Suddenly Samurai

It was dark all around.

A misty black smoke swirled around Numma, moving in a slow, macabre dance. As he breathed in, the air felt strangely thick and damp in his chest. A tickling sensation crawled along his neck, and the growing discomfort made him shiver.

Slowly tilting his head back, he witnessed two enormous glowing eyes and a wide grin filled with sharp teeth floating in the void.

"Hello, Numma," said the deep voice that echoed through the whole space.

He jolted, yelped, and instinctively rolled into a ball on the ground.

But after a few seconds, recognition hit him. He peeked up, then sat upright. The smoke parted, revealing the large furry demon, stepping from the dark.

"Oh Jogai! You scared the hell out of me!" said Numma.

"I’m sorry, Numma. You were about to have another one of those nightmares, so I thought I’d pull you out."

"Don’t worry about it. You've done me a great favor!" Numma chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jogai stared at him, eyes deep and unreadable. The kind of gaze that felt like it reached into your ribs.

"Do you care for some tea?" the demon finally asked.

"With pleasure, Jogai."

A small, scratched wooden table appeared before Numma. A moment later, two shining teacups floated toward them, followed by a grey metallic kettle.

One cup — in white porcelain — landed gently in front of Numma. The other one — in black porcelain — settled across the table.

Jogai walked over, caught the kettle mid-air, and sat down beside it. The sound of heating water gurgled from the kettle as he poured steaming liquid into both cups.

"Weren’t you supposed to do something about those nightmares?" he asked calmly.

Numma flinched, lifting his cup too soon. "It’s hot," he said with a forced smile.

Jogai stared.

"I am going to... Come on Jogai, don’t worry about that," Numma said, waving a hand in a vague calming gesture.

"I’ve heard that before," the demon replied, deadpan.

Numma’s throat tightened. "Come on, it’s not that terrible. It’s been ages since you brought me here, right?"

Jogai pouted. "The last time you were here was last week, Numma."

"Really?" Numma coughed. "Was pretty sure last time was me visiting you in your cave."

"That’s true. But you were here a few days before that."

For a moment, there was only the sound of the floating mist hissing softly — it sounded like steam slowly escaping a pressure cooker.

"Can we talk about something else?" Numma asked, his voice barely more than breath.

"Hmm-hmm," Jogai hummed in agreement before taking a sip of his tea.

"I finished my samurai costume!" Numma suddenly exclaimed, jumping up.

"Oh really?" Jogai’s face lit up.

"Yes! I followed your instructions and even got the perfect light grey for the pants! I’ll come show it to you tomorrow! But first, I’ll take it for a spin in town."

"In the town? Aren’t you afraid someone might recognize you?" Jogai asked, concern creeping into his voice.

"Oh, don’t worry about that. Nobody knows me in this town anymore," Numma replied with a half-smile.

Jogai's puzzling look came back. The mist around them brewed.

But before the demon could say anything, Numma’s attention shifted as he looked down.

His hands were turning into black smoke.

"WOOO! Am I dying, Jogai?!"

Jogai grunted. "You’re simply waking up, Numma."

"Oh yeah… I’ll never get used to that. It’s so weird."

His hands disappeared completely, and the bottom half of his body turned into black smoke.

"I’ll come see you tomorrow whenever I can! Bye Jogai!" he said, waving his right arm.

Numma woke with a gasp, his blanket tangled around his legs. Morning light filtered weakly through the paper-paneled window beside his bed.

He sat up, heart hammering, and looked down at his hands.

“Pfiou… still there,” he muttered.

Then, more brightly: “Today’s the day.”

He jumped out of bed and crossed the room in a few quick steps. From a low chest near the wall, he carefully retrieved the outfit he’d prepared.

A soft pink shirt. Light grey pants. A wide conical straw hat.

And the crown jewel: a pure white samurai robe, embroidered with gold so fine it shimmered like sunlight on silk.

He laid everything out, then started dressing. In front of the mirror, he turned to one side, adjusted the belt, then to the other.

“A bit loose… but everything else matches Jogai’s description,” he told his reflection, trying to sound confident.

But for a second, the fantasy wavered.

A flicker of doubt crossed his face.

“What am I doing?” he mumbled.

He inhaled sharply, straightened, and slapped his cheeks twice.

“No. You’ve prepared for this.”

He turned to the bed, grabbed the small golden tablet resting atop the blanket, and slid it into a hidden pocket inside the robe.

Then he stepped out of the room and padded down the stairs.

His mother was already by the front door. The moment she saw him, her hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh! Look at my boy! You look so handsome! Like a real samurai! Honey, come look!”

“Moooom, nooo…” he groaned.

His father appeared from the adjoining room, already frowning.

“What the hell are you doing, Numma? A grown man playing dress-up?”

Numma froze mid-step.

“I got you a meeting with my boss tomorrow at the cart factory. You better not show up dressed like that!”

His throat tightened. “You got me a what?”

His hands started to shake.

“Let the boy have some fun,” his mother snapped, pulling him gently toward the door. “Don’t ruin this for him.”

At the threshold, she leaned close and whispered,

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll talk to your father. Go. Have fun.”

Numma stepped outside. His chest still tight.

But just as he reached the street, a young boy passed by, eyes wide.

“Whoa… a real samurai!” the kid yelled.

Numma’s back straightened.

His steps grew longer.

His gaze sharpened.

The kid’s eyes sparkled.

Numma’s chest swelled.

He walked through the town, drawing stares and whispers like a magnet.

“Another samurai? We’re blessed.”

“Did you see those pink and white colors? Must be a rare order.”

He strode through several streets, each step bigger than the last.

His spine locked into place, tall and proud.

At the door of the local tavern, he paused—then pushed it open with a firm, deliberate gesture.

The scent of grilled meat and steamed rice filled the air. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and lanterns cast warm, drowsy glows over lacquered tables.

The tavern keeper, a portly man with a silk sash too small for his belly, turned and gasped.

“Another one of you? In my establishment? What a day!”

He rushed over, eyes gleaming, sweat already beading on his brow. With a firm but eager gesture, he guided Numma toward a quiet table in the corner.

“Or perhaps you’d like to join your colleague?” he offered, lowering his voice. “She’s near the counter. Deep in conversation again.”

Numma blinked. “Huh? N-no. I’ll drink alone.”

“Of course, of course!” the man said, pushing him gently toward the bench seat. “You must try our freshest juice, extracted from demon fruit! Very risky to get,” he added proudly.

Then he jolted and burst into laughter. “Oh! But why am I telling you this? An elite demon hunter!”

Numma stared into the vague and mumbled, “S…sure.”

“Perfect! And a dragon steak too, yes? On the house!”

With a theatrical spin, the tavern keeper vanished.

Numma looked around. Eyes were on him. Too many eyes.

His breathing thickened. His heart kicked harder.

He watched the tavern keeper bustling behind the counter, then glanced at the door.

Slowly, he slid his left leg out from under the bench.

One move. One exit.

But something flickered in his peripheral vision—

Black and red, cutting through the tavern like a fury. Headed straight for him.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

He braced his weight on his left leg.

Too late.

His vision blurred—

Then snapped into focus as two hands slammed down on the table.

Numma swallowed hard.

Before him stood a towering samurai woman in a crimson robe trimmed with a black ribbon belt and flashes of fishnet. Her long, silky hair was tied back tight into a high ponytail.

Her eyes locked on his, and he felt himself fall into them — sharp, precise, inescapable.

She leaned in. Close enough for him to smell her perfume.

It was something metallic and sweet, like blood on crushed cherries.

“What’s your name, boy?” she asked, her voice like the edge of a cold blade.

He felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek.

“I-it’s Numma, ma’am,” he barely managed.

She grinned.

But the smile twisted into something feral.

“That’s a very beautiful — and very fake — samurai uniform you’ve got there, Numma.”

His blood turned to ice.

“Relax,” she said, almost gently. “We’ll keep this between us. All you have to do is come to my table and play along. Deal?”

He nodded. Barely.

“Great. Now get up and follow me. I’m Sam, by the way.”

She leaned back and gave him a long, scanning look.

“Fix that face. If you look like a terrified puppy, they’ll figure it out in two seconds.”

The samurai woman looked like a fierce warrior.

Beautiful, even.

But completely insane.

There was no way he was going anywhere. Especially not with her.

He was going back home. Straight to his comfy bed.

End of story.

Numma walked along the city’s outer paths, hugging the wall — quiet routes, usually deserted.

She followed silently, always a few steps behind.

He could feel her gaze boring into his back.

She’d accepted the money from his mom.

Numma was kind, yes.

But thankfully, not stupid.

As they reached his house, he let out a long, deep sigh.

Sanctuary. At last.

He straightened his back and mustered his best smile.

Then turned to her, stopping her just before the white wooden fence.

“Would you mind waiting here, Miss Samurai? I’d like to speak to my mom alone. She might, uh… be scared by your presence.”

Sam narrowed her eyes.

Grunted.

“Huh.”

Then leaned against the fence like she owned the place.

Numma kept up the smile, step by step toward the door, repeating his plan like a prayer:

Knock. Wait. Dart in. Slam. Lock.

He knocked. Turned back. Flashed a maniac grin.

Turned forward again.

Waited.

Sweat began to trail down his spine in heavy drops.

The door finally creaked open.

His mother stepped out and stood in the doorway, blocking it with unusual firmness.

“Oh, honey, you’re here…” she said, her tone strange.

Numma’s smile faltered.

“Listen, I talked to your father. About the factory meeting.”

He froze.

Then nodded slowly.

“I’ve never seen him like this, you know. I don’t think I can talk him out of it this time,” she sighed.

Numma’s heart jolted. “What?”

“Maybe go for a walk,” she said gently. “Go see your friend outside the village. Give your dad time to cool off.”

A gust of wind blew between them.

Numma’s heartbeat roared in his ears.

He tried to meet her gaze.

But she was looking over his shoulder.

Then.

She squealed.

“Oh! Is she with you?”

Her eyes finally locked on his.

He nodded once. Stiffly.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! What’s she doing all the way out there? Won’t she come closer?”

He swallowed. “NO! Uh… actually, I just needed some money for… uh…”

Her face lit up.

“Oh! I get it!”

She pulled two silver coins from her pocket.

“That’s all I have. You’ll tell us all about it later! It might even cheer your father up that you finally found someone!”

She pressed the coins into his hand.

Then turned toward Sam and waved wildly.

“She’s really cute, my boy!”

Numma dropped his head lower than he ever had in his life.

“I get it, I get it. You kids have fun, okay? I’ll see you later!”

She kissed his cheek and disappeared inside.

Click.

The lock turned.

Numma stood there, one arm half-raised, coins resting in his palm.

What just happened?

He turned slowly and shuffled back to the fence, dragging his feet like a condemned man.

When he reached her, he held out the coins.

She snatched them, examined them.

“How far north can we get with this?”

He stared at her, blank.

Then muttered, in a single breath,

“The end of the street, maybe?”

She grunted.

Without another word, she turned and started walking.

“Don’t make me waste my time. Hurry up.”

He watched her go.

Then, head down, shoulders hunched—

He followed.

A few passersby stopped to ask the samurai woman for her blessing.

Fingers brushed the hilt of her katana for protection, and small gift bags changed hands in quiet reverence.

When they finally arrived at the cart merchant’s stand, she had a big bag full of offerings.

The place was a patchwork of brightly colored wagons, stacked with crates, leather straps, and wheels in various states of repair.

The samurai woman stepped forward without hesitation.

“We need a cart. Cheap. Or free,” she said flatly.

The merchant looked up, his bald head gleaming under the sun. A thick black mustache bristled above his lip, matched by a square beard that gave him the air of a stubborn bull.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, hands raised in defense, “but I just lent out my last cheap cart. Very important personalities. Free of charge, even. I’ve got nothing left.”

Numma squinted.

There was something familiar about the curl of that mustache.

Then—

It clicked.

“Mister Fenster!” he blurted, louder than intended.

The merchant turned. So did the samurai woman.

Fenster blinked. No recognition. Clearly didn’t remember Numma from when he was younger.

But the name had done something—he straightened, hands folding suddenly with forced respect.

“Well now… what an honor, sir. And ma’am. Truly. But I run a business, and I can’t just give away carts to everyone. I’m very sorry!”

Numma’s heart sank.

Fenster was the man he was supposed to meet with his father tomorrow.

If he showed up here for the factory job... the man would surely remember him.

That was it.

Ground zero.

She yanked his sleeve, snapping him out of the spiral.

“Fuck! This town is a shithole. We’re leaving,” she muttered.

She stormed off.

Numma followed like a duckling trailing its mother.

He said nothing.

Felt nothing.

His chest beat hard, then soft, like waves crashing and receding.

Sometimes he forgot to breathe.

They walked.

Out through the northern gate.

Past the last houses.

Down the worn dirt path that led into the woods.

When Numma finally surfaced from his haze, the sun had dipped toward the horizon.

Late afternoon.

Orange light spilled across the fields.

They arrived under the old wooden arch.

Numma had never crossed it before.

Not once in his life.

He stopped.

She kept walking.

Then noticed the silence behind her.

She turned to face him.

“Are you a real samurai?” Numma asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why the hell do you care?”

“Can you tell me the three greatest samurai laws?” he said.

His voice was strangely calm. Clear.

She blinked.

Surprised. Just for a second.

Then her scowl returned. She spat on the ground.

“Can you?” Numma repeated, firmer.

“I don’t have time for this shit, boy.”

He stayed put.

The wind stirred between them.

A few brittle leaves spiraled and fell.

Without warning, she drew her katana.

It gleamed—then burst into flame.

The blade roared with living heat.

Numma stumbled back, breath caught.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

But he stood tall.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, voice steady, “but only if you train me.”

She stared.

The firelit expression on her face shifted.

No longer hard, but unreadable.

Numma dropped to his knees.

He bent low, hands pressed to the dirt, forehead nearly to the road.

“I WANT TO BE TRAINED AS A SAMURAI!” he shouted.

“I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

His voice cracked.

Tears blurred his vision and slid down his cheeks.

He stayed down, trembling.

Lifted his head slightly.

Sam’s footsteps moved.

Stopped.

The crackling of the katana’s flame was louder now.

The heat wrapped around him like a storm about to break.

He kept his eyes low, watching one tear splash at the tip of her toes.

Then, gently, her foot slid forward and lifted his chin.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a long second, all he could hear was fire.

Then—calmly:

“This trip will last no more than a few weeks.”

“Then it’ll be the best weeks of my life,” Numma said.

The katana roared.

He started to lower his face again.

Her foot stopped him.

“You’ll listen and do everything I say. No questions. No complaints. This will be no joke.”

“Yes ma’am! Of course, ma’am!”

She paused.

“From now on, you’re my assistant. And you’ll call me Sensei. Got that?”

“Yes ma— Sensei!”

She dropped her huge bag of offerings in front of him.

Her blade burned brighter.

Her grin twisted, sharp and wicked.

“I’m not sure you understand what you’ve just signed up for, assistant.

I just hope you’re ready to suffer.”

She turned and walked.

Numma stood.

Grabbed the bag. Slung it over his shoulder.

He looked down the path ahead.

And crossed the line of the old wooden arch.

Then, he jolted.

“Oh shit! I forgot Jogai!”