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 Samauri: What follows you home.
What happens when the artifacts you seek begin to change who you are? Episode 6 of The Forgotten Samurai marks a profound turning point in our hero's journey as he discovers the throat guard—not just another piece of ancient armor, but a gateway to buried memories and silenced truths.
This episode plunges us into a world where reality and memory blur. Our protagonist awakens to find his journal seemingly alive with messages, guiding him to Terminal 7, a forgotten train station that exists beyond normal perception. Here, the boundaries between worlds thin, allowing glimpses into alternate realities and suppressed memories that have shaped his identity without his awareness.
The throat guard represents more than protection; it symbolizes our voice—what we've been afraid to say, emotions we've refused to express, and truths we've been unwilling to acknowledge. As our hero recovers this piece, he experiences disorienting time slips, haunting visions, and encounters with versions of himself and others that challenge his understanding of reality.
What makes this chapter particularly resonant is how it mirrors our own experiences with trauma and self-discovery. The fragmented nature of the protagonist's journey—appearing in one location without remembering the transition—perfectly captures how many of us move through life on autopilot when avoiding our deeper wounds. The mysterious character Katsu serves as both guide and mirror, silently asking the question we all fear during transformation: "Have you changed too much to love anymore?"
Anthony's commentary frames these supernatural elements as metaphors for the very real process of psychological integration. The throat guard's recovery represents reclaiming our authentic voice, while the disorienting journey reflects the discomfort of confronting long-buried aspects of ourselves. The practical exercises offered—creating split journals to dialogue with our shadow self, listing the "ghosts" that haunt our decisions, sitting in silence to hear what noise has been drowning out—provide tangible ways to begin our own process of dismantling before rebuilding.
Ready to recover the pieces of yourself you've left behind? Listen now, and remember—you're not just collecting armor; you're being dismantled until the man left standing isn't protected, but reborn.
"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. Today we are in episode 6 of the Forgotten Samurai, so let's go ahead and let's get into it. He woke to silence so complete it felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His throat burned, not from whiskey or cigarettes, not this time. This was different. It was as if something was caught there, coiled like a serpent behind his voice, pressing upward with a pressure that wasn't physical but remembered A sound he swallowed long ago, a name never spoken.
Speaker 1:The journal lay at the foot of the bed. He didn't remember writing it last night, but its pages were parted, as if it was waiting for him. When he opened it, the ink shimmered, not dried, not fresh, but alive. Words formed and blurred, slipping past his eyes like oil across glass, saying to speak. The name is to become the name, but only if it's yours. His hand moved instinctively to his throat. No scar, no mark, but something in his breath now carried weight, like syllables were trying to form themselves in secret.
Speaker 1:He staggered to the window. The street outside was still Not empty, just waiting. Katsu is gone. No center breakfast. No sounds from downstairs, just the faintest echo in the walls, like footsteps trapped in old plaster, and over all of it, the humming Low, not mechanical. All of it, the humming low, not mechanical, almost like chanting beneath the floorboards.
Speaker 1:He lit his lucky strike, held the flame of his brass tippo too long, let it burn until it kissed his skin. It felt grounding, almost real. It felt grounding, almost real. The smoke curled from his lips and for a moment he saw the shape of a word in the fog. Not a full name, just the start of something. That's when the whisper returned. Find where your voice first went silent. It wasn't Alistair's voice this time, it was his own, younger, broken, the kind of voice that belonged to a boy kneeling beside something he couldn't save.
Speaker 1:He looked down at the journal. A new page had formed, drawn in faint ink, almost ash-colored. It was the shape of a throat guard. Beneath it, a small handwritten note Terminal 7. Beneath what was left of the station. He stared at it for a long time, then closed the journal, pocketed the Zippo and grabbed his coat. He didn't know why, but the next piece waited. Where voices were once loud and now only echoes remained.
Speaker 1:There were places of the city that's been forgotten. You don't find them on accident. You get pulled there like a man sleepwalking into his own confession. Terminal 7 was one of those places. No record of it, not on the train maps. No record of it. Not on the train maps, not on the papers, not even in the city archives. But there it was, just off 9th and Hanley Crouched behind a fence and a line of dying elms Like a rumor, waiting for someone desperate enough to follow.
Speaker 1:He flicked his lucky strike to life with the old brass zippo. The sound echoed too long. Wind caught the smoke, but it didn't take it away. It curled it back into his face. The sign above the rusted gate was missing. Letters no Passengers E-Y-. Letters no Passengers E-Y-O. This I-N-T.
Speaker 1:The gates were locked. They opened without a sound, which was somehow worse. Inside was rot and rust and something quieter than silence. The tiled floor was a checkerboard of mold and memory. The old speaker system dangled from the ceiling like a hanged man. No one had walked this concourse in decades, but something had waited.
Speaker 1:He pulled the collar of his coat higher, took a pull from his flask. The whiskey bit like it remembered something he didn't. The fog hung low across the room. Not city fog, it was something older, something closer to breath. His boots echoed with a rhythm he didn't choose. One, two, one, two, like someone behind him was matching the step. He didn't look back. At the edge of the station was a sign covered in soot. He rubbed it with his sleeve.
Speaker 1:The words came through Terminal 7. The gate beneath it was bent inward, like something large had gone through and never came back. The journalist pocketed the theorem just once he stepped through a tunnel stone and dust, no graffiti, no lights, but at the end of it, glowed ambers, like pulsing, like someone lit a cigarette on the far end of a memory. The humming started again, low and steady, somewhere beneath throat and sin. Each step tasted like metal, like the air had been filtered through copper pipe.
Speaker 1:And then he saw it A sunken chamber, stone line, mist crawling along its base, like something ashamed. To be seen In the center, cradled in folded cloth stained with soot, was a throat guard. It was black lacquer, trimmed with faded gold, crapped where something had tried to pry the voice out. Whoever wore it last? His hand went to his throat again. That burning was still there, like he was holding back a scream that wasn't his. And before he could stop himself, he whispered Meyer. And before he could stop himself, he whispered, meyer. The words left his lips like it had been waiting for years to escape.
Speaker 1:The throat guard shimmered once, then went still. He stepped down into the pit and picked it up. It felt light, but it buzzed in his hand like it was speaking in a language too old to hear. When he turned back, the tunnel was gone. A door stood in its place, mist curling from the edges and somewhere faint, he swore. He heard Alistair say Only one piece left before the truth begins.
Speaker 1:He stood before the door, as it always has been there, like the fog itself had built it old wood, blackened edges, carvings along the grain, so faint that they only appeared when you weren't looking straight at them, symbols like half-memory, some familiar, some wrong. He reached for the knob. It was warm, not electric, not fire Like breath, not electric, not fire like breath. The doors opened before he could touch it and the mist poured out like it had been holding its lungs full since the war. Inside a hallway, stone damp, lit by torches that flickered too slow to be natural. Each step echoed not once but twice, as if someone was remembering it.
Speaker 1:Just after he made it halfway down, he passed a mirror. It didn't show him. It showed a boy on his knees, armor stripped from his chest, voice gone. He stopped the reflection, looked up and smiled, and at the end of the corridor was a chamber. It was round, it was ritualistic An altar in the center with a shallow bowl of dark liquid and a scroll covered in ash-colored script. And behind it, alistair. He stood still, hands folded, eyes darker than they were before, not cold, not cruel, just endless.
Speaker 1:Do you know what you've brought with you? He asked. He didn't answer. Alistair stepped forward slowly, with a predator grace. Every foot falls. Quiet is deliberate. You're carrying more than just armor now, he said. You're carrying what the armor remembers and what it wants to forget.
Speaker 1:He gestured towards the bull remembers and what it wants to forget. He gestured towards the bowl, placed the guard in the basin. He hesitated. Then he did it. The liquid hissed, steam coiled upwards and a voice, his own own, screamed out of the mist. One long, broken sound. Alistair didn't flinch. He placed a hand on the journal and opened it. Inside was a page that hadn't been there before. Not ink, not charcoal. Blood Drawn in thick lines was as simple as a sigil. But this one was different. It had a mark inside of it. The same mark burned into the inside of the dragon's wrists. He never noticed it before. You were chosen before your first breath. Alistair whispered. But you'll only survive if you remember why. The bowl stilled. The throw car floated, then sank and the mist swallowed everything.
Speaker 1:He woke up on his apartment floor. The guard beside him, inkatsu, was knocking on the door. Are you alright? In there? She called you, dropped this, she added, slipping something under the door the journal. But it's already on the table. The journal is on the table exactly where he left it Open Half a page written Pen still resting inside it. The ink was still wet.
Speaker 1:But when he picked up the second journal, the wankatsu slid beneath the door. It was identical Same weathered leather, same tear across the spine, same ash-mured fingerprint near the top right corner. Only difference the second one was cold, not cool, not room temperature cold, but cold, like it had been buried in the snow. He opened it slowly. The handwriting wasn't his, it looked older, feminine, maybe. It was precise and elegant, but unstudy in places, like someone been writing between tremors the entries. They weren't records, they were Whispers.
Speaker 1:He's not ready yet, but the armor is chosen this time. Maybe it ends. Alistair watches too closely. He remembers too much. If he opened that last door too soon he won't survive it. We tried to warn the last one. We always try. There was no signature, no dates, but the bottom corner of each entry was marked with a small symbol, each one different. One of them he's seen before, carved in the back of the mirror of an alicer's office.
Speaker 1:He set the cold journal beside the one he'd written in earlier. They looked like mirror images, one alive, one post-mortem. He heard the creak of the stairs. Katsu's knock was gentle this time. He'd opened the door to find her standing there in a long gray sweater, hair pulled back but dark circles under her eyes. You alright, she asked Eyes scanning him like a scan could reveal trauma. He didn't answer immediately. She looked past him into the room. Her gaze fell on the table. Two journals now she asked Are they multiplying on you? He ran a hand through his hair, scratched the back of his neck. I didn't ride in that one, he said. The one you slid under the door.
Speaker 1:Katsu stepped inside without being asked. She walked to the journals, picked up the cold one. Walked to the journals, picked up the cold one. I found this on the landing. She said Not right outside your door. I didn't even know I was on your floor. He raised an eyebrow. You weren't, you were two floors down earlier. She looked at him, I was.
Speaker 1:They stood there in silence for a moment, the kind that makes you feel like someone's watching from behind the wallpaper. What's going on, katsu, he asked? She smiled softly. You tell me You're the one bringing ghosts home. She handled the journal back to him, but didn't let go right away. If you see another version of me, she whispered, ask her what she's afraid of. Then she let go, turned and walked back towards the stairs. He watched as she disappeared around the corner. He waited for the sound of the door closing below, but it never came. He turned back inside, lit a cigarette and sat at the table.
Speaker 1:The two journals were side by side, one warm, one cold, and both had changed. The last page in each had new writing, identical. The name must be spoken, but not until he remembers what he buried with it. He didn't write it, but not until he remembers what he buried with it. He didn't write it, but he was starting to remember the hand that did. The fog wasn't outside anymore, it was in him, now Lodged under the sternum Coiling, tighter each time he inhaled. He didn't know if he was following it or it had begun to follow him.
Speaker 1:Just after midnight he slipped out of the apartment with a robe fragment in one pocket and the cigarette case in another. Didn't grab a coat, didn't need to. The city air was unnaturally still like it had stopped breathing altogether. He didn't walk, he drifted Past intersections. He didn't recognize Past buildings that looked like outlines more than structures. Every stoplight blinked red, even with no traffic.
Speaker 1:Eventually, instinct brought him to a brick alleyway hemmed in by graffiti-tagged dumpsters. There were no windows, just one metal door. At the end. It had no handle, just rusted hinges and a faint humming coming from the other side. He touched it, the door swung open on its own.
Speaker 1:The staircase beyond descended into a tight spiral far longer than the alley should have allowed. As he moved downward, the air grew thick, warmer, like breath had filled the space and then died in it. Murals lined the walls, ash-sketched warriors' missing faces, armors thrown in the fires, temples crumbling under smoke the kind of imagery that didn't show up in books, only in the mind of someone trying to forget something sacred. At the bottom of the staircase, a corridor opened to a stone chamber. It was wide, silent, almost subterranean. The walls pulsed like lungs and in the center, a sab Carved from onyx slick with condensation. On it, rested the next piece, the throat guard. It shimmered faintly, no light source above it, yet it glowed with its own memory. As he stepped closer, the air around him shifted, time thinned. He reached out, he hes hesitated, then touched it. The second his fingers met the metal, the world shattered like glass. He blinked.
Speaker 1:He was now standing in the hospital corridor. The lights overhead buzzed, the floor glistened, too clean, the smell of bleach and something else, something burning like paper. To the left, room 313. The doors cracked open. Inside Katsu, pale Tubes in her arms, machines breathing for her. He stepped closer to the door. He tried to knock, but the sound never came. He glanced at the window in the hallway. His reflection stared back. But it wasn't him. It was Alistair. Same coat, same posture, but older, more knowing, like a future that had grown tired of waiting. And then, just as suddenly, the corridor vanished. The stone timber returned. His knees hit the ground.
Speaker 1:The throat guard was in his hands now, warm and humming, with recognition, not a faction, just fact. Around him, the ash on the floor began to swirl, forming a shape, a sigil. It wasn't unfamiliar. He'd seen it once before, burned in the corner of an original journal, drawn faintly behind one of Katsu's paintings, and now etched in the glowing cinders around him. His sigil, his inheritance, his curse. He stood slowly, the throat guard tucked into his chest like a newborn secret, and as he walked up the staircase, each step echoed as if someone had taken it first. At the top he turned to look behind him. The chamber was gone, just a rusted wall and a door that never should have opened. He didn't remember the walk back One moment.
Speaker 1:He was in a fog-laced stairwell clutching the throat guard, the next standing in front of his apartment door. The hallway lights hummed softly, flickering in their sockets, like they had grown weary of staying lit. His breath left a mist in the air, though it wasn't cold, not in, not outside. He looked down. Ash footprints led up to his door, but none behind him, like he hadn't come from anywhere at all. He reached inside his coat. The throat guard was still there, solid, heavy, still warm, still whispering.
Speaker 1:He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Everything looked as he left it, but the air. The air was wrong, like someone had come in and moved the atmosphere just two inches to the left. The journals were both open, now on the table, one glowing faintly blue and the other pulsing with a dim red light, like blood circulating through words. He lit a lucky strike. The smoke curled unnaturally straight, hanging in the air like it was waiting for permission to disperse. That's when he heard it Three knocks, not soft, not urgent, just expected.
Speaker 1:He opened the door. Katsu stood there wearing a long gray cardigan hair, half pulled back. One hand held her keys, the other a brown paper bag. You left your mail in my box again. She said, oh, and you look like hell. He blinked, took the bag without a word. It was warm, like the food had just come off the stove, like she'd been waiting for him to return.
Speaker 1:She leaned slightly to look past him. Her eyes landed on the journals. She said nothing about them, but her gaze lingered Too long. You've got visitors, she asked almost casually. Just ghosts? He mut asked almost casually. Just ghosts, he muttered, stepping aside. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Well, tell them to take their shoes off. You don't need dead men tracking dirt across your soul.
Speaker 1:She walked in uninvited, like always, set the bag on the kitchen counter, started unpacking Eggs, toast coffee. A small paper napkin folded into a triangle, her signature touch. He stayed near the door watching her trying to decide if he'd changed or if he'd finally just noticed something that has always been there. She turned slowly, leaned against the counter, eyes on him but not on him, Through him, like she was reading a version of him that hadn't been written yet. You want me to stay? She asked, voice barely above a whisper. He didn't answer, but his shoulders relaxed. She nodded, that was enough. She moved to the couch, dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl near the door. The sound echoed more than it should have, like the apartment had howled slightly while he was gone.
Speaker 1:He sat at the table, lit another cigarette. The journals hadn't moved, but the last line in each had changed. Now comes the silence before the storm. Say nothing, let it come. He closed his eyes, let the smoke fill the gaps inside him. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, the fog was curling back into place.
Speaker 1:You felt that, didn't you? This wasn't just a return, it was just another step in the process of recovering armor. It was a descent into memory, into madness, into the haunting realization that some paths, they just don't reveal who you are. They remind you of who you failed to become. See episode six. It marks the turning point, the fracture line, you could call it, because up until now every piece of armor was a relic, an object of mystery.
Speaker 1:But this was different. The throat guard, it was personal, it made you kneel, it made you remember the moments you didn't know, you had forgotten. See, the hospital corridor wasn't just eerie, it was loaded. You walked through those halls before in your own life. You sat by the bedside of others and you feared walking up in one alone. The machinery, the sterile light, the humming of fluorescent tubes above your head it's all symbolic and in this story it was a flashpoint, crossing between worlds. See, alistair's reflection wasn't about him, it was about you, because when you're on this path long enough, when you've shed enough layers of false identity, self-betrayal and lies, you eventually run into someone you don't recognize. You don't recognize Yourself, not the version of you that laughs politely at meetings or answered texts you didn't want to get, but the version of you that's been waiting, sharpening.
Speaker 1:Watching this episode brought you to the doorstep of something sacred. The sigil appeared, not as decoration but as a declaration. You know that you've entered the part of your journey, right when things began to. They're watching back now. They're watching you now. They're watching you. And the chamber, distant, gift you with a throat guard. It cracked open, your rhythm, time distorted, distance, warped. You came back without knowing how. You forgot the leaving, you only remembered the return. That is how trauma works, that is how spiritual death begins. And katsu's presence, you know, was once warm, once, once tethering, but now it feels different, like she's seeing through you, past past you, into you. And did you catch the line she didn't say, not the one about staying the one behind it? Have you changed too much to love anymore? See, this episode asked you to walk back into your home carrying something that didn't belong to this world. You did it, but it cost you and it will continue to cost you.
Speaker 1:So what does that mean for you, the listener, the man, the soul navigating your own shallowed hallway? It means this You're entering the phase where the sacred and the ordinary begin to blur, where each object might carry memory now, where every conversation might be a test and, most of all, those around you are no longer bystanders. They're mirrors, and mirrors don't lie. So let's do our reflection exercises now, okay, first exercise is this I want you to visualize the ash footprints that led you to this moment in your life. What decisions, what regrets or whispers have you carried here? Write a full letter to yourself from the version of you who took those steps. Then respond to it as the man you are now.
Speaker 1:Two create a split journal On one side. Write from your conscious voice On the other side. Respond as your shadow self, the one who knows the truth you keep avoiding. Have a real dialogue, argue, forgive, admit. Let the paper hold both versions.
Speaker 1:Okay, number three the ghost guest list. List every influence in your life that is still haunting your apartment People, ideas, fears, responsibilities. For each one, ask this question have they earned the right to still be here? Cross out the ones who haven't. Burn the lift if he needs to, okay. If you need to burn it, then burn it. Get rid of it all. Right Now.
Speaker 1:Number four sit in absolute silence for 15 minutes, no distractions, no music, just breathe. Let the silence show you what your noise has been hiding. Then write down what came up, not in full sentences, if you can't Just, but in fragments, if that's possible, in words or symbols. Let the mind speak without a filter. Okay Now, last but not least, list every piece of emotional armor you've worn this past week Pride, perfectionism, humor, anger, indifference. Now choose one to remove, just for a day Journal what changes? Okay, I need you to understand something here You're not just collecting armor, you're being dismantled. Each piece you gain strips something else away until eventually the man left standing isn't protected, he's reborn. And that journal on your table, it's not just watching, it's waiting for what you do next.
Speaker 1:You know, before I go, one of the things I love about this series is it constantly evolves, right. You know, things are constantly shown. We're having flashbacks now and when you're dealing with trauma in your life. I'll speak for me personally as I say this a lot of your life is like a flashback, especially when you're not dealing with trauma in your life, because one minute you could be at work, like say, one minute you wake up in the morning, then when you're kind of realized what's going on, you're eating breakfast or lunch, then you realize you're at work, then you realize you're at lunch, then you realize you're in your car, then you realize you're eating dinner, then you realize you're in bed. It's just kind of snippets, right.
Speaker 1:And when you're not dealing with your trauma, I'll just say like again, I'll say, for me personally, that's how you live your life. Right, it's just kind of like a stir of echoes in a lot of ways. But when you start to address these things and yes, it's going to be hard and I get it, but you don't live your life on autopilot anymore and you actually live your life and as we're going through this process, as him collecting his armor, he collects something and then something's burned away because he's trying to become whole, and that's really the whole journey to become a gentleman or the journey to self-development is becoming whole, and that's what we're doing here. So I wanna say that I appreciate you going on this journey with me, listening to these stories, listening to this I can't tell you how much I appreciate it and especially the support you guys have been giving and all the downloads. It has been absolutely incredible. So I again thank you from the bottom of my heart for that. And, like I said, I've been getting a lot of messages, I've been dialoguing a lot more with you guys, so that's been really awesome.
Speaker 1:And if you want to have the chance to dialogue with me, there's three different ways you can do that. First way if you look on the description of this podcast. There'll be like a let's Chat function. You click on that and you and I can have a conversation about this episode, this series or the what 240 plus episodes I have up now. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom, so please don't hesitate to email me there. And, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram handle is my gentsjourney. So again, guys, thank you so very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality. Take care Bye.