We journey now to the islands to the east – or west, depending on where you are relative to them. Here your title is Emperor. They tell you you’re just a figurehead, though you can still order whatever breakfast you want. They may be right; you did get that breakfast. Your ceremonial sword and armor are made of paper. The samurai never let you into their tea parties, and the ninjas are always tying your shoelaces together. And the epic poem they wrote about you is only 17 syllables long. Rice has been adopted as currency, and no-one seems to even be trying to get your face onto the grains. But when you wake up each morning and look out over the land, life doesn’t seem so bad. Now, what’s for breakfast?