I wasn’t fond of the Oak District—not at first. Sure, there was the ramen, which I had admittedly dismissed as dirt-water and soggy noodles before tasting it. That had to be the first and only time I’ve ever been wrong about anything. The second time was my initial judgment of a frantic little corner of the district known simply as the Arcade. It was loud. Not war loud our marketplace loud. Not even festival loud. This was a different species of noise—bright, electric, frantic. It hummed in the air like a swarm of caffeinated flies that swarmed over a pile of shit.
I stood at the entrance of the building, long dark hair shifting over my shoulders as the door thudded shut behind me. Inside, lights flashed in violent colors. Metal boxes screamed. Children howled in triumph and despair. Coins clinked like distant shuriken. So this must be where they lock up the naughty children.
I narrowed my golden eyes, “…Is this a child’s prison,” I murmured to no one in particular, “or a hell… maybe?” A boy ran past me, nearly colliding with my hip, shouting something about high scores and vengeance. And then I yelled, “Watch it, shits for brains! …shit head… as..s hole…” I watched him go with slow consideration. “Fascinating,” I whispered. “They are small but emotionally unstable. Like explosive tags with shoes.”
I stepped further in. Rows of machines stretched along the walls, each one glowing with moving images. Tiny artificial worlds. Tiny artificial wars. Tiny artificial people dying repeatedly with tremendous enthusiasm. My interest sharpened.
Humans paying to simulate combat they could receive for free. Brilliant. Deeply concerning. But brilliant. A screen across the room erupted with the crack of fire and a dramatic whistle of wind. I turned. On it stood a figure in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat with silver hair, revolver drawn, boots in the dust of some stylized frontier town. The character spun the cylinder, fired, and enemies dropped.
My eyes grew wide. My mind, normally a cathedral of strategy and murder, went perfectly quiet. “…What,” I breathed, “is this beautiful nonsense?”
⸻
Five minutes later I had learned three things.
1. You must insert money.
2. The money disappears forever.
3. This is called “normal.”
I fed the machine with the grave seriousness of someone offering tribute to a shrine. The game began. The cowboy appeared.
I lifted the plastic gun attached to the cabinet and immediately held it with flawless posture, breath steady, stance perfect.
“Understood,” I said calmly. “I will now dominate this tiny desert.” Then screen flashed red. “YOU ARE DEAD.”
“WHAT!” I blinked at it. I started to question what sort of devilery was going on as I searched my pockets frantically for another coin. But then, a snort came from beside me. I turned my head slowly.
A kid—maybe ten—stood there with a fistful of coins and the unearned confidence of someone who had never fought for his life even once.
“You’re really bad, lady,” he said… I considered killing him. But there were too many witnesses around. Other tiny little humans who would easily pick me out of a line up of tiny humans. And then, I’d have to sit in tiny human court and suffer due process with zero representation because they are all tiny humans.
So instead, I crouched slightly so that we were eye level. “I was just warming up.”
“No, you’re just really bad. Here let me show you,” he said. He pointed. “You have to aim like this! You also gotta reload, like this.” I looked at the blinking prompt. “…what!? That’s not how you reload! I’ve fought countless battles and no one reloads like that!”
The kid grinned. “Countless battles? How old are you lady?”
“You little shit! You don’t ask me how old I am!”
The little boy smiled at me and then returned to shooting, “You’re funny Ms! You remind me of my grandma.” I blinked from behind him, “Well uh, I’m sure that means that she is a lovely young lady.”
“Nope,” the boy giggled. I studied him with growing interest. Small. Loud. Brutal. Honest. “I don’t like you,” I decided. “Thanks? Want to try again? Maybe you won’t suck this time.”
⸻
We took turns playing from there. I’d lose a bunch and he’d give me pointers. And then I’d do much better than before. I actually learned more from watching him. On his turn, I’d watch him like a hawk watched its next meal, memorizing patterns, timing, movement, the rhythm of the draw. Every flick of his wrist was cataloged and filed away inside a mind built for battlefields.
My eyes drifted to the character in the game. The coat. The hat. The deliberate walk toward danger. My fingers twitched slightly. Stylish. Impractical. Powerful branding.
The kid would clear three stages. I nodded gravely. “You are a warlord.” He beamed. I don’t know why because I was being sarcastic. When the game ended, I placed a hand on the machine.
“My turn.”
“I just went!”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Now I go forever.”
“What?!”
I leaned down, lowering my voice into something confidential and conspiratorial.
“If you sponsor my attempts,” I said, “I will give you this glowy rock that the Hokage gave me.”
His eyes grew wide. “Woah, cool!”
“Yep. And if you keep it for a month, he will come and visit you.”
“Woah, you got yourself a deal Ms!”
⸻
Twenty minutes later:
I was still terrible. But less terrible. More tiny humans had gathered. Some to see the rock and others to watch the spectacle that is me. They offered advice. They heckled. They argued about this and that. It did not matter. The only thing that mattered is my new obsession.
I absorbed everything about this game like an anthropologist of chaos.
⸻
Coins ran out. I looked at the boy. The boy clutched his last tokens. Then I gave him my most charismatic, deeply untrustworthy smile. “If I win,” I said, “I will put in a good word for you to join the shinobi academy, and they will teach you justu!”
“Uh, I’m already set to attend in the spring.”
“The Hokage will be your senpai. He owes me a favor.”
The boy smiled brightly then handed them over. Excellent. Tiny humans aren’t so hard to deal with. I don’t know why their mothers complain about them so much.
⸻
Somewhere, far away, a calendar quietly continued existing. A month fluttered by without me knowing. The Hokage’s office did not receive a check in from me.
Instead, I yelled at a digital outlaw who refused to fall down when shot, coat swirling dramatically around my legs as she leaned into the plastic rifle. The kids screamed with laughter.
And beneath the neon glow, reflected in the glass of the machine, I caught my image beside the cowboy on the screen. Hat. Coat. Revolver. Cool.
My eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “…Yes,” I murmured. Very yes.
The Next Evening…
The Oak District didn't know what was hitting it. When the doors to the arcade swung open, the "caffeinated flies" of electronic noise seemed to die mid-air.
I stepped inside, the heavy leather of my new duster dragging across the floor with a rhythmic thump-shink of spurs I’d fashioned from broken kunai. My now silver hair was a stark, defiant halo against the neon gloom. But it was the weight at my hip that drew every eye—the Coup de grâce I called it. It was a beautiful, terrifying marriage of traditional smithing and the swirling, violet-black instability of my own void chakra.
The boy from yesterday was there. He dropped his cup of shaved ice. "Whoa... lady? Is that... is that real?"
"It is the end of an era, child," I said, my voice echoing with a slight, unnatural distortion.
I approached the machine. It hummed, sensing its predator. I didn't reach for the plastic tethered gun. That toy was a lie—a crutch for the weak. I reached for the Coup de grâce.
I didn't need a coin. I pressed my thumb against the cylinder, feeding a sliver of my corrupted soul into the metal. The gun groaned, the metal glowing with a faint, bruised purple light. I pointed the barrel at the screen.
"Wait! You'll break it!" the boy screamed.
"I am not breaking it," I murmured, my golden eyes locking onto the digital horizon. "I am synchronizing."
I pulled the trigger. There was no thunderous crack of gunpowder. Instead, there was a high-pitched vrumm—the sound of reality being pinched. A bolt of pure, violet chakra streaked from the barrel. It didn't shatter the glass; it passed through the screen like a ghost, entering the digital world as a physical force of nature.
On the monitor, the digital outlaws didn't just fall; they evaporated. The First Wave: I fanned the hammer. Five shots, five ripples in the void. My chakra rounds tracked the heat signatures of the code itself. The outlaws didn't even have time to draw. The Manipulation: A bandit ducked behind a crate. I flicked my wrist, curving the trajectory of the void-bolt in mid-air. It looped around the digital obstacle and erased him from existence. The Boss: "Dead-Eye Dan" appeared, his programmed invincibility frames flickering. I sneered. I reached out with my left hand, weaving a sign. "Void Style: Infinity Chamber." The Coup de grâce pulsed. A concentrated beam of corruption lanced out, overriding the game's logic. The machine began to smoke. The speakers let out a distorted screech that sounded suspiciously like a digital prayer for mercy.
The "YOU ARE DEAD" screen never came. Instead, the game skipped three levels entirely, the processor unable to keep up with a weapon that ignored the laws of physics.
The numbers at the top of the screen began to spin so fast they blurred into a solid white line. 999,999,999... ERROR.GLORY.
I holstered the Coup de grâce. A single wisp of violet smoke curled from the barrel. The screen flickered one last time before displaying a giant, pixelated skull—my own personal calling card, etched into the arcade's motherboard by the sheer force of my will.
I turned to the stunned crowd of children, my silver hair settling over my shoulders.
"That," I said, adjusting my hat so the brim shadowed my eyes, "is how a shinobi reloads."
The boy looked at his plastic gun, then at my void-forged masterpiece, and then back at his shaved ice. "Can... can I try?"
I looked at the glowing, unstable metal of my creation. "If you value having a soul, I wouldn't. Now, where is the manager? I believe I am owed a very large stuffed bear… and a candy ring"
[mft]
I stood at the entrance of the building, long dark hair shifting over my shoulders as the door thudded shut behind me. Inside, lights flashed in violent colors. Metal boxes screamed. Children howled in triumph and despair. Coins clinked like distant shuriken. So this must be where they lock up the naughty children.
I narrowed my golden eyes, “…Is this a child’s prison,” I murmured to no one in particular, “or a hell… maybe?” A boy ran past me, nearly colliding with my hip, shouting something about high scores and vengeance. And then I yelled, “Watch it, shits for brains! …shit head… as..s hole…” I watched him go with slow consideration. “Fascinating,” I whispered. “They are small but emotionally unstable. Like explosive tags with shoes.”
I stepped further in. Rows of machines stretched along the walls, each one glowing with moving images. Tiny artificial worlds. Tiny artificial wars. Tiny artificial people dying repeatedly with tremendous enthusiasm. My interest sharpened.
Humans paying to simulate combat they could receive for free. Brilliant. Deeply concerning. But brilliant. A screen across the room erupted with the crack of fire and a dramatic whistle of wind. I turned. On it stood a figure in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat with silver hair, revolver drawn, boots in the dust of some stylized frontier town. The character spun the cylinder, fired, and enemies dropped.
My eyes grew wide. My mind, normally a cathedral of strategy and murder, went perfectly quiet. “…What,” I breathed, “is this beautiful nonsense?”
⸻
Five minutes later I had learned three things.
1. You must insert money.
2. The money disappears forever.
3. This is called “normal.”
I fed the machine with the grave seriousness of someone offering tribute to a shrine. The game began. The cowboy appeared.
I lifted the plastic gun attached to the cabinet and immediately held it with flawless posture, breath steady, stance perfect.
“Understood,” I said calmly. “I will now dominate this tiny desert.” Then screen flashed red. “YOU ARE DEAD.”
“WHAT!” I blinked at it. I started to question what sort of devilery was going on as I searched my pockets frantically for another coin. But then, a snort came from beside me. I turned my head slowly.
A kid—maybe ten—stood there with a fistful of coins and the unearned confidence of someone who had never fought for his life even once.
“You’re really bad, lady,” he said… I considered killing him. But there were too many witnesses around. Other tiny little humans who would easily pick me out of a line up of tiny humans. And then, I’d have to sit in tiny human court and suffer due process with zero representation because they are all tiny humans.
So instead, I crouched slightly so that we were eye level. “I was just warming up.”
“No, you’re just really bad. Here let me show you,” he said. He pointed. “You have to aim like this! You also gotta reload, like this.” I looked at the blinking prompt. “…what!? That’s not how you reload! I’ve fought countless battles and no one reloads like that!”
The kid grinned. “Countless battles? How old are you lady?”
“You little shit! You don’t ask me how old I am!”
The little boy smiled at me and then returned to shooting, “You’re funny Ms! You remind me of my grandma.” I blinked from behind him, “Well uh, I’m sure that means that she is a lovely young lady.”
“Nope,” the boy giggled. I studied him with growing interest. Small. Loud. Brutal. Honest. “I don’t like you,” I decided. “Thanks? Want to try again? Maybe you won’t suck this time.”
⸻
We took turns playing from there. I’d lose a bunch and he’d give me pointers. And then I’d do much better than before. I actually learned more from watching him. On his turn, I’d watch him like a hawk watched its next meal, memorizing patterns, timing, movement, the rhythm of the draw. Every flick of his wrist was cataloged and filed away inside a mind built for battlefields.
My eyes drifted to the character in the game. The coat. The hat. The deliberate walk toward danger. My fingers twitched slightly. Stylish. Impractical. Powerful branding.
The kid would clear three stages. I nodded gravely. “You are a warlord.” He beamed. I don’t know why because I was being sarcastic. When the game ended, I placed a hand on the machine.
“My turn.”
“I just went!”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Now I go forever.”
“What?!”
I leaned down, lowering my voice into something confidential and conspiratorial.
“If you sponsor my attempts,” I said, “I will give you this glowy rock that the Hokage gave me.”
His eyes grew wide. “Woah, cool!”
“Yep. And if you keep it for a month, he will come and visit you.”
“Woah, you got yourself a deal Ms!”
⸻
Twenty minutes later:
I was still terrible. But less terrible. More tiny humans had gathered. Some to see the rock and others to watch the spectacle that is me. They offered advice. They heckled. They argued about this and that. It did not matter. The only thing that mattered is my new obsession.
I absorbed everything about this game like an anthropologist of chaos.
⸻
Coins ran out. I looked at the boy. The boy clutched his last tokens. Then I gave him my most charismatic, deeply untrustworthy smile. “If I win,” I said, “I will put in a good word for you to join the shinobi academy, and they will teach you justu!”
“Uh, I’m already set to attend in the spring.”
“The Hokage will be your senpai. He owes me a favor.”
The boy smiled brightly then handed them over. Excellent. Tiny humans aren’t so hard to deal with. I don’t know why their mothers complain about them so much.
⸻
Somewhere, far away, a calendar quietly continued existing. A month fluttered by without me knowing. The Hokage’s office did not receive a check in from me.
Instead, I yelled at a digital outlaw who refused to fall down when shot, coat swirling dramatically around my legs as she leaned into the plastic rifle. The kids screamed with laughter.
And beneath the neon glow, reflected in the glass of the machine, I caught my image beside the cowboy on the screen. Hat. Coat. Revolver. Cool.
My eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “…Yes,” I murmured. Very yes.
The Next Evening…
The Oak District didn't know what was hitting it. When the doors to the arcade swung open, the "caffeinated flies" of electronic noise seemed to die mid-air.
I stepped inside, the heavy leather of my new duster dragging across the floor with a rhythmic thump-shink of spurs I’d fashioned from broken kunai. My now silver hair was a stark, defiant halo against the neon gloom. But it was the weight at my hip that drew every eye—the Coup de grâce I called it. It was a beautiful, terrifying marriage of traditional smithing and the swirling, violet-black instability of my own void chakra.
The boy from yesterday was there. He dropped his cup of shaved ice. "Whoa... lady? Is that... is that real?"
"It is the end of an era, child," I said, my voice echoing with a slight, unnatural distortion.
I approached the machine. It hummed, sensing its predator. I didn't reach for the plastic tethered gun. That toy was a lie—a crutch for the weak. I reached for the Coup de grâce.
I didn't need a coin. I pressed my thumb against the cylinder, feeding a sliver of my corrupted soul into the metal. The gun groaned, the metal glowing with a faint, bruised purple light. I pointed the barrel at the screen.
"Wait! You'll break it!" the boy screamed.
"I am not breaking it," I murmured, my golden eyes locking onto the digital horizon. "I am synchronizing."
I pulled the trigger. There was no thunderous crack of gunpowder. Instead, there was a high-pitched vrumm—the sound of reality being pinched. A bolt of pure, violet chakra streaked from the barrel. It didn't shatter the glass; it passed through the screen like a ghost, entering the digital world as a physical force of nature.
On the monitor, the digital outlaws didn't just fall; they evaporated. The First Wave: I fanned the hammer. Five shots, five ripples in the void. My chakra rounds tracked the heat signatures of the code itself. The outlaws didn't even have time to draw. The Manipulation: A bandit ducked behind a crate. I flicked my wrist, curving the trajectory of the void-bolt in mid-air. It looped around the digital obstacle and erased him from existence. The Boss: "Dead-Eye Dan" appeared, his programmed invincibility frames flickering. I sneered. I reached out with my left hand, weaving a sign. "Void Style: Infinity Chamber." The Coup de grâce pulsed. A concentrated beam of corruption lanced out, overriding the game's logic. The machine began to smoke. The speakers let out a distorted screech that sounded suspiciously like a digital prayer for mercy.
The "YOU ARE DEAD" screen never came. Instead, the game skipped three levels entirely, the processor unable to keep up with a weapon that ignored the laws of physics.
The numbers at the top of the screen began to spin so fast they blurred into a solid white line. 999,999,999... ERROR.GLORY.
I holstered the Coup de grâce. A single wisp of violet smoke curled from the barrel. The screen flickered one last time before displaying a giant, pixelated skull—my own personal calling card, etched into the arcade's motherboard by the sheer force of my will.
I turned to the stunned crowd of children, my silver hair settling over my shoulders.
"That," I said, adjusting my hat so the brim shadowed my eyes, "is how a shinobi reloads."
The boy looked at his plastic gun, then at my void-forged masterpiece, and then back at his shaved ice. "Can... can I try?"
I looked at the glowing, unstable metal of my creation. "If you value having a soul, I wouldn't. Now, where is the manager? I believe I am owed a very large stuffed bear… and a candy ring"
[mft]
Last edited: