away skin. He knelt, knocked, listened there, hollow again, different spot. This one resisted more when he tried to pry it open Nails, old and rusted splinters, biting his fingers. Beneath the board, something hard, metal Stone.
Speaker 1:He reached in, pulled out a box, wooden, hand-carved, the top etched with symbols. He didn't understand, but his body reacted, a chill up his spine Like being recognized in a place where you were never meant to return. He opened the lid Inside a single fragment of armor A shoulder plate, charter on the edges, dried blood on the leather strap, the faint scent of smoke and cedar. He dropped it, packed away. And then three knocks, not on the door, inside the wall. He froze, leaning in ear to the plaster. He listened, scratching, then silence, then a whisper Wake up. He stumbled back, hit the dresser. The photo fell Shaking. He gathered it, put everything back in the box, closed the map, slid the book beneath the pillow like a child hiding something precious. He sat and waited. When he finally laid down the mask, still on the desk, he dreamed of fire, of ten men in armor, of a temple half burned in ash and in the center a boy in white kneeling holding a sword out in both hands. The same sigil burned into his chest.
Speaker 1:He woke up just before dawn, soaked in sweat and the mask was gone from the desk. It was on the nightstand facing him. The mask stayed on that nightstand, angled just enough to suggest it had moved on its own. He tried to rationalize it. Maybe he placed it there and forgot, maybe he was just tired, but that voice, that whisper, still clung to the corners of the walls like smoke. Wake up.
Speaker 1:He moved slowly, every muscle tense. He poured water into the porcelain basin near the window, splashed it on his face. The reflection that met him in the mirror looked a little older than yesterday, a little worn eyes sunken deeper into mystery than sleep. His stomach growled, but food wasn't what he needed. He needed to walk, he needed to move to find proof that something wasn't just a breakdown. In slow motion he left the end with the collar of his coat up, hat pulled down, flask in his inner pocket and the book underneath his arm. He didn't take the mask. He told himself it was better left behind. But truthfully he didn't take the mask. He told himself it was better left behind. But truthfully he didn't want to touch it again, not until he had answers.
Speaker 1:The town still didn't speak. People moved, but, like scenery, they didn't make eye contact. Their mouths never seemed to move. He passed a postman whose eyes were wide and glassy, frozen mid-step mail still in hand. He didn't ask questions, just kept walking.
Speaker 1:Something about the fog was thicker in the east part of town where the road turned to gravel and fences bent inward like they were bowing to something buried. That's where he found the house, or what used to be one. It was a charred skeleton, now black beams clawing at the sky foundation cracked like broken teeth. He didn't know why he stopped, just that. Something about it called to him. He stepped through the threshold. No caution tape, no boarded signs, just rot and silence.
Speaker 1:Inside, the smell of old fire and rain-damped wood mingled with something more metallic. There near the center of the floor, half-sunk into ash, was a small metal box. He knelt. He wiped away the soot with the sleeve of his coat. The box bore the same sigil from the photo clear, now burned and cleaned deliberate lines. He opened it.
Speaker 1:Inside was paper folded, but not aged. It was crisp, recent, a letter written in handwriting. He'd seen before His own. You were here once. You left something behind. The fire didn't start the way they said. They buried the truth with the floorboards. If you're reading this, you're waking up. No date, no signature, just ash on his fingertips.
Speaker 1:Now he folded the paper, slid into the confidence protocols like it belonged between the chapters. As he turned to leave he caught a glimpse in the mirror, half broken, hanging in the hallway, a figure behind him, no face, just armor Watching. He spun Nothing. The house groaned in response. A timber fell. Somewhere deeper inside, dust rose. He quickly left, heart racing, lungs sharp with cold.
Speaker 1:Back at the end, the front desk was still unmanned, but the register was open and written on the ledger. Where the name should be were three entries J Tanaka, 1957. K Ryu, 1962. And his name today. The ink on the line was still drying, but he hadn't written it. He closed the book slowly, locked eyes with his own signature and whispered under his breath what the hell is happening to me? Then he felt something shift in the pocket of his coat. He reached in. Not the flask, not the book, something new, a torn photo, another one. This time. It showed the burned house before the fire and in the front yard, him holding the same mask. He left in the room smiling.
Speaker 1:He couldn't sleep that night, even after he double-checked the door lock, even after he slid the dresser in front of it, even after he sat awake with the flask and the protocols open in his lap, rereading the same circled lines until the words bled into one another. The body remembers what the mind denies. It was almost morning when he stopped outside Fog, still thick air, cold against his jaw, the streets humming with nothing. He needed to walk again, needed to feel something under his feet that wasn't shifting inside of him. The road east of town wasn't marked, just a path of gravel that disappeared into the trees. No signs, no lights, like it existed. Only for those who already knew it. He followed it anyways.
Speaker 1:After half a mile the trees opened into a clearing wide, empty and wrong and wrong. There in the center was a stone pillar, worn down, moss covered, but at its base was carvings. He knelt, ran his fingers over the stone Symbols Kanji, and underneath that something newer Scratched in With metal, a name he didn't recognize. But it wasn't the name that froze him. It was a sigil beneath it, one of ten, the same one he's seen in the journal, on the matchbook, in the dream. But this one? This one was surrounded by smaller marks, numbers, roman numerals. He counted them Nine, i-x. He stood, looked around. Nothing else but the trees. The trees were carved too. Not in the same way, not symbols, words, notes, but the trees. The trees were carved too. Not in the same way, not symbols, words, notes.
Speaker 1:Scribbled, like someone had come through this clearing in a hurry, desperate to leave behind anything before disappearing again. One read, the one in Florence, was easier. This one fights. Another RK made it this far. Don't follow. A third, deeper cut, more recent. There is no armor, only the one who wears it. He backed away slowly. These weren't messages for him. Slowly, these weren't messages for him, they were warnings from others who'd come through before or after.
Speaker 1:Back in the room, he flipped open the protocols again. There were now underlines on pages he didn't remember, making A quote circled in red To walk toward yourself is to be hunted by what you abandoned. He stared, closed the book and noticed beneath the bed a slip of paper sticking out. He crouched, pulled it free. It was a photograph, not old, recent. A street corner in a city he didn't recognize, and at the center of the photo, blurred mid-step, was a man Holding a katana and a violin case and behind him a shadow Just out of frame. He flipped the photo nothing written. But he knew this would mean something. Later Something was coming and whatever it was, it already had a head start. The train didn't take him back. He didn't try to leave. By the time the dust crept into the sky like a secret it didn't want to share, he was already back at the end, seated at the desk, the photo beside him.
Speaker 1:The map opened once more. The map had changed again. He hadn't touched it. Now, between the second and third marks, there was a new path, a faint dotted line like a pulse, just beneath paper skin. Just beneath paper skin. The edges of the lines were curling like an old film left too long in the heat. And beneath the line, one word handwritten in Japanese calligraphy regret. He didn't need to speak the language, he just knew the room was quiet, too quiet, as if the silence was holding its breath.
Speaker 1:He reached for the confidence protocols, not because he was looking for answers, but because the questions in his head needed something to anchor to it, a weight. Inside, more markings had appeared, a new quote underlined Not even on the page he turned to before. You're not here trying to find something. You're here to stop forgetting. He ran his thumb over the sentence again and again.
Speaker 1:A knock at the door stopped him, not loud, just expectant. He hesitated, reached for the flask in his coat pocket. One slip, two sips Then stood, opened the door. Slowly. No one. Justed the door slowly, no one.
Speaker 1:Just a package, small, wrapped in black cloth, tied with a thin red thread. He brought it inside, untied the thread, with cautious fingers. Inside a single page torn from a book, the quote circled in red. The ink was still wet. You've always been looking for a way out, but this isn't a door, it's a mirror. Below the quote, one more line handwritten this is where you remember who you are before you forget. No surrender, no seal, no hint of how it got there.
Speaker 1:He turned slowly, feeling the room close and around him, he walked to the mirror above the dresser and stood there longer than he had before. He looked past the face, past the tired eyes, looked at the lines in his skin, the weight in his jaw, the subtle tremor in his hands. He saw the fear he had worn as confidence, the doubt he wrapped in sarcasm, the sorrow he drowned in whiskey. And behind all of it, not a shadow, not a monster, a boy kneeling beside a broken sword, still waiting, still there. He didn't cry, he just whispered I'm sorry and turned away. He didn't see the mask appear behind the glass, but he felt it, watching, listening, waiting for the moment he would remember what it meant to wear it.
Speaker 1:You know, there's something about fog that mirrors most of us as we live. You know, we're not lost, but not, but definitely not, clear, right, and that's what this episode really was. It was a man wandering in silence, unsure if he is seeing his memory madness or something he buried a long time ago. Let's talk about what actually happened, not just to him but to you, right. He found a sigil, a name in a book that he didn't write. He discovered that someone or something had been there before him. Maybe it was even him. He saw people moving without speaking, a photo that shouldn't exist and a map that changes when he isn't looking, map that changes when he isn't looking.
Speaker 1:But the biggest moment wasn't the mask, it was the mirror, because the whole I should say that's what the whole part of the story is about. It's about reflection, right? See, most of us spend days reacting, right, going through routines, but when is the last time you sat with yourself and really looked in the mirror and saw you? You know we hide behind performance and sarcasm and work and numbness and whatever armor we've chosen. Right, but just like the character, if we're brave enough to look past the surface, we usually find a version of us still kneeling, still waiting to be acknowledged. So here's your reflection challenge for this episode.
Speaker 1:One is the real mirror. Go look at yourself in the mirror tonight. Not for grooming, not for checking how you look. Just look for a full five minutes, eyes locked, breathe, really, see who's actually staring back right. Two, the photo prompt. Find a photo of yourself from a time where you felt more alive, more fearless or even more lost. Sit with it. What did that version of you believe and that you've since forgotten? Last but not least, is the journal line. Write this question on the top of a page and answer it honestly. Okay, write down this. What part of me have I stopped seeing? That's it. We don't need to fix anything yet. We're not rebuilding yet.
Speaker 1:This episode wasn't about action. It was about action. It was about awareness, and the moment you become aware, the story begins to change. All right, guys, I want to thank you so very much for listening today. It is just incredible the amount of viewership now or I should say listenership that we're getting. Our community is starting to really build here, and that's because of you guys. If it wasn't for you guys, I wouldn't be here. So I appreciate every single one of you listening.
Speaker 1:And if this is your first time listening, welcome to Gent's Journey. Thank you so much for listening. And if you is your first time listening, welcome to Gent's Journey. Thank you so much for listening. And if you like this episode, do me a favor, leave a review, leave a like or, better yet, send it to someone who needs this message, who needs to be more aware. Send it to them. This is a great gift and it doesn't cost you anything. It doesn't cost them anything to listen. It's free.
Speaker 1:So, also, since we're talking about free, if you want to get a hold of me, right, there's three ways you can do it. First way is going to be through, actually, the chat function on the description of this podcast. If you click on that, it says let's chat and you and I can have a conversation about this episode or the past episode or the past series. You know, like I said we can have a conversation. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthonyatgentsjourneycom, so feel free to reach out to me there. And, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey. Feel free to reach out to me there too. Okay, so again, guys, thank you so very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality, take care. Bye.