The debt of the Five Hundred Spoons has been extinguished.

  I stood in the center of our small fortress—the apartment—and felt a weight lift from my shoulders that was heavier than any armor. Through my labor as a guardian of the asphalt river (traffic directing), I had secured enough coin to repay the losses incurred by my tactical error regarding the plastic soup implements. My honor, tarnished by impulsive commerce, was scrubbed clean.

  Aoi-dono sat upon the tatami, inspecting the envelope of currency I had presented to her with both hands. She nodded, her expression unreadable.

  "You actually did it," she muttered, tucking the money away. "I thought I’d be eating instant noodles for a month. Okay, Masanari. Since you worked hard and didn’t get hit by a car, we’re celebrating."

  I stiffened. "A celebration? You mean a war council?"

  "No. I mean dinner. Tonight, we feast. We are going to Sushiro."

  Sushiro.

  The name rolled off the tongue with the weight of authority. Shiro implies a castle. Su could mean vinegar, or perhaps longevity. A fortress of vinegar? A castle of longevity? It sounded like the stronghold of a powerful Daimyo, perhaps a warlord who controlled the coastal trade routes.

  "I understand," I said, my voice dropping to a grave whisper. "I shall prepare my formal wear. If we are to seek audience with Lord Sushiro, I must not bring shame upon your house."

  "It's just sushi, Masanari. Wear your normal clothes. And leave the mask here. I don't want people calling the cops."

  She was testing me. A ruler often downplays the danger of a diplomatic mission to test the vigilance of their bodyguard. I nodded slowly. I would wear the black gi, but I would conceal my kunai. One does not walk into the Castle of Sushiro unarmed.

  The journey was short, but the destination was terrifying.

  The fortress of Sushiro was bright—blindlingly so. It did not rely on torches, but on the trapped lightning of the modern era, illuminating every corner with a harsh, clinical white glow. The air was thick with the scent of vinegar, raw flesh, and the roar of the masses.

  "Table for two," Aoi told the gatekeeper—a young woman operating a pedestal of buttons.

  We were led not to a private chamber, but to a narrow booth surrounded by other clans. The noise was deafening. Cries of children, the clatter of plates, and a strange, rhythmic mechanical whirring that seemed to emanate from the very walls.

  And then, I saw it.

  "By the gods..." I breathed, clutching the edge of the table.

  Running alongside our table was a river. But it was not water. It was a mechanical serpent, a relentless belt of moving scales, and upon its back rode plates of sushi. Endless. Unceasing.

  "Sit down, Masanari. You’re blocking the aisle."

  I slid into the booth, my eyes locked on the moving belt. "Aoi-dono. This engineering... it is sorcery. A river that flows through the table, carrying the bounties of the sea directly to the mouth? Even the Hojo clan, masters of sieges, could not construct such a supply line."

  A plate of shrimp drifted past. My hand twitched.

  "Target acquired," I whispered. "Distance: 0.5 meters. Speed: Constant."

  I reached for my chopsticks—my weapons of choice for this engagement. I tracked the shrimp, calculating the lead time. If I struck now, I could impale the crustacean before it crossed the border to the neighboring booth.

  Slap.

  Aoi’s hand struck my wrist with the speed of a striking viper.

  "Don't touch it unless you're taking the whole plate!" she hissed. "And don't stab it! Just pick up the plate with your hands."

  "With my hands?" I looked at her, scandalized. "To touch the vessel of the food directly? Is this the custom of Lord Sushiro?"

  "Yes. Just... look." She pointed to a glowing slate mounted above our table. It was distinct from my Oracle Slate (smartphone). This was a fixed tactical board. "The belt is mostly for show these days. If you want the good stuff, you order it here."

  I narrowed my eyes at the screen. It displayed images of fish, vibrant and glistening. It was a menu, but alive.

  "A Tactical Command Scroll," I deduced. "I select the reinforcements, and the kitchen deploys them?"

  "Exactly. Go ahead. Pick whatever. It's cheap."

  Cheap? She mocked the value of life. I looked at the screen. My eyes widened. Maguro. Tuna. In my time, fresh tuna was a luxury, rapidly spoiling, often marinated in soy just to survive the journey inland. Here, it looked red as a ruby.

  I extended my index finger. I needed to be precise. This was a duel of will.

  Thwack.

  I struck the image of the tuna with a firm, decisive jab, putting the weight of my shoulder into the motion.

  The screen did not react.

  "It ignores me," I growled.

  "You're hitting it too hard," Aoi sighed, pouring green tea powder into a cup. "Just tap it. Like a human being."

  "I am a ninja. My touch is death. Perhaps it senses my killing intent and retreats?" I tried again, softer this time, but my calloused finger—hardened by years of climbing stone walls and gripping sword hilts—seemed incompatible with the delicate glass spirit.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Allow me," Aoi said, reaching over. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  "Two Red Tuna. One Salmon. One Seared Scallop. And a Corn Mayo for me." She pressed a golden button marked [ORDER].

  Suddenly, the machine spoke. A melodic chime rang out, echoing through the booth. Ding-Dong!

  "The War Gong!" I flinched, hand going for the chopstick-dagger. "They have signaled the attack! Where is it coming from?"

  "It just means the order went through. Relax. You’re shaking the table."

  I could not relax. I watched the mechanical river. The lower belt moved steadily, carrying unwanted plates—the stragglers of the army. But above it, there was a second rail. A high-speed highway. An express route for elite warriors.

  "Your order will arrive soon," the screen announced in a pleasant female voice. A siren. A beguiling spirit luring us into complacency.

  I scanned the horizon. To my left, the neighboring clan (a family of four) was feasting on mounds of fried potatoes. To my right, an elderly couple sipped soup. The environment was chaotic. Attack could come from any angle.

  ZOOOOOM.

  It happened in a heartbeat.

  A sleek, red vessel shot down the upper rail at a velocity that defied nature. It stopped with terrifying precision directly in front of my face. The sheer suddenness of the arrival sent a shockwave through my nervous system.

  "AMBUSH!"

  I threw my upper body backward, ducking under the perceived projectile. I rolled off the bench, landing in a crouch on the aisle floor, my chopsticks held up in a cross-guard defense.

  "Identify yourself!" I roared at the red vessel.

  Silence fell over the nearby tables. The family of four stopped eating their potatoes. The elderly couple stared.

  Aoi covered her face with both hands. "I don't know him," she whispered to the air. Then, sharper: "Masanari! Get up! It’s the food! It’s the tuna you ordered!"

  I peered over the edge of the table. The red vessel sat motionless. Upon it were two yellow plates. On the plates lay the tuna, undisturbed, glistening innocently.

  "It... stopped?" I climbed back into the seat, brushing dust from my gi. "It possesses the braking mechanism of a galloping horse reined in by a master rider. Terrifying efficiency."

  "Just eat the sushi," Aoi groaned.

  I looked at the fish. I took the plate. The moment had come.

  I dipped the fish into the small pool of soy sauce—black as a moonless night. I placed the nigiri into my mouth.

  The world stopped.

  The mechanical whirring faded. The cries of the children vanished. There was only the taste.

  Rich. Oily. Cold, yet melting instantly upon the tongue. It was not merely food; it was a conquest. In the Sengoku era, men bled for rice. Daimyos betrayed their brothers for a province that produced less joy than this single slice of fish.

  Tears welled in my eyes.

  "Masanari?" Aoi paused, a piece of corn mayo sushi halfway to her mouth. "Are you crying?"

  "It is... too rich," I choked out, swallowing the treasure. "My ancestors... they ate dried millet. They marched for days on balls of hard rice. And I... I sit here, carried by a mechanical river, eating the flesh of kings for a mere hundred yen."

  I looked at her with burning intensity. "Aoi-dono. We must not waste this opportunity. The gods of logistics have smiled upon us."

  "Okay, weirdo. Eat up."

  I nodded. The mission parameters had changed. This was no longer a diplomatic visit. This was a looting run.

  I attacked the Tactical Command Scroll. Tap. Tap. Tap. (It still resisted my fingers, so I used the knuckle of my pinky, which seemed to please the machine spirit).

  Salmon. Yellowtail. Squid. Eel.

  The express lane zoomed back and forth, a tireless courier of gluttony. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. I no longer flinched; I greeted each arrival with a nod of respect.

  "More!" I commanded.

  As I finished each plate, a primitive instinct took over. I could not simply let the empty vessels scatter. In war, one fortifies their position.

  I began to stack the yellow plates. Five high. Then ten. Then I started a second column.

  "Masanari, stop playing with the plates," Aoi said, sipping her tea.

  "I am not playing. I am building a perimeter," I explained, placing a yellow plate on top of the left flank. "The neighboring clan with the noisy child has been eyeing our territory. This wall of ceramic will deter their arrows."

  "They are eating french fries, not shooting arrows."

  "Vigilance, Aoi-dono! Always vigilance!"

  I constructed a formidable semi-circle of yellow and white plates around my side of the booth. I sat behind my battlements, peering over the rim of a soy-stained saucer, devouring a piece of egg omelet like a warlord surveying his domain. I felt powerful. I felt wealthy. I felt invincible.

  Finally, the stomach signaled surrender. I placed my chopsticks down on the paper rest, aligning them perfectly parallel to the table edge.

  "I am defeated," I admitted, patting my abdomen. "The forces of Lord Sushiro have conquered me with their deliciousness."

  "Good. Because we have to go." Aoi pressed the 'Check Out' button on the screen.

  A castle retainer (waitress) arrived. She carried a strange, gun-shaped device.

  I tensed behind my plate-wall. "A weapon?"

  She pointed the device at my fortress of plates. She ran it up and down the stack, not touching them, merely sweeping the air. Beep-beep-beep.

  "Sorcery again," I whispered. "She counts the casualties without touching the bodies."

  "Thank you," the waitress said, handing a slip of paper to Aoi.

  Aoi looked at the paper. Her eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Masanari... you ate forty plates."

  "Was it... excessive?" I asked, fear gripping me. Had I bankrupt the clan again?

  "It's a lot," she smirked. "But hey, it's cheaper than paying for a new window. Let's go."

  We stood up. The noise of the restaurant rushed back in. As we walked toward the exit, I stopped.

  I turned back to the conveyor belt. The endless loop. The river that never sleeps. It fed hundreds of people, demanding nothing but coin and patience. It was a marvel of the modern age, superior to any supply chain established by Takeda Shingen.

  I placed my hands on my thighs and bowed deeply, a full ninety-degree angle, facing the belt.

  "Farewell, River of Eternal Fish," I boomed, my voice cutting through the din of the restaurant. "Your flow was honorable! I shall return to challenge your currents once more!"

  The entire restaurant went silent. The sushi chefs stopped chopping.

  Aoi grabbed the back of my collar. "Stop bowing to the conveyor belt! Move!"

  She dragged me out into the cool night air. I stumbled, but I was happy. My belly was full, my debt was paid, and I had survived the ambush of the Express Lane.

  "Aoi-dono," I said as we walked home under the artificial stars of the streetlights.

  "What?"

  "Next time... I believe I can defeat the Touch Screen with a single finger. I have studied its rhythm."

  "Yeah, yeah. Just don't build a fort next time."

  Masanari’s Cultural Notes (Glossary)

  ? Sushiro: A fortress of unimaginable logistical power. It is believed to be ruled by a merchant-king who has enslaved the spirits of the ocean.

  ? The Mechanical River (Conveyor Belt): A relentless supply line that eliminates the need for porters. It is the dream of every Quartermaster General in history. Warning: Do not hesitate, or your rations will be claimed by the enemy at the next table.

  ? The Tactical Command Scroll (Touch Screen): A stubborn glass slate that connects the user to the castle kitchen. It requires a gentle touch, confusing for warriors trained to strike with lethal force.

  ? The Express Lane: A high-velocity projectile delivery system. Do not engage it in melee combat; it stops on its own.

  ? Wasabi: A green paste provided in small packets. I suspect it is a mild poison used to build immunity, or perhaps a test of willpower. It clears the sinuses with the force of a gale.

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  Episode 22: The Merchant of Shadows and the Cardboard Armor

  With the debt paid, Masanari insists on upgrading his equipment for the coming battles. He discovers "Amazon," a merchant who delivers goods to the doorstep. He orders "Protective Gear" for a bargain price, but what arrives is a cosplay foam armor set. Masanari is convinced it is a lightweight alloy from the future and challenges the local neighborhood cats to a duel to test its durability. Aoi considers moving out.

  Ko-fi.com/ninjawritermasa