The very next morning, Maruyama decided to take us to the mall.
It was a baaad idea....
For us, a shopping mall wasn't just something foreign, it was also a landscape for disaster.
Hongbing stopped dead in the atrium, his senses going on overdrive at the sheer amount of sensory input he was receiving from nearly every nook and cranny he could find, from the shrill laughter of children ricocheting off marble floors, the sickly-sweet stench of artificial butter from the popcorn stand, The neon signs around us flickered in unnatural colors, advertisements featuring eerily perfect faces loomed from every surface, mirrored ceilings created endless reflections that would give any tactician vertigo. And worst of all, the moving staircases that devoured people at the bottom and vomited them out at the top.
While he suffered, I enjoyed every bit of it, my worries momentarily forgotten; I had never witnessed this many people crowded in one area, especially for buying things. This was an all-in-one stop for nearly everything!
The moving stairs were the beginning of a disaster that I had never anticipated
"Demonic contraption," Hongbing muttered. His hand flew to his hip where his sword normally rested..... a gesture so instinctual I saw his fingers twitch when they found only empty air.. It was a symptom I recognised, the subtle tremor in his voice. The stance and how his pupils dilated like a cat confronting a larger predator. It was not fear exactly, but the controlled tension of a warrior assessing an unknown threat in his surroundings. His shoulders tensed beneath his rough-spun tunic, every muscle coiled like a spring. I'd seen this same readiness before battles, when scouts reported enemy movements in the fog.
Maruyama sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. "They're called escalators. Step on and don't...HONGBING NOOOO!!!!!!"
Too late, my ever-diligent assassin buddy had already assumed a defensive stance...left foot forward, knees bent, arms raised in perfect White Crane form.... as the escalator dragged him upward. The sight of a 6'2" former imperial assassin in full combat posture riding an orange-lit staircase would've been hilarious if it wasn't so painfully embarrassing.
"IT'S ALIVE!" He bellowed, gripping the rubber handrail like it was the reins of a demonic horse. "JINCHENG! IT'S TRYING TO THROW ME!! IT'S TRYING TO THROW ME OFF!!!!!"
I buried my face in my hands, feeling the heat of secondhand embarrassment creep up my neck. Just yesterday, this man had lectured me for an hour about maintaining imperial dignity in foreign lands. Now he was... The chorus of high-pitched giggles erupted behind us before I could finish the thought. A group of young girls in pleated skirts had their smartphones raised, their screens flashing like tiny lightning strikes as they captured his humiliation for all eternity. The telltale click-click of shutters mixed with their whispered "KAKKOI!!!" and "SUGOI!!!" Whatever that was...
One particularly bold girl in a yellow hair ribbon stepped forward, her phone's camera lens gleaming like a weapon. "Ano... sumimasen," she began, clearly mustering all her English, "You... YouTube? TikTok?" Her friends giggled behind their hands, already composing something in their pretty heads.
Our old man moved with surprising speed for a man in his early forties. "NO PHOTOS!" he roared in Japanese, suddenly looking every bit his age as he waved his arms like a deranged man. His face flushed crimson as he alternated between bowing apologetically to passersby's and making frantic slashing motions at the girls' phones. "Delete those! He's... he's mentally ill! Very tragic! Family shame!"
The girls scattered like sparrows, though not before the bold one in yellow turned back to shout over her shoulder, "Tikkutokku ni mō appurōdo shita yo ojīchan!!!!" (Already uploaded it to TikTok grandpa!!!) Her laughter echoed off the floors as she disappeared into a store.
We finally reached the top. Hongbing immediately dropped into a defensive crouch and started scanning for threats. When the escalator deposited him safely onto solid ground, he turned back to glare at the mechanical beast as if memorising its features for future vengeance. The way down proved no less traumatic. he attempted to descend the ascending escalator, resulting in a comedic stationary jog that drew even more cameras.
('Oh lord, Hongbing, please stop, I beg of you!') I pleaded in my head as I saw the scene unfold all over again!.
Maruyama looked ready to combust. "I need a drink," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "And possibly a new identity."
I couldn't help but notice how the mall's security cameras (as they are called) had all pivoted to follow our progress. In our world, such blatant surveillance would have signalled an imminent ambush. Here, it seemed as mundane as the flickering neon signs advertising "50% Off Summer Collection!" (reading from the signs) Seeing all those stares burned..... for the first time since awakening in this place, I finally understood how animals must have felt when we had captured them, exotic, out of place, constantly observed. It was unsettling, really.
Hongbing adjusted his robes with wounded dignity, his cheeks still flushed from the escalator ordeal. "Mark my words," he growled low enough so that only I could hear, "when we reclaim our rightful place, these mechanical demons will be the first things I dismantle."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that, judging by the dozens of 'cellphones' still pointed our way, and what Maruyama had said about social media like TikTok and YouTube, his escalator duel was probably already halfway around the world. The thought sent a fresh wave of dread through me..... in our time, reputation was everything. What damage had just been done to ours in this strange new realm where every fool with a rectangle of glass could immortalise our humiliation?
Maruyama seemed to read my thoughts. He sighed, placing a weary hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. By tomorrow, there'll be a new viral video of someone's cat playing piano." At my blank look, he shook his head. "Just... come on. Let's get you some normal clothes before you accidentally declare war on the food court."
As we moved deeper into the mall's belly, I couldn't shake the feeling that every reflective surface, every security camera, every smartphone in casual hands represented a new kind of battlefield, one where our carefully honed warrior skills meant nothing, and our every misstep could become global entertainment before we even realized we'd made a mistake.
The clothing store assaulted us with its unnatural orderliness. Racks upon racks of identical garments stretched into the distance, organised by some arcane system that made my military logistics training seem elementary. The air smelled faintly of plastic, nothing like the earthy hemp and natural dyes of home.
Hongbing approached a circular rack of jeans with the caution of a scout entering enemy territory. He gave the display a slow revolution, peering between garments as if expecting an ambush. "This is a trap," he declared, his voice low and measured. "No sensible army would arrange supplies in such a disorganised fashion."
"I can't deny you're right.....this entire arrangement defies reason," I admitted, eyeing the clothing racks with growing scepticism. The way identical garments hung in endless rows reminded me uncomfortably of mass graves after a siege, uniform, faceless, stripped of individuality. My fingers brushed against a shirt, its texture alien against my sword-calloused hands.
"At least in battle, there's logic to chaos. This?" I gestured at the maze of organised sameness, "This feels like madness had manifested itself in the form of clothes!"
Hongbing nodded grimly, his hand unconsciously flexing where his sword hilt should be. "A merchant who presented wares like this in the Night Markets would be flogged for disrespect," he muttered. The fluorescent lights reflected coldly in his eyes as he studied a price tag like it might contain hidden threats. "And these markings... thirty-two 'US dollars'? What kingdom still uses shells as currency?"
Nearby, a teenage clerk dropped an armful of hangers, her gasp audible even over the store's pulsing electronic music. 「ああ,そうだ」 (" Oh-em-gee,") she whispered to her coworker, 「彼らは,完全にメソッド俳優か何かだ.」 ("They're, like, totally method actor or something." ) Her phone camera flashed before I could protest, another moment of our humiliation preserved for this era's bizarre historical records While her coworker wearing skinny jeans with name tag reading "Kaito" stifled a laugh behind his hand. I shot him a look that had once made junior officers tremble, but it had no visible effect.
Maruyama chose that moment to reappear, arms laden with more of these "normal" garments. "Stop terrifying the locals," he hissed, thrusting armfuls of fabric at us with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to driftwood. "And for the last time...stop checking the seams for poison!" The last part was directed at Hongbing, who was meticulously examining a sweater's stitching with the intensity of an imperial physician inspecting a piece of clothing for contamination
He rubbed his temples with the air of a man who had aged a decade in the past hour. " The jeans? They're organised by waist size and....." He caught sight of Hongbing now carefully folding a pair of distressed jeans back into perfect military squares despite their pre-torn state. "You know what? Just try things on." "Normal clothes. For normal humans. Living in the 21st century."
I held up a pair of what appeared to be painted-on trousers (or just trousers? What even is that?), the material stretching unnaturally between my fingers. "These are... smaller than my thigh wrappings. Do people really wear these?"
"That's fashion," Our old man deadpanned, adding under his breath, "God help us all."
Hongbing emerged from the racks like a hunter returning from strange woods, holding a black T-shirt with white English lettering: BORN TO CHILL. His lips moved silently as he attempted to decipher the foreign script, forehead creasing in concentration.
"This," he announced gravely, holding the shirt up like a captured battle flag, "is clearly a threat." He turned the shirt around, revealing a cartoon cat wearing sunglasses. His eyes narrowed. "And this... creature is either a familiar or a warning. Note its unnatural eyes.....like the glass orbs in that 'television' device."
He looked skyward as if praying for divine intervention. "It's a meme."
"A what?" Hongbing and I asked in unison.
"Never mind." Maruyama massaged the bridge of his nose. "Just... try it on. Please. Before I lose the will to live."
As we moved toward the fitting rooms, I noticed the assassin discreetly sniffing each garment, a habit from when poison-laced clothing had been a very real threat at court. His nose wrinkled at the synthetic smells, and I saw him mouth the words "chemical warfare" with grave certainty.
The fitting room curtains were another ordeal.....he insisted on checking each stall for hidden passages or assassins before grudgingly admitting they were secure. When he discovered the three-way mirror, he nearly drew a clothes hanger as an improvised weapon, convinced the reflections were spies using some advanced optical technique.
"Hongbing, stand down...it's just a mirror," I said, stepping between him and his own multiplying reflections. My voice carried the same steady tone I'd used to talk jumpy recruits through their first night watch.
"No hidden enemies, no sorcery. Just... glass and angles."
He didn't lower the clothes hanger, his knuckles pale around the makeshift weapon. "Then explain why it shows eight of you," he hissed, eyes darting between the reflections. "Some advanced surveillance technique? A trap to...."
"Bad feng shui," Maruyama interjected, rubbing his temples. "Nothing more. Now put down the..... OH FOR GODS SAKE NOT THE SECURITY CAMERAS TOO!!!!!!"
I caught his wrist just as he pivoted toward the surveillance camera in the corner. His pulse hammered against my fingers like a caged bird. This wasn't just being cautious, it was the visceral reaction of a man who'd survived too much danger in his world, our world and is now drowning in a world where every shiny surface might indicate that yes, we are going to DIE!
Slowly and deliberately, I stepped into the mirror's sightline until our reflections overlapped..... his wild-eyed suspicion framed by my forced calm. "See? Just you. Just me." I tapped the glass, producing a dull thunk. "No different than polished bronze, only clearer."The hanger clattered to the floor. Hongbing exhaled through his nose, the way he always did after narrowly avoiding an ambush. "Your modern world," he muttered, "has too many ways to spy on a man." Nearby, Kaito, the sales associate, mouthed 'what the hell' to his smartphone camera.
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"Why does this 'T-shirt' constrict my movement? The sleeves are too short for proper swordplay..."
"These 'boxer briefs' are an abomination against nature,"
"By the Emperor's beard, what madman designed these 'socks'?"
When we finally emerged, me in stiff dark jeans and a navy sweater that itched like crazy, Hongbing in black tactical pants (the only thing he'd approve of) and the reluctantly accepted cat shirt. Our old man's eyes actually grew misty.
"You look..." He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly. "Almost like real people."
My partner scowled, picking at his shirt where the cat's unnervingly wide eyes stared blankly ahead. "This fabric would not protect against arrows or blade strikes."
"Good thing nobody's shooting at you in a Starbucks," Maruyama muttered, then louder: "Now shoes. And for the love of all that's holy, try not to declare war on the footwear department."
Shoes proved to be an even greater trial by fire than the clothing had been. The footwear section stretched before us like some kind of bizarre battlefield, with rows upon rows of colored foot armour displayed on miniature pedestals under blinding spotlights.
The air smelled strongly of synthetic rubber, a far cry from the earthy leather and woodsmoke aroma of our cobbler's workshops back home.
Maruyama marched us directly to what he called the "practical section," though nothing about these bizarre contraptions looked practical to my warrior's eye. With a flourish, he presented a pair of white monstrosities adorned with glowing blue stripes that pulsed faintly, like some alchemist's failed experiment.
"Behold," he announced with forced cheer, "sneakers. The pinnacle of modern footwear."
My partner took one gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if handling a venomous snake. He turned it over in his hands, his expression growing increasingly dismayed as he examined the flimsy construction. With a look of deep concentration, he pressed his thumb into the sole, testing its give."These have no proper grip for rooftop running," he declared at last, his tone that of a general delivering devastating battlefield news. "The tread pattern is decorative rather than functional. And this material -" he pinched the mesh "- would shred at the first contact with rough stone."
Maruyama's eye twitched visibly. "You're not going to be running across rooftops!"
His answering glare could have melted steel. "You don't know that." His fingers flexed unconsciously, missing the reassuring weight of his sword. "What if we're pursued? What if the building catches fire? What if-"
"None of those scenarios involves parkour!" Our old man interrupted, his voice climbing several octaves.Our debate was interrupted by an amused chuckle. The store clerk who did not look like a local leaned against a display case, openly enjoying our distress.
He had tattoos creeping up his neck that would have marked him as a criminal in our time. Yet here he stood with the casual confidence of a man in his element.
"First time buying shoes, guys?" he asked in English, popping a bubble of gum. The scent of watermelon filled the air between us.
Hongbing fixed him with a stare that could make hardened soldiers wet themselves on the battlefield. "First time in your century," he replied in Mandarin, each word dripping with icy precision.
The clerk's gum bubble froze mid-pop. For a long moment, he simply stared, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. Then, remarkably, his face split into a grin. "Whoa... you're Chinese?! Rad," he breathed, looking at us with new appreciation. "You guys are like... hardcore method actors or something, right? That's some next-level character work."
Our old man seized the opportunity as he started talking in English. "Yes! Exactly! They're... uh... preparing for a historical drama. Very dedicated to their roles." He shot us a warning look that clearly said Play along.
I forced a laugh that sounded painfully false even to my own ears. "You've caught us out. We're researching for a... a play about ancient warriors in modern times."
The clerk nodded enthusiastically. "That's dope as hell. You need the right kicks to complete the look, though." He sized us up with a practised eye. "Let me guess - you're going for that 'fish out of water' vibe but still need functionality?"
Hongbing opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver another scathing assessment of modern footwear, but I stepped on his foot hard. "Exactly," I said through clenched teeth. "Something that says 'timeless warrior' but also 'can blend in at a normal shop.'"
The clerk snapped his fingers. "I gottchu." He disappeared into the back and emerged moments later with two boxes. "Try these, it has classic styling but with modern tech. Good arch support for all that... whatever ancient warriors do. And grippy enough for emergency rooftop escapes." He winked at my partner
As we examined the proffered shoes, which were at least a sensible black rather than the glowing blue contraption we were looking at earlier. I noticed the clerk discreetly filming us on his phone again. Hongbing noticed too and made to protest, but I shook my head minutely. In this strange new world, perhaps being seen as eccentric performers was the best disguise we could hope for.
Maruyama looked ready to kiss the clerk in gratitude. "Perfect. We'll take them. And some socks. Lots of socks."
The clerk grinned at us, his metal piercings glinting under the store lights. "Alright, alright, I'll throw in extra socks. By the way," he added with sudden enthusiasm, "you guys seem cool! Can I get your number?"
I hesitated for only a second before handing over my phone. "I don't mind..."His fingers flew across the screen with practised ease before returning the device. I glanced at the new contact and blinked.
"Michael Reece?" The Western name rolled awkwardly off my tongue as I looked at him
Maruyama coughed meaningfully. "Gaikokujin names are common here," he muttered under his breath. "Half the staff at my company are English employees"
The clerk, Michael, just winked. "Dad's American, Mom's from Tokyo. Makes for interesting family reunions." He tapped his ring on his middle finger. "You should see what they said about these."
Hongbing studied the young man with renewed interest, no doubt reassessing his initial dismissal. I pocketed the phone, marvelling at yet another way this future world blurred the lines we'd once considered absolute by the power of communication
"Next time you're in," Michael called as we turned to leave, "ask for me. I'll hook you up with the employee discount or we'll meet up someplace to have a drink, how about that?" The promise of future savings and a drink did little to ease the surreal feeling that we'd just made our first friend in this strange new century.
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Well, it seems that nature's call led to... perhaps the most traumatic experience yet, a gauntlet of gleaming porcelain, flashing lights, and machines that seemed determined to humiliate us at every turn. The automatic doors whooshed open as we approached, making Hongbing flinch "Sorcery," he muttered, eyeing the motion sensor like it might curse him. Inside, the bathroom was a temple of discomfort, fluorescent lights that were too bright, tiles too sterile, and an overwhelming lemon scent that made my nose twitch. The urinals had strange ice cubes floating in them (why?) and the toilets...
Hongbing froze in front of one, his face a mask of horror. "Jincheng," he said slowly, pointing at the seat. "Why is it warm?" Before I could even answer, the toilet flushed on its own.Hongbing leapt backwards, crashing into the sink counter. "IT'S HAUNTED! IT'S HAUNTED!!!!!!""It's motion-activated!" Maruyama called from outside, sounding like he was two seconds away from screaming into his hands.
The sinks were worse.
"Ooooh....Automated," I observed as the water turned on by unseen magic. "Ingenious." My assassin buddy wasn't convinced. "Sorcery. Probably steals your soul while washing your hands." He demonstrated by waving his fingers under the sensor, then yelped when the automatic soap dispenser squirted unexpectedly, hitting him square in the chest. "IT SPIT ON ME!" I bit back a laugh. "I think it's just soap..." Then the hand dryer roared to life, and Hongbing lost. his. mind.
"DEMON WIND!" he bellowed, dropping into a battle stance. When the machine didn't stop, he kicked it, a perfect spinning heel strike that left the appliance dented and sparking. The dryer wheezed pathetically before shutting off. Silence....... Then, from a stall, a timid voice: "Uh... you okay over there?"
Maruyama was waiting outside, massaging his temples like he was trying to physically push his headache back into his skull. "Please tell me you didn't break anything." "Define 'break,'" I said.
He groaned.
Hongbing, still scowling at his damp shirt, muttered, "How do you people function with so many... machines?" Maruyama sighed. "You get used to it." Then, after a beat, he added under his breath: "Most people do."As we walked away, the bathroom door slid shut behind us with a smug whoosh. Hongbing flipped it off over his shoulder.
Note to self: Avoid a public restroom at all costs.
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