The Lady Aoi has fallen.

  She is not dead—though her complexion mimics the pale hue of a drowned river spirit—but she has been defeated by the unseen enemy known as "Midterms." She collapsed upon the tatami (which is actually synthetic wood flooring) three hours ago, muttering incantations about "Macroeconomics" and "Credit Scores," before entering a comatose state.

  I, Hattori Masanari, stand watch over her motionless form.

  A warrior must maintain their strength. Aoi is the logistics officer of this operation; if she perishes from malnutrition, I will lose my access to the Oracle Slate and the Rotating Fish Fortress. Her survival is paramount to my mission.

  I silently step into the Chamber of Fire (the kitchen).

  I have observed the rituals of the moderns through the glowing window of the television. There is a dish they revere above all others. A brown, viscous stew consumed by soldiers, children, and salarymen alike to restore stamina. They call it "Curry."

  Today, I shall become an Alchemist. I will forge the Golden Mud of Vitality.

  The Tome of Spices

  I retrieved the box from the pantry. "Golden Curry." A promising name. Gold signifies wealth and immortality.

  However, upon inspecting the rear of the box, I discovered a challenge.

  There exists a chart, a gauge of potency marked by the number of red chili peppers.

  ? Level 1: Sweet (For infants).

  ? Level 3: Medium (For the common peasantry).

  ? Level 5: Hot (For Warriors).

  Aoi had purchased "Level 3."

  I scoffed, the sound echoing softly off the stainless steel sink. Does she take me for a man of weak constitution? Does she believe I cannot handle the heat of battle? A ninja trains by swallowing burning coals to suppress a cough! To serve "Medium" curry is an insult to my lineage.

  I cannot change the roux blocks, for I have no coin to visit the Merchant of Shadows. Therefore, I must enhance it. I must artificially elevate this dish to Level 10: The Warlord’s Tears.

  "Prepare yourself, ingredients," I whispered, tying my apron—a pink floral garment I found in the closet—tightly around my waist. "You are about to be forged into a weapon."

  The Alchemy of Pain

  I ignited the Altar of Gas. The blue flame flickered like a trapped spirit.

  Into the pot went the water, the vegetables (chopped with the precision of a torturer dismantling a joint), and the meat. Once the water boiled, I introduced the roux. The brown blocks dissolved, turning the water into a thick, aromatic sludge.

  I tasted it.

  "Weak," I muttered. "It lacks killing intent."

  It tasted merely of salt and comfort. Comfort does not breed strength. Adversity breeds strength. I opened the the Cold Storage Armory (Refrigerator) and scanned the shelves for reinforcements.

  My eyes locked onto three distinct artifacts.

  1. The Green Paste of Awakening (Wasabi):

  A tube of concentrated horseradish. In my time, we used similar roots to clear the sinuses of the dead or wake unconscious sentries. This would provide the sharp, nasal attack the curry lacked. I squeezed the entire tube into the bubbling pot. The green worm vanished into the brown mud.

  2. The Liquid Magma (Rayu - Chili Oil):

  A small glass bottle filled with the blood of fire demons. It is typically used for dumplings, but here, it would serve as the body of the heat. I unscrewed the cap and poured. The oil slick coated the surface of the curry, shimmering with a dangerous crimson glint.

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  3. The Golden Elixir (Monster Energy Drink):

  Aoi had left a half-empty can of this strange, medicinal bubbling water. The can bore the mark of a beast’s claw. It smells of sugar and lightning. If this curry is to restore energy, I must infuse it with the very essence of modern stamina.

  Fsssssh.

  I poured the carbonated yellow fluid into the stew. The curry foamed aggressively, hissing as if angered by the intrusion.

  "Yes," I nodded, stirring the cauldron with a wooden ladle. "Fight me. Show me your spirit."

  The Poison Cloud

  The reaction was instantaneous.

  As the Rayu met the boiling bubbles of the Energy Drink, and the Wasabi dissolved into the steam, a vapor began to rise from the pot. It was not the savory scent of dinner. It was a tangible, invisible wall of oppression.

  It hit my eyes first.

  Tears streamed down my face. My vision blurred.

  Excellent, I thought, blinking rapidly. The dish is attacking my tear ducts to cleanse them of impurities.

  Then, it hit my throat.

  Cough. Cough-hack.

  My lungs seized. The capsaicin and carbonation had created a localized mustard gas event in the 4-square-meter kitchen. I pulled the collar of my gi over my nose, narrowing my eyes.

  "You are strong," I whispered to the pot, my voice raspy. "But I am Hattori Masanari. I have meditated in the sulfur vents of Mount Ontake. Your fumes are merely a spring breeze to me!"

  I turned on the ventilation fan to "High." The machine screamed, struggling to evacuate the demonic miasma I had birthed.

  The curry was no longer brown. It was a dark, bruised purple, likely due to the chemical reaction between the Wasabi and the artificial coloring of the Energy Drink. It bubbled sluggishly, like a tar pit that had swallowed a dinosaur.

  It was ready.

  The Feast of Regret

  "Masanari...?"

  I turned. The Lady Aoi stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. She looked like a ghost haunting a graveyard, hair messy, wearing oversized sweatpants. She sniffed the air, then frowned.

  "Why does the air spicy? And why do my eyes hurt just by standing here?"

  "I have prepared the National Ration," I announced, presenting the bowl with two hands. "I have enhanced its properties to ensure your vitality returns tenfold. Behold, the Black Swamp of Resurrection."

  Aoi stared at the bowl. It steamed menacingly.

  "It... it's purple, Masanari. Why is the curry purple?"

  "Do not question the color of victory," I commanded gently. "Sit. Eat. Restore your honor."

  She sat at the low table. She was too tired to argue. The hunger of the midterms had overridden her survival instincts. She picked up her spoon.

  "Thanks," she muttered. "I'm starving."

  She scooped a generous portion of the sludge, blowing on it slightly, and placed it into her mouth.

  Time seemed to freeze.

  I watched with bated breath, waiting for her to surge with power, perhaps flipping the table or declaring war on a neighboring clan.

  Instead, she stopped.

  Her spoon clattered to the table.

  Her eyes, previously half-closed with sleep, snapped open to their maximum width.

  Her face flushed red. Then deep crimson. Then a concerning shade of violet that matched the curry.

  She did not scream. True pain has no voice.

  She opened her mouth, but only a high-pitched, wheezing sound emerged, like a tea kettle crying for help.

  Heeeeeeeeeeeeee...

  "My Lady?" I stepped forward. "Do you feel the power coursing through you?"

  She slammed her hands on the table, vibrating. Tears shot from her eyes horizontally. She pointed frantically at her throat, then at the kitchen.

  "Water?" I guessed. "You wish to dilute the holy fire? That will weaken the—"

  She lunged at me. With the last of her dying strength, she grabbed my collar and shook me, mouthing the words: MILK. NOW. YOU. MORON.

  The Aftermath

  Ten minutes later.

  Aoi sat huddled in the corner of the room, clutching a carton of milk like a holy idol. Her lips were swollen. She looked at me with a gaze that could wither a pine tree.

  The pot of Black Swamp of Resurrection had been covered with three layers of plastic wrap, sealed with duct tape, and placed on the balcony. We had agreed—through her hand signals—that it was a biohazard that could not be disposed of down the sink, lest we dissolve the city’s plumbing.

  "Masanari," she rasped, her voice destroyed.

  "Yes, My Lady?"

  "What did you put in there? I tasted... soap? And fire? And... was that soda?"

  "It was the Golden Elixir," I explained, sitting in seiza (kneeling) to show contrition, though I still believed her constitution was simply too weak. "And the Green Paste of Awakening. I merely adjusted the spice level to befit a warrior."

  Aoi closed her eyes and took a long sip of milk.

  "Masanari."

  "Yes?"

  "You are banned from the kitchen."

  "But I—"

  "Banned. If you touch the stove again, I will sell your sword to a pawn shop."

  I bowed my head. The threat was severe.

  "Understood. I shall refrain from alchemy."

  We ate plain white rice with salt for dinner. It was a humble meal, lacking the warrior's spirit of my purple sludge. But as I watched Aoi slowly regain her color, I realized that perhaps, for the modern human, survival is not about enduring fire, but avoiding it entirely.

  A strange philosophy. But I have much to learn.

  Masanari’s Cultural Notes (Glossary)

  ? The Chamber of Fire (Kitchen): A laboratory where raw materials are transmuted into sustenance. It is a dangerous place filled with blades and fire.

  ? The Green Paste of Awakening (Wasabi): A powerful nasal clearing agent. In the Sengoku era, we did not put this in stew. I now know why.

  ? The Golden Elixir (Energy Drink): A bubbling yellow water that tastes of medicine and anxiety. It vibrates on the tongue.

  ? Biohazard (The Leftovers): A term Aoi used. It refers to a weapon so deadly it violates the treaties of war. I am proud to have created such a thing, even if I cannot eat it.

  Next Episode Preview

  Episode 24: The Moving Castle of Steel and the 8:00 AM Rush

  Masanari secures a new employment opportunity! He must commute into the heart of the city during "Rush Hour." He mistakes the packed train for a prisoner transport wagon and attempts to liberate the salarymen from their oppressors. Aoi receives a call from the station master.

  Ko-fi.com/ninjawritermasa