The Emissary

Assuming he had knowledge and wealth to leave to his descendants was mere arrogance, Yoshiro now realised. This life with his great-grandson was about all he could manage. And for that he needed to be flexible, in mind and body, with the courage to doubt what he had believed for over a century. Sloughing off his pride like an old jacket, he’d have to go around in his shirtsleeves. If he was cold, rather than buying a new jacket it would be better to think of ways to grow a coat of fur like a bear’s. He was not really an ‘old man’, but a man who, after living for a century, had become a new species of human being, he thought, clenching his fists again and again.

You could tell the younger relations by their rounded backs, thinning hair, pale faces, and by how slowly their chopsticks moved. Realising their descendants were in such a state because they’d been so feckless made the elderly feel guilty, dampening the festivities.
While it wasn’t clear whether or not Yoshiro’s generation would really have to live forever, for the time being they had definitely been robbed of death. Perhaps when their bodies had reached the end, even their fingers and toes worn down to nothing, their minds would hang on, refusing to shut down, writhing still against immobile flesh.