A man so steeped in vice that even while he still walked among the living, you could tell with one glance exactly where he’d spend eternity.

Such were the men who frequented the bandit outpost of Las Capilla. The name mocked the heavens. There was nothing sacred in that place. No mercy. No decency. Only hate, blood, and every sin men could indulge in.

Night descended on the outpost after a blistering summer day in the western frontier of 1873.

Three of the twenty-seven men stationed there kept watch atop the walls, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. The rest crowded into the cantina below. They drank. They gambled. They laughed too loudly. Some barked at cards. Others pawed at the women or children they’d taken captive days before. Cruelty came easily to them; it was practiced, familiar.

Then, in the darkness beyond the torchlight, something moved.

At first, it looked like a man.

Then less than a man.

A silhouette against a moonless horizon. Blacker than the desert night around him. A shape that seemed to glide where no footsteps should fall.

No.

Not a man. A shadow.

No. Something older.

Something dragged up from beneath chained and thorn-wrapped gates. Something neither living nor dead.

Across the frontier, men whispered his name over campfires and under their breath in saloons. Most dismissed him as folklore. A bedtime story to scare kids and threaten killers and thieves.

But legends don’t usually walk out of darkness. And he knew only one name.

The Marauder.

Then came the sound.

Clack.

A spur against the ground. One of the guards stiffened.

Clack.

“Who goes there?” One shouted into the black.

Then the noise stopped. The man who spoke and the other two sinners peaked over the wall. Then gunfire.

Three flashes split the dark.

Three bullets.

Three foreheads.

The guards dropped instantly, one pitching backward off the wall, another collapsing where he stood, the third folding like a wet cloth.

Below, the noise in the cantina stopped.

Twelve armed men rushed into the courtyard, revolvers drawn, boots scraping dirt.

They found blood.

Bodies.

And beyond the shattered torchlight… nothing.

Their nerves frayed. Their breathing sharpened.

Then again.

Clack.

Closer.

Clack.

A cold wind passed through the courtyard.

Then the front gate exploded inward.

Wood splintered. Iron hinges tore free.

The doors blasted backward, crushing two men beneath them.

And there he stood.

A figure draped entirely in black. Long coat hanging like funeral cloth.

Silver gleaming faintly at his waist, his gloves, the tips of his boots.

And beneath the brim of his hat… his eyes burned with purple flames.

The ten surviving men panicked and raised their weapons.

The Marauder moved first.

His double-action revolver barked five times.

Five rounds.

Five dead.

One bullet through the heart.

Another through an eye.

A third split a throat.

Every shot deliberate.

Every shot final.

He tossed the empty revolver aside and kept walking.

The remaining gunmen at the cantina doors opened fire.

Bullets tore into him.

Chest.

Shoulder.

Arm.

He barely reacted.

A twitch. A shift.

Then forward again.

Unstoppable.

The gunfire grew frantic.

Hands shaking. Hammers cocking.

The Marauder reached the nearest man before he could reload.

One black-gloved hand seized him by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground.

The bandit clawed uselessly.

The Marauder squeezed.

Bone cracked.

The windpipe collapsed.

He ripped the revolver from the dying man’s hand and claimed the machete hanging from his belt.

The stolen revolver fired.

One man took a round through the skull.

Another through the chest.

The third had his carotid nicked and staggered backward, spraying crimson over the wall.

Only one remained outside.

Out of bullets. Out of courage.

He fell to his knees.

“Please,” he begged. “Mercy.”

The Marauder stared.

No pity. No hesitation.

Only judgment. The machete flashed.

The head hit dirt before the body understood it was dead.

Entering the outpost, he was met again by a hail of bullets, and again he did not react to them.

Instead calmly and with great precision he hurled the machete to his right, scurrying three men, and making a kabab out of them.

Nine remained.

Eight visible.

And none were the man he sought.

Each of them owed smaller debts.

Murder. Theft. Cruelty.

Their names are already written in darker ledgers.

But one debt was greater than the rest.

A soul unpaid. And he had come to collect from Regulus Davis.

The Marauder drove his fist through one outlaw’s chest.

Blood splashed on the floorboards.

He withdrew his hand, snatched the dead man’s revolver mid-fall, and fired six times with impossible speed.

Bodies dropped before echoes faded.

The last man lunged with a knife.

The Marauder grabbed.

Twisted

Snapped his neck.

Silence. At last.

Only ragged breathing.

Shaking sobs.

The captives stared.

Women and children frozen in terror.

The Marauder stepped aside.

Said nothing.

They fled past him into the night.

Bare feet against dirt.

Freedom trailing behind them.

Then stillness returned.

He could still smell the scent of the damned man, he was near, but like a coward he was hiding. He overturned tables.

Kicked open cabinets.

Shattered crates.

Then crouched.

There.

Under the bar.

A trembling heap of flesh and panic.

“Regulus Davis.”

The Marauder spoke for the first time.

His voice was steely cool and low.

“You sold your soul, to save your skin in the brink of battle, instead of getting right with God, but in your time here on earth you’ve neglected to pay your debts, so I’m here to collect.” He said

Regulus sobbed.

“Please... please...”

The Marauder raised the revolver.

“And with the years you stole, you spent them shedding innocent blood.”

As Regulus stared into those violet eyes, the Marauder saw everything.

The battlefield.

The bargain.

The murders.

The women violated.

Children brutalized.

Every atrocity.

Every coward’s excuse.

All because one man feared dying when his hour had come.

Regulus begged harder.

Promised anything.

Cried.

Prayed.

But Heaven was far away.

And Hell keeps records.

The Marauder pulled the trigger.

One shot.

And the devil received due.

So, the marauder walked back out of the outposts cantina, through the carnage he had wrought, and through the destroyed gates, into the wilds, he wandered awhile.

Observed the bleak heavens.

Felt the heat of the western night.

He walked into darkness.

Slowly.

Silently.

Until night swallowed him whole.

If you take anything from this, remember never make a deal with the devil, he always collects his dues.

-The Sanctified Samurai

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Share Judah Valentine Coley

"To some the grace was imparted through dreams, to others it was openly poured forth. For indeed by dreams the prophets saw, and received revelations." -St. John Chrysostom

I wake up and remember the last dream of the night prior, separated by the obsidian of night, where stars poke through like dreams in the distance, my mind changing shape and remembering another world. Oh, the wars I calculate waging in my head blistering into reality as unjust brawls while I lay out some drunk cretin with unwarranted violence.

Am I just?

Am I a hero?

Did the Knight just slay the Dragon?

Or did the fool wage his one-man war on a windmill?

“How do I plead?” The judge asks as the Colosseum of my condemners mock me with their half-truths. “Guilty,” I cry out, “but justified!” The jeers grow ever louder as the judge slams his gavel and calls out, “Order! Order!” The crowd quiets, continuing the slander behind my back. “How so are you justified?” The voice of this judge booms inquisitively. “It’s his fault!” pointing to my brother in the crowd of witnesses, “I can’t let go of the pain and suffering, the demeaning of character, the belittling of personhood, so many words said with half as many sticks thrown.” My voice wavers, cracking a little. “I can’t forgive him; he never apologized.” I cry like a toddler. And the Judge he bellows laughter at me, flames leaking their way through his smiling face in puffs of hellfire. The crowd roars louder than the judge, the crowd jeers and mocks more as they laugh and laugh and laugh…

“Do you have any other accounts for your defense that would justify you, a sinner vilest of them all, who murders every man in his heart, and lusts after every woman he sees, who never swallows his pride, and lies when the pedal meets the metal. Is there any such justification for your action? You are a weak, puny, runt! You stupid, unable child!” My pride chokes back the tears and returns my false confidence in myself. “I can’t be with the one I love, she loves another, and yet I don’t want the children of another man to have her eyes. So yes, I kill my brothers in my heart, lust after the honey lips of whores, and lie my way to get out of a pinch. But I am justified because of my broken heart.” The boldness of his statement took the crowd and the judge aback. “This is true, but no man justifies his own sin, and so you stand condemned.” The judge finished slamming his gavel down, and the crowd applauded and erupted with shouts and cheers of joy. And as they continued the joyous ruckus at my demise, those chains bound to my arms led me to a startling white door.

I stepped out the front door like a ghost into a fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white. And so I stand in the blankness of white void, quiet and alone. I cry, but the tears dissipate and return to silence. And in the silence, I hear the leaves rustle, the birds chirp, and over the horizon I see a myriad of colors as the sun rises.

What is this?

What could this be?

“It is, I, my son,” a voice of comfort cries out.

And I turn, but in my turn I am knocked down and unable to see, unable to speak, unable to stand. There is such a weight now in my chest, but it is a warm one, as if the world itself embraced me. “My lord…” the words slip from my mouth.

“The world is not yours, my son,” the voice bellowed, “Nor do you need to justify your sin. For my son, I myself, through my son Christ, bore your sins on my body while I hung on a tree. Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but you will receive an imperishable one. So do not run aimlessly; do not box as one beating the air. But discipline your body and keep it under control, lest, after preaching to others, you should be disqualified.”

I tremble as his words strike true in my heart and stumble over words saying “but how Lord?”

He chuckled a hearty and warm paternal laugh, “You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trampled under people’s feet. “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” And before I can respond, a tornado sweeps through my mind, and I shoot up awake in my bed, staring out at the Maine coast 1000 miles from home.

And so I sit, I reflect, and I pray, giving thanks to God for his reassurance, in the knowledge that I don’t justify myself.

He justifies me, and I aim to let my light shine before men so that he may be glorified.

-Sanctified Samurai

“The return of Christ is not merely a doctrine to be believed, but a promise to be longed for” -John Piper

As I sit to write this, I find myself standing on the threshold of a brave new adventure, a (hopefully) once-in-a-lifetime journey. The car is packed, my companions are gathered, and the engine is ready to turn into ignition. Yet before I pull away from home, a flood of thought rushes into my mind.

Some might call it FOMO, but it’s not experiences I’m afraid of missing. As I shared last week (a small plug for my previous reflections), this changing of seasons in my life has been marked by pruning, trimming, and clearing. Habits have been reshaped. Relationships have been refined. It has been necessary to cut back for growth. And now, I stand in anticipation of what will come: new life, new health, new fruit.

But waiting has never been my strength.

Whether it’s waiting for a plant to grow, or a game to download, or simply hoping for change, I struggle to sit still in the in-between. There’s a phrase I’ve heard countless times, one that feels especially fitting now: “A watched pot never boils.” In other words, anxious waiting does nothing to hasten what is already unfolding.

And yet, that is exactly where I find myself, eager to remain and watch the growth happen.

Deep down, I know this journey is not a disruption of growth, but a catalyst for it. The seeds have been planted. The soil has been prepared. What remains is faith. So even as part of me longs to stay, to watch, to control, I recognize this is not a “should I stay or should I go” moment. The decision has been made. The car is flying down the road, and I merge onto the interstate.

So I release it.

I lift it to God, sending it up on a wing and a prayer, and choose to fix my eyes not on the pot I’ve been watching so intently, but on the One who governs the flame beneath it.

And as I’ve reflected during this Lenten season, walking through Holy Week, I can’t help but wonder: was there anyone watching and waiting for Christ’s return after His crucifixion on Golgotha?

It draws my attention away from the temporary things of this world, even the good gifts; relationships, home, stability, and brings me back to the foot of the old rugged cross, where my Savior died.

There, my anticipation is transformed.

No longer am I fixated on the slow boil of my own circumstances. Instead, I find myself watching with expectation for something far greater: the victory of Christ, the hope of resurrection, the promise that what seemed finished was only the beginning.

So I shift my gaze.

And in that waiting, I no longer wait anxiously, but faithfully, anticipating the joy of resurrection.

With faith that he has full control and keeps a better watch than I.

-Sanctified Samurai

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” Charles Dickens

And so begins the changing of the seasons. The dour cold and rain of winter recede, giving way to the warmth and joy of spring; flowers bloom, and love stirs again in the hearts of men. Change is upon the world, and lovely Lady Nature reflects it as she returns to the visage of her youthful beauty.

As the world shifts, I find myself reflecting on change and on the fading season of my own life. What remnants of winter do I still cling to that must be relinquished to enter this new season? What must be let go of? What must be cut away?

I examine my habits; this one fails me in one way, that one in another. Then I think of my friendships, and that is where the pain truly begins. I see the seeds sown in the hearts of my brothers and sisters, and I am reminded that it is not I who tills the land, but the Lord.

I recognize now that I have held onto relationships that are merely transactional, yielding only regret and resentment. One can walk only so far with a fool in his folly before beginning to see that same foolishness reflected back in the mirror.

So I move on, bracing myself for a new season. My greedy heart resists, it resents letting go, resents that I can do no more. But I remember the Lord’s words to Job: “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” (Job 38:4). I was not there. I have not ordered the world. There is no more I can do.

“He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit” (John 15:2). To grow into a stronger tree, to bless others with good fruit, I must be pruned. It will be painful. The cutting, the loss, this is part of growth. This is part of the changing season. This is part of life.

And so I move from winter into spring: a pruned tree, with old habits and broken relationships left at my roots.

-Sanctified Samurai

“The Indomitable Spirit is this: the spark that gives you the power to persevere. Having faith in what you do and knowing that if you are travelling a worthwhile path, eventually success and achievement will be realized!” -Grand Master Ken Ok Hyung-Kim

The ringing in his ears distracted him from the bottomless feeling of the fall. When his body collided with the mat, his senses began to return. The pain of his aching body briefly overtook him as he lay on the ground, sprawled out. “1…” the voice of the ref cut through the ringing in his head as he tightened his core slightly, sitting up. “2…” the count continued as he drew his arms together, pushing as hard as he could with the bit of strength left in him, only able to get on his knee. “3…” he put one knee up and pushed with all his might. “4…” stumbling back up to his feet as “5…” half the count had finished, his arms hung dead at his sides, weighed down there by the gloves on his hands. The ref approached him, his steps booming in the head of the boxer. “Can you raise your hands?” the ref asked. The boxer, summoning what remained of the little strength he had left, lifted them, straining his shoulders and biceps as he did, stopping the movement when his hands reached just under his chin. “Where are you?” the ref asked a second question, “in the ring.” The boxer stumbled over these words.

“True,” the ref said with a slight chuckle. “What round is it?” the ref continued. “The third.” With much haste and a more clear voice, the boxer replied. “All right then, we’re all set!” the ref declared, backing away from the boxer, clearing his vision, with only his opponent now in sight. Then the bell rang again as the ref’s hand dropped, and the war began anew. The boxer and the adversary met in the middle. The opponent threw a jab, pushing the boxer back. He threw another, and another, and when the fourth jab came, the boxer, moving as fast as he could in his state, slipped it and threw a powerful right hook to his competitor’s body. The rival’s arm quickly returned, chicken winged back to his side as he staggered sideways, throwing a cross as he backed up, both connecting with the boxer’s guard.

For the next minute or so, the two men exchanged blows, nothing too powerful or damaging, but a consistent and tiring back and forth between the two men. The boxer, catching a brief glimpse of the timer rapidly counting down in the corner, noted with his foggy mind how little time that remained. And so in what felt like an eternity to him, but in reality was a split second, he debated whether he should seek comfort and wait out these final thirty seconds or if he should seek victory but at the cost of his body and his comfort. As a bull approaches a matador so the boxer approached his opponent, his body choosing for him, and in the center of the ring the two men stood as goliaths fighting, exchanging powerful and mighty blows, a hook here, an uppercut there, a cross, a jab, an overhand, the beating was brutal and as the bell rang both men embraced in a clinch that bore the signs of respect the both of them had for one another. Words were exchanged, a winner was declared, but it didn’t matter who it was; for the two men in the ring the trophy was a secondary prize, what mattered was the respect given and honor made in the acts of indomitable spirit both men displayed

Anger manifests in the hurt I cause those I love. I am pliable when it comes to my wants, but foolishly hardened against what I truly need. Music and distraction drown out the sound of the coming confrontation between my wicked flesh and my King in heaven. How many days have I ever gone sober from sin?

NONE!

Not a single one. And yet, in the court of my soul, I usurp the kingship and become a tyrant, casting down the Lord of the universe and replacing Him with idols. The One who was made flesh, yet remained sinless, took on my sin; my bloody rags from these broken hands. He lifts this wretch and gives him a seat in His court.

Now I lie low, knee bent before the throne, casting my crown back to the King of Kings. As He stands before me, resurrected and seated in judgment, I expect condemnation; fitting for a tyrant like me. But He lifts my face and says:

“You are forgiven.”

And so, the Coach in my corner; the Advocate who fights for my eternal life, by His strength and mercy, I will stand. Knighted by Him to war against the demon Saracens of my soul, and with the sword He’s given me, I will rise, and I will fight. And in those battles, I pray to no longer be drunk on wrath.”

-The Sanctified Samurai