Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma woke before the sun, a rare miracle in itself, convinced this would be the morning he finally reclaimed the discipline of his samurai forebears, and he stomped out into the fog swearing he'd meditate, train, and eat like a monk instead of a starving oni. The mist rolled thick across the training yard, and Azuma, appetite roaring louder than any war drum ever had, decided true greatness meant eating an entire tray of mochi first for energy, then maybe a second tray for focus, then a stolen jug of sake because hydration matters. His will, tested by nothing more than his own bottomless hunger, buckled somewhere between bite four and bite forty, and he ended up drooling face down in the grass, robes stained, sword untouched, whispering promises to the fog about tomorrow. He can do better, everyone agrees, especially Azuma, loudly, between hiccups, fully convinced that greatness is simply one more snack away. The mist eventually lifted on a man who once commanded discipline in battle now negotiating with himself over a fifth dumpling, gloriously undignified and somehow still smiling.