Ichibei stood at the head of the training hall, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the disciples carry Samu's body away.
His face was a mask of tempered stone, but beneath the surface, his Ki was boiling with a dark, silent fury.
The students whispered of suicide, of unrequited love and a broken heart, but Ichibei knew better.
He had lived through wars and seen every shade of human depetivity. A man like Samu, who had built his soul through the discipline of Ki, did not simply snap over a broken heart unless someone had methodically dismantled his will.
And he knew just who is the person capable of dismantling the will of his most cherished disciple.
Ichibei waited until every disciple left the hall before moved through the hallways like a mountain gale.
He bypassed the weeping disciples outside and went straight to the guest wing, arriving at Seijirou's room where he knew his granddaughter was in.
