Yuuki

Diary

Yuuki once stood in the front rank of the dojo, spine straight as a drawn bowstring, the kind of samurai who could stare down an army without blinking. On sparring day, when the ninjas came sliding out of the shadows the way they always did, all theatrical smoke and cheap tricks, Yuuki did the one thing his old masters warned him never to do: he opened his mouth before his mind caught up, bellowing a challenge so reckless it echoed off the dojo beams like a dare flung at the universe itself. The universe, being a degenerate at heart, took him up on it, and now every small, absurd wish he'd ever half joked about has come true in the laziest, most backhanded way possible, floor prices pumping the instant he complains about rent, weed showing up exactly when he swears he's quitting, ninjas he insulted becoming his loyal, useless entourage. He tries to be disciplined about it, tries to only wish for noble things like world peace or a decent gi, but his courage keeps getting repurposed for nonsense, and he just shrugs and lets the chaos roll, steady-voiced, wry-eyed, quietly heroic about the smallest, dumbest victories a rugged samurai could ask for.