There exists a world called Toyoashihara.
To its east lies the Musashi Continent, to its west the Yamato Continent, and at its center, Nakatsu Island, with a scattering of smaller islands scattered here and there besides, making for quite a sizable world altogether.
Nakatsu Island is home to the Hierarch, who governs the world in the name of the Eight Million Gods; the Musashi Continent to the east falls under the Tokugawa Shogunate and its Tokugawa Shogun, while the Yamato Continent to the west is ruled by the Toyotomi Shogunate under the Toyotomi Shogun.
In short, ladies and gentlemen, this is a Japanese-style fantasy world.
Now, if one were to ask what lies at the very heart of the Musashi Continent under Tokugawa rule, the answer would naturally be Edo, the shogun's own seat of power.
It is the Magistrate's Office that governs this Edo, split into two branches, the Northern and the Southern. And though the word "magistrate" conjures images of trials and the hauling off of criminals, the office in truth serves as courthouse and city hall rolled into one.
Indeed, a magistrate's duties span the executive, the judicial, and the legislative all at once, which is precisely why, I'm told, so many magistrates end up working themselves clean into the grave.
Running past the front of this Magistrate's Office is a thoroughfare known as Kabukimono Street, a place where wandering adventurer-warriors of every stripe gather.
Lodging houses for long-term stays, such as the famous Lion Row, stand shoulder to shoulder with countless inns, and to match them, taverns and eateries line the street as well, making for a lively avenue indeed... but...
In one particular tavern along that very Kabukimono Street, there sat a man drowning his sorrows in drink, weeping his heart out for all the world to see!
"GWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! Screw this!! Screw all of it!!"
Chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp...
The man was crying and shoveling down a bowl of pork cutlet rice all at the same time, while the people around him looked on with troubled expressions.
He looked to be about twenty years old, with narrow, slanted eyes of green, his black hair combed dead straight into a seven-three part, though frankly it was the sort of country-bumpkin haircut that made you want to say, "Surely you could do a little better than that?"
He wore his kimono loose and hakama-less, in the casual style favored by wanderers, though "sophisticated" was hardly the word for how he wore it. The whole outfit reeked of neglect, filthy and slovenly.
His posture, at least, was good, and his build was solidly muscular. Strip away the clothes and he might have passed for a fine figure of a man, but his atrocious fashion sense ruined the whole impression.
Such was our man, and noticing that his cup had run dry, he raised his tumbler and bellowed:
"Old man! Beer!"
"Comin' right up."
So answered the shopkeeper, his voice thick with weary resignation at the drunkard's high-handed demand.
At this, the other man seated across from him spoke up, equally exasperated.
"Yasutaka. That's enough. You're drinking too much, you know."
"Shut up! Like you'd understand how I feel, Mōha!"
So spat back the man called Yasutaka.
His name was Ashino Yasutaka, and he is the protagonist of our tale.
Rare among Kabukimono, he wielded two swords at once, a pair of blades hanging at his hip.
The man seated across from him gave up any hope of stopping him and turned instead to order from the shopkeeper.
"Boss. Give me some gyoza. And a pizza too, while you're at it."
"Comin' right up!"
The shopkeeper answered, exasperated all the same.
Incidentally, English and Italian, along with a great many other tongues, all exist in this world too, so please forgive me the liberty.
For the most part they function much like regional dialects, and certain words remain in use as such. That said...
...the other man's name, setting all that aside for now, was Mōha, an Arabian ninja.
He had narrow, drooping eyes of pale silver, his red hair cropped into a short mohawk, with a single streak of orange lightning running through the front.
A camel-shaped birthmark marked his neck, his features were sharp and hardened, and his body carried not an ounce of excess fat, all lean, corded muscle.
He hailed from the Arabian region of the western Yamato Continent, and bore that land's characteristically deep features and sun-bronzed skin.
The geography of all this I shall explain another time, so let us set it aside for now.
That said, Yasutaka's heartbreak showed not the slightest sign of healing.
"GWAAAAAAAHHHH!!"
Mōha let out a sigh at the sight of the fool weeping before him.
Just then, another man called out to him.
"Mōha. What's it this time?"
The man who spoke had a lean, well-honed build.
He was a young fish-man with blue hair and scattered patches of scales, dressed in the flashy garb befitting a Kabukimono, but the moment Mōha heard his voice, his face fell into weary exasperation.
"Hey, Saba. This idiot got dumped again."
"What, is that all? ...................."
The exasperation, it seemed, was shared equally by the man called Saba.
Mōha grumbled, his face pinched with trouble.
"You're a Haryūshi, aren't you? Don't you have some secret pressure point that gets rid of heartbreak or something?"
Saba's trade was that of the Haryūshi, practitioners of an art built around the ri-power that stretches across the world like an endless net. Within that mystic web lie certain points called "secret pressure points," and striking them produces all manner of effects.
The human body, too, holds such points, and striking those brings about various effects of its own, though the Haryūshi merely sighed.
"It's not that convenient. Your ninjutsu isn't all-powerful either, is it?"
"...Fair enough."
What Mōha practiced was ninjutsu, an art capable of a great many things, but no more omnipotent than the rest.
The woman in priestly robes seated with Saba likewise wore a troubled look.
"I'll say it now before you ask, sacred magic's no different."
"Yeah, I know."
Mōha answered with a touch of irritation, and at that, voices began rising here and there across the tavern.
"Qigong won't do it either."
"A Sacred Hymn can grant a blessing, sure, but it can't cure a broken heart."
So called out the man with dragon scales and the man with bird wings, each nursing his own drink.
Qigong arts drew upon the ri-power both within and without the body, while the Sacred Hymn was a technique of offering song up to the gods.
Both carried what one might call magical power, and yet, as ever, neither was without its limits.
"Well, what can you do..."
"GWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!"
And so Mōha, at his wit's end, sat there staring at the fool weeping before him.