Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma once swung a blade like it owed him money, a samurai whose confidence outpaced his sense at every turn, and when the wars dried up his hunger didn't die, it just went looking for a new battlefield. He found it on the dojo roof, tearing up shingles at midnight because some fool at the tavern swore a stash of koban was buried under the tiles, and Azuma, ever the man who apes first and reads never, believed him with his whole drooling heart. He tore through three months of roof repairs and half his dignity before admitting there was no gold, only splinters, pigeon droppings, and the sinking realization that his crew of degenerate gamblers had once again sent him to do the digging while they laughed from the ground. Somewhere between the shame and the shingles he tried, briefly, to promise himself discipline, better company, a return to the quiet focus of his samurai days, but that promise lasted about as long as his last cup of sake. Now he stands on solid ground again, greedy eyes already scanning the horizon for the next big swing, muttering that all he needs is better quality friends, as if the problem was ever anyone but him.