The taste of humiliation still lingered on Raizen's tongue like cheap aftershave.
Not even thirty minutes ago, he had been a breath away from climax — and instead got blue-balled in a wooden shaft by a girl who ran out blushing and saying, "Please don't tell anyone and forget what happened."
He didn't know what was worse: the frustration building in his loins… or the complete collapse of his dignity.
His shoulders slumped as he walked aimlessly out the back gate of the university, where the buildings were older, the roads narrower, and the air tasted more like rust than youth.
"A thousand years in Hell, and now I'm losing to wooden elevators, cocky girls, and my own libido… Great."
He kicked a loose can on the ground, watching it clatter into a gutter with poetic uselessness.
A gust of wind carried the faint scent of tea and old wood.
At the corner of a forgotten alley, wedged between a shuttered coin laundry and a ramen stand with peeling stickers, stood a small tea shop with a crooked wooden sign that read:
三月雲 — March Cloud.
The paint was faded, the door slightly ajar. The place looked like it hadn't had a customer since the invention of bras.
Raizen stared at it for a moment.
"…Cheap enough for a loser like me to afford."
He stepped inside.
⸻
Inside the Shop
The first thing he noticed wasn't the tea. It was the aura.
The air was thick — not with smoke, but with presence.
Like walking into a dojo where a grandmaster had just finished meditating.
Behind the counter, an old man poured steaming tea from a clay pot. He had shoulder-length white hair, swept back cleanly. Sharp, narrow eyes, almost hawk-like. Dressed in a simple but ironed dark-blue asian robe.
Despite his age, the man's posture was perfect. His movements — smooth and efficient.
And the aura… it was powerful. It commanded respect.
A normal person would've hesitated, bowed, maybe even apologized for breathing.
Raizen just frowned.
"I'm done getting stepped on. I don't care if this guy glows like a final boss."
The man didn't look up. He poured another cup of tea. His voice was low but clear.
"Sit down. You're here to sulk, not bark."
Raizen blinked. Then scowled.
"Who the hell do you think you are, Grandpa Yoda…"
But his legs moved on their own.
He sat.
⸻
The Tea of Men
The tea was hot.
Too hot.
Raizen didn't complain. He just stared into the steam like it owed him money.
Across from him, the old man silently poured his own cup, as if the young stranger's gloom was just background noise — like the hum of cicadas outside.
Raizen finally muttered:
"…Being human sucks."
The old man didn't flinch.
He took a sip. Calmly. Deliberately.
"You say that like you've tried something better."
Raizen's jaw twitched.
"…I have."
The man raised an eyebrow, not pressing.
Raizen leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes still on the tea.
"Being strong. Being feared. Having purpose in every breath. That's what I had before. Now? I have backaches and rent."
The old man smiled faintly.
"Ah. So you miss being invincible."
Raizen didn't answer.
Outside, wind rustled the trees.
"I've seen men who thought power made them more than human," the old man continued. "But it only made them less willing to be human."
Raizen scowled. "That's not deep. That's just what weak people say to feel better."
The man chuckled.
"No. It's what old people say when they've seen gods cry harder than beggars."
Raizen blinked.
"…What?"
"To be human," the man said, setting down his cup, "is to wake up fragile, flawed, aching — and still choose to try. Still choose to love. Still choose to laugh. And fail. And try again. You think that's weakness?"
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp now.
"I think that's courage."
Raizen opened his mouth, but the words caught.
He looked down at his hands.
So soft now.
Mortal.
Breakable.
"You ever fall so far from who you were," he muttered, "that even your reflection feels like a lie?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
Then he smiled, distant.
"Yes. I called that year 'marriage.'"
Raizen let out a dry laugh — surprised by himself.
The old man stood and walked toward the back. For a second, Raizen thought the conversation was over.
Then—
The door creaked again.
The man returned. But this time, not as a simple tea monk.
He wore a jet-black suit that clung like silk armor. His hair now slicked back. A luxury watch gleamed from under his sleeve. He carried a briefcase that probably had ten times Raizen's net worth inside.
Outside, a sleek Maybach pulled up. The driver bowed.
Raizen stared. "…You serious?"
The man smirked.
"I'm always serious. Even when I'm smiling. sorry young man, my time is up i need to be somewhere."
As he walked to the door, he turned and said:
"You've fallen far, boy. But that just means the climb will be longer. And the view — better."
As the black Maybach began to pull away, the old man leaned out the open window and shouted with a grin:
"I hope to see you again, Takumi! You're probably the most interesting punk I've talked to in this city! Hahaha!"
Then—
Clink.
Something small hit the ground near Raizen's foot. A key.
The old man called out one last time:
"Here! The shop — it's yours, HAHAHA!"
"Before you complain about being human, at least try living it with pride first!"
The car door shut with a confident thud, and the Maybach glided away like it belonged in a different world entirely.
Raizen stood at the doorway, the echo of laughter still lingering in the air.
He scratched his head.
"…Old bastard's got style."
He turned back inside and poured himself the last sip of tea.
Then nodded.
He exhaled and murmured:
"…being human."
He stood up, back a little straighter.
And left the tea shop quietly.
"That old man really left me his junk," Raizen muttered, glancing back at the tea shop as he walked away — keys spinning lazily in his hand.