Before Ryan could even formulate a diplomatic response to the magistrate's impossible translation demand, a sharp, unyielding summons cut through the murmur of the castle courtyard. A junior clerk bearing the frantic, wide-eyed expression of an intern tasked with retrieving a lost spreadsheet tapped Ryan aggressively on the shoulder, barking an immediate order from the magistrate: Ryan was to kneel before the shogunate's senior tax inspector without a moment's delay. It was the absolute, career-ending equivalent of being hauled into a closed-door boardroom for a hostile financial review with zero notice.
With the heavy, bone-weary sigh of a marketing coordinator forced into an unscheduled audit on a Wednesday evening, Ryan adjusted the strap of his canvas messenger bag and lowered himself onto the cold tatami matting. He straightened the lapel of his pressed white collared shirt, mentally preparing his posture and expressions for a severe grilling. Across the low wooden table sat the senior tax inspector—a severe, top-knotted official whose rigid posture and razor-thin glare mirrored every difficult regional director Ryan had ever had to justify a quarterly budget overrun to.
The inspector slammed a heavy, ink-stained ledger onto the table, demanding an immediate accounting for centuries-old inventory discrepancies that bore an uncanny, terrifying resemblance to the phantom logistics transfers back in Sydney. Ryan simply blinked behind strain-heavy eyes, keeping his expression mild and cooperative as he mentally calculated whether this feudal interrogation would cause him to miss his connection for the evening commuter train back to Rhodes.