Why The Elusive Samurai Is Not the Fun Historical Anime It Pretends to Be
Rushabh Bhosale
The Elusive Samurai looks like a colorful adventure show about a kid playing tag with his friends. The bright animation, playful character designs, and energetic opening suggest you're in for a lighthearted historical romp through feudal Japan.
Then someone's face gets ripped off.
This 2024 anime from CloverWorks has become one of the most divisive shows in recent memory—not because it's bad, but because it refuses to be what it appears. Based on Yusei Matsui's manga (the creator behind Assassination Classroom), The Elusive Samurai presents itself as fun historical fiction while hiding something far darker underneath.
What Is The Elusive Samurai About?
The Elusive Samurai follows eight-year-old Hojo Tokiyuki, heir to the Kamakura shogunate in 1333 Japan. When trusted general Ashikaga Takauji betrays the Hojo clan, Tokiyuki's entire family is slaughtered. He escapes with help from Suwa Yorishige, an eccentric priest who claims he can see the future.
Yorishige tells Tokiyuki he's destined to reclaim Kamakura. But Tokiyuki isn't a warrior—his only talent is running away. The series aired from July to September 2024, with a second season announced for July 2026.
The Historical Reality Behind the Fantasy
What makes The Elusive Samurai genuinely unsettling is that it's based on real events. The 1333 Siege of Kamakura actually happened. When Emperor Go-Daigo rebelled, Ashikaga Takauji switched sides and betrayed the Hojo clan he'd sworn to serve.
Nearly every member of the Hojo family died—killed in battle or by ritual suicide. Tokiyuki survived and spent years trying to reclaim Kamakura, briefly succeeding in 1335 before being driven out. He was eventually captured and beheaded around 1353.
The anime takes this forgotten historical figure and asks: what if he became a shonen protagonist?
The Tonal Whiplash That Defines the Series
The first episode of The Elusive Samurai is a masterclass in emotional manipulation. It opens with vibrant colors, silly comedy, and Tokiyuki dodging his tutors while playing with friends. The animation practically bounces with youthful energy.
Then a ball falls from the sky. It's revealed to be a severed head.
Within minutes, the show transitions from lighthearted comedy to graphic violence. Tokiyuki watches his family murdered. His fiancée is raped and killed off-screen. Bodies pile up as Takauji's forces massacre everyone in Kamakura.
And then—jarring, uncomfortable, wrong—the comedy comes back. Characters make jokes while standing amid the carnage. Yorishige acts goofy while rescuing Tokiyuki from literal genocide.
This tonal whiplash isn't a mistake. It's the entire point of the series.
Why the Comedy Feels Disrespectful (And Why That's Intentional)
Many viewers found the humor during tragic moments deeply uncomfortable. How can the show make jokes while people are being violated and murdered? Why insert slapstick comedy into scenes of trauma?
Director Yuta Yamazaki and writer Yoriko Tomita made a deliberate choice to keep all of Matsui's anachronistic humor and absurdist comedy intact—even during the darkest moments. This wasn't carelessness. It was strategy.
The comedy serves to strip away the romanticized version of samurai culture that dominates most historical media. By adding modern references, silly gags, and meta-humor, the anime forces viewers to see the brutality for what it actually was rather than what later generations idealized it to be.
Takauji is often portrayed in historical dramas as a conflicted hero who did what was necessary. The Elusive Samurai uses humor to undermine that narrative. The jokes make Takauji's "mercy" and "honor" look like exactly what they were—lies told by those who wrote the history.
It's a similar approach to what Chainsaw Man does with emptiness and emotional detachment, using deliberate tonal choices to create discomfort that serves the themes.
A Protagonist Who Survives Instead of Fights
Tokiyuki represents something rarely seen in shonen anime—a protagonist whose strength is avoiding conflict entirely. He doesn't get stronger through training montages. His greatest skill is literally running away.
In a genre that glorifies combat and dying with honor, Tokiyuki chooses survival. When everyone around him commits ritual suicide to preserve honor, he runs. When faced with impossible odds, he evades rather than fights.
The show frames cowardice as heroism. Running away becomes an act of rebellion against a death cult that values honor above human life.
The Disturbing Villains Who Represent Death
If Tokiyuki represents life, Ashikaga Takauji represents death. The anime portrays him almost as a demon—someone whose presence brings darkness and despair. His supernatural charisma inspires fanatical loyalty while draining hope from everyone around him.
The other antagonists have grotesque supernatural abilities—vision so powerful eyes pop from skulls, superhuman hearing drawn in unsettling detail. These aren't cool superpowers—they're wrong, marking these characters as inhuman.
This transforms a standard revenge story into something more mythological. Tokiyuki isn't just fighting political enemies—he's fighting the personification of death itself.
Why the Humor Undermines Traditional Samurai Narratives
The anachronistic comedy—Yorishige making modern-day references despite the 14th-century setting—serves a specific purpose. It prevents viewers from slipping into the comfortable nostalgia that usually surrounds samurai media.
Shows set in feudal Japan typically romanticize the era. They present samurai as noble warriors following a strict code. They gloss over the brutality and present honor-based violence as somehow dignified.
The Elusive Samurai refuses this romanticization. By inserting jarring modern humor, the anime constantly reminds you this isn't a reverent historical drama. It's a critical examination of how brutal this era actually was.
When Yorishige gets spanked in front of children or makes references to future technology, it breaks immersion intentionally. You can't idealize the samurai code when the show keeps undercutting the seriousness with absurdist comedy.
It's uncomfortable because it should be. The anime wants you questioning why so much samurai media presents horrific violence as noble. Similar to how Zankyou no Terror's beauty contrasts with its deeply flawed execution, The Elusive Samurai uses aesthetic choices to create deliberate dissonance.
The Manga Gets Even Darker
While the anime shocked viewers, the manga goes further. Later chapters include scenes so brutal they make the first episode look tame. Characters die violently and often. Main characters get killed. Plans fail catastrophically.
This makes The Elusive Samurai one of the most brutal series currently running in Weekly Shonen Jump—pushing boundaries alongside series like Jujutsu Kaisen and Chainsaw Man.
Why Some Viewers Can't Get Into It
The Elusive Samurai isn't for everyone. The tonal shifts genuinely bother some viewers—the jarring transitions from comedy to graphic violence feel disrespectful to the real people who died.
Some critics argue the humor undermines emotional weight. When you can't tell if a scene will end with a joke or a massacre, you can't properly invest emotionally.
Others find the anachronistic references distracting rather than meaningful. The cheerful aesthetic clashes too jarringly with dark content for some viewers.
Why Others Find It Brilliant
For viewers who connect with The Elusive Samurai, the uncomfortable elements make it powerful. The tonal whiplash forces active engagement—you can't mindlessly watch when every scene might shift from comedy to horror.
The aesthetic mismatch creates a unique viewing experience. When everything around him is death and darkness, Tokiyuki's youthful energy becomes an act of resistance. The show's refusal to wallow in grimdark aesthetics reflects his refusal to accept death culture.
The historical grounding adds weight. Knowing these events actually happened makes the story resonate differently than typical shonen narratives.
The Message About Choosing Life Over Honor
At its core, The Elusive Samurai is about rejecting death culture. The samurai system was built on the idea that honor matters more than living—that dying well is better than surviving with shame.
Tokiyuki rejects this completely. He runs. He hides. He values survival over honor. And the anime frames this as the most heroic choice possible.
Every member of the Hojo clan except Tokiyuki committed ritual suicide. The anime doesn't present this as noble—it presents it as tragic waste. Tokiyuki's evasion represents choosing life when culture demands death.
This theme connects to modern struggles with systems that demand individuals sacrifice themselves for abstract ideals. Much like how Barakamon explores finding yourself after burning out from creative pressure, The Elusive Samurai examines choosing self-preservation over destructive systems.
The Second Season and What to Expect
The second season, announced for July 2026, will likely continue pushing boundaries. The manga's later arcs get progressively darker as Tokiyuki's rebellion gains momentum.
Expect the tonal whiplash to continue. The historical constraints mean we know how this story ends—Tokiyuki's rebellion ultimately fails. There's no happy ending, just the question of how he chooses to live before the inevitable.
Should You Watch If the Whiplash Bothers You?
If tonal consistency matters to you, The Elusive Samurai might not work. The jarring shifts are integral to the experience, not a flaw.
Give it at least three episodes before deciding. The first episode is deliberately shocking, but subsequent episodes establish a rhythm. The show works best if you engage with why it makes these choices rather than just reacting to them.
For viewers who appreciate experimental storytelling or anime that refuses to be comfortable, The Elusive Samurai offers something rare. It's not trying to be fun—it's using the appearance of fun to make you uncomfortable with how samurai media typically romanticizes violence.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Samurai Stories
Most samurai anime present feudal Japan through a nostalgic lens. They focus on honor, loyalty, and noble warriors. They make ritual suicide seem dignified. They present battlefield deaths as meaningful sacrifices.
The Elusive Samurai tears down this romanticization. It shows samurai culture as a death cult that consumed children. It presents "honor" as a system that justified atrocities. It refuses to make violence look cool or meaningful.
The anachronistic humor, the tonal whiplash, the cheerful aesthetic—these aren't bugs. They're features designed to prevent you from slipping into comfortable familiarity with samurai tropes. The show wants you off-balance, questioning why you expected a certain type of story.
Final Thoughts: The Fun That Hides the Darkness
The Elusive Samurai isn't the fun historical anime it pretends to be because it's not trying to be fun. It's using the appearance of fun—bright colors, playful characters, silly comedy—as camouflage for something much darker.
The show explores trauma, death culture, and choosing survival when society demands sacrifice. It's about how systems that romanticize honor and glory are built on rivers of blood.
The tonal whiplash isn't a flaw—it's the entire point. The discomfort you feel watching cheerful characters experience horror is intentional. The jarring comedy during tragic moments is designed to prevent the comfortable emotional distance that lets us romanticize historical violence.
If you go in expecting a lighthearted historical adventure, The Elusive Samurai will devastate you. But if you're willing to engage with what it's actually doing—using the appearance of fun to critique how we tell samurai stories—you might find one of the most interesting anime in years.
Just don't expect to enjoy it the way you'd enjoy a typical shonen. The Elusive Samurai doesn't want you comfortable. It wants you thinking about why you expected something different and what that says about how we consume stories about violence, honor, and death.
Sometimes the most important stories are the ones that refuse to be fun.
Tags
Frequently Asked Questions
Is The Elusive Samurai actually dark?
Yes. Despite its colorful visuals and comedic tone, the anime contains graphic violence, mass death, and heavy psychological themes rooted in real history.
Why does The Elusive Samurai mix comedy with extreme violence?
The tonal whiplash is intentional. The humor is used to break the romanticized image of samurai culture and make the violence feel uncomfortable rather than heroic.
Is The Elusive Samurai based on real history?
Yes. The anime is loosely based on real events from 1333 Japan, including the fall of the Hojo clan and the betrayal by Ashikaga Takauji.
Why does Tokiyuki run instead of fighting?
Tokiyuki’s ability to escape represents choosing survival over honor. The anime deliberately rejects the traditional samurai ideal of dying for glory.
Is there a second season of The Elusive Samurai?
Yes. A second season has been announced for July 2026 and is expected to adapt even darker arcs from the manga.
Next up
Bakugo's Rivalry with Deku Is About Identity, Not Competition
Bakugo and Deku's rivalry in My Hero Academia isn't about who's stronger—it's about who they are when strength stops defining them. Bakugo's entire identity was built on being superior to everyone, especially Quirkless Deku. When Deku gains One For All and starts surpassing him, Bakugo doesn't just face defeat in competition—he faces the collapse of his entire sense of self. The rivalry explores what happens when your worth is tied to being the best, when the person you looked down on becomes your equal, and when you're forced to rebuild who you are from scratch. Unlike typical shonen rivalries driven by power scaling, Bakugo and Deku's relationship asks: if you're not the strongest, who are you? Bakugo didn’t lose to Deku. He lost the story he told himself about who he was. Streaming on Crunchyroll and Funimation. The Rivalry That Doesn't Follow the Rules Most shonen rivalries follow a template: two powerful characters push each other to greater heights through competition. Goku and Vegeta. Naruto and Sasuke. The formula works because both rivals start roughly equal. Bakugo and Deku break this completely. Their rivalry begins when one has everything and the other has nothing—built on the assumption that gap will never close. The Childhood That Set Everything Bakugo gained an inflated ego from being praised excessively for his powerful Explosion Quirk, leading him to bully Quirkless Izuku Midoriya. But the bullying wasn't just cruelty. It was self-defense. When they were children, Deku tried to help Bakugo after he fell into a river. Bakugo was offended that a weakling like Deku tried to save him and assumed he was looking down on him. This moment reveals everything. Bakugo's entire identity rested on being superior. A Quirkless kid offering help shattered that hierarchy—so Bakugo rebuilt the wall with violence and contempt. The nickname "Deku" (meaning useless) wasn't just an insult. It was Bakugo's attempt to permanently define someone who threatened his sense of self. When Your Identity Is Built on Being Better Katsuki started out believing his worth was tied to how strong he was. In My Hero Academia's society, Quirks determine value. Heroes are celebrities. Power equals worth. Bakugo absorbed this completely—his Explosion Quirk made him special, and being special became his entire personality. The Problem With Conditional Self-Worth When your identity depends on external validation—being the strongest, smartest, most talented—you're building on sand. Any threat to that superiority threatens your entire existence. Deku represented the ultimate threat: proof that Bakugo's superiority wasn't inherent. If a Quirkless nobody could become his equal, then Bakugo was never special—he just got lucky with genetics. This connects to how comparing yourself to others destroys you in The Pet Girl of Sakurasou—when your worth depends on being better than someone else, you're always one comparison away from collapse. The Identity Crisis Disguised as Competition In Episode 8, Deku defeated Bakugo in a practice exercise. But Bakugo lost not because of his power but because of his arrogance and inability to work as a team. This wasn't just a loss in training. It was existential annihilation. Bakugo's entire worldview rested on a hierarchy where he stood at the top and Deku at the bottom. When Deku wins—not through luck but through qualities Bakugo dismissed as weakness (teamwork, strategy, empathy)—the entire structure collapses. What Bakugo Actually Lost He didn't lose a fight. He lost the story he'd been telling himself about who he was. After he loses to Deku, feels he can't measure up to Todoroki, gets kidnapped, and fails his Licensing Exam, he suffers a massive identity crisis that knocks down his fragile confidence. Each defeat chips away at the foundation. If strength doesn't guarantee victory, what does it guarantee? If being talented doesn't make you special, what does? Similar to how Haikyuu explores effort without a promise of greatness, Bakugo discovers that natural talent without growth is a dead end. Why Bakugo Can't Just "Get Stronger" In a typical shonen rivalry, the solution to falling behind is training harder. Get a new technique. Unlock a transformation. Close the gap through effort. Bakugo does train harder. He does get stronger. It doesn't fix anything. The Problem Isn't Power—It's Perspective If he isn't the strongest and he isn't meant to achieve immediate greatness, then what is his role? It's something that Quirkless Midoriya had to evaluate for many years as a child. What is his purpose in a world that seems destined to leave him behind? Bakugo is forced to ask the same question Deku asked his entire childhood: who am I if I'm not what I thought I was? For Deku, that question led to discovering identity beyond Quirks—heroism as action, not status. For Bakugo, it requires dismantling everything he built his personality on. What Deku Has That Bakugo Doesn't The series explicitly contrasts their approaches to All Might, their shared idol. While Deku admired All Might's ability to save lives with a smile, Bakugo admired his strength and ability to defeat anyone. This difference is everything. Two Different Definitions of Heroism Deku sees heroism as connection—reaching people, protecting them, making them feel safe. Bakugo sees heroism as dominance—being strong enough that threats don't matter, proving yourself through victory. Neither is wrong, but only one is complete. Endeavor has a powerful quirk and is skilled at rescuing civilians, but the reason why he's unable to surpass All Might is because he fundamentally does not care about the people he's saving. Bakugo mirrors Endeavor—technically excellent, strategically brilliant, but missing the emotional core that makes All Might irreplaceable. The rivalry with Deku forces Bakugo to develop what he lacks: empathy, collaboration, the ability to see strength in vulnerability. The Fight That Changes Everything Their second major fight—where Bakugo finally admits his feelings—is when the rivalry transforms completely. Bakugo breaks down. He admits he feels responsible for All Might's retirement. He admits he doesn't understand how Deku got his Quirk. He admits he feels left behind. Vulnerability as Strength For someone whose entire identity was built on never showing weakness, this moment is death and rebirth. Bakugo's ceaseless drive forces Midoriya to become more assertive, and he eventually welcomes the rivalry. Meanwhile, Midoriya's attitude forces Bakugo into a previously unforeseen habit of contemplation. They're not just making each other stronger. They're making each other more complete. Deku learns confidence and assertiveness from Bakugo's refusal to back down. Bakugo learns empathy and teamwork from Deku's instinctive heroism. This parallels how Kids on the Slope shows that relationships force us to grow in unexpected ways—growth doesn't require perfection, just willingness to change. The Ending: Choosing to Redefine Yourself By the series' conclusion, Bakugo's transformation is complete—not because he's the strongest, but because he's rebuilt his identity on different foundations. Bakugo has been a proponent in crafting technology that allows Midoriya to potentially take a physically active role in superheroism again, meaning that the boy who once insulted a character without "powers" has now evolved into a man who wishes to find a way to bring those abilities back. From Contempt to Support The Bakugo who bullied Quirkless Deku now dedicates himself to helping Quirkless Deku become a hero again. Not because he pities him. Because he respects him. His identity is no longer built on being superior to Deku. It's built on being Deku's equal—someone who pushes him forward not through competition but through collaboration. The rivalry doesn't end. It evolves into partnership. Similar to how Bakuman shows the hidden costs of creative ambition, Bakugo discovers that identity built on relationships is stronger than identity built on dominance. What the Rivalry Actually Teaches Bakugo and Deku's relationship isn't about friendship conquering all or rivals becoming brothers. It's about what happens when the person you built your entire identity around surpasses you—and you're forced to decide who you are without that hierarchy. The Uncomfortable Truth About Conditional Identity Most people build identity on external markers: job titles, achievements, being better than peers. When those markers shift—when you get fired, when someone younger surpasses you, when your talent stops being enough—you face the same crisis Bakugo does. Who are you when the thing that made you special becomes common? When your worth can't be measured by comparison? The series doesn't offer easy answers. Bakugo's growth takes the entire series. He relapses into old patterns. He struggles with anger management. But he rebuilds anyway—slowly, imperfectly, honestly. This connects to why Eren started the Rumbling beyond just protecting Paradis—real growth is messy, incomplete, and driven by complex motivations beyond simple heroism. The Rivalry That Saved Both of Them Both young heroes look at the world's number 1 hero for inspiration. While their end goals were the same, the two determined they needed different things to get to their goals. However, as the story progresses both begin to realize that they each lack what the other has. Deku needed Bakugo's confidence, his refusal to accept limits, his aggressive drive to win. Bakugo needed Deku's empathy, his collaborative spirit, his instinct to save rather than defeat. Neither could become a complete hero alone. The rivalry forced them both to develop what they lacked—not through competition, but through recognition. By the end, they're not trying to surpass each other. They're trying to become worthy of standing beside each other. That's not a rivalry about competition. That's a rivalry about identity—and it's exactly why it works.