[Day 05]

  Remaining Days: 96

  The glowing number on my forearm has shifted. It is a relentless hourglass, counting down the moments of my exile in this strange, luminous hellscape known as "Tokyo."

  Today, however, the threat is not starvation, nor is it the Iron Boars (cars) that prowl the streets. Today, the threat is… aesthetic.

  "Masa," Aoi said, pinching the fabric of my shinobi shozoku—my clan’s traditional garb—between her thumb and forefinger. Her face was twisted in an expression I usually associate with smelling rotten fish. "You smell like old tatami mats and sweat. And honestly, walking around looking like a budget LARPer is bad for my reputation. If you’re going to live here, we need to get you some civilian disguises."

  "Disguises," I nodded gravely. "Infiltration tactics. A wise decision, My Lady. To blend with the populace is the first rule of espionage."

  "Stop calling me 'My Lady.' It’s weird. And stop squinting at the toaster like it’s going to attack you."

  Thus, we departed. Our destination: a massive fortress of commerce called UNI-CLO.

  Aoi claims it is a "Fast Fashion" emporium. But as we stepped through the automatic glass gates—which opened by invisible spirit hands—I knew the truth. This was an armory. A vast depot of supplies for the common foot soldier of the modern era.

  But the moment we entered, I froze. My hand instinctively went to the hilt of my blade (which Aoi had confiscated and replaced with a rolled-up newspaper).

  "Ambush!" I hissed, dropping into a low crouch.

  "What? What is it now?" Aoi sighed, not even breaking stride.

  I pointed a trembling finger at the center of the aisle. There, standing in perfect, terrifying formation, was a squadron of warriors. They were tall. They were pale—sickeningly so. They possessed no faces, only smooth, white curves where eyes and mouths should be. They wore the colorful armor of this era, yet they did not breathe. They did not blink.

  "By the Gods," I whispered, awe washing over me. "Their discipline… it is absolute. They have not moved a muscle since we entered. Are they the elite guard? The Faceless Immortals?"

  I crept closer, staying low to avoid their line of sight, though they had no eyes to see. "Or perhaps… a curse? Has a Gorgon turned these poor souls to stone?"

  I reached out to check the pulse of the nearest warrior, a female soldier wearing a bright yellow tunic. Her skin was cold. Hard. Hollow.

  "Rest in peace, brave warrior," I muttered, clasping my hands in prayer. "Your war is over."

  Whack.

  Aoi slapped the back of my head with a plastic hanger.

  "They’re mannequins, you idiot! They’re plastic dolls used to display the clothes!"

  I rubbed my head, looking back at the Faceless Immortals. "Dolls? You mock me. No artisan would waste resources creating a human effigy of such size merely to hang a tunic upon it. It is a waste of good statue materials!"

  "Just come over here," Aoi groaned, dragging me by the collar toward a section labeled HEATTECH.

  She thrust a small, sealed package into my hands. "Here. It’s getting colder outside. You need these. It’s inner-wear that generates heat."

  I stared at the package. I read the characters. Generates… heat?

  I dropped the package as if it were a live coal.

  "Sorcery!" I gasped, backing away. "You seek to clothe me in fire? Is this the torture of the Fire Rat? If I don the garment, will it not incinerate my flesh the moment I begin to sweat? I am a ninja, Aoi! I must remain cool to regulate my body temperature during stealth operations! I will not wear a furnace against my skin!"

  "It doesn't burn you! It just keeps you warm! It absorbs moisture and turns it into heat!"

  "That is exactly how a chemical burn works!" I countered, using the knowledge I had gleaned from a documentary on the glowing slate (TV) yesterday. "I refuse. Give me standard cotton. I trust not this… technological witch-clothing."

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  Aoi rubbed her temples. The vein on her forehead was pulsing—a sign of impending violence. "Fine. Regular cotton. But you’re wearing these jeans."

  She tossed a pair of blue trousers at me. I caught them with reflex speed, inspecting the craftsmanship. The material was denim—sturdy, similar to the thick canvas of a tent. Good protection against minor abrasions.

  But then, I saw the defect.

  There were massive holes in the knees. The fabric was frayed, white threads hanging loosely like the entrails of a gutted fish.

  My expression darkened. I looked around for the merchant responsible for this insult.

  "Aoi," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "We must leave. This armory is run by charlatans."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Look at this!" I thrust the pants forward, shaking the tattered knees. "They are selling broken armor! These trousers have been slashed by a sword, or perhaps gnawed upon by wolves! To sell damaged goods to a warrior… it is a grave insult. Does the merchant take me for a beggar? Do they think I cannot afford whole cloth?"

  I began to march toward the counter to demand a duel with the store manager for his lack of honor.

  Aoi grabbed my arm, digging her heels in. "It’s a style! It’s supposed to be ripped! It’s called 'Distressed Denim'!"

  "Distressed? Indeed, I am distressed! The pants are distressed! The weaver who made them should be distressed! Why would anyone pay gold for clothes that require mending before they are even worn?"

  "Because it looks cool! Just try them on! Please, Masanari. People are staring."

  Indeed, the other patrons—civilians pushing baskets filled with soft armors—were watching us. Some were holding up their glowing slates (smartphones) to record the confrontation. I assumed they were documenting the injustice of the broken pants.

  "Very well," I huffed. "But if my knees catch a cold, the fault lies with you."

  The changing room was a coffin of mirrors.

  A bright, claustrophobic box. I stripped off my comfortable, loose-fitting Iga garb and stared at the modern pile.

  Putting on the "Skinny Jeans" was a battle in itself. The fabric was tight, clinging to my calves like a python. It restricted the flow of chakra to my feet. How was I supposed to perform a double-jump or scale a wall when my legs were bound in blue sausage casings?

  And the shirt. A white "Oxford" button-down. The buttons were tiny, fiddly things, unlike the honest ties of a kimono.

  I struggled for ten minutes. I grunted. I sweated. I cursed the lineage of the button-maker.

  Finally, I threw on the long beige coat Aoi had selected. It was heavy, reaching my knees. At least this offered some concealment for shuriken, should I acquire any.

  I took a breath. I looked in the mirror.

  The man staring back was… unfamiliar.

  Gone was the ragged dropout of Iga. In his place stood a tall man with sharp eyes, broad shoulders accentuated by the white shirt, and a jawline that seemed sharper without the distraction of a hood. The coat billowed slightly as I turned.

  I looked… like a Daimyo’s son. Or perhaps one of those "Idols" Aoi watches on the glowing slate.

  I felt exposed. Vulnerable. But I had completed the mission.

  I unlocked the door and stepped out.

  "Aoi. I have donned the restrictive civvies," I announced flatly.

  Aoi was sitting on a bench, scrolling through her slate. She looked up, annoyance written on her face. "Took you long enou—"

  She stopped.

  Her eyes went wide. She blinked, once, twice. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. A flush of pink rose rapidly from her neck to her cheeks, rivaling the color of cherry blossoms in spring.

  The silence stretched. The air felt heavy.

  "Is… is the camouflage ineffective?" I asked, worried. "Do I still look like an assassin? I can attempt to hunch my shoulders more."

  "No," she squeaked. She cleared her throat loudly and looked away, fanning her face with her hand. "No, it's… uh… it’s fine. You look… decent. Like a human being."

  "You seem flushed," I noted, stepping closer to inspect her health. "Is it the HeatTech? Did you put on the burning shirt?"

  "I'm fine! Back off!" She jumped up, refusing to meet my eyes. "Okay, we’ll buy that. It’s good. It works. You look like a totally normal, arguably attractive college student. Mission accomplished. Let’s go pay."

  "Wait."

  I raised a hand. "I cannot go out into the battlefield like this."

  "What? Why? You look great."

  "I am blind to the spirits," I explained. "And my mobility is compromised. I require my tactical modifications."

  Before she could stop me, I reached into my bundle of old clothes.

  First, I retrieved the Artifact of Focus—the broken VR goggles. I strapped the bulky white plastic box onto my forehead. Instantly, I felt centered. The weight on my brow reminded me of my hachigane (headband).

  Next, the pants. The cuffs were flapping loosely around my ankles—a tripping hazard. Unacceptable for a ninja.

  I hiked the denim up and stuffed the pant legs aggressively into my high white socks, creating a ballooning effect around my calves.

  Finally, I buttoned the beige coat all the way to the chin, popping the collar up so high it covered my ears, resembling a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

  I struck a pose, hands ready for combat.

  "Now," I said, my voice muffled by the collar. "I am ready. The wind will not drag on my ankles, and my Third Eye is protected by the goggles. I am the shadow in the department store."

  I looked at Aoi, expecting praise for my practical adjustments.

  The blush was gone. Her face had gone completely blank. The light had died in her eyes.

  "Why?" she whispered. "Why are you like this?"

  "Safety first, Aoi."

  She let out a long, shuddering sigh, the sound of a woman whose soul was slowly leaving her body. "Take the socks out of the pants, Masa. Or I’m leaving you here with the mannequins."

  "But the wind drag—!"

  "THE SOCKS. OUT."

  We left the fortress an hour later. I carried the paper bags, wearing my new "normal" clothes (socks sadly untucked, but goggles firmly on my forehead).

  I felt strange. Lighter, perhaps. The people of Tokyo no longer looked at me with fear, but with a different kind of curiosity.

  I glanced at the reflection in a shop window. The man in the glass looked like he belonged here.

  It was a terrifying thought.

  If I belong here... do I still belong in 1582?

  I shook the thought away and adjusted my goggles. No matter the clothes, the heart remains the same. I am Masanari. And I have a debt to pay to history.

  But first, I must figure out how to wash these jeans without making the holes bigger.

  [Countdown: 96 Days Remaining]