Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma once guarded a daimyo's granary with a blade so disciplined it barely breathed; now he guards nothing but his own bottomless gut, and the ronin who could stand at attention for six hours cannot stand a bowl of noodles going untouched for six seconds. The koku he'd stacked from three honest fights vanished in one reckless ape into a noodle-eating wager he was sure he'd win, and he did win, technically, right up until he tripped over his own sandal and faceplanted into the dirt, slurping broth off the ground like a starving stray while the crowd howled and his winnings walked off in someone else's pocket. He told himself, mouth still full of gravel and noodle, that a true warrior eats with honor, then immediately went back for the last soggy noodle stuck to his own knee. Rugged by his own belly, floor-priced by his own greed, Azuma dusted himself off, grinned with broth dripping off his chin, and declared to no one in particular that better days were coming, mostly because he'd already spotted another noodle stand two stalls down. The old discipline flickers in him sometimes, a ghost standing rigid in the back of his skull, but it never survives first contact with the smell of fresh broth.