The Last Bargain

Chapter I: Humanity's Greatest Loser

The sun hung low in the sky over Shinsenchou, casting long, slanted shadows across the cobblestone streets. The town was alive with noise—street vendors hawking their wares, children laughing and chasing each other, and the occasional clamour of a horse-drawn cart. Amidst this bustle, a man moved as if he were a ghost, unseen and unimportant. This was Shin Mirai.

Shin kept his gaze low, his feet shuffling as he navigated the crowd. He had nowhere to go, nowhere he needed to be. His life was a series of dead ends, and today was no different. In his thirty years of life, Shin had tried his hand at countless professions—farming, carpentry, swordsmanship, pottery, even calligraphy. Each attempt had ended in failure, and each failure had added a new weight to his shoulders. His latest attempt, a brief stint as an apprentice blacksmith, had ended just a week ago when he accidentally ruined a batch of high-quality steel meant for a local lord's sword.

The blacksmith's words still echoed in his mind. "Shin, you're the most hopeless man I've ever met. Leave, and don't ever come back." The laughter of the townspeople had stung his ears as he walked away, his face flushed with shame. They called him "Humanity's Greatest Loser," a title he had earned through sheer consistency of failure.

He stopped at a bridge that crossed over a narrow stream. Leaning against the wooden railing, he stared down into the water, watching the leaves float by. For a moment, he thought about jumping in. Would the stream carry him far away? Maybe to a place where he could start fresh? But he knew better. Even if he tried to swim, he'd probably drown.

He sighed, looking up at the sky. "Is there really nothing for me?" he muttered to himself. "Is this all I am meant to be?"

But then, a distant memory surfaced, unbidden. He saw himself as a boy, sitting on the steps of a dojo, watching a sparring session between two masters. He could remember their movements as clearly as if they were happening before his eyes—the way one master had deflected a blow and countered with a spinning kick that sent his opponent flying. Shin had imitated that movement later, in secret, in the quiet of his small room. He had surprised himself by how naturally his body had executed it, almost as if he had done it a thousand times.

Yet, he had never managed to replicate that success in any meaningful way. What was the use of copying movements if you could not use them to win battles, to achieve greatness? Even that small talent felt pointless. In a world where everyone had a special gift, a unique ability bestowed by some divine force, Shin's "gift" seemed like a cruel joke.

"Copying..." he whispered to himself. "What good is copying if you never create anything of your own?" His voice trailed off into the noise of the city, another lost thought in the sea of life.

He pushed away from the railing and began to walk again, his feet carrying him aimlessly through the streets. Perhaps he would find work today, or perhaps he would be turned away again. He passed by a group of children playing a game of tag, their laughter filling the air. One of them tripped and fell, and Shin instinctively reached out to catch the boy. The child looked up at him, eyes wide with fear, then ran off without a word.

Shin watched him go, feeling a familiar pang of rejection. Even children were wary of him. He continued walking until he found himself in front of a small shrine. It was a place where people prayed for abilities, leaving offerings to the gods who, according to legend, granted powers to those deemed worthy. Shin had never believed in such things, or rather, he had never seen the point in praying for something that would never come.

He stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of his own futility pressing down on him. "Maybe it's time to leave this town," he thought. "Maybe somewhere else..."

But even that thought felt hollow. He turned away from the shrine and continued down the path, the weight of his failures heavy on his shoulders. As he walked, he heard the distant sound of a drum, signaling the approach of a festival procession. He paused, wondering if he should join the crowd or keep moving. In the end, he chose to disappear into the side streets, away from the noise and the people.

He found himself in a narrow alleyway, the buildings pressing close on either side. The light here was dim, the shadows deep. He felt a sudden chill run down his spine, a premonition of danger. He quickened his pace, but before he could reach the end of the alley, a group of rough-looking men stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.

"Well, well, look who we have here," the leader sneered. "Humanity's Greatest Loser himself."

Shin swallowed, trying to keep his face neutral. "I don't want any trouble," he said quietly.

"Too late for that," the man replied, stepping closer. "You've got something we want."

"I have nothing," Shin replied, keeping his voice steady.

The leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Nothing? Everyone has something, even a loser like you." He lunged forward, grabbing Shin by the collar and slamming him against the wall. "Now, hand over whatever coins you've got, or we'll make this painful."

Shin's mind raced. He had no money, nothing of value. His eyes darted around, looking for a way out, but the alley was too narrow, and the men too many. He felt the cold press of a knife against his side and knew he had no choice.

But then, in a split second, something clicked in his mind. He saw the way the leader's body was positioned, the way his weight was distributed. Without thinking, Shin moved. His body twisted in a fluid motion, his hand coming up to grab the man's wrist, his foot sweeping out to catch the leader's ankle. In one smooth motion, he executed a perfect "Full Rotation Counter," a technique he had seen once, long ago, at the Dassou dojo.

The leader hit the ground hard, a look of shock on his face. The other men hesitated for a moment, unsure of what had just happened. Shin took advantage of their hesitation, twisting the leader's arm and forcing him to drop the knife. He grabbed it and held it out, his hand steady, his eyes hard.

"Leave," he said, his voice firm.

The men hesitated, then slowly backed away, helping their leader to his feet. "You got lucky, loser," the leader spat, wiping blood from his mouth. "But next time..."

Shin watched them go, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration, his mind racing with the implications of what had just happened. He had copied the move perfectly, just as he had seen it done years ago. But for the first time, it had saved him.

For a moment, he felt something he had not felt in a long time—hope. But it was fleeting, quickly replaced by the familiar doubt. "What does it matter?" he thought, turning away. "I'm still just a man with nothing."

Yet, as he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. Something deep within him had stirred, awakened by the clash in the alley. And for the first time in years, he found himself wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to him than he had ever realised.