The Sengoku period was an era of constant, brutal innovation. When the matchlock rifle was introduced, the battlefield changed forever. When the ironclad ship took to the seas, naval warfare was reborn.

  And today, within the glass walls of the Fuma tower, I witnessed the modern equivalent of the cavalry charge.

  I stood at the edge of the sprawling labyrinth of cubicles—the holding pens for the dead-eyed foot soldiers of the Fuma Clan. My official status was a mere floor patrol as the "Executive Assistant to the CEO." However, my true mission was a reconnaissance operation to guard against assassins or rival corporate spies lurking on the 50th floor—and, for the moment, to observe their movement tactics.

  Then, I saw it.

  Sasaki, the Director of Sales, needed a printed scroll from a subordinate three desks away. He did not stand. He did not walk. He simply grabbed the edge of his mahogany desk, shifted his weight, and glided.

  He slid across the floor on his black leather throne, moving with a smooth, terrifying velocity, entirely bypassing the biomechanical need to lift his legs. He retrieved the paper and pushed backward, retreating to his original position without ever breaking the horizontal plane of his posture.

  "By the Gods," I whispered, my breath hitching in my throat. "It is the Shukuchi."

  The Shukuchi—the art of "shrinking the earth." It is a high-level Ninjutsu technique where the practitioner moves so quickly and fluidly that they appear to teleport, completely eliminating the vertical bobbing of a normal walking stride. I had trained for a decade in the mountains of Iga to master it.

  Yet these modern peasants were performing it effortlessly! They had attached five miniature iron wheels to the base of their armored seats, allowing them to traverse the battlefield with the grace of a swan and the speed of a striking viper.

  "Hattori."

  The voice of the Demon King cut through my tactical analysis.

  I spun on my heel, dropping into a perfect, crisp bow. "My Lord Kotaro! You require my blade?"

  Fuma Kotaro sat at his massive obsidian desk, massaging his temples. He looked exhausted, burdened by the endless invisible wars of commerce. He held out an empty ceramic vessel.

  "I require caffeine. Go to the break room. Get me a black coffee. Dark roast. And make it fast; the board of directors is logging onto the quarterly video call in exactly three minutes."

  "Understood," I said, accepting the chalice with both hands.

  Three minutes. The break room—the glowing oasis—was at the far end of the executive corridor. It was a distance of at least fifty ken (ninety meters). To walk would take too long. To sprint openly would draw the ire of the HR Sentries who patrol the halls to punish "unprofessional conduct."

  I needed a mount.

  I looked at the empty desk next to Kotaro’s. A pristine, high-backed ergonomic executive chair sat there, abandoned by a manager on leave. The Black Leather Glider.

  I had to tame this wild horse.

  I approached the beast cautiously. I tested the leather seat with my palm. It yielded, soft yet firm. It was built for comfort, not war. That made it dangerous.

  "Forgive me, spirit of the five wheels," I muttered, gripping the armrests. "Today, we ride for the Demon Lord."

  I lowered my center of gravity onto the throne with the resolve of a rider mounting his saddle. Instantly, the beast swiveled, trying to throw me. The casters spun wildly in different directions. It was an unstable foundation, completely lacking the solid, unyielding roots of the earth.

  "You possess a wild heart," I grunted. I engaged my core, locking my hips into a seated variation of the Fudo-dachi (Immovable Stance). I anchored my soul to the central hydraulic pillar of the chair.

  The spinning stopped. The beast submitted to my will.

  I gripped the edge of Kotaro's desk to build tension.

  "I secure the supply line!" I announced.

  I pushed off.

  The acceleration was instantaneous. The synthetic wheels hummed against the low-pile corporate carpet. Whirrrrrrrrr.

  I sailed past the first row of cubicles. The foot soldiers looked up from their glowing slates, their eyes wide as a man in a black suit flew past them while completely seated, holding a coffee mug extended like a drawn katana.

  "He's fast!" I heard an intern gasp as I blew past his cubicle, the wind of my passage rustling his sticky notes.

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  "It is not merely speed!" I shouted back, though I did not turn my head. "It is the elimination of wasted motion!"

  I approached a sharp turn. The hallway was narrow. A normal man would have dragged his feet to slow down. I am not a normal man. I reached out and grabbed the corner of a filing cabinet, using the momentum to slingshot my chair around the ninety-degree angle in a perfect arc.

  I reached the break room. I slammed my leather-clad foot onto the linoleum, using it as a brake. The chair skidded, drifting sideways, and stopped precisely one inch in front of the coffee machine. Flawless execution.

  I filled the chalice with the dark, boiling liquid of wakefulness.

  One minute remaining.

  Now came the true test. I had to return with a full cup, maintaining maximum velocity without spilling a single drop. In the shinobi arts, this is known as the "Water Mirror" technique—an exercise to ensure one's steps are so smooth they do not disturb the surface of a pond.

  I sat back down on the Glider. I held the hot coffee out in front of me, keeping my arm perfectly level, absorbing the micro-vibrations of the casters exclusively through my elbow and shoulder joints. My torso became a shock absorber.

  "Mechanical Shukuchi: Second Gear!"

  I dug both heels into the carpet and pulled. I launched myself down the long executive corridor.

  The wind rushed past my ears. The fluorescent lights overhead blurred into a single continuous streak of white.

  Whirrrrrrrrrrrr-clack-clack-whirrrrr!

  An obstacle appeared! A rogue mail cart had been left in the center of the hallway.

  "Yield the path!" I roared internally, knowing I could not brake without spilling the dark elixir.

  I shifted my weight entirely to my left buttock, lifting the right-side wheels off the ground. I tilted the entire heavy leather throne onto two casters, narrowly slicing through the gap between the mail cart and the wall. The maneuver required the balance of a tightrope walker, but I held the coffee perfectly level.

  Not a drop spilled.

  I was approaching terminal velocity. The air pressure built up against my chest. I visualized the very air molecules shattering before me.

  "PSSHHEWWWW!" I made the sound of a sonic boom with my mouth to signify my dominance over physics.

  I saw Kotaro's open office door approaching rapidly.

  I dropped both feet, engaging the heel-brakes with maximum prejudice.

  The chair screamed. The rubber wheels smoked against the heavy friction of the carpet. I drifted into the office, spinning exactly one hundred and eighty degrees, and came to a dead, sudden stop.

  The armrest of the Black Leather Glider tapped the edge of Kotaro's desk with a gentle, barely audible clink.

  I extended the mug. The coffee inside rippled slightly, but did not breach the rim.

  "Mission accomplished, My Lord," I said, my chest heaving, the smell of burning rubber filling the room. "The supply line is secure. The sound barrier has been broken."

  Kotaro did not look impressed. He did not look in awe of my martial prowess. He slowly reached out and took the mug. He looked at the smoking wheels of the chair, and then he looked at the long, dark, parallel skid marks I had left across the pristine beige carpet of the executive suite.

  "It's just an office chair with casters, Hattori," Kotaro said, his voice flat and completely devoid of joy. "Stop sliding down the hallway on it. Worker's compensation won't cover your stupidity."

  "It is a superior mount!" I protested, standing up from the throne. "If we outfit the entire Fuma infantry with these, we could flank rival corporations before they even draw their pens!"

  "Get out of my office," Kotaro sighed, turning to his computer screen and clicking his mouse. "And tell the janitorial staff they need to shampoo the hallway. Again."

  I bowed deeply. "As you command, Lord of the Wind."

  Location: The Fortress of Aoi (The Apartment)

  That evening, I returned to the six-mat sanctuary. My legs ached from the intense core workout, but my spirit was soaring.

  Lady Aoi was sprawled on the floor, attempting to staple a tear in her economics textbook while eating a discounted rice ball.

  "Aoi-dono," I announced, dropping to one knee in the genkan. "Today, I mastered the art of the mounted cavalry."

  She didn't look up. "Did you steal a horse, Masa?"

  "No. I rode the Black Leather Glider. The five-wheeled throne of the Fuma. I traversed the entire length of the 50th floor without taking a single footstep. I achieved a state of absolute, mechanical Shukuchi."

  Aoi finally looked up, her face a mask of profound, soul-deep exhaustion. She stared at me for a long time.

  "What is a grown man like you doing at the workplace?"

  "It was a tactical high-speed supply run!"

  "You're old enough to know better, so try to settle down," she groaned, letting her head fall back onto the tatami mat. "You're going to destroy the office floors, and then they're going to take the repair costs out of your paycheck. Which means I don't get rent." She rubbed her temples. "Did you at least bring back any extra pens?"

  "A warrior does not loot the armory of his own lord," I said indignantly, crossing my arms. I paused, lowering my voice. "Though I did procure a small packet of the white sugar dust from the break room. For emergency rations."

  "Good enough. Put it in the jar."

  I stood up, walking toward the kitchen to deposit my spoils. The modern world was full of terrors—the shredding beasts, the screaming fire alarms, the infinite staircases—but it also offered marvels beyond my wildest dreams. To ride without a horse, to glide across the earth on a throne of leather and plastic...

  Truly, I was adapting. I was becoming a legend of the linoleum.

  Masanari’s Cultural Notes (Glossary)

  ? Shukuchi (縮地): The ancient martial art of "shrinking the earth." A method of moving from a state of complete stillness to top speed without telegraphing the motion. In the modern era, salarymen replicate this by utilizing five tiny plastic wheels attached to their buttocks. It lacks honor, but its efficiency is undeniable.

  ? The Black Leather Glider (Executive Office Chair): A mechanical steed of great comfort and treacherous instability. To tame it requires immense core strength and the Fudo-dachi stance, lest one flip backward and shatter one's skull upon the carpet.

  ? The Water Mirror Technique: A training method used to ensure perfectly smooth movement. Whether on stepping stones or transporting a boiling chalice of coffee across an office without spilling, one's stealth walking is perfected.

  Countdown Update: Day 43 completed. 57 Days Remaining.

  Next Episode Preview:

  Episode 44: The Labyrinth of Grids and the Sorcery of Excel!

  Masanari: "The Fuma Lord demands I organize his tactical data! But the parchment is trapped behind the glass! It is a prison of endless green lines! 'Excel'! A sorcery that demands absolute mathematical perfection! If I input the wrong rune, the entire fortress calculates its own doom!"

  Kotaro: "Just use the AutoSum button, Hattori. Stop doing the math on an abacus and typing it in."

  Next Time: Masanari battles the #DIV/0! Error!

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