A note from Lazarus

As I relay Matsunori’s messages, I have found myself writing in his style, one that I’ve been more and more adapting to English. But know this — when under my name these are my own thoughts and my own stories.

Maybe I am evil, like the madman said. The truth is, there is a darkness in me—a shadow that follows, always present, though never fully seen. I sit in silence, trying to observe it, but its form remains elusive, shifting like smoke on the edge of a dying fire.

Yet, there is also a light within me. It is like a lighthouse, its beam cutting through the night, guiding me to shore. I once promised someone—a woman of such beauty that her memory still brings silence to my heart—that I would be her light. I swore to shield her from the darkness that encroaches upon us all.

Perhaps I have failed her. Perhaps I have fallen into that same darkness.

These men who revel in shadows, crafting dark poetry with their deeds and words—they are but whispers of despair. If I were truly evil, as the madman claimed, I would crush them with a single blow, leaving their shadows broken beneath my feet.

And yet, I find myself holding back. My blade remains still, my strike restrained. Not because I cannot act, but because I see the choice before me. What is my blade’s will? Confusion? No. It is clarity.

The blade does not serve confusion, nor does it answer to anger. It is forged for purpose, tempered by the will of its wielder. To strike without purpose is to betray the blade’s truth. And so, I ask myself: am I the shadow, or am I the light?

The madman called me evil, but perhaps evil is not an act or a state. Perhaps it is merely the absence of choice. When the blade moves, it must move with certainty, for to strike in darkness is to wield chaos.

Matsunori says:

“The shadow and the light do not war within you. They are your teachers. Learn from both, or you will master neither.”