Yes
1000 years of battle had prepared Kenshin to face the toughest odds, 1000 years of battle had caused him to become callous and cold. He knew no fear, no pity, no remorse. War was sport, sport was war, and they were both life. His life, a life only a boy born to be a warrior could understand. Even after a millennium of battle fury and bloodshed had not desensitized Kenshin to the glory of a great fight. Even 1000 years later, his veins filled with an electrifying pulse of blood as the warrior before him posed a worthy challenge, even 1000 years later, the Daimyo felt the wild, effusive excitement of battle. The uncertainty of who would return home, who would be the one to share this fabled tale? The samurai, or the raging doberman? Only time would tell. For now however, he panted, assessing a gigantic slash across of his chest delivered by the perfect warrior, his eyes gleamed as his mouth was festooned with an energize smirk, blitzing forwards, Kenshin raised his sword, attempting to viciously send a downwards diagonal slash across of Skjovald chest, and again, bringing it back up, an upwards diagonal slash, targeting the same possible wound, ending with a nimble step backwards, and an even faster step forwards, thrusting his mighty katana, aiming to penetrate the man's mighty chest as that same golden glow in his eye stayed, obvious to the battle surrounding him, Kenshin would not leave this bout until one of them lay face down.
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