With the air chilled on the wings of descending nightfall, the buckwheat soba noodles steamed with the vigor of a stoked forge as the yatai owner spooned them into a ceramic bowl, and passed it to a waiting patron. Fujii Masatoki payed the cart owner, and thanked him, before adjusting the two swords at his waist so he could bend closer to the bench-table on the cart’s side.

Masatoki’s large, tall, muscle bound frame setting against the yatai appeared like a bear before a cricket cage to those walking the street. Several children even stopped to marvel at the strange kuma eating noodles in the middle of their village. The samurai’s long, full head of jet-black hair was not kept in the traditional chonmage topknot, but rather pulled back into a wide tail at the back of his head. This affectation only added to his animalistic visage, and it played well against his deep set eyes, clean shaven face, and heavy brow. Masatoki looked far older than his 26 years.

The noodle cart owner appraised his unusual patron as politely and discreetly as he could manage. It was not everyday that the cart owner received a samurai, much less one that looked as if he could pull a slab of granite apart with his bare hands. Further, the mon depicting twin jumping fish on the samurai’s sleeves was one the man did not recognize.

Eventually, the cart owner’s curiosity got the better of him, and he nodded to the samurai. “Have your travels been peaceful, sir?”

Masatoki looked up from his meal, and affixed the cart owner with an appraising stare. Slurping down a length of noodles, the samurai’s features softened, and he nodded.

“It has been peaceful enough.” Masatoki’s mouth quirked into a bare smile. “Though I suspect you mean to ask, ‘Where are you from?’”

The cart owner fell silent, and bowed his head.

“Mmm,” Masatoki hummed. “Very well, then. I am a son of the Fujii clan, and hail from the Awa province of Shikoku.”

The cart owner’s eyes widened in awe. This samurai was indeed far from home. It was not unusual to see samurai from other clans and fiefs traveling through Iruhada Derogi’s lands, but the cart owner had never known of one that had ranged from so far south. Shuffling around his cart, the man leaned over slightly towards the southern samurai.

“Are you here answering the call of the Daimyo, sir? Or perhaps you’re seeking to sell your skill to that of the village leaders in their revolt against Lord Iruhada?”

Masatoki looked at the cart owner with an inquisitive lift to his brow. He had set out from Awa months earlier, intent on finding purpose and fortune in musha shugyō. As the youngest of three sons to the head of the Fujii clan, Masatoki was lacking in the life of duty his older brothers enjoyed. As hatamoto servants to the Tokugawa, the Fujii maintained a relatively prominent status in Shikoku. Yet, Masatoki’s place within his family gave him little real responsibility. He yearned for adventure, and for a means to bring tangible honor to his name. So, with his father’s blessing, Masatoki had set out into the greater world with lofty goals, and very little real strategy on how to achieve them.

He had traveled north on a lark, following no real leads, but rather an ethereal intuition that seemed to pulse at the fore of his imagination. Testing his skills, and proving his mettle amidst a revolt would go a long way to giving focus, notoriety, and purpose to Masatoki’s quest.

Turning upon the stool, Masatoki oriented himself fully towards the cart owner. Grasping towards one of the posts of the cart, Masatoki took the handle of the kanabō that had been leaning there. The head of the long weapon of hardwood and iron studs came to rest between Masatoki’s feet, and he hunched forward to rest a forearm on the iron ring that was affixed to the hilt. There was a twinkle in the large man’s dark, inky eyes.

The cart owner took a step back, stunned in disbelief when faced with the full effect of the hulking samurai.

“Now,” Masatoki said evenly, licking broth from his lips, “tell me all you know of this revolt.”