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 Door That Shouldn’t Exist
The ancient samurai armor isn't just collecting dust—it's collecting memories you've forgotten. Each piece vibrates with purpose, humming a familiar tune your soul recognizes even when your mind doesn't.
Episode four of the Forgotten Samurai series takes us deeper into the mystery as our protagonist encounters Alistair, a figure who sees through all pretense. "We don't choose the armor," Alistair explains with unsettling clarity. "It chooses us, piece by piece, memory by memory." When he refuses to touch the cloth fragment, claiming "it remembers your name better than you do," we understand this journey isn't about finding relics—it's about reclaiming identity.
The discovery of the knee plate through a mysterious door marked with three lines isn't just another piece of the collection; it's an initiation. When the protagonist kneels, it's not in surrender but in readiness, showing how authentic healing often requires a posture of humility before strength can return. The moment when all three pieces begin vibrating in harmony reveals the true nature of integration—separate fragments finding their collective voice.
Meanwhile, Katsu continues to ground our protagonist, checking his collar not just as an act of care but to see if he's still present beneath all this transformation. Her simple request for a light bulb carries deeper meaning—a call for him to bring some illumination into her world too.
This episode ultimately teaches us that healing isn't something we perform; it's something we embody. The armor isn't meant to hide us but to enable us to step forward into something both dangerous and necessary: authentic selfhood. What parts of yourself have you buried because it was easier to forget? Perhaps it's time to let them remember your name.
Connect with me through the "Let's Chat" link in the show notes, email me at Anthony@gentsjourney.com, or find me on Instagram @MyGentsJourney. Your journey matters, and I'm grateful you're sharing it with me.
"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 four of the Forgotten Samurai series. So let's go ahead and let's get into it. Let's get into it. He woke to ash in his throat, not smoke, just the taste of something old, burned and forgotten, the kind of dry that comes from dreaming with your teeth clenched. He reached for the nightstand without opening his eyes. Fingers found a lucky strike, already crushed a little. The familiar click and whirl of his brass zippo sliced through the silence. Flame Breath Exhale. The day hadn't even begun yet and he already hated it.
Speaker 1:The apartment was darker than usual, not because of the hour, but because the world outside seemed to agree with his. Mood was darker than usual, not because of the hour, but because the world outside seemed to agree with his mood. The blinds were cracked, casting broken shadows across the floor. On the table by the window, three objects sat like quiet judges the samurai helmet, weathered, ancient but somehow still warm to the touch. The forearm guard heavier than it should be, as if remembering battles that he hadn't lived. A small cloth fragment, deep burgundy and black, folded, like it was ashamed of itself. These weren't just items. They were reminders that something had started and it wasn't going to stop. His flask was already half empty. He drank anyways, burned his throat raw to wake himself up or maybe to feel something.
Speaker 1:Hen slept well in weeks Not since he received the helmet, not since he started dreaming and static, not since the voice on the phone said his name, even though he'd never given it Knock, knock, knock, not urgent, not soft either. He paused, looked at the door like it might blink first. Another knock, slower this time. He lit another cigarette before opening it. It was 8.47am, too early for visitors.
Speaker 1:But there stood a man dressed like he'd been drawn rather than born Jet back hair, slick and sharp Skin, this color of something unfinished, like marble that had been settled on what it wanted to be. It was grayish, not sick, just unplaceable. Eyes like theater lights focused only on him. And behind that stillness, power focused only on him. And behind that stillness, power coiled, restrained and ancient. He didn't speak right away, he just looked at him, then smiled, and it wasn't a human smile. You've been feeling it, haven't you? The man said, the armor pulling. He didn't respond, he didn't need to.
Speaker 1:The man reached in his coat and pulled out a thick envelope, black wax seal, no name. You're going to want to come, he said tomorrow 9am. The address is inside. We'll speak about the artifacts, especially the forearm piece. There's history you haven't earned yet. And just as he turned to leave oh, tell the woman downstairs to stop watching the window. She's going to break the illusion if she keeps caring. Before he could ask, the man walked away, but not like a man, more like a predator. That allowed you to see it Only so you remember the fear next time. He shut the door slow. The envelope was heavy. He could feel the paper inside, but it was something else too. Was it metal? Are you going to open it or just sniff it? He jumped, nearly dropped a cigarette.
Speaker 1:Katsu, she stood in the hallway like she'd been there the whole time, barefoot, hair, messy, holding a plate of food. In two letters they gave me your mail again and I brought breakfast. You look like a crash site. She walked in without asking. She set the plate down, sat at the edge of the couch, watched him like he was made of smoke. That guy, she said he's not from around here. You saw him. I see a lot more than you think.
Speaker 1:He looked down at the envelope. Well, you can open it later. Why later? Because I already know what it is. She didn't laugh at that, she didn't press him, just took a bite of rice and looked at the table, the helmet, the guard, the fragment. They're waking you up, aren't they? He looked over. I don't mean literally, she said, I mean the kind of waking up that hurts. He sat down beside her, lit a new cigarette off the old one drank swallowed, looked at the door like he expected it to open again. I'm not ready, he muttered. She said no one is. She stood up, brushed the creases from her robe and paused at the hallway. You're better than you think. I don't feel like it. That's the point.
Speaker 1:And then she was gone. He didn't open the envelope, not yet. He just stared at it. Heavy, thicker than it should be and somehow already familiar. The helmet, the forearm, the cloth fragment just sat there humming beneath the silence. And for the first time he realized they weren't waiting for him to figure them out. They were watching him to see if he remembered how to fight.
Speaker 1:He didn't open until the whiskey was gone, not because he was avoiding it, but because some doors should never be opened sober. The envelope sat on the table besides the artifacts, still sealed, still heavier than logic could explain. He ran his thumb over the black wax, unbroken, no emblem, no stamp. But the heat from his hand made the wax soften and split, all on its own often, and split all on its own. Inside, a folded piece of parchment, brittle and yellowed like a threat, written in time A single silver coin with strange carvings around the edge and a note no greeting, no explanation, just 9 am, building 418, don't wear the coat, bring the guard. He didn't recognize the address, but the coin. He picked it up and it vibrated against his skin, not like metal, like memory. He brought the items to the sink and washed his hands again A nervous ritual by now Then sat on the floor beneath the window, let another lucky strike, Watched the smoke curl against the blinds like it was trying to escape.
Speaker 1:He didn't remember falling asleep, only the dream. He was walking through fog barefoot, wearing nothing but the forearm guard and the fog whispered names, his name, names he hasn't used in years, names no one alive knew. He passed doors, dozens of them, each with a sigil, each humming, and just before he reached the end he saw a mirror. He stepped towards it, but the man inside was wearing all the armor and smiling. He woke up gasping. The journal was open beside him, the pen still uncapped, but he hadn't written anything, at least he didn't think he did, until he read the page. You're not dreaming, you're remembering the pieces. Wake up when you do. And the next one doesn't want to be found, it wants to be seen. He slammed the journal shut, felt the coin in his palm, warm. Now Tomorrow would come fast. And the fog outside the window. It hadn't moved all night. 902 AM. It hadn't moved all night, 9.02am. The sky hung low like it had something to confess.
Speaker 1:He stood in the front of the building 418 with a cigarette between his fingers and a whisper in his chest telling him to turn around. But he didn't. He was already dressed for regret Black shirt, long coat, fordole pulled down like a shadow, forearm guard wrapped in cloth beneath his arm, the robe fragment tucked in his coat pocket, warm against his ribs, ribs, it hadn't stopped humming since the dream. The building was nothing Gray brick, no sign, no windows on the second floor, a door that stuck when he pushed it Inside, silence, but it was thick and alive. She met him just past the threshold Tall, broad-shouldered hair slicked back and silver Eyes that had seen war. She didn't speak, just tilted her head for him to follow.
Speaker 1:The hallway was longer than the outside suggested. Faint smell of cedar and rust. Longer than the outside suggested Faint smell of cedar and rust. Old glass cases on the walls filled with a pocket watch, split down the middle, a rusted blade etched in Sanskrit. A small obsidian cube that moved slightly when he passed. He didn't ask, she didn't explain.
Speaker 1:When they reached the end she opened the final door and the room on the other side was impossible. The office was massive, lined with books and languages. He couldn't name tables filled with artifacts he thought were myths a vase with samurai kanji scorched into its glaze, an oil painting of a faceless warrior bombed before a gate of swords. A mirror that didn't reflect him at all and in the center, alistair. He moved like a panther, slow and controlled, not with elegance, with precision. Everything he did was deliberate. Even standing looked like an action. He wore a dark tailored jacket over a tunic that shimmered slightly. His skin wasn't gray now, it was moonlit. Not dead, not alive, just more.
Speaker 1:You brought it, alistair said without looking at him. His voice was calm Velvet wrapped in ice, let me see. He stepped forward and unwrapped the forearm guard, set it on the velvet-covered table. Alistair examined it like he already knew every line, every groove. Then he paused there's something else. He turned, looked through him. You have it, the fragment. His hand went instinctively into his pocket. The cloth was warm, hot, almost Like it was reacting to the room. He pulled it out, set it beside the guard. Alistair didn't touch it, just stared, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
Speaker 1:That piece wasn't supposed to survive, he said quietly, but neither were you. He reached toward it then pulled back like he'd been burned. It remembers more than you do. He circled the table, slowly, stopped across from him. Tell me something, he said. Had the voices started speaking in order? Yet he didn't answer, didn't need to. Alistair smiled, not kind, not cruel, just knowing.
Speaker 1:We don't choose the armor, alistair said. It chooses us, piece by piece, memory by memory, and each time we recover one, something else returns with it. He pulled a dwarf from beneath the table and took out a bowl, metallic black, with red carvings swirling in the inside. Place your palm here, why? Because I need to know what the armor has remembered that you haven't. He hesitated, then pressed his right palm against the bowl. The metal warmed immediately A faint hum. Then vision, not a memory, not a dream, a fracture. He saw a red gate split down the middle, a woman crying in a burned garden, a boy screaming as armor was ripped from his chest, himself Kneeling Alone, blade buried in the dirt. Then Nothing. He grasped, pulled his hand back. Alistair nodded slowly You're further than most. What does that mean, he asked? It means the next piece is watching when You'll know when it's ready to be found. It'll let you find it.
Speaker 1:Alistair stepped back. Alistair paused. Then, without ceremony, he slid the forearm guard and a rope fatment back across the table. Careful, deliberate. The cloth was warm again, the guard pulsing slightly, like it missed him. They're yours now, alistair said. But they won't always be this quiet. Only then did he turn, walking toward the back of the room that shouldn't have existed, and he paused oh and don't lose that cloth, you've bled on it before. It remembers your name better than you do. He didn't remember leaving the building.
Speaker 1:One moment Alistair was walking through a door that shouldn't have existed. The next he was walking outside again, the silver burning, low between his fingers, hands shaking. The sky hadn't changed, but something else had. The cloth fragment in his coat pack was burning hot. The form guard, tucked beneath his coat, began to hum faint low, like it was tuning itself to a signal he couldn't hear. And deep in his chest a pressure was forming, not pain, not memory, something older than both. He lit another lucky strike With his brass zip-bolt and took a long drag.
Speaker 1:The city felt too quiet no traffic, no footsteps, not even the birds. He turned the corner of the block, not sure why His legs moved like they knew something he didn't. Then he saw a door Just standing there, freestanding, unattached to any wall, wooden Red paint chipped with age, a black sigil scorched into its center. He blinked. It didn't go away. The hum from his coat intensified. The fragment and guard were vibrating in sync, now low, hollow, like a name being whispered underwater.
Speaker 1:He stepped towards the door no handle, no hinges, just invitation. He reached out and the door opened inward on its own. Inside there was nothing A room of fog, no floor, no walls, just a space with swallowed edges and on the other side a small table, a candle burning and an open journal. He stepped through the door, vanished behind him. The journal was old, worn, leather, familiar. He flipped to the open page, his handwriting, but he didn't remember writing it. The name is still there, buried beneath the silence. But the armor remembers. The cloth hums, the guard listens and the next gate is already watching. It wasn't signed with a name but with a sigil, the same one from the front door, three lines.
Speaker 1:As he stared at the mark, the journal snapped shut, a gust of wind blew out the candle and then he woke up in his apartment breathing hard. Katsu was knocking at the door, mail in her hand, eyes wide like she knew he hadn't been there. You okay, she asked. He wasn't, but he nodded anyways. The hum hadn't stopped and somewhere far away he heard a train whistle. This time it was calling him. He didn't remember falling asleep One moment he was staring at the helmet.
Speaker 1:The next thing, his eyes snapped open to the sound of shower running. But he lived alone and he never turned it on. He sat up, his shirt was damp with sweat, Cigarette burned out. In the tray, clock read 2.43 am. The rogue fragment lay curled on the table, but now it was wet and cold, like it had been through something.
Speaker 1:While he slept, I stepped into the hallway of his apartment, bare feet flask in hand. No sound from any other unit. But the air was wrong. No sound from any other unit, but the air was wrong. No-transcript. And then he saw it at the end of the hall, a door that wasn't there yesterday. Metal, old Green paint peeling, the kind used on industrial fusers or train compartments. No number, just a handle, a sigil scratched deep into the center, the three lines, same oneil scratched deep into the center, the three lines Same, one that had appeared in the journal, the one he hadn't written. He let a lucky strike. Two long drags Opened the door Inside a room, small, freezing, lit only by a flickering static of an old TV.
Speaker 1:On the table in the corner there was a chair bolted to the center of the floor, an ice bucket beside it, sweating under the fluorescent light. On the screen, grainy footage of an old battlefield men in armor, then himself standing at a forge, shirtless, hammer in hand, striking something glowing white. And then the image distorted, bled into static. He stepped toward the ice bucket, lifted the lid and sighed A piece of armor, dark metal, folded at strange angles, the knee plate still cold but inert. It throbbed once then again. Then silence. He picked it up and everything spun. The TV exploded in noise, the sigil on the door began to glow, his own skin began to itch. He dropped to one knee and the world pulled itself inside out. When he opened his eyes he was on the floor of his apartment. Door gone, ice bucket gone, arm of peace still in his hands. A knock. He staggered up and opened the door.
Speaker 1:Katsu Hair messy and a robe Holding an envelope. They put this in my mailbox by mistake. She said. Then paused you look like hell. She stepped inside without asking, set the envelope on the table, then turned to him. You were gone, weren't you? He didn't answer. He didn't lie either. You smell like cold metal and rain. She reached up to fix his collar. Next time, tell me before you go somewhere, so I know if I should worry or wait. She turned to leave, passed the doorway and then stopped. Oh, and he still owed me a light bulb.
Speaker 1:Journal Entry. The entry is written in deep navy ink. Edges of the page are slightly warped, like they've been frozen or thawed. The sigil three lines appeared at the bottom. The entry begins there are no rooms we don't remember building. Not because we forgot, because there was never supposed to be found. The entry begins there are no rooms we don't remember building, not because we forgot, because there was never supposed to be found.
Speaker 1:You found one and, more truthfully, it found you. You think you walked into it, but it was waiting, that ice bucket. It wasn't holding the knee plate, it was holding your ability to kneel again, not in shame, not in surrender, but in readiness. You bent the knee because something in you still knows what it means to honor power. When it returns, the armor doesn't come back whole, it comes back scattered. Every piece holds the heat of the last time you failed. That's why your skin itched. That's why the mirror showed fire. That's why the television stopped breathing when you entered. The past knows when you're nearby. You're not the first to enter that room, but you are the first to leave it with something intact.
Speaker 1:The three lines is a sigil of cold watchers. They wait at the edges of memory or forgotten reguettes, gather frost and sharp into warnings. The door you found. It's a test, but it's more than that. It's a reminder that not all memory are yours to keep locked away. Some will demand rent. She saw it. You know, not the door you. When she touched your collar, she was checking to see if you'd return the same. You hadn't. You won't Not. After this, keep the peace hidden. Kneel again before the next one comes. And don't forget the ones who know cold also know how to bury fire in secret. Journal ends Signed Three Lions.
Speaker 1:The apartment was still, too still like something was watching, but not from the shadows, from inside the armor. He placed all three pieces on the table the helmet, the forearm guard, the nail plate. They didn't sit like objects, they sat like witnesses. And the robe fragment? It had stalled pulsing, but its edges were curling inward now, like it was folding into a shape it remembered. He tried to write in the journal, the pen refused. Instead, the pen began to fill on its own, first just lines, then a shape, then his own silhouette drawn in charcoal strokes. Underneath it three symbols appeared An eye, a triangle and three lines.
Speaker 1:He stood up, he backed away. That's when he saw it. The pieces were no longer separate. They were humming in sync, each one vibrating at a slightly different frequency, but together forming a chord. Low, ancient, alive. His coat and fedora were still damp from the earlier encounter, but when he touched them they were now lined with silk, the same silk as the robe fragment. It had moved or grown.
Speaker 1:Then the apartment lights flickered. The hallway light buzzed once, went out and then came back brighter. And in that second of darkness he saw something standing in the mirror behind him Not a man, not yet, but a silhouette wearing all the armor. He spun nothing. He returned to the journal. Now another line appeared beneath the sigils One more piece, and he began to remember your name. The ink dried instantly no spudges, no hesitation, like it had never been wet. The helmet tilted all on its own, facing him. So I hate to leave you there, but let's step back for a second, okay, because I know how this episode felt. It felt surreal, strange, maybe even like it skipped around. You met allister, you found another piece and somewhere in between you saw something in the mirror that wasn't quite you. But here's the truth. This episode wasn't about finding the knee plate. It was about really discovering what returns with the armor. So let me walk you through it Not just what happens, but what it means for you.
Speaker 1:First, let's talk about Alistair. He isn't some guide or mystical figure. He's the mirror you didn't expect. He speaks in a way that doesn't tell you everything outright, but he knows Every move is calculated. He represents the part of your journey where you can't bluff your way through anymore. Really, you know he sees past masks and that's what makes him uncomfortable to be around right when he asked if the voices are speaking in order. Yet he wasn't just talking about visions. He was asking if the chaos in your life had started to make sense, if the scattered parts of you, the failures, the old wounds, the patterns you keep repeating, are beginning to tell you something coherent.
Speaker 1:Then there was the fragment, the old piece of robe. It's not just a relic, it's a trigger, it's a memory artifact. When Alistair said it wasn't supposed to survive, he meant that it holds something about you that was never supposed to make it through the fire Something vulnerable, something human, something you buried when you decided it was easier to forget. Something you buried when you decided it was easier to forget. You wouldn't even touch it because it wasn't his to touch. The cloth remembers your name, your blood, your mistakes. It's not a prop, it's a piece of identity that should scare you. And if it doesn't, listen again, and let's not forget the room that doesn't exist, the door with the sigil, the three marks, that part of the episode wasn't just fantasy. It's what it feels like when you suddenly remember something you had locked away in your nervous system that wasn't a real room, that was a psychic one, a test, a pressure point. The old TV, that was a memory trying to play back the truth. The ice bucket, that was a cold reminder that some things are preserved, whether you want them to be or not. And the moment you picked up that knee plate, you weren't being rewarded, you were being initiated. This is what the first episode where the pieces started to interact, they vibrated together, they formed a tone. That wasn't just an audio design, it was symbolism. That's what healing sounds like.
Speaker 1:You've been collecting parts of yourself this whole time the helmet, the forearm guard, now the knee plate. But until now they were silent. They were waiting for you to wake up. But when they started humming in unison, they were telling you you're not just gathering relics, you're reconstructing your soul and it's working. Slowly, but it's working.
Speaker 1:Now, katsu, let's talk about her. She knows more than she says. She feels it before she can name it. That's why she always shows up at the right moment. That's why her comment about you smelling like metal and rain hit harder than you expected. She's grounding you. She's also testing you in her own way. She wants to know if there's still a man underneath all of this smoke, this confusion, this ritual. When she fixes your collar, she's not just being sweet, she's checking to see if you're still there. Light bulb yes, it's literal, but it's also the metaphor we're carrying forward. She's asking you to bring some light into her world too. Not just mystery, not just absence, but presence. So what does all this mean for you?
Speaker 1:This episode is about integration. You can't move forward just by collecting things. You have to sit with what they show you. You need to stop running from what the armor is showing you the dreams, the visions, the voices. You need to write them down, speak them out loud, admit them, because they're not just memories, they're instructions. You don't need to wear armor to hide. You wear it to step forward in something dangerous but necessary. And the next piece will only reveal itself when you stop pretending that you're okay, staying broken.
Speaker 1:So here's what I want you to do. Here's our reflection. Okay, pay attention to what keeps repeating the dreams, the patterns, the signs. They're not random, they're breadcrumbs for you. Okay, who's your Alistair? Who's the person or situation that sees through your excuses? Are you avoiding them or are you listening? Three what did the room in the sigil remind you of? Have you ever had a moment like that where something impossible happened and it made too much sense? And finally, who's your kasu? Who's quietly waiting for you to come back from wherever you kept going to Sit? With those. Don't just think about them, write them, speak them, move. We're not here to perform healing, we're here to embody it.
Speaker 1:You know, I can't tell you as I finish this off today. You know, one of the things that I enjoy is obviously character driven stories, as we can see Right, but you know, the most important character that you can write for is yourself, and that's what being on this journey of life is about. You're the main character in it and you have supporting cast, and sometimes you have villains, and sometimes you have people that love you and care about you, and sometimes they're the villains. But it's all about finding yourself and not being scared to find yourself and, as you see, that's starting to unfold for him. He's starting to find himself.
Speaker 1:So, guys, I cannot thank you enough for listening today. It means so much to me that you take the time out of your day to listen to this show and this episode and this series and the support you guys give me. It means more than I could ever tell you or show you, Okay. And again, I'm getting a lot of great feedback with this series. So if you want to give me feedback or you have questions about this episode or this series, there's three ways to get a hold of me or to reach out to me.
Speaker 1:I guess I should say One is through this, actually this show, in the show notes, in the description, it'll have let's Chat. You click on that and you and I can have a conversation about this episode or this series, or the five other series that I have out there and the 200 plus episodes that I have out there. Okay, that's one way. Second way, it's going to be through my email. My email is Anthony at gentsjourneycom, so feel free to reach out to me there. And then, last but not least, you can get a hold of me on my Instagram. Yeah, that's where my Instagram Gosh. It's one of those days, guys. My Instagram handle is MyGentsJourney, so please feel free to reach out to me there too, okay? So, guys, again, thank you so very much for listening today and remember this you create your reality, take care.