[Current Balance: 4,755,411,970,800 Mon]
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Nagasaki was a city of quiet order and sharp, watchful eyes.
In his disguise as a simple fisherman, Alaric walked the packed-earth streets, a ghost moving through a world that was utterly alien to him.
The architecture was a marvel of wood and paper… elegant, dark-timbered houses with gracefully curved roofs, their shoji screen doors filtering the morning light into soft, muted patterns.
The people moved with a different kind of purpose than he'd seen in Europe or the Caribbean. Merchants bowed deeply to customers, women in colorful kimonos walked with small, measured steps, and children played quiet games in dusty side alleys.
And then there were the samurai.
They walked with an unshakable, silent authority, their hands never straying far from the hilts of the two swords… the katana and the shorter wakizashi… tucked into their sashes.
Their gaze missed nothing, sweeping over the crowds with a practiced, assessing air. This was a society built on rigid hierarchy and unspoken rules, a place where a single misstep could be fatal.
The language was a cascade of sounds and tones he'd never heard, but he didn't need to struggle. As he listened to the vendors calling out their wares and the locals exchanging greetings, the ability he'd purchased from the System, [Kaguya's Linguistic Adaptability] did its work.
The sounds resolved into meaning, the grammar and structure clicking into place in his mind with an effortless clarity. Within minutes, he could understand them perfectly.
His first priority was the same as it had been in Manila… to find a trace of Caroline.
He found a quiet spot near the city's main canal, away from the foot traffic, and closed his eyes. He pushed his senses outward, casting the wide, invisible net of his Mind's Eye of the Kagura across the entire city, probing every street, every building, every soul.
He felt the tightly controlled discipline of the samurai in their barracks, the quiet piety of the monks in the distant temples, the bustling energy of the merchants in the central market. He searched for the familiar flicker of Caroline's life force, or the corrupting, powerful hum of the Apple of Eden.
Once again, he found nothing.
The trail was cold. She had either never made it to Nagasaki, or she had come and gone, leaving no significant psychic ripples in her wake. The latter seemed more likely. The Apple wasn't a subtle tool; its influence tended to linger. If it wasn't here now, it meant Caroline was long gone.
A sigh escaped him. He opened his eyes, a familiar sense of frustration mixing with his resolve.
'So, another ghost hunt,' he thought.
He began to walk again, his focus shifting from a grand sensory sweep to ground-level observation. If the Apple had been here, it would have left scars on the city's psyche, subtle signs of chaos or unnatural order.
It didn't take long to find them.
He saw a group of samurai, their topknots neat and their swords sharp, but their demeanor was all wrong. They were hassling a shopkeeper, their voices low but laced with menace. It wasn't the quiet authority he'd seen earlier; it was the thuggish intimidation of street toughs.
Alaric watched from a distance as the frightened shopkeeper handed over a small pouch of coins. The lead samurai snatched it, grunted, and then shoved the old man back into his shop before swaggering off with his comrades, laughing.
It was wrong. Everything he knew about the Bushido code, the disciplined honor of the samurai class, screamed that this was an aberration.
His Mind's Eye confirmed it. As he watched the group of samurai move through the market, he could feel the strange conflict within them. There was a layer of aggression, of greed, but beneath it, a deep-seated confusion and resentment. It felt as if they were acting against their own will, compelled by an influence they couldn't understand or resist.
'The Apple's residue,' Alaric concluded. 'It corrupted them. Twisted their sense of duty into a tool for extortion and bullying. But the core influence is gone, faded. Which means Caroline has been gone for some time.'
He needed to understand the scope of this corruption. Who was pulling the strings now? Who was benefiting? The answer, as it often was, would likely be found at the bottom of a cup.
He made his way towards a tavern, a simple wooden building with a cloth noren curtain hanging over the entrance, the sounds of rough laughter and clinking cups drifting out. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped in.
The air inside was thick with the smell of cheap sake and grilled fish. A few sailors and local laborers were scattered at low tables, but the room was dominated by a larger group of samurai, clearly off-duty, their swords resting beside them as they drank and gambled.
Alaric, in his fisherman's disguise, was just another person. He moved towards a vacant spot at the far end of the room, intending to sit and listen. But as he passed their table, one of the samurai looked up.
He was younger than the others, his face flushed with drink, a cruel smirk on his lips. He looked Alaric up and down, his gaze lingering on Alaric's simple but clean clothes, perhaps noting that he didn't have the calloused, worn look of a lifelong fisherman. Or maybe he just saw an easy target.
"Oi," the samurai called out, his voice slurred but carrying a clear note of arrogance. "You there. The quiet one. You don't look like you belong here."
Alaric stopped, turning slowly to face the man. "Just looking for a quiet drink," he replied in flawless Japanese, his voice calm.
The samurai's smirk widened. He stood up, swaying slightly, and walked towards Alaric, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his katana. His friends watched, chuckling, clearly expecting some entertainment.
"A quiet drink?" the samurai sneered, stopping a foot in front of Alaric. He was shorter, but puffed his chest out to seem more intimidating. "Bakayaro… This is a place for warriors, not… whatever you are. You have the look of a man with coin. Perhaps you'd like to make a… donation. For the upkeep of the city's protectors."
Alaric just stared at him, his expression unreadable. "I don't think so."
The samurai's face darkened, the drunken amusement vanishing, replaced by a flash of anger. The pressure of the Apple's lingering influence, combined with the alcohol and his own arrogance, made him reckless.
"Kuso… you refuse?" he snarled. "A peasant refuses a samurai?"
Without another word, he drew his katana. The blade hissed as it left its sheath, the polished steel gleaming in the tavern's dim light. The other patrons gasped, scrambling back.
"I will teach you your place," the samurai growled, raising the sword.
Alaric didn't move. He just watched, his blue eyes turning cold as ice.
With a furious yell, the samurai lunged, the katana slashing downwards in a powerful, decisive arc meant to split a man in two.
Alaric sighed.
He didn't dodge. He didn't block.
His hand moved, a blur of motion too fast for anyone to properly track.
CRACK.
It wasn't the sound of steel hitting bone. It was the sharp, sickening sound of a hand connecting with a jaw at incredible speed. Alaric had slapped him. A simple, dismissive, open-palmed slap.
The samurai's head snapped to the side with brutal force. His eyes rolled up into his head, the katana slipping from his nerveless fingers and clattering to the floor. His body crumpled like a stringless puppet, hitting the ground in a boneless heap, completely unconscious.
Silence…
The entire tavern stared, their mouths agape.
The fallen samurai's comrades, who had been laughing moments before, were on their feet now, their drunken stupor vanishing, replaced by shock and fury.
"You bastard!" one of them roared, drawing his own sword. "You dare strike a samurai!?"
"He started it," Alaric replied calmly, not even glancing at the unconscious man at his feet.
"Kill him!" another yelled.
In an instant, the remaining five samurai charged, their blades raised, converging on Alaric from all sides.
What happened next was a lesson in controlled chaos.
Alaric moved, but not with the explosive, destructive force he'd used against the soldiers. This was different. It was effortless, almost lazy.
The first samurai slashed at his head. Alaric ducked under the blow, his hand shooting out to grab the man's wrist. He twisted, using the man's own momentum to spin him around and send him crashing into a nearby table.
Another came from the side. Alaric sidestepped, his foot hooking the samurai's ankle, sending him sprawling. He stepped on the man's sword hand as he passed, pinning it to the floor with a pained grunt.
A third thrust his wakizashi forward. Alaric simply slapped the blade aside with the back of his hand, then delivered a quick, precise jab with his knuckles to the man's temple. The samurai's eyes glazed over, and he slumped to the floor.
He moved through them like a dancer. A push here, a trip there. He disarmed one by simply grabbing his sword hand and squeezing until the man yelped and dropped the weapon. He used another as a shield, letting a clumsy swing from a comrade connect with his back.
It was over in less than a minute. Five samurai were lying on the floor, groaning, disarmed, or knocked out cold. Alaric stood in the center of the room, dusting off his simple fisherman's clothes, not a single drop of sake spilled on him, not even breathing hard.
He looked around the stunned tavern.
"Anyone else want to make a donation?" he asked politely.
No one moved. No one spoke. They just stared at the man who had just dismantled six armed samurai with his bare hands as if he were shooing away flies.
Alaric sighed again, a sound of genuine boredom this time. He walked over to the bar, ignoring the wreckage.
"This is getting tedious," he muttered to himself. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the terrified patrons and the groaning samurai on the floor.
Then, he raised his voice, ensuring it carried through the entire tavern and out into the street.
"Is this all Nagasaki has to offer?" he called out, his voice laced with contemptuous disappointment. "A bunch of thugs who can't even hold their swords properly? I was hoping for a real challenge!"
He walked to the tavern's entrance, pausing at the noren curtain.
"If you want to find me," he announced to the silent room, "I'll be at the main bridge over the Nakashima River. Tell your friends. Tell your masters. Tell anyone who thinks they can fight. Bring them all."
With that, he pushed the curtain aside and stepped out into the street, leaving behind a scene of chaos, confusion, and the beginning of a legend that would spread through the city like wildfire.
His plan was in motion. He had made himself the problem. Now, he just had to wait for the solution to come to him.
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