At the head of the table sat a man in a pristine white suit, wearing a mask of a weeping oni. He held a golden screwdriver like a scepter.
The neon lights of Isezaki Ijincho hummed with a low, buzzing anxiety. Ichiban Kasuga leaned against a vending machine, nursing a lukewarm Boss Coffee. Beside him, Adachi was complaining about his knees, and Nanba was intently studying a discarded umbrella as if it were a legendary staff.
"Kasuga-san! You have to help," the grunt gasped. "The ‘Collector’ is back. He’s taking the elders."
"Ah, the Dragon of Rock Bottom," the masked man hissed. "You're late for the tournament."
"Something’s off," Ichiban said, his permed hair bouncing as he scanned the street. "The Liumang guys are usually yelling about spicy noodles by now. It’s too quiet."
Ichiban didn't pull his bat. He pulled out a customized, tiny plastic car.
The battle wasn't fought with fists, but with the frantic clicking of controllers and the smell of burning AA batteries. As the tiny cars zoomed around the track, Ichiban gave a speech—as he always did—about how the past is a foundation, not a cage.