There once was a samurai who was renowned for his swordsmanship. He had fought countless battles and defeated hundreds of opponents on the battlefield. So when he heard that the emperor was holding an exhibition whereby a few selected warriors would be invited to demonstrate their skill, he began looking forward to the invitation. When it finally came, he read it with eager anticipation.

There was only one problem.

The challenge to be undertaken was as follows: each warrior would be given one, and only one, chance to pierce a forged metal helmet with their sword.

“Oh dear,” thought the samurai. “I know the smith who forges those helmets – they’re specifically made to withstand sword strikes, and nobody has ever pierced one before.” This troubled the warrior, though not nearly as much as the dishonor of declining an invitation from the emperor would. He decided he would accept the invitation, and would commit hara kiri (ritual suicide) if he should fail.

The day finally came, and people came far and wide to witness the spectacle. The celebration began with a festival that featured beautiful dancers and art exhibitions, before moving on to the demonstration of martial prowess later in the day. When it came time for the demonstration, a hush fell on the crowd, who waited with baited breath to see if anyone could pierce the helm.

Warrior after warrior tried unsuccessfully to pierce it, depleting the confidence of every individual who came after. Much to the samurai’s dismay, it appeared as though the emperor had saved his demonstration for last.

When the time finally came, the samurai walked solemnly into the courtyard, bowed honourably to the emperor, and unsheathed his sword. He meditated for just a minute with sword in hand, eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, rhythmically. He noticed he was sweating, though he had as of yet taken no action, and it was not a hot day. There was not a single sound in the courtyard, save for the chirping of birds; every single person was holding their breath and leaning in to see what the last samurai would do. Finally, the samurai opened his eyes. He lifted his sword to the sky, closed his eyes and, with a blood-curdling ‘KIAI,’ he brought the sword down on the helm.

The crowd gasped.

He couldn’t look. He mustn’t. The gasp meant he had failed. Yet he had to look. Whatever happened, he had to accept his fate with honour. So he opened his eyes.

It was then that he saw that his sword had not only pierced the helm, but had driven straight through and into the pedestal on which it rested.