(BONUS CHAPTER)
Leaving the Sawamura house, Masao pointedly avoided the familiar pull to Akihibara.
His mission in Tokyo this afternoon was a singular, glorious pursuit: pure indulgence.
If Jahy knew he was using his Tokyo trip for this, the quest for the Mana Stones would undoubtedly have been relegated to a distant second priority.
Masao adopted a leisurely, wandering pace, his eyes scanning the storefronts. Any establishment that looked promising was subject to a swift, professional appraisal.
A glance at the menu; if it sparked joy, he would enter and partake. If not, he would move on without a second thought. It was a perfect system, a delicate thermodynamic equilibrium of urban life: consuming calories through glorious food, and expending them through the walk between the stores.
In this way, he theorized, he could sustain his feast indefinitely.
"What a genius I am," he murmured to himself, pleased with his logic.
The plan was elegant in theory, but flawed in its execution.
Initially, he maintained a respectable balance. But soon, the density of excellent food shops increased, disrupting his careful calculations. The frequency of his meals accelerated, while the intervals for walking—and digestion—shrunk.
This led to the paradoxical outcome where the more he ate, the less capacity he had to continue eating.
He had, quite literally, eaten himself into a corner.
—
He drifted through the city's arteries. When the afternoon sun grew oppressive, he sought refuge in the conditioned air of a department store, killing time with a chair massage or a few rounds in a game center.
When the heat abated and his stomach signaled a newfound capacity, he emerged to continue his pilgrimage.
Before he knew it, the sky was bleeding into twilight. He checked the time—6 p.m. already. A familiar melancholy settled over him as he watched the day die.
"Time flies when you're having fun," he sighed to the evening air. "One last meal. A final masterpiece to cap the day."
He was determined to make it count. But as he walked, no single shop felt quite perfect enough for his grand finale.
'The next one might be better,' he'd think, and press on. And so, he wandered into a quiet, residential backwater where shops were as scarce as silence in Shinjuku.
"Damn. Overshot it."
As he stood there, mentally cataloging the eateries he'd walked up, a flicker of movement in a narrow alleyway caught his eye. A ramen shop.
Its presence was announced only by a simple, weathered signboard on the street: Hakata Ramen. The nameplate above the door was faded. It was a place that didn't try to attract anyone; it simply was.
Masao stopped.
"A shop in a place like this... it has to have been here for years. To survive without foot traffic, it has to be one of those places. The kind that runs on skill and reputation alone."
He decided to take the chance.
—
"Welcome."
The voice was a low, steady baritone that fit the setting perfectly.
The master—a man with a white hachimaki headband tied around his brow—stood behind the counter. His expression was one of serious focus, the kind that spoke of a lifetime dedicated to a single craft. He held a mesh strainer, unconsciously stirring a pot of boiling water, in a state of readiness.
"Your order?"
Having asked, he fell silent, his gaze patient and devoid of any salesman's pushiness.
Masao had slid onto the stool nearest the door. His eyes traveled up the wall, over the wooden order tickets listing a dozen ramen varieties.
The names blurred together—'what was the difference between the third and the fourth?'
The door slid open with a soft chime. Another customer entered. Spurred by a need to not be that guy holding up the line, Masao's finger shot out, pointing almost at a random ticket tucked in the corner. It was the most stained and faded of the lot.
"The Shoyu Tonkotsu," he said. "Make the broth light."
The master didn't react, but the new customer, settling onto a stool a few seats down, seemed to pause for a microsecond.
The master's voice was even. "Noodle texture?"
"Firm."
For Masao, noodles were a textural religion. A hard chewy texture was the only true faith; soft noodles were heresy on a plate.
At this, the master's stern expression shifted. A faint, knowing curve touched the corner of his lips. It was the ghost of a smile, there one second and gone in the next.
"Right away."
And with that, he began to work.
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