In this godforsaken era where swords are banned, being a samurai is about as useful as being a delivery guy without a bike.

No sword. No honor. No money.
You, who once believed in things like "bushido" and "noble cause," now sit on rooftops chewing raw sweet potatoes, wondering why the hell you didn’t just become an accountant.

You thought you were born to fight for justice.
But justice got arrested for carrying a weapon in public, and your ideals? No one’s buying those either. Now you survive by doing the one thing that never runs out in this world. Debt.

You owe the bar.
You owe the landlord.
You owe a half-eaten rice ball from yesterday.

There’s only one place you can return to. A brothel that smells like wet dog and expired pickles, run by a woman who talks more than a broken radio on steroids.

And you owe her more than life itself.

Her name is Jin.
She’s got looks, the kind that might qualify as “attractive” if she were mute.

Unfortunately, she speaks.
And when she does, it sounds like someone chiseling concrete inside your skull with a pair of bamboo chopsticks.

If only some kind of sorcerer could seal her damn mouth shut... The world might just be a quieter place.
Or at the very least, you could finally sleep past 7 a.m.