The morning sun assaulted my eyes with the ferocity of a thousand burning arrows.

  My liege, the Princess Aoi, lay face down on the tatami mats, emitting a low, guttural groan that vibrated through the floorboards. Scattered around her were the empty aluminum husks of the "Golden Nectar"—the potent alchemical brew known to the locals as Strong Zero.

  It is a terrifying substance. Last night, under its influence, the Princess had lost her motor functions, wept about her academic standing, and demanded I carry her to the 24-Hour Armory to purchase the "Petrified Sausage."

  "Masanari..." she croaked, lifting one hand like a zombie rising from a grave. "Water. Now."

  I moved with the speed of a striking viper, retrieving a glass from the kitchen sink—which I am currently banned from using for anything other than hydration—and presented it to her. She drank it like a camel at an oasis.

  "Report," she rasped, wiping her mouth. "What is the status of our treasury?"

  I knelt formally, pulling the Oracle Slate from my pocket to check the dominance hierarchy of her bank account.

  "Grim, my Liege," I said gravely. "The campaign for the Golden Nectar and the midnight feast has depleted our reserves. We have enough copper for perhaps two days of rations. If we do not secure funding immediately, we will be forced to hunt pigeons in the park."

  Aoi rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "Ugh. I’m broke until my next part-time shift clears. We need quick cash."

  She sat up, her eyes scanning the chaotic battlefield of her apartment. Her gaze landed on a pile of dusty manga volumes, cracked plates, and strange ceramic figurines she had won from the Claw Machine Beasts.

  "Flea market," she declared. "There’s one in Yoyogi Park today. We’re selling everything."

  "A Merchant’s Crusade?" I asked. "I am trained in assassination, espionage, and pyrotechnics. I have no skill in the peddling of wares."

  "You don't need skill. You need a gimmick." She looked me up and down. Her eyes narrowed at my attire—the accursed neon-pink t-shirt resulting from the Red Sock Betrayal. "If we're going to sell junk, we need to stand out. Go to the closet."

  I tilted my head. "The closet?"

  "Get your ninja cosplay out. The real one. The black one."

  My heart stopped. Then, it began to beat with the rhythm of a war drum.

  "You mean..." I whispered, my voice trembling. "I may... shed the Pink Gi of Shame?"

  "Yeah, whatever. Wear the ninja suit. People will think it's funny. Maybe they'll buy more trash if a 'real ninja' sells it to them."

  I did not wait for her to change her mind.

  Five minutes later, I stood before the mirror.

  The black fabric hugged my limbs like a second skin. The weight of the chainmail mesh beneath the cloth felt like the embrace of an old friend. The hood concealed my shame and sharpened my focus. The tabi boots, silent against the floor, grounded me to the earth.

  I was no longer the pink-clad house servant. I was Hattori Masanari. The Demon Spear. The Shadow of Ieyasu.

  I clenched my fist. Power surged through my meridians.

  "I have returned," I whispered to my reflection.

  "Stop posing and carry these boxes!" Aoi shouted from the hallway.

  "At once, my Liege!"

  The battlefield of commerce was a chaotic expanse of blue tarps spread across the concrete earth of the park. Hundreds of merchants had gathered, displaying their treasures—old clothes, rusted tools, and questionable electronics.

  We claimed a small square of territory near a fountain. I spread the blue tarp with military precision, ensuring the corners were weighted down against the wind.

  "Okay," Aoi said, donning a pair of sunglasses to hide her hangover. "Arrange the manga here. Plates there. And... what are those?"

  She pointed to a small pile of metallic stars I had placed at the front of our formation.

  "I took the liberty of recycling the aluminum husks of your Golden Nectar from last night," I explained. "Using my dagger, I shore the metal and folded it into four-point shuriken. They are light, aerodynamic, and sharp enough to sever a mosquito’s wing."

  Aoi picked one up. It still had the Strong Zero logo on one of the blades. "You made throwing stars out of trash?"

  "They are the Blossoms of the Drunken Dragon," I corrected. "I priced them at 100 yen each."

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  "Fine. Whatever. Just stand there and look menacing."

  I folded my arms, widened my stance, and engaged my Zanshin—a state of relaxed alertness. I projected an aura of absolute lethality.

  Passersby slowed down.

  "Whoa, look at that cosplayer," a young man whispered to his companion. "That gear looks super realistic."

  "Is he blinking?" the companion asked. "He looks scary."

  "High-quality immersion," the man noted.

  Excellent. My disguise as a "cosplayer" was impenetrable.

  The sun climbed high. We sold a few volumes of Demon Slayer and a cracked tea cup. But the true test of my spirit arrived in the form of a short, stout woman wearing a shirt printed with the face of a roaring tiger.

  She approached our fortress, her eyes locking onto my aluminum shuriken.

  "How much for the beer cans?" she barked. Her voice carried a strange, aggressive dialect I recognized as the tongue of the Western Merchants (Osaka).

  "These are precision instruments of wind," I said, my voice deep and gravelly from behind my mask. "One hundred yen. A pittance for such craftsmanship."

  The Tiger Woman scoffed. "One hundred? For garbage? Don't be stupid. I'll give you fifty for three."

  I recoiled. "Fifty? Madam, the folding technique alone required the 'fingers of the lotus.' To devalue my labor is to insult my clan!"

  "Eighty for three. Take it or leave it."

  She stepped closer. I felt a pressure emanating from her—a spiritual pressure unlike any warrior I had faced. It was the aura of The Haggle. She was attacking my resolve, breaking down my defenses not with steel, but with audacity.

  "I... I cannot..." I stammered. "The aluminum... the structural integrity..."

  "Seventy for three!" she shouted, stepping onto the edge of our blue tarp. An invasion!

  "Deal!" Aoi yelled from her camping chair behind me. "Sold! Take them!"

  "My Liege!" I protested, turning to her. "You surrender so easily?"

  "Shut up, Masa. We need the coins."

  The Tiger Woman slammed seventy yen onto the tarp, scooped up three of my masterpieces, and waddled away, laughing. I felt a piece of my soul wither. I had lost the duel.

  The afternoon wore on. My morale was low, but our coin pouch was filling.

  Then, Aoi did the unthinkable.

  She reached into the last box and pulled out a long, wooden handle topped with a crimson rubber cup.

  The Crimson Scepter. The Plunger of Destiny.

  "Aoi-dono," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "What are you doing?"

  "Selling the plunger," she said, slapping a sticky note on it that read 300 YEN. "We have two. We don't need the old one."

  I threw myself in front of the item, shielding it with my body. "You cannot sell the Excalibur that breached the Water Dungeon! This weapon saved our home from the fecal flood! It is a sacred relic!"

  "It's a dirty rubber cup, Masa. Get out of the way."

  "I will not! It has accumulated Qi! It has tasted the darkness of the porcelain abyss and returned victorious! To sell it is to invite a curse!"

  "Move, or I tell the landlord you're keeping a hamster."

  I froze. The threat was empty—we had no hamster—but the sheer malice in her voice told me she would find a way to punish me. Reluctantly, I stepped aside.

  I stood vigil over the Crimson Scepter, praying that no one would buy it. Who would purchase a used tool of sanitation? It was safe.

  Then, he appeared.

  He wore a grey hoodie, the hood pulled low over his eyes, and dark sunglasses. He moved through the crowd without sound, weaving between the strollers and the dogs like smoke.

  He stopped in front of our booth. He did not look at the manga. He did not look at the plates.

  He looked directly at the Plunger.

  I tensed. My hand hovered near the hilt of my imaginary katana. This man... he had an aura. It was faint, suppressed, but undeniable. He was a professional.

  He reached out a gloved hand and lifted the Crimson Scepter. He tested its weight. He ran a thumb over the rubber rim.

  "Good balance," the man murmured. His voice was like grinding stones.

  I narrowed my eyes behind my cowl. "You have the eyes of a wolf," I said softly. "That weapon has seen battle. It is not for the faint of heart."

  The man looked up at me. Through his dark lenses, I felt a moment of profound understanding. He knew. He knew that this was no mere bathroom utensil. In the hands of a master, it could adhere to a ceiling, suffocate an enemy, or retrieve a key from a drain.

  "Battle-tested," the man said. "Rare."

  "Indeed."

  "Three hundred?" he asked.

  "For you... yes."

  He reached into his pocket. He did not produce three hundred yen in change. He produced a single, shining 500-yen coin.

  He placed it on the tarp.

  "Keep the change," he whispered.

  He bowed once—a sharp, almost imperceptible incline of the head—and vanished into the crowd, the Crimson Scepter tucked under his arm like a short sword.

  I stared at the spot where he had stood.

  "Who was that weirdo?" Aoi asked, snatching the coin. "Sweet. 500 yen. That covers lunch."

  "That was no weirdo, my Liege," I said, watching the crowd. "That was a Merchant of Death. I suspect we have just armed an assassin."

  Aoi blinked. "Cool. Let's go buy corn dogs."

  We packed up as the sun began to set. We had sold nearly everything. Aoi was in high spirits, counting a stack of coins and thousand-yen bills.

  I felt a strange hollowness. I had sold my crafted stars to a tyrant and my favorite weapon to a shadow.

  But as we walked home, the wind caught the loose fabric of my ninja gi. It fluttered around me, familiar and comforting. Passersby stared, whispering about my "costume," but I did not care.

  I was no longer the man in the pink shirt.

  I was Hattori Masanari. And though my pockets were light and my arsenal depleted, I was dressed for war once again.

  "Hey, Masa," Aoi said, biting into a corn dog. "You look pretty happy for a guy who just sold his favorite plunger."

  "I am content, Princess," I replied, adjusting my hood. "For the clothes make the man. And today, I am myself."

  "Good," she grinned. "Because you're wearing that to the grocery store. I need you to carry the heavy water bottles."

  I bowed low on the sidewalk. "As you command."

  85 Days Remaining.

  Masanari's Cultural Notes

  1. The Osaka Obachan (大阪のおばちゃん)

  A formidable class of warrior-women from the Western region of Osaka. They are characterized by their affinity for animal-print armor (usually leopard or tiger), their master-level negotiation skills (Haggling), and their tendency to carry magical candies in their pockets to distribute to allies. Do not engage them in verbal combat; you will lose.

  2. 500-Yen Coin (五百円硬貨)

  The largest coin in the modern realm. It is heavy, gold-and-silver (in the new minting), and holds significant value. In the Warring States period, a single coin of this value could likely purchase... well, I am unsure of the exchange rate, but to receive one for a used rubber cup is a victory of economics!

  Next Episode Preview!

  "Masanari! Why is the ceiling leaking?!"

  "My Liege! It is not a leak! It is an ambush from the floor above!"

  The plumbing betrays us! Without the Crimson Scepter, we are defenseless against the rising tides! And wait... who is that knocking on the door? A pizza delivery? OR AN ASSASSIN?!

  Next time on 100 Days to Legend: "The Great Flood and the Pizza of Doom!"

  Do not miss it, or I shall be forced to commit Seppuku! (Just kidding, Aoi forbade it!)

  Ko-fi.com/ninjawritermasa