The morning sun rolled lazily across the rooftops of Okayama, and the scent of soy broth and smoke drifted down the streets like an invitation. Hanzo, still smelling faintly of roasted boar, strolled through the market with the swagger of a man who'd just won life's lottery — the prize being breakfast and a few spare bills.
He found the tanner's stall at the far end of the bazaar, where strips of animal hide hung like brown curtains. The tanner, a stout man with forearms the size of loaves, squinted at the boar hide and the tusks Hanzo carried.
"Wild boar, huh? Not bad. Clean cut. No rot. The tusks are also in good shape. You do this yourself?"
Hanzo nodded. "Killed it myself, too. It tried to kill me first. Sadly, he ended up inside my stomach."
The man chuckled, weighing the hide. "Hmm. I'll give you a hundred yen for it."
Hanzo leaned on his staff. "A hundred? That's a robbery. I fought a beast the size of a rickshaw, not a chicken. Make it two."
The tanner snorted. "A hundred and fifty."
"A hundred and ninety." Hanzo fought back.
The tanner retorted. "A hundred and eighty-five, nothing more."
Hanzo extended his hand. "Deal. But if I see you wearing a boar-skin jacket tomorrow, I'm coming back for royalties."
The tanner laughed heartily, slapping the bills into Hanzo's palm. "Fair enough, traveller."
Hanzo pocketed the bills and stretched. His stomach reminded him of its eternal plight with a low growl.
"Alright, alright," he muttered, scanning the nearby stalls. "You win again, stomach."
He stopped at a skewer stand where the smell of grilled chicken was too heavenly to ignore. The old man behind the counter raised an eyebrow.
"Five skewers," Hanzo said, holding up five fingers.
The man grunted. "You're feeding a family there?"
Hanzo sighed. "Nah, just myself. I'm hungry."
The man snorted but smirked all the same. "Fair enough. Where are you from?"
Hanzo bit into the first skewer and smiled. "Hiroshima. Do you know where the general goods store is located?"
The old man laughed. "Second street down, kid. General goods store's there. Don't forget to come back again."
Hanzo raised his half-eaten skewer. "I might be."
The general store smelled of old wood, parchment, and other bits of God knows what. Shelves stacked with everyday stuff, ink bottles, brushes, candles, and rolls of parchment filled the small space.
Hanzo wandered the aisles, watching all the trinkets.
When he reached the counter, the storekeeper — a thin man with spectacles and a voice that sounded perpetually unimpressed — eyed him. "Looking for something?"
Hanzo pointed to a leather-bound journal. "That one. And two pencils."
The man wrapped them neatly in paper. "That'll be twenty yen."
Hanzo handed over the money without hesitation. "Money well spent."
The storekeeper raised an eyebrow. "Good for you."
"Yeah, thanks," Hanzo replied, ruffling his bangs. 'Smartass'
Outside, Hanzo found a quiet park overlooking Okayama Castle. The black-walled fortress loomed against the blue sky, its reflection rippling in the moat below.
He sat on a bench, opened his new journal, and began to sketch.
His pencil moved easily over the surface of the paper, tracing the elegant slopes of the castle roof, the curve of the moat, the gentle rise of the bridge.
He shaded in the castle's reflection, noting how it seemed both still and alive — a contradiction he found oddly comforting.
'I might sell this in the future. If I only could find a way to live that long.' he thought, "something good would be appreciated after I complete this template.'
For a while, the world was calm.
The breeze rustled through the leaves. The faint chatter of vendors carried from afar.
Hanzo smiled faintly. "Maybe peace isn't a myth after all."
Then someone shouted behind him.
"THERE HE IS! THE BASTARD WHO HUMILIATED US!"
Hanzo closed his eyes and sighed. "...Spoke too soon."
He turned slowly. There they were — the same thugs from the riverbank, only now, doubled the numbers. The leader's cheek still bore the faint mark of Hanzo's earlier slap, a crimson reminder of karma.
This time, he'd brought reinforcements. Twice as many men, armed with clubs, rusty blades, and one genius wielding a broom handle like a spear.
Hanzo stared at them, deadpan. "Oh, great. The Fellowship of the Fools returns."
The leader spat into the dirt. "You made a fool out of me, bastard!"
Hanzo raised an eyebrow. "Did I? Or did you just… assist the process?"
"You think you're funny?" the thug growled.
"I think I'm hilarious."
The man roared, drawing a chipped katana. "GET HIM!"
Hanzo sighed, standing up and brushing dust from his haori. "Such a classic trope. Humiliated villain seeking revenge."
The first thug charged, swinging a club with all the finesse of a drunk samurai. Hanzo sidestepped, tapped his staff against the man's shin, and sent him tumbling into a fish cart.
"Ten points for presentation," Hanzo said.
Another rushed him from the right. Hanzo pivoted, sweeping his staff in a tight arc — THWACK! — The man's legs went skyward before he landed flat on his back.
"Extra points for enthusiasm," Hanzo added cheerfully.
A third tried to grab him from behind. Hanzo leaned back, head-butted him in the nose, and whispered, "Wrong angle, my friend."
Chaos bloomed.
The leader lunged with his katana, shouting, "DIE!"
Hanzo blocked the blade with his staff, wood chips flying from the contact. The thug grinned — then blinked as Hanzo twisted, disarmed him, and jabbed the weapon's hilt into his stomach.
"Breathe in," Hanzo said. "And… breathe out. Get wrecked, bitch."
The thug leader folded like a futon.
The rest attacked in a flurry of poorly timed swings. Hanzo moved through them with casual grace, his bo-staff whistling through the air.
One thug swung wide and hit his own friend. Another tried to kick and ended up performing an accidental split. May the spirit bless his crotch.
A particularly creative one tried to tackle Hanzo — only to be spun around and launched face-first into a cabbage cart.
The vendor screamed. "MY CABBAGES!"
Hanzo winced. "Sorry about that. Put it on their tab!"
By the time the last thug stumbled to his knees, clutching his ribs, Hanzo was standing amid a battlefield of groaning bodies, like a dragon triumphing over its foes.
He twirled his staff once and rested it on his shoulder. "Gentlemen, I'd say that revenge is never a good thing."
The leader coughed. "You… you monster…"
Hanzo crouched beside him, grinning. "Monster? How rude. I was still holding back, you know."
Then came the sound he dreaded — sharp whistles, growing louder by the second.
"Police?" Hanzo muttered. "Of course. Perfect timing, as always."
A patrol squad rounded the corner, katana drawn. "HALT! WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!"
Hanzo raised a hand politely. "Just a spirited discussion over the shapes of melons."
The officer blinked. "Melons?"
Hanzo nodded solemnly. "Yes. They were very round, very precious, and also sometimes soft. Lives were lost."
"ARREST HIM!" one of the thugs yelled weakly, pointing.
The officer hesitated. Hanzo sighed. "Ah. That's my cue."
In the blink of an eye, he was gone — vaulting over a cart, darting through the narrow alleys like an assassin who liked to wear white clothing. The officers shouted and gave chase, but Hanzo moved like wind through a forest. Leaving the officers gasping for breath of air.
"Sorry, gentlemen," he called back, laughing. "I'd stay for the fame, but I'm allergic to bureaucracy!"
He slid under a drying line of laundry, rolled across a rooftop, and finally dropped into a quiet backstreet, out of sight.
He leaned against the wall, smiling widely, while sweat beading his brow.
"Well," he said to no one, "so much for a peaceful and quiet day."
A passing cat meowed. Hanzo crouched and scratched its head. "At least you're not trying to arrest me."
The cat blinked slowly, unimpressed, then wandered off.
Hanzo chuckled, adjusting his haori. He pulled out his journal and opened it to a clean page, his pencil tapping idly against the paper.
He began to write.
'Lesson of the day: never slap a thug so hard he remembers your face. Consequences include mob attacks, destroyed cabbage cart, and minor notoriety.'
He sketched a quick doodle of himself surrounded by angry stickmen. Then, satisfied, he closed the journal and stood.
The late afternoon sun painted Okayama in gold and amber. People returned to their routines, pretending not to notice the chaos earlier. The world, as always, moved on.
Hanzo walked toward the eastern road, the castle fading behind him.
He took one last look at the city — the laughter, the smells, the distant cries of merchants — and smiled faintly.
"Okayama," he murmured, "you were fun. But I think I've officially overstayed my welcome."
He adjusted his pack, shouldered his staff, and began walking. Each step carried him closer to Himeji — and whatever nonsense awaited him there.
As he disappeared down the road, the wind carried a voice of someone with a hand mark on his cheek, faintly behind him.
"BASTARD!"