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Kawakami remembered when he received the order from the government leader whose son had fallen victim to Sugiyama’s drugs. He remembered how he silently slit the throats of the three bodyguards patrolling Sugiyama’s home before he stealthily scaled the roof and opened his daughter’s bedroom window. He remembered how her eyes widened with fear when he crossed her room in two swift steps and covered her mouth before she could scream. He remembered how she pleaded for mercy with those same eyes once he placed the tip of his kunai beneath her chin. And he remembered the warmth of her blood as it spilled down his forearm after he thrust the kunai upward into her brain.
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Sugiyama had taken life from many. And for that he had to pay.

Thus, he felt nothing whenever he pierced his targets’ hearts, eviscerated their bowels, or lopped off their heads. Wiping away their lives was as simple as wiping the sweat from his brow. But he felt something when he killed the 14-year old daughter of a notorious pharmaceutical executive, Sugiyama Hirotada, whose company made Cotyoxin, a popular opioid that ‘9 out of 10 doctors recommended.’
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Sugiyama made his fortune off the drug but made millions more by selling a contaminated version of it on the black market. Countless Japanese became hooked on Cotyoxin, then turned to his black-market equivalent when their prescriptions ran out. He had created a nation of addicts and amassed his fortune on the backs of his countrymen. Sugiyama had taken life from many. And for that, he had to pay.

And so, for him, it did. Thirty years ago, he wrapped his shuriken in cloth and locked them in a box in the attic never to be opened again. Twenty years ago, he donated his swords and shozoku to a prominent museum with a robust wing on feudal Japan. Ten years ago, he burned the last of the sacred scrolls that codified the way of his art. And each day, he pushed the memories of the many lives that he’d taken to the farthest reaches of his mind.
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Kawakami had assassinated many men in his lifetime – scores of corrupt politicians, dozens of foreign spies, several mob leaders, and handful of other shinobi. All to keep peace among the public and order in the lives of his fellow citizens. He killed to shield the defenseless. He was justice for the forsaken.

[Note: This is fiction. It is a common story line and I did two minutes of actual research on ninja. I just felt like writing this after reading this meme. Anyway, here you go.]
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Kawakami Jinichi, the last ninja, knew his days were numbered. His ankles screamed once his feet touched the floor in the morning. His bones begged for relief on his afternoon walks. The knots in his back prodded him awake each night. He knew in his old age that his body was bearing the burdens that his soul could no longer carry.
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The way of the shinobi ends with me, Kawakami decided long ago. The purpose of life is to bring forth more life, he mused, but we ninja bring only death to the world. We are an antithesis to the natural order with no counterbalance. Our path will stop with me.