The Last Bargain

Chapter IV: Shinsenchou

The next day, Zento found himself wandering the streets of Shinsenchou, trying to clear his mind. The town was lively, filled with people from all walks of life. It was a place of prayers and rituals, where many came to seek blessings from the gods or to ask for abilities they were not born with. The streets were lined with stalls selling charms and talismans, incense smoke curling into the air like wisps of forgotten dreams.

Zento moved through the crowd, feeling out of place. He was still wearing his training clothes, a simple dark blue kimono tied loosely at the waist, his wooden practice sword strapped across his back. He felt the stares of people as he passed, whispering behind their hands. The Dassou clan was well-known, and it was rare for the heir to walk among common folk without an entourage.

As he walked, he heard a commotion up ahead. The crowd parted slightly, and Zento saw a group of men surrounding someone—a man who seemed familiar, though Zento couldn't quite place him at first. As he drew closer, he saw that it was Shin Mirai, the man who had recently earned a reputation as "Humanity's Greatest Loser."

Shin was on his knees, his hands raised defensively as the men taunted and threatened him. "Hand over your money, loser," one of them sneered, brandishing a short blade.

Zento felt a surge of anger. He wasn't sure why, but something about the scene bothered him. He stepped forward, ready to intervene, his hand moving to the hilt of his practice sword. But just as he was about to call out, he saw something that made him stop in his tracks.

With a fluid, almost unnatural grace, Shin moved. He grabbed the wrist of the man holding the blade, twisting it sharply and spinning around in a perfect execution of the "Full Rotation Counter"—a move Zento had only ever seen his father use. In a flash, Shin flipped the man onto his back, sending him sprawling to the ground with a stunned expression. The other men hesitated, then quickly scattered, muttering curses as they fled.

Zento stood there, stunned. He recognized the move instantly; it was a technique unique to the Dassou clan, taught only to its members. How could this man—a nobody, an outsider—know it?

He approached Shin cautiously, his mind racing with questions. "You... where did you learn that move?" he demanded.

Shin looked up, surprised to see Zento. For a moment, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it quickly faded. "I saw it once," Shin replied, his voice calm. "Your father used it during a demonstration, years ago. I just... remembered it."

Zento blinked, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You saw it once and copied it perfectly?"

Shin shrugged. "I have a good memory for things like that. Doesn't do me much good, though," he added with a bitter smile.

Zento frowned, studying Shin carefully. This man was no warrior, no prodigy. And yet, he had mimicked a complex martial technique with perfect precision after seeing it just once. "Who are you, really?" Zento asked, curiosity overriding his suspicion.

Shin laughed, a hollow, humourless sound. "Just a man who's very good at failing," he replied. "Why does it matter?"

Zento paused, then shook his head. "It matters because you're not as ordinary as you think," he said quietly. "Come with me. I want to learn more about you."

Shin hesitated, then nodded. "Fine," he said. "But I don't have much to tell. I'm just trying to survive, like everyone else."