The young Oni warrior passes by this street every day, sticking to the glass of the florist's shop to see the new ikebana arrangement, before leaving satisfied. It is difficult to identify the age of an Oni, but she carries a bamboo naginata on her back, indicating that she is still a musha in training. Our florist has a secret rule: Oni are not allowed inside because their actions are uncouth, and if they are not careful, they will destroy months of the flower arrangers' efforts in the blink of an eye. We are justifiably cautious, as we never know if they might have the support of their kin from the underworld behind them. There is an alley on the other side of the florist, and misbehaving students use it as a hideout. They demand money from their frail and weak classmates, throwing them to the ground or stomping on them. This Wednesday evening, I saw a little boy with a backpack run by the window with a sullen, tear-stained face and a bruised nose. On Thursday, he passed by this place with the Oni, but soon turned back alone and squirmed back into the alley. On Friday afternoon, I was helping the master arrange flowers when I saw people squatting along the side of the street with water pipes, wine bottles, crowbars, and the like. Before we could call the police, the person they were waiting for arrived. The Oni musha accompanied the little boy from school just like yesterday. When they got to our window, the little boy suddenly began to pick up his pace, and the teens who were bullying him quickly surrounded him. They were almost ready to kill the Oni. The Oni's bamboo naginata managed to block a few blows, but was broken into several pieces by their sheer brute force. Then, that was the first time I saw an ‘Oni.’ The Oni musha who had lost her weapon raised her fists, tearing through metal with her bare knuckles, smearing her own blood in the eyes of her opponents, lashing out with her knees and feet when her fists were blocked, striking out with her horns when her legs were restrained, biting with her teeth when her horns were blocked. When the whistle signaling the police's arrival came at last, only one was still standing – the Oni. She wiped the corners of her bleeding lips emotionlessly, like the legendary man-eating fiends of lore. The people were intimidated by her silence and kept their distance to avoid her, pointing at her from behind windows and doors. Then, my master opened the door of the flower shop and walked out, sliding a bamboo leaf freshly-folded into an appropriate shape into the palm of her hand. The young Oni warrior blinked, as if she had woken up from a nightmare, carefully closed her fist, and smiled at my master.