Chapter 24: Gyudon (Beef Bowl)

Cola stands at her door, twirling a lone key in her hand, tossing it up and catching it.
“Gotta get a keychain. Just one key, but it feels like it’ll get lost…”
Muttering to herself, she slips into her new unisex canvas shoes at the genkan, nudges the door open with her shoulder, and steps outside.
The narrow hallway, though tight, is spotless, and paired with the vibrant blue sky above, it feels oddly refreshing.
Descending from the third floor to the first, she’s greeted by a K-car crawling by, driven not by a woman but a weary middle-aged man.
In Japan, these compact cars aren’t tied to age or gender—cheap and easy to park, they’re everywhere.
Cola had planned to buy one after language school, maybe when she got to college.
Even if her mom wouldn’t spring for a new one, a used car would do.
Japan’s secondhand market is solid—reliable, affordable.
A language school classmate once snagged an old Mercedes for 20-30,000 yen, and Cola was green with envy.
A rich kid, jealous of a used Mercedes—how ridiculous!
She grimaces.
“Damn it, as a guy, she said men should fend for themselves. Now I’m a girl, and she still won’t spoil me—cut me off completely! Mom’s all talk, lying through her teeth…”
But even with money, she can’t drive now. Her ID says 16, and Japan’s driving age is 20.
Four whole years!
Her dream of a Japan road trip feels impossibly distant.
Groaning, she grabs a not-quite-cold canned Cola, pops the tab, and chugs.
She resolves to turn her frustration into appetite—tonight, she’s eating big.
Maybe it’s the buildings’ tones or the island weather, but Japanese streets at dusk always feel hyper-saturated, like they’re filtered.
Cola avoids the main road, cutting through alleys between houses—navigation says it’s faster.
The lanes are narrow but manageable; she steps aside only when cars pass.
The asphalt’s smooth but old, cracked, with clumps of weeds sprouting along the edges.
For Cola, who lived in Tokyo, it’s a fresh sight.
This unfamiliar Japan makes the 30-40 minute walk feel short.
“Not much greenery… just a couple trees in each yard…”
She smacks her lips.
“Maybe that’s why there’s fewer bugs? Tch, no way…”
Muttering, she weaves through alleys, emerging onto the main road.
The traffic lights are old-school, not sleek like back home.
Bulbous, curved, glowing with lead glass tubes, unlike LEDs.
Compared to bustling Tokyo, Maebashi, though nearby, feels spacious—land isn’t as scarce.
Convenience stores and restaurants have parking lots out front, unlike Tokyo, where finding a spot for her damn bike was a nightmare.
The open streets make her feel freer, her steps lighter.
Reaching her destination, she’s not even tired, like she could walk another 20 minutes.
Here’s her dinner spot—a famous Japanese gyudon chain.
These are Japan’s cheap fast food joints, where the priciest set meal costs half an hour’s wage, affordable for anyone.
Even the legendary “Sanwa gods” eat here.
Gyudon’s just beef over rice—not whole cuts, but scraps and minced meat.
Still, it’s real beef, one of Japan’s few cheap, filling fast foods.
With a membership, it’s even better—points for coupons, stackable event discounts.
Eat here every meal, and you’re paying 60-70% each time.
Cola’s a member with a big coupon left.
She swipes her card at the order machine, getting a deluxe gyudon and a sterile egg.
Sterile eggs just mean sanitized shells—sterilizing the inside’s impossible.
In Japan, raw food’s inevitable, but raw eggs are the one thing Cola can stomach.
It’s peak dinner time; the place is packed.
She weaves to the back, snagging a corner single seat.
The rice refill counter’s closed, with a notice about rising rice prices making free refills unsustainable.
Before Japan, Cola couldn’t believe a developed country could struggle to afford rice.
But it’s real.
She misses Qingguo’s life, the Northeast rice she ate for years without thinking twice—always fresh.
Here?
They think three-year-old rice is “fresh.”
She often wonders, with rice prices this high, wouldn’t there be riots back home?
Slavs as a “fighting race”?
Pfft—&@ people are the real warriors, with dynasties flipping like pancakes.
“Number 127, your deluxe gyudon’s ready!”
“Mine!”
Starving, Cola jumps up, hands her ticket to the staff, and carries her massive bowl back.
In Japan, “deluxe” is relative—the bowl’s big here but smaller than her middle school soup bowls.
Back then, she’d fill those with rice…
The gyudon’s piled high with beef slices, sprinkled with green onions, garnished with pickled red ginger, and layered with onions—the meal’s main vitamin source.
In Qingguo, she hated onions, too strong.
In Japan, she had no choice—side dishes are either onions, daikon, cabbage shreds, or bean sprouts that practically turn you into one.
What can you do?
Suck it up.
Maybe because she’s famished, it tastes amazing.
Still, she can’t finish the last half.
A girl’s stomach is smaller than she thought.
As a guy, starving, she could’ve downed two deluxe bowls.
“Ugh… burp…”
She rubs her stomach.
“Can’t eat more… no, can’t give up, paid for it, wasting’s a sin… ugh, should’ve skipped the deluxe…”
As she debates lingering to finish, packing it in a paper cup, or giving up, a sharp voice cuts in:
“Found you! As expected, here! Vile vampire, prepare to die!”
“Huh—?!”
“I’m a vampire hunter, you can’t escape! I’ve sniffed you out! No vampire’s good!”
“Hold up!”
“…What?”
Cola eyes the tall girl with sharp, upturned eyes, smirking.
“Fighting in the shop’s not cool, right?”
“Oh… then outside! I’ll slay you for the people!”
“Wait! You eaten?”
…Gurgle—
The girl’s stomach roars in protest.
“I-I ate! Wait, you’re not finishing that?”
“Yeah, too full.”
“Wasting food—shameful! Vampires are all rotten!”
She grabs the half-bowl, scarfing it down in seconds.
If Cola was startled at first, now she’s relaxed.
This girl’s no vampire hunter—she’s a straight-up comedian!
“You fell for it. That bowl’s poisoned.”
“You—despicable!”
“Now come outside quietly, or else…”
“Even with my last breath, I’ll take you down!”
“No, no, not deadly poison—just one that makes you strip and dance in the street. Don’t want social death, do you, Miss Hunter?”
“Damn you, so low!”
“Alright, alright, come outside, don’t disturb others’ meals, or they’ll think you’re a chuuni.”
“I’m no chuuni! I’m a legit vampire hunter!”
“Sure, sure… what’s your name?”
“Inuyoi Sae-ko…”
“Huh? Dog-raised?”
“You’re insulting me!”
“Cough, didn’t mean it…”