The 50th floor of Fuma Industries is a realm of absolute tension.

  Twenty-five days have passed since I infiltrated this glass fortress. I have battled the Scribe Golem (the copier), I have tamed the Black Leather Glider (the office chair), and I have stared into the abyss of the Excel spreadsheet.

  Over the past few days, however, the enemy’s mask finally fell. The Demon King, Fuma Kotaro, revealed his true name and the existence of his ultimate weapon to me: "Chronos," the chariot of time.

  He thinks he has trapped me in a web of corporate extortion. He believes that by depositing gold into my banking scroll once a month, he can buy my absolute loyalty. He is wrong. Today, I strike back. Today, I demand the final, unrevealed truth.

  But first, I had to complete my daily side-quest.

  "Hattori," Kotaro had ordered earlier, tossing a small paper talisman (a receipt) onto my desk. "Go down to the concierge on the ground floor. Pick up my dry cleaning. It's a bespoke navy suit. Do not wrinkle it."

  "As you command. I shall secure your battle armor, my Lord," I had replied, bowing with stiff formality.

  And so, I now stood at the threshold of the 50th-floor bullpen, holding the armor. It was encased in a sheer, transparent membrane—a plastic ward designed to protect the sacred fabric from the impurities of the world. I held the metal hanger delicately between my thumb and forefinger, suspending it perfectly plumb to the earth's gravitational pull.

  To wrinkle a lord's armor before a battle—even a modern battle within a boardroom—is a disgrace punishable by seppuku. Or worse, a deduction in salary.

  I surveyed the bullpen. The hour was 13:00. The Coffee Rush.

  The Dead-Eyed Foot Soldiers were returning from their midday rations. The narrow corridors between their cubicles were a chaotic warzone of swinging elbows, rolling chairs, and precariously balanced ceramic chalices filled with scalding black liquid.

  "A gauntlet," I whispered. "They unknowingly form the Phalanx of Clumsiness."

  I engaged the Shinobi-Ashi, the Silent Step. I glided forward, the navy suit trailing safely behind me like a captured enemy banner.

  A foot soldier from Accounting backed out of his cubicle without looking, a stack of ledgers in his arms. I did not slow my pace. I simply leaned my torso back at a physically impossible forty-five-degree angle—the Matrix Evasion Technique. The suit glided safely over his head.

  "Oh, excuse me!" he gasped, spinning around. But I was already a phantom in the wind.

  I was halfway across the floor when the true threat emerged.

  Tanaka the Intern.

  He was sprinting from the breakroom, carrying two overflowing mugs of boiling espresso. His eyes were wide with sheer terror. He was late for a Zoom Summit.

  Suddenly, the toe of his leather shoe caught the poorly secured edge of a carpet tile.

  Time dilated.

  I watched as Tanaka’s center of gravity completely collapsed. He pitched forward. The two mugs left his hands, launching twin arcs of boiling, staining black poison directly into my path.

  If that liquid touched the bespoke navy suit, the Fuma Lord would execute me via HR termination.

  "I will not yield!" I roared.

  I could not dodge; the trajectory of the espresso covered the entire corridor. I had to become the shield. I lunged forward, pivoting on my heel. I threw my own body between the flying liquid and Kotaro's dry cleaning.

  I executed the 'Spinning Top' maneuver, rotating my torso to deflect the splash with the back of my own cheap, Midnight Charcoal jacket.

  Splat. The scalding coffee hit my shoulder blades. I gritted my teeth against the burning heat, completing the spin and landing in a perfect crouch. In my extended hand, the plastic-wrapped suit was held high above my head, entirely untouched by the devastation.

  Tanaka crashed to the floor. "S-Sorry! Hattori-san!"

  "Watch your footing, Ashigaru!" I barked, rising slowly, my back dripping with the bitter brew. "Your pathetic core strength endangers the clan's finery!"

  I turned my back to the carnage and marched the final ten paces to the heavy oak doors of the Penthouse. I kicked the door open with my heel and stepped inside.

  Kotaro sat at his obsidian desk, scrolling through his glowing Luminous Slate.

  I marched forward and hooked the hanger onto the mahogany coat rack in the corner.

  "The armor is secured, Lord Fuma," I announced, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Not a single speck of dust has touched its threads."

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  "Good," Kotaro said, not looking up. "Go back to formatting the Q3 data."

  "I refuse."

  Kotaro stopped typing. He slowly raised his eyes.

  "You refuse?" his voice sharpened.

  "The time has come!" I declared, stepping into the center of the room. The scent of burnt coffee radiated from my ruined jacket, but I ignored it. I tore the jacket off and cast it to the floor. "Demon Lord! I have already heard the entirety of your grand scheme regarding Chronos! But there is one final question you have yet to answer!"

  Kotaro leaned back in his ergonomic throne and sighed heavily. "Hattori, I've told you. Yes, I'm building it. No, I am not trying to destroy Tokyo. Stop being so dramatic."

  "I am not speaking of Tokyo!" I spat.

  I reached across my chest and gripped the sleeve of my white undershirt. With a violent yank, I ripped the fabric, exposing my left forearm to the harsh, sterile light of the executive suite.

  There, pulsing with a faint, ghostly black luminescence, was the brand.

  The number.

  A cursed brand that ticked down by one each day since I fell into this alternate realm. What ruin awaited when it reached zero, I did not yet know.

  "This question burns upon my flesh, and I will have my answer!" I shouted, thrusting my arm forward, pointing the glowing digits directly at his face. "Kotaro! If you are a fellow traveler across time, you must know! What is the meaning of this black number?!"

  I braced myself for his villainous monologue. I expected him to laugh. I expected him to boast of this dark curse, to finally tell me what doom awaited me at zero.

  But Kotaro just squinted.

  He leaned forward, adjusting his posture, his brow furrowing in genuine, unadulterated confusion.

  "Number?" Kotaro asked, tilting his head. "What number? I have no idea what you're talking about, Hanzo."

  Silence fell over the penthouse.

  The hum of the air conditioner suddenly felt deafening.

  I stood there, my arm thrust out, my dramatic pose slowly losing its tension as the seconds ticked by.

  "Do not play the fool!" I growled, taking a step closer. "It is a curse! A countdown! On the day we were blown into this neon hellscape by Akechi's sorcerer... this is the brand given to us who crossed time, is it not?! You must have the exact same mark!"

  Kotaro looked at my arm again. Then, he looked at my face.

  "Hanzo," he said slowly, speaking to me as if I were a toddler who had entirely lost his grip on reality. "I am an engineer. I am building a quantum displacement centrifuge to get back to our era. I don't carve magical countdown tattoos into people, and I've never heard of such a curse. Yes, Akechi's sorcerer blew us into the future that day, but I certainly didn't get hit with any weird hex."

  He took a sip of his green smoothie and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at my arm.

  "What is that, anyway? Did you get that in Shibuya? Looks like a bad decision you made after drinking too much Strong Zero. A real 'youthful indiscretion' kind of vibe."

  "It glows!" I shouted indignantly.

  "They have bioluminescent ink now," Kotaro shrugged. "Look, if it's infected, go down to the corporate clinic on the 10th floor. Just stop yelling in my office."

  My arm slowly lowered.

  He wasn't lying. I am an assassin; I can read the micro-expressions of a liar. Kotaro's face showed only mild annoyance and complete ignorance.

  He didn't have the mark.

  The Demon Lord of the Fuma... knew absolutely nothing about the curse.

  If this brand was not placed upon all "time travelers"... then who placed it solely upon me?

  My mind flashed back to the day of my fall. The rain-slicked bridge in Iga. The massive, purple demon made of writhing souls. And the figure floating above the carnage.

  The Sorcerer in the white porcelain mask.

  The sun had set, plunging the city into darkness, though the neon lights of Shibuya refused to let the sky sleep.

  I sat in the Castle of Six Mats—our apartment—staring blankly at the wall.

  Aoi sat at the low table, highlighting passages in a thick textbook about medieval economics. She paused, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

  "So," Aoi said, chewing on the end of her pen. "You survived another day without getting fired. Barely."

  "He knew nothing," I whispered, the revelation still echoing in my skull.

  "Who knew nothing?"

  "The Fuma Lord," I replied, turning my head to look at her. I pulled back my torn sleeve, revealing the black '50'. "He is a fellow prisoner of time. I assumed he knew the meaning of this curse and confronted him. But he claimed ignorance. He possessed no such brand. He actually believed this was a 'youthful indiscretion' I carved into myself after being enchanted by the Golden Nectar known as Strong Zero!"

  Aoi let out a massive sigh and tossed her highlighter onto the desk.

  She directed a tepid, thoroughly exhausted gaze at my arm. It was a look laced with pity.

  "Wait," Aoi said, rubbing her temples. "If your boss didn't do it... then who did? Did you seriously get drunk and wander into some illegal, rip-off tattoo studio?"

  I clenched my fist. A tattoo studio?! I had not been subjected to a modern torture chamber! The memories of the burning bridge in Iga flooded my mind.

  "The Sorcerer!" I roared from the depths of my gut. "The traitor! The one who served Akechi Mitsuhide! The man in the white porcelain mask who summoned the Void Demon! When he cast me into this future, he must have placed a localized curse upon me alone!"

  I stood up, glaring at the empty air.

  "Kotaro is merely another victim of this temporal prison! The true mastermind is still out there! Before this ominous number reaches 'Zero,' I must find him and violently extract the truth of this curse!"

  Aoi stared up at me for a long, silent moment, looking at me the way one might look at a particularly confused pigeon.

  Then, she picked her pen back up.

  "Right, sure. Go find your masked tattoo artist and demand a refund. But before you do that, it's your turn to take out the burnable trash. Make sure you separate the plastics. The landlord is watching."

  I bowed deeply, my resolve absolute. "Indeed! Even the sorting of the plastics shall be a sure step toward my vengeance!"

  Masanari’s Cultural Notes (Glossary):

  ? Matrix Evasion Technique (Sori-mi): The martial art of bending the upper body backward to an extreme degree to evade horizontal strikes, or in this era, careless accountants. Requires immense core strength and flexible hamstrings.

  ? Spinning Top (Koma-mawari): A rotational movement used to deflect projectiles using centrifugal force. Highly effective against shuriken, kunai, and medium-roast espresso.

  ? Bioluminescent Ink: A terrifying modern alchemy where merchants inject glowing slime beneath the skin for aesthetic purposes. I remain entirely unconvinced this is not a demonic pact.

  Days Remaining.

  Next Episode Preview:

  Episode 51: The Temporary Truce and the Group Company Transfer!

  Masanari: "The enemy of my enemy is my ally! The Fuma Lord and I have forged a temporary blood pact to complete the Chronos! But what is this?! A sudden reassignment?! 'Fuma Care Holdings'?! Am I being exiled to a group company?!"

  Aoi: "It's just a corporate transfer, Masa. You're going to be working at a nursing home."

  Next Time: Masanari trades spreadsheets for elderly care!

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