The morning sun filtered through the cheap curtains of Princess Aoi’s fortress, illuminating the battlefield.

  I, Hattori Masanari, stood before the pile of soiled garments. It was a mountain of fabric, a testament to the Princess’s busy life of governance (and perhaps her reluctance to perform manual labor). As her sworn protector and newly appointed steward, the duty of purification fell to me.

  I tightened the sash of my sweatpants. I had bundled the garments into a large furoshiki cloth.

  "I shall return by sunset," I announced, hoisting the bundle over my shoulder. "The journey to the Sumida River is treacherous, and the rocks there are slippery, but I shall beat these fabrics until they are as white as the snows of Mount Fuji."

  Aoi, who was lying on the sofa eating a nutritional bar, looked up with dead eyes.

  "Masanari. Put the bag down."

  "My Lady? If I do not leave now, the sun will dry them unevenly."

  She pointed a languid finger toward the corner of the bathroom. There sat a white, boxy construct I had hitherto ignored. It possessed a glass eye in its center, dark and brooding.

  "It’s a washing machine," she said, crumbs falling onto her chest. "Put the clothes in. Add the detergent. Press the blue button. I’m going back to sleep."

  She tossed me a bottle of blue liquid—no doubt a concentrated alchemical solvent—and rolled over.

  I approached the white beast cautiously.

  A machine that replaces the flow of a mighty river? I mused. Truly, the Princess possesses artifacts that would make the Shogun tremble.

  I opened the circular hatch. The inside was a steel drum, perforated with thousands of tiny holes. I sniffed it. It smelled of stagnant water and trapped lightning.

  "Forgive me, spirit of the box," I whispered, placing the clothes inside. "I offer you these tributes."

  I poured the blue alchemy into the tray as instructed and pressed the glowing blue sigil.

  The Battle of the Hatch

  The beast roared. Water rushed into the chamber with the force of a waterfall. Then, the drum began to spin. Faster. And faster.

  I took a step back, hand hovering near the imaginary hilt of my blade.

  The clothes were being slammed against the glass. They were tossed, drowned, and crushed against the steel walls. It was not a cleansing; it was an execution.

  "Merciless," I breathed.

  Aoi had enslaved a violent Water Demon within this steel cage. It thrashed in rage, taking its anger out on her "I Love Tokyo" T-shirts. I fell to one knee and bowed my head to the machine.

  "Oh, furious River Spirit," I intoned. "Please accept the dirt from these garments as payment for your imprisonment. Do not consume their souls."

  At that moment, my eyes locked onto something on the floor.

  There, sitting alone next to the laundry basket, was a single, bright red sock. I had missed it.

  It looked... lonely.

  The white shirts, the beige towels, the grey undergarments—they were currently united in the steel drum, facing their fate together. But this single red soldier had been cast aside?

  I picked up the red sock. Inside the machine, the white clothes swirled in a chaotic dance of unity.

  "To separate the clans is to invite conflict," I recited the teachings of my father. "A lord who divides his army before the battle has already lost. Unity is strength. Whether red or white, are they not all cotton? Do they not all serve the same foot?"

  To leave this red soldier behind would be an act of cruelty. It would breed resentment. A resentment that could turn into rebellion.

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  "Go, little one!"

  I marched toward the roaring machine. The door was locked tight by a safety mechanism—a magical seal to prevent escape. But in the Hattori Ninja Arts, there is no such thing as an unbreakable seal.

  "Hmph!"

  Channeling chakra into my fingertips, I grabbed the latch and forced it open.

  SPLASH!

  The seal broke. A jet of soapy water exploded outward, blasting me in the chest. I was instantly soaked from head to toe.

  I did not flinch. This was merely part of the training.

  I shoved the red sock into the swirling vortex through the gap. "Join your brothers! Forge a bond in the crucible of the Spinning Spirit!"

  I slammed the door shut again, engaging the lock with brute force. The water stopped spraying. The cycle continued.

  I wiped the suds from my face, satisfied. A perfect tactical maneuver.

  The Massacre

  Thirty minutes later, the beast fell silent. It let out a high-pitched beep—a cry of submission.

  I opened the hatch, expecting to see a pristine, unified army of fabrics.

  I reached in and pulled out Aoi’s favorite oversized dress shirt.

  It was not white.

  It was... the color of a fresh wound. A vibrant, shocking pink.

  I pulled out a towel. It, too, was the color of a cherry blossom soaked in blood. My own white undershirt looked as though I had been stabbed in the chest.

  I staggered back, clutching the wet, pink mass.

  "A massacre..." I whispered, horror gripping my heart.

  The Red Sock.

  It was not a lonely soldier. It was an assassin. A suicide bomber sent by the enemy clans. I had introduced a traitor into the sanctuary of the whites, and it had slaughtered them all. The spinning water had spread its lifeblood across every fiber, staining the purity of the Princess’s wardrobe with the mark of death.

  "NOOOOOO!"

  My scream woke Aoi.

  "You... absolute... idiot."

  Aoi stood in the bathroom doorway. Her aura was dark. Darker than the Killing Intent of the Fuma clan.

  She held up her favorite blouse. It was a tie-dye disaster of hot pink and white swirls.

  "I told you," she hissed, her voice trembling with a rage that transcended eras. "Separate. The. Colors."

  "I thought... I thought unity would bring strength," I stammered, kneeling in a dogeza (prostration) on the bathmat. "I did not know the Red Clan possessed such potent venom."

  "It's dye, Masanari! It's cheap red dye!" She threw the wet shirt at my face. It slapped me with a wet thwack.

  She looked down at me, her eyes narrowing.

  "And look at you," she sighed. "You're soaking wet. Did you... did you pry the door open while it was running? Is that what that splash was?"

  I looked down at my drenched clothes.

  "I merely facilitated the entry of reinforcements, My Lady. The machine resisted, but my will was stronger."

  "You broke the child lock..." She rubbed her temples. "You have nothing to wear. Everything you own is in that machine. And it's all pink."

  "I shall sit in meditation until my armor dries," I suggested.

  "No. We need milk. And eggs. You’re going to the store. Now."

  "But my Lady... I cannot go naked. And my trench coat is currently... a victim of the slaughter."

  Aoi’s lips curled into a smile that was not kind. It was the smile of a Daimyo sentencing a peasant to the stocks.

  "Put this on."

  She handed me one of the garments I had ruined. A tight, women's "baby tee" with the English words CUTE VIBES ONLY printed across the chest in glitter.

  I took the fabric. It was heavy.

  It was cold. And it was wet.

  "My Lady... this is fresh from the spinner. It is damp. To wear this outside is akin to the Water Torture..."

  "You're already wet, so it makes no difference. It's summer, it'll dry. Go!"

  She mercilessly shoved me toward the door.

  I resigned myself to my fate. I pulled the damp, pink cloth over my head. It was a Women's Small. It had shrunk in the hot water. It clung to my skin with a wet, squelching noise, outlining every muscle fiber of my chest and abdomen.

  "Urgh... the constriction..."

  The Walk of Penance

  The automatic doors of the FamilyMart slid open.

  I walked in, my back straight, my chin held high. A ninja does not show shame, even when he is burning with it.

  I was wearing my distressed jeans with the socks pulled over the cuffs. On my forehead sat the broken Mask of Focus (VR goggles). And on my torso... the Wet Pink Gi of Shame.

  The damp fabric stuck to me like a second skin. The glittery letters CUTE VIBES ONLY were stretched to their limit across my pectorals. My midriff was dangerously exposed.

  This is my punishment, I told myself, marching toward the dairy section. I wear the blood of my failure. The cold air conditioning of this shop is the freezing wind of the mountain peaks.

  A group of high school girls by the magazine rack stopped talking. They stared.

  I braced myself for their mockery. Laugh, civilians. I deserve your scorn.

  "Whoa," one of them whispered. "Look at his muscles."

  "Is that... fashion?" another whispered. "He's wearing a wet crop top?"

  "He must be doing a photo shoot or something," a third girl murmured, blushing. "Look how the shirt clings to him. That's so confident. So brave."

  I grabbed the carton of milk, my grip crushing the cardboard slightly.

  Why do they not throw stones? I wondered, confused. Why do the elderly women by the register smile and nod approvingly?

  "Rough laundry day, dear?" the grandmother at the counter asked as she scanned my eggs.

  "It was a massacre, Elder," I replied solemnly, my voice dropping an octave. "The Red Clan betrayed us all."

  She chuckled, patting my hand. "You young people and your slang. That color brings out your eyes."

  I walked out into the Shibuya sunlight. The shirt was slowly drying, but the shame would last forever. I had survived the Spinning River Spirit, but at a terrible cost.

  I took a sip of the air.

  Ninety-two days remain, I thought. And I have yet to conquer the separation of the colors.

  Days Remaining: 92

  Next Episode Preview:

  "Unity is a lie! The colors bleed! But there is no time to mourn the wardrobe! Next time on '100 Days to Legend'—Masanari faces his greatest fiscal challenge yet! The Supermarket Discount Sticker War! A battle for half-priced Sashimi against the ruthless neighborhood housewives! Speed is life! Hesitation is hunger!

  Next Time: The Dance of the Yellow Label!

  Don't miss it!"