The feudal warlord
Clad in fierce crimson robes
Draws no joy from the death of his equal
He weeps for them
Behind walls besieged
For implanted between his ribs
Lies the sharp blade of honor

Respect and compassion for enemies
In all of its self destructive nature
Regardless of whether fate will endow
The pleasures of mortal life
Or regardless of divine prosperity
The man of honor will find true wealth
In the far fields of virtue



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