The battlefield smelled like shit and blood—mostly shit.
I'd watched humans die for nine centuries, and they always crapped themselves at the end. No matter how pretty the songs made it sound, death was messy and gross. The poets never mentioned the shit part.
From my formless spot—I was floating—I watched today's mess. The Ōnin War, they'd call it later. Brothers killing brothers over who got the Emperor's blessing. Yoshimasa hiding in his fancy pavilion while Kyoto burned. Civilization's whole show falling apart.
This is boring.