Tokuda

Diary

Tokuda announced his intentions to the entire prefecture before he even climbed the ladder, bellowing his challenge to the dojo master somewhere between the courtyard and the roof tiles, because a true warrior does not sneak up, a true warrior gives everyone fair warning and maybe wakes the neighbors too. Up there among the crooked shingles he found his calling mid-lunge, mid-scream, mid-flailing-off-balance-because-he-forgot-roofs-slope, and something in him just clicked louder than his own war cry. He never actually landed a hit on the old master that day, spent more time windmilling for balance than striking, but he insists it counts as a spiritual victory, the kind you frame in your mind forever and never mention the part where you nearly fell into the koi pond. These days he still shouts at problems that would rather be whispered about, unpaid debts, botched trades, that one floor he aped into that cratered by sundown, treating every setback like a duel that deserves an announcement first. He has so many issues to deal with, stacked up like unswept roof tiles, and he keeps meaning to sit quietly and deal with them one at a time, but quiet has never once in his life felt like a plan worth trying twice.