At four in the afternoon, the Sendai sun had lost its bite. It hung low over the western skyline, painting the streets in a warm, heavy amber.
Kashimo wandered out of the shopping mall, a bulging plastic bag in his hand. It was stuffed with the mundane tools of modern life: toothbrushes, towels, slippers, shampoo, a cup, and a stack of trash bags. He'd followed the list precisely, even buying a few things he wasn't entirely sure how to use.
In his other hand, he gripped his new phone. It was a silver-gray flip model, small and sleek. In his massive palm, it looked like a child's toy. For 2002, it was top of the line. It could make calls, send texts, and play a decent ga of Snake. He'd spent ten minutes on a mall bench figuring it out, and in the end, he'd only done one thing. He saved Kenjaku's number.
He looked at that single, lonely entry in his contact list for a mont before snapping the phone shut.
Just in case I run out of money again, he told himself. It felt like a perfectly logical excuse.
His stomach gave a low, demanding growl. Kashimo looked down, realizing he'd only eaten a few bites of cold, leftover curry since morning. He'd been too lazy to heat it up. He'd planned to grab sothing on the way out, but the sheer novelty of the shopping mall had pushed the thought out of his head.
He scanned the street. A road sign pointed toward the Asaichi market. It was only a ten-minute walk, and at this hour, the stalls should still be open. It was known as the kitchen of Sendai. It would have exactly what he needed.
Kashimo shifted the heavy plastic bag to his left hand, shoved the phone into his pocket, and started walking. His teal ponytail swayed with every step as his shadow grew long against the pavent.
***
At the sa ti, at Sendai Station, the Shinkansen doors slid open.
Yuki Tsukumo stepped onto the platform and took a deep, theatrical breath. Her long blonde hair fluttered in the afternoon breeze. She stretched her arms over her head, her joints popping as she let out a satisfied hum. She looked like a bird that had finally escaped its cage.
"I knew I had to co back to Sendai," she whispered.
She let out a contented sigh. To anyone else, the air was just city air, perhaps a bit cleaner than Tokyo, but to Yuki, it was a breath of freedom. She didn't have any official business here. She was a Special Grade sorcerer, but today, she was just a tourist.
The last ti she'd visited, she had been in such a rush that she'd missed out on all the local delicacies. It had bothered her for months. With only two weeks left in Japan, she'd decided to rectify that mistake personally.
Yuki walked out of the station with her hands in her pockets, her gait as light as a student on spring break. She stood in the station plaza, looked around, and quickly found her bearings.
She'd done her howork. The Asaichi market was the heart of Sendai's food scene. Sashimi, beef tongue, zunda shakes: everything from a full al to a quick snack. Her stomach was ready.
"Let's go. I'm starving," she muttered to herself, heading toward the market. The evening sun caught her hair, making her stand out even more in the crowded Sendai streets.
Two paths, one destination, and the sa orange glow of the sunset.
***
The market hit him before he even turned the corner.
It was a wall of sensory input. The sll of grilled at, the salty tang of the sea, the rhythmic sizzle of iron plates, and the constant, overlapping shouts of the vendors. It was a warm, chaotic web that pulled him in. Kashimo stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and felt his stomach growl again.
He stepped into the crowd.
The market was in full swing. Stalls lined both sides of the narrow street, their lanterns casting a red glow over the scene. Steam rose from every corner, swirling into the air before vanishing. Salaryn heading ho, housewives with grocery bags, and tourists with caras pushed past him. Kashimo's height made him an obvious landmark. His blue hair caught the light as people looked up at him, then went back to their food.
He spotted a stand selling fried fish cakes first. The golden cakes were bubbling in the oil, and as they were pulled out and set on wire racks, they hissed with heat. The edges were crisp and perfectly browned. Kashimo didn't hesitate. He bought a tray, speared a piece with a bamboo stick, and shoved it into his mouth.
It was hot, and the flavor of the fresh fish exploded across his tongue. He let out a sharp huff of steam but imdiately reached for the next piece.
Then, his gaze drifted to the neighboring stall. Edama shakes. He'd seen a sign for them at a convenience store the night before and hadn't thought much of it. But standing here, slling the sweet, earthy scent of the beans, he decided he had to try one.
And so, the scene was set.
Kashimo stood in the dead center of the market, a paper bag of fried fish cakes in his left hand and a bright green milkshake in his right. His cheeks were puffed out as he chewed, and his eyes were already scanning the crowd for his next target.
Steam rose from the fish cakes, while cold condensation slicked the sides of his cup. He took a bite of the salty fish, then a long sip of the sweet shake. The two flavors fought for a mont before settling into an odd, satisfying harmony. He arched an eyebrow, surprised by the combination, but continued down the lane.
He stopped at a grill selling beef tongue. He inhaled the scent of rendered fat and looked at the few remaining fish cakes in his bag. He finished them off, sucked the last of the shake through the straw, and crushed the plastic cup in his hand.
"I'll take an order of beef tongue," he said, the straw still between his lips. His voice was muffled, but the vendor understood. The man flipped the thin slices of at on the iron plate, the grease popping and the aroma filling the air.
Kashimo leaned against a pillar next to the stall, tossing his empty cup and bag into a nearby bin. He watched the at turn a deep, savory brown, a small grin touching his lips.
The modern era might be complicated, but the food was a definite improvent.
The vendor handed him the tray. Kashimo took his first bite, the hot, savory grease coating his mouth. He was chewing contentedly when a voice spoke from just behind him.
"Hey, blue-haired hottie."
The voice was lazy and confident, carrying the tone of soone addressing an old friend.
"What kind of won is your type?"
***
***
A/n: 600 power stones = 1 bonus CHAPTER, let's go!
For early access to 15 chapters ahead: p@tre~~/Demonic_Fiction (Link is in the synopsis and my profile).
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