The Bokken Hunt and Beggars' Justice
It was a peaceful morning, just like the first week I'd started this gig. No woman grinning like a serial killer, no other weird customers, and even Blanca wasn't glued to the house. After work, I sat on the stairs, munching on coffee and a sandwich while listening to Lopez Wife bustling back and forth inside. Come to think of it, we'd never properly introduced ourselves, so I didn't know her name, but there are guys out there who don't even appreciate free food like this—whining that the coffee and sandwiches are getting old. What shameless bastards.
In this cold city where dreams and hope are nowhere in sight, complaining about free meals? Unbelievable. For the record, I've been eating these sandwiches for nearly three weeks straight, and I have zero complaints. Sure, the bread, ham, and cheese are all cheap crap with barely any flavor, but isn't it still better than Wall Force Pills that taste like nothing? No true martial artist can endure eating the same food day in and day out. Those who can't either die or are doomed to die.
You could argue it's petty to make a fuss over food, call me someone who doesn't know how to enjoy a good meal—but on this topic, I'm always right. Plenty of martial artists indulge in gourmet feasts or drown in luxury and debauchery, but none of them were stronger than me or lived as long. When you're honing your martial arts, like it or not, there come times when you have to sit quietly, staring at a wall, lost in introspection. Times when you need to reflect on yourself, your techniques, and gaze into your own heart.
And those whiners griping about food? They couldn't hack a training session chewing on nothing but Wall Force Pills, fully immersed in their inner world. When you're deep in focus, you forget you're even eating them—your realm ascends, but your body wastes away. But start bitching about the tasteless pills, and poof—enlightenment and concentration vanish. Unless you're practicing some ridiculous Alcohol Bliss Divine Art where you just booze and party your way to higher realms—which doesn't exist—whining about one kind of food means you'll never become a master.
Lunch done. I shoved the last sandwich and coffee into my mouth and stood up. Tossed the crumpled trash into the bin by the shop for customers, then headed to Rom.
"…No jobs."
Pushing through the thick smoke, I stepped inside, and Rom, slouched in his chair, spat it out.
"Said to come tomorrow."
"…The kid won't shut up, so…"
He wasn't that young, but arguing would just get me labeled a psycho at best, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Thought all the commotion might bring in some work, but nada on my end. Makes sense—been out too long."
"…You retired?"
Since that old hag asked if he was even alive, figured he was in a similar boat. Rom snorted, pipe clenched crookedly in his teeth.
"Was gonna kick back, puff smokes, and wait for the end. But the beggar keeps bugging me, and that sandwich guy keeps dropping hints. In my twilight years, picking up this crap to bother people."
From what he said, this jacket, Los Amigos, the old man, Gustavo, the beggar—they were all tangled in some story.
"What a neighborhood full of drama."
"Who in this line ain't got baggage? Anyway, no gigs for a bit. If I don't call, just grab from the old bat. I'll holler if it's urgent."
"Yeah, sure."
What could I do? Couldn't bully an old man into inventing jobs. As I nodded and turned to leave, something popped into my head, so I approached him again.
"Got a question."
"…What?"
"Where do I buy a bokken?"
"…Bokken? Wooden sword?"
"Yeah, that!"
Luckily, the concept existed here—Rom got it right away.
"No such thing."
Of course, understanding it didn't mean it existed.
"Why not?"
"Look at this city… You've been here long enough to know. Aside from the sparse street trees, wood's just ornamental in rich folks' yards. What the hell kinda wooden sword?"
"…Can't just chop a street tree, huh?"
"Wanna test how far LCPD lets you go? Try it, punk."
Rom eyed me pitifully, like trees here were worth a fortune.
"Back home, mountains were full of 'em…"
"This area's all wasteland—nope. Why the hell you need one anyway?"
"…Well…"
Imagining Blanca clumsily drawing a sword with that goofy grin made me chuckle.
"Someone took an interest."
I tapped the dagger at my waist like a bokken hilt. Rom's eyes widened slightly—thankfully not as big as his glasses, so he wasn't pissed.
"Hoo… Hardened recycled plastic should work."
"…Hardened what?"
"Carve it or use as-is—your call."
Ignoring my question, Rom swung his cybernetic arm. His lighter-finger pointed at me like he was jabbing, and my pocket terminal buzzed. The one Blanca ragged on me for setting to vibrate like a caveman.
I pulled it out—a file incoming. Accepted and opened: a map and a number.
"Oh, thanks."
"No prob. 30 credits."
"……."
"What?"
What a straight-up mugger. For real.
///
The place Rom sent me to was in a street thick with iron, oil, and exhaust—factories and industrial shops crammed together. Called Cottonwall, but who named it that? Ironwall or Graywall fit better.
Clang, clang!
Knocked on the door per the map. After a bit, motors whirred, and it slid open.
"Hoo… What you want?"
A grizzled old guy in oil-stained overalls, cigarette dangling, poked his head out.
"Hardened… plastic? Here to buy some."
"…Hardened recycled plastic?"
"Yeah, that."
"……."
He scanned me up and down.
"…How much you need?"
Something fishy, but he didn't wanna pry.
"This long, one. This long, one."
"Thickness?"
"This thick. Oh, cylindrical."
"…What you gonna do with it?"
"Handle it myself."
"……."
Looked like he wanted to ask more, but he ducked back under the half-open door.
Stared at the street of rattling shut doors for minutes. Footsteps, then he emerged with two black plastic rods.
"…150 credits."
"……."
I stared him down. Tense standoff for tens of seconds. He didn't budge. Face paling under the pressure, but no fear—just defiant eye contact. Not a scammer.
Intimidation like this works great on small-timers when you don't know the price. Who risks their life over a few bucks against a psycho sword nut glaring daggers? Sure, some stab back. But even if they fool you, they trip over someone else soon enough. Success rate: 100%. No one's survived scamming like this.
"Pricey…"
"…That material's heat-resistant, tough, doesn't warp easy. Pricey for a reason. Processing's work too."
"…Fine, ring it up."
Ah, his formal speech dragged out my martial tongue.
"……."
Thought I was mocking him—looked annoyed, but no complaints. Plugged into his terminal, paid.
"Use it well."
"Will do."
Door motors whirred shut. Tucked the rods under my arm and headed home, whistling a tune on my rare free afternoon.
I carved this bokken just for you~
Don't stay cooped on our rooftop—come on up~
I'll carve as much as you want, but if training's tough, that's on you~
'It's the path you chose—tough it out with grit.' …I'd like to say that, but hey, it's a hobby. No need to risk life over it. Probably.
But then…
"Hey, old man, business booming, huh? Where's the cash?"
Another weirdo loitering in front of the shop, right after yesterday's.
"We sell cheap—barely break even."
"Why sell cheap? Gotta make money! Even if slim margins, you got some, right? Hand it over, more later~ Yeah?"
The guy decked in dangling silver bling, with shiny silver chrome hands, was barking at Gustavo. Met a mountain spirit or what? Mad Scientist—no. Bald Walter—no. Traitor bastard—no. Not Rom either.
Copper a while back at the scrap yard, Gold yesterday, Silver today—mountain god's blessing for sure. But I'd never met one. Never lost anything either… Huh?
"…Shut it, three-legs."
My hand rose to scratch my head unconsciously, bumped my tripod arm. Gave it a glare and eyed the idiot again. Good, wasn't hallucinating—he was still yapping at Gustavo.
…Wanna test how tough he is? Perfect timing—long rod for my bokken strength test.
I gripped it the moment—
"…Oh, shit."
Rumble rumble—beggars swarmed from across the street. Thirty-one of them. North End crew minus the kingpin. They surrounded Gustavo and Silver Axe in seconds.
"F-fuck! Who the hell do you think I am?! You bastards… AHH!!"
Silver Axe went for his waist, but beggars were faster. Two or three grabbed his arms, snatched his pistol as he drew, tossed it, and started the beatdown.
"This fucker messing with Lopez?"
"Robbing in broad daylight? Chrome-head not even set proper, you nuts?"
"Lopez gives us sandwiches!"
Amid the chaos, they smoothly escorted Gustavo away while pounding Silver Axe mercilessly. Honestly, the scene hit an old trauma—didn't wanna watch. Turned my head, and a beggar stood beside me.
"Street got noisy—scouting to slink in, huh."
Too brutal.