Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Shikurou failed to parry his master’s incoming long sword strike and received a single slash—a shallow wound running from his left cheek down to his jaw.
Shikurou—fully conscious of his sin, that fatal sin of having engaged in a shameless affair with his master’s favored concubine, even if he had been first tempted—regarded the long sword his master now raised overhead as deserved punishment. Though he strove to evade its blade, he harbored not the slightest impulse to resist.
It was only due to this hesitation of his—this reluctance to throw away his life—that he now sought to escape by any means possible.
And so, when his master denounced his transgression and struck at him, he seized a nearby candlestick as an impromptu weapon to deflect the master’s sharp blade.
Yet despite nearing fifty, his master—still robustly muscular—pressed forward with relentless sword strikes. Hampered by his inability to mount an offensive, Shikurou unwittingly failed to block them and received the first slash across his left cheek.
Yet the moment he saw blood, Shikurou’s heart transformed instantly.
His once rational heart had turned as savage as a bull pierced by a bullfighter’s spear.
When he thought he would die anyway, there was neither society nor master and servant.
Until now, the man he had thought of as his master appeared to him only as a mere animal—nay, a vicious beast—threatening his life.
He shifted resolutely to the offensive.
He let out a roar and hurled the candlestick he held straight at his opponent’s face.
Saburobei Nakagawa, his master—who had let his guard down upon seeing Shikurou engaged in purely defensive maneuvers—failed to block the suddenly hurled candlestick, its wax receptacle’s edge striking his right eye with force.
Seizing the moment his opponent faltered, Shikurou lunged faster than drawing his short sword.

“You dare defy me?!” Saburobei Nakagawa raged.
Shikurou pressed his attack in silence.
The master’s nearly three-foot-long long sword and Shikurou’s short sword clashed violently two or three times.

As master and servant desperately crossed swords over a dozen exchanges, the master’s blade grazed the low ceiling two or three times, repeatedly robbing him of the freedom to wield his long sword.
Shikurou pressed his advantage at that opening.
When the master noticed this disadvantage, he attempted to retreat to the open outdoors, stepping back two or three paces until he was beyond the veranda.
In that opening, as Shikurou still sought to press his advantage, the master barked “Hah!” and slashed down in frustration.
However, in his frustration, that long sword unwittingly bit two or three inches into the lintel hanging between the veranda and the tatami room.

“Damn it!” As Saburobei Nakagawa strained to wrench free his long sword, Shikurou exploited the opening to lunge forward and slash ruthlessly across his master’s flank.

The instant his adversary crumpled, Shikurou regained his senses.
As his consciousness—feverish and clouded until now—finally cleared, he recognized the enormity of his crime: master-slaying. Overwhelmed by remorse and dread, he collapsed where he stood.

Night had advanced beyond the first watch.
The main residence stood distant from the retainers’ quarters; thus their horrific duel had apparently gone unnoticed save by the maids dwelling in the main house.
Those maids lay unconscious from the violence, huddled together in a single room where they trembled like reeds.

Shikurou was gripped by profound remorse.
Though he had been a dissolute youth and reckless samurai, he had never before committed any deed truly worthy of being called evil.
That he should now have perpetrated the gravest of sins—the first among the Eight Heinous Crimes of slaying one's master—was beyond anything he could have conceived.
He retrieved the bloodied short sword once more.
That his affair with his master's concubine should lead not to his own execution but instead to his master's death—however he considered it, there could be no justification.
Calmly resolving to end his own life, he averted his eyes from his master's corpse that still twitched faintly.
Then came a voice from the adjoining room—a sound like release from some immense pressure.

“Oh my, I was so worried about what would happen. If you’d been sliced in two, I figured it’d be my turn next—I’ve been watching from behind the screen this whole time, holding my breath, you know. But really, that turned out just right. Now that it’s come to this, we can’t afford to delay another moment. Let’s grab whatever cash we have and flee. The others don’t seem to have noticed yet, so if we’re going to flee, it has to be now. Since the wet nurse and maids seem to be trembling uncontrollably in the kitchen, I’ll go tell them not to make a fuss. Come on! You go look for the cash.” The voice uttering this was indeed trembling. But she seemed to be suppressing such trembling through a woman’s fierce resolve, striving to maintain an appearance of composure.

Shikurou—who had completely lost his own unique motivations—revived with vigor upon hearing the woman’s voice.
Rather than acting of his own will, he stood up like a puppet moved by the woman’s intentions and reached for the paulownia wood tea cabinet in the tatami room.
While leaving bloodstained handprints on its pure white wood grain, he began rummaging through the drawers.
But by the time the woman—his master’s concubine Oyumi—returned, Shikurou had found only a single packet of five ryō in silver coins.
Oyumi returned from the kitchen and, upon seeing the money,

“What good is such paltry change?” she said, then began frantically rummaging through the drawers herself.
In the end, she even searched inside the armor chest, but not a single gold coin emerged.

“Since he was a notorious miser, he might’ve put it in a jar and buried it somewhere.”
With that resentful declaration, she swiftly bundled up clothes that looked valuable and an inro into a furoshiki wrap.

Thus, this adulterous pair departed from the residence of Saburobei Nakagawa, hatamoto of Asakusa Tawaramachi, in the early autumn of An’ei 3 (1774).
Behind them remained Saburobei Nakagawa’s three-year-old son Sanenosuke Nakagawa—unaware of his father’s violent death—sleeping soundly in his wet nurse’s arms.

II

Shikurou and Oyumi, having fled Edo, deliberately avoided the Tōkaidō Highway and set their course westward along the Tōsandō Highway, moving furtively to evade detection.
Shikurou was constantly tormented by the pangs of conscience for his crime of master-slaying.
But Oyumi—a lowborn woman who had worked her way up from being a maid at a frugal teahouse—whenever Shikurou showed even the slightest sign of despondency,

“Since we’re outlaws now, there’s no point fretting over it.”
“Steeling your nerves to live boldly in this world—that’s true wisdom.” These words drove Shikurou’s heart to plunge ever deeper into wickedness day and night.
But by the time they reached Yabuhara post station in Kiso from Shinano Province, their travel funds had dwindled to less than a hundred mon.
As their desperation grew, they found themselves compelled to commit misdeeds.
At first, as a male-female pair, they took up the easiest honey trap scams as their trade.
And so, at inns from Shinano to Bishū, they had been stealing the travel funds of passing townspeople and peasants.
At first, Shikurou had begun committing crimes under the woman’s fierce instigation, but he eventually came to savor the thrill of wrongdoing.
Toward Shikurou, who appeared as a ronin, the victimized townspeople and peasants remained remarkably compliant even as their money was taken.

As his misdeeds evolved in scale, Shikurou progressed from honey trap schemes to simpler extortions requiring fewer steps, until he even came to regard murderous robbery as legitimate work.

He had settled unawares at Toriitoge Pass spanning Shinano and Kiso.
By day he ran a teahouse; by night he robbed travelers.

He now felt neither hesitation nor unease in this existence.
Targeting travelers who appeared wealthy, he would kill them and deftly dispose of their remains.
By committing such crimes three or four times yearly, he could comfortably sustain himself for a full year.

It was spring of the third year since they had fled Edo.

Due to two sankin-kotai processions of northern daimyo passing through in succession, the inns along the Kiso Road were bustling more than usual lately.
Especially around this time, travelers from Shinshu, Echigo, and Etchu provinces bound for the Ise pilgrimage lined the highway.
Among them were many who had extended their leisurely journeys from Kyoto to Osaka.
Shikurou thought of eliminating two or three of them to obtain that year’s living expenses.

On the Kiso Road as well, amid cedars and cypresses, the mountain cherry blossoms that had bloomed began to scatter in the evening dusk.
A man and a woman traveler stopped by Shikurou’s shop.
They were clearly husband and wife.
The man was over thirty.
The woman was probably twenty-three or four.
They appeared to be a young couple from a wealthy Shinano farming family, embarking on a carefree journey without attendants.

When Shikurou saw the couple's figure, he thought of making them this year's victims.

"It can't be much farther to Yabuhara post station."

While saying this, the man tried to retie the straps of his straw sandals in front of Shikurou’s shop.
Before Shikurou could respond, Oyumi emerged from the kitchen while—
“That is correct. Once you descend this pass, it’s no more than half the journey remaining. Please, do take your time and rest here first,” she said.
When Shikurou heard Oyumi’s words, he realized she was already urging him toward some dreadful scheme.
Shikurou’s standard method was to deceive travelers into believing the road to Yabuhara post station—still over two ri (approximately 7.86 kilometers) remaining—was nearly traversed, lull them into complacency, then exploit their journey’s encroachment into nighttime to sprint through a shortcut and ambush them at the inn’s entrance.
The man, upon hearing Oyumi’s words,

“In that case, let’s have some tea then,” he said as they had already fallen into their first trap.
The woman removed her traveler’s sedge hat with its red cord and settled down beside her husband.

After resting there for nearly half an hour to recover from the fatigue of climbing the pass, they left their sedge hats behind and began descending Toriitoge Pass toward Kogiso Valley, now tinged with purple dusk.

When the two figures disappeared from view, Oyumi seized the moment to give the signal.
Shikurou, like a hunter pursuing prey, fastened his short sword at his waist and dashed after them.
He turned right from the main highway, followed the flow of the Kisogawa River, and hastened along a treacherous mountain path.

When Shikurou reached the tree-lined path before Yabuhara post station, the long spring day had completely ended, and a moon about ten days old was ascending beyond the Kiso mountains, its faint white light alone barely illuminating the Kiso peaks.

Shikurou hid himself beneath a clump of round-leaved willows growing along the highway and waited patiently for the couple to approach.
Even he, deep down, could not help reflecting on how profoundly sinful it was to unjustly take the lives of these two travelers enjoying their blissful journey.
However, once begun, abandoning this task and turning back was not a choice his heart could permit in Oyumi's presence.

He had no desire to spill the couple's blood. He hoped they would submit to his demands without protest if at all possible. If they handed over their travel funds and clothes, he resolved he would not kill them.

As his resolve finally hardened, the figures of a man and woman approaching hurriedly came into view from down the highway.

The two, because the path from the pass was longer than they had prepared for, appeared utterly exhausted; helping each other, they hurried forth in silence.

As the two approached the thicket of round-leaved willows, Shikurou suddenly stood in the middle of the highway.
And then, he showered them with the threatening words he had grown accustomed to uttering time and again.
Then, the man seemed to become desperate; drawing his short sword, he positioned himself protectively in front of his wife.
Shikurou found himself momentarily thwarted at the outset.
But he steeled his voice, “Now, traveler, don’t throw your lives away by resisting!
“I’m not saying I’ll take your life.”
“Hand over your money and clothes without a fuss!” he shouted.
That face—the male traveler was staring fixedly at it, but

“Ah! Aren’t you the teahouse owner from the pass earlier?” cried the man as he desperately leaped forward to attack.
Shikurou thought it was all over.
Once his face had been recognized, he thought that for their own safety, they could no longer let this couple live.

Skillfully evading the man’s desperate strike, he delivered a single sword blow to his neck.
Looking, he saw the woman squatting by the roadside as if she had fainted, trembling violently.

Shikurou could not bring himself to kill the woman.
But he thought nothing could outweigh his own peril.
Thinking to act while still enraged from killing the man, he brandished his bloodied sword and approached the woman.
The woman clasped her hands together and begged Shikurou for her life.
When met with those eyes staring into him, Shikurou could not bring himself to lower his sword.
But he thought he had to kill her.
At this moment, Shikurou’s greed made him think it would be a waste to cut the woman and ruin her garments.
When he thought this, he removed the towel hanging at his waist and strangled the woman’s neck.

After killing the couple, Shikurou was suddenly gripped by the terror of having taken human lives, finding he could not endure another moment.
After taking the couple's money belts and clothes, he fled the scene in a flurry.
He had killed over ten people before now, but these had all been elderly men with graying hair, merchants, and others of such stations—he had never before laid hands on two members of a young couple.

He returned, tormented by deep pangs of conscience.
When he entered the house, he immediately threw the man and woman's clothes and money toward Oyumi as if they were filthy things.
The woman calmly began by examining the money.
The money was less than expected, barely exceeding twenty ryō.

Oyumi picked up the murdered woman’s kimono. “Oh my, a Yellow Hachijō silk kimono with a crested crepe underrobe.”
“But you, what did you do with this woman’s headpiece?” she demanded, turning to glare at Shikurou.

“Headpiece!” Shikurou half-responded.

“That’s right. The headpiece.”
“With Yellow Hachijō silk and crested crepe for her attire, the headpiece couldn’t possibly be some imitation comb or hairpin.”
“I glared at that woman when she took off her sedge hat earlier.”
“It was unmistakably hawksbill turtle shell,” Oyumi pressed in.
Shikurou, who had never even dreamed of the murdered woman’s headpiece, found himself utterly unable to respond.

“You!
“Surely you didn’t forget to take it?”
“If it’s hawksbill turtle shell, seven or eight ryō is certain.”
“It’s not like you’re some greenhorn bandit—what’s the point of taking lives then?”
“You killed a woman dressed in such fine clothes yet didn’t notice her headpiece—when exactly did you take up this thieving trade?”
“What a blundering thief you are!”
“Come on, say something!” Oyumi pressed imperiously, confronting Shikurou.

Shikurou, consumed to his very core by remorse for having killed the young couple, was deeply wounded by the woman’s words.
He felt not a shred of regret for his oversight as a thief—forgetting to take the headpiece—nor for his incompetence.
Precisely because he thought killing the two was wrong—because his mind became wholly absorbed in the act of killing—he had completely forgotten that the woman wore a decoration on her head worth nearly ten ryō.
Even now, Shikurou felt no regret over having forgotten.
Though he had sunk to robbery and killed for profit, when he considered that he hadn’t sucked the marrow from their bones like some demon, he felt no remorse.
Nevertheless, even as Oyumi saw a same-sex victim brutally killed—the undergarments still clinging to the corpse laid bare before her eyes like an offering to the slaughterer—her insatiable greed stretched further still, reaching even for the dropped headpiece that had escaped Shikurou’s notice. Contemplating this, Shikurou felt unbearable revulsion toward her.

Oyumi remained utterly unaware of the drastic change that had occurred within Shikurou’s heart,

“Come on!
“You!
“Please run over there.
“It’s only natural not to hold back on something we’ve gone to such lengths to obtain,” she declared with a triumphant expression, thoroughly convinced of the soundness in her reasoning.

But Shikurou remained silent and did not respond.

“Oh! It seems I’ve struck a nerve by pointing out the flaws in your work.”
“So you really have no intention of going?”
“Do you mean to let a gain of nearly ten ryō slip through your fingers?” Oyumi pressed Shikurou again and again.

Though Shikurou had always obeyed Oyumi’s words without question, his mind now churned with such violent upheaval that her voice barely registered as he sank deep into thought.

“No matter how much I say it, you won’t go, will you?”
“Well then, I’ll make a quick trip there myself.”
“Where is it?”
“So it’s the usual place after all?” said Oyumi.

Shikurou, who had begun to feel an unbearable disgust toward Oyumi, was rather glad that she would be away from his side even for a moment.

“You know where.”
“As usual—the pine grove before Yabuhara Inn,” Shikurou spat out.
“Well then, I’ll make a quick trip.”
“Fortunately, it’s a moonlit night and bright outside…”
“Honestly, what a botched job,” Oyumi said as she tucked up her hem, slipped into her sandals, and dashed off.

As Shikurou watched Oyumi’s retreating figure, his heart overflowed with wretchedness.
When he saw the woman running off desperately to strip the hair ornament from a corpse, he could not help but feel profound wretchedness toward her from the depths of his heart—all the more so because he had once loved her.
Moreover, when he himself was committing evil acts—whether mercilessly killing people or stealing money—the mere fact that he was the one doing them had always served as a strange justification, making him seldom feel their wretchedness. Yet when he calmly observed others committing evil acts, their terribleness and wretchedness appeared before his eyes with inexorable clarity.
When he saw the woman he had risked his life to obtain discard every vestige of feminine tenderness for a mere five or ten ryō worth of hawksbill turtle shell ornament—running toward the murdered woman’s corpse like a wolf drawn to carrion—he could no longer endure remaining in this den of sin with her for another moment.
Once he began thinking this way, each and every evil deed he had committed until now came surging back to savage his heart.
The eyes of the woman he had strangled, the gurgling cries of the cocoon merchant drenched in blood, and the screams of the white-haired old man he had slashed at with his sword all assailed his conscience in a single wave.
He wanted to escape his own past as quickly as possible.
He wanted to escape even from himself.
All the more did he want to escape with all his might from the woman who had been the seed of all his sins.

He rose resolutely.
He wrapped two or three garments in a furoshiki.
He rushed outside without completing his preparations, still keeping the coin pouch he had stolen from the man earlier tucked in his breast for immediate travel expenses.
But when he had run about eighteen meters, he suddenly realized that both the money and garments he carried were all stolen goods. As if repelled, he turned back and hurled the garments and money with all his might onto the entryway step of his house.

He ran at full speed along paths that weren't roads by the Kiso River, avoiding any encounter with Oyumi. He had no destination in mind. He simply wanted to flee as far as possible—even an inch, even a fraction—from this base of his sins.

Three

Shikurou raced over twenty *ri* of distance—whether mountain or plain, in a single breath—and stumbled into Jōganji Temple in Ōgaki, Mino Province, by the following day’s afternoon.
He had not originally intended to come to this temple.
When he happened upon this temple midway through his flight, his tormented penitent heart suddenly felt compelled to seek some form of divine radiance.

Jōganji Temple served as the administrative seat of the Shingon Sect throughout Mino Province.
Shikurou clung to the sleeve of Abbot Gen'ō Myōhen Daitokunō and made a sincere confession.
The Abbot, true to his stature, did not abandon even this most heinous criminal.
He stopped Shikurou from turning himself in to the authorities,

“Though you who have piled sin upon sin might find one path in letting the authorities nail your body to the gibbet to receive present retribution, yet through that alone you would have to endure the torments of Avīci Hell through endless kalpas.”
“Rather than that, what matters most is taking refuge in Buddha’s path—by casting away life itself to save all living beings through their deliverance, you shall save yourself as well,” the Abbot instructed.

Shikurou heard these words and felt penitence’s flames sear his heart yet fiercer, resolving then and there to renounce the world.
Ordained by the Abbot’s own hands and granted the Dharma Name Ryōkai, he devoted himself wholly to Buddhist practice. Yet through his fierce religious resolve, in less than six months of training his ascetic discipline shone brighter than hoarfrost: at dawn he concentrated on the Three Mysteries’ rites, at dusk never rose from seated meditation on the esoteric nenbutsu. With both practices gleaming in harmony and sudden wisdom sprouting in his heart, he became a spiritual guide of splendid clarity.
When he perceived his religious resolve had solidified beyond动摇, having obtained his master’s permission, he initiated a great vow to save all people and set forth on pilgrimage through the provinces as an itinerant monk.

Leaving Mino Province behind, he first set his sights on the capital of Kyoto.
Though he had killed many people, he found it agonizing to remain alive even in monastic robes.
For others' sake, he was determined to grind his body to dust if it meant atoning even for one ten-thousandth of his sinful karma.
When he recalled how he himself had tormented travelers in the Kiso mountains, he felt he bore an unatonable burden toward all wayfarers.

In every waking moment, he never failed to consider others.
When he saw travelers struggling on roads, he would take their hands, push their backs, and assist their journeys.
There were times when he carried elderly and children suffering illness across roads spanning several leagues without hesitation.
Even for bridges on village paths branching from main highways—when destroyed—he himself entered mountains to cut timber, haul stones, and make repairs.
When roads crumbled away, he brought earth and gravel to mend them.
Thus through Kinai and Chūgoku provinces he devoted himself solely to accumulating merit, yet when contemplating how his layered sins towered beyond heaven while gathered virtue lay lower than earth, he now lamented his half-life's depth of wickedness.
Shikurou—knowing his atrocities could never be redeemed through paltry good deeds—felt his heart darken.
Though awakening at wayfarers' inns to such unreliable recompense while still coveting life struck him as profoundly shameful—there were even moments he thought to end himself.
Yet each time he summoned unyielding courage and prayed for an opportunity to undertake salvation's great work for all people.

It was autumn in the ninth year of Kyōhō (1724).
He crossed from Akamagaseki to Kokura, paid homage at Usa Hachiman Shrine in Buzen Province, and ascended the Yamakuni River intending to visit Gṛdhrakūṭa Mountain Rakanji Temple; passing through the vast reddish-brown wild plain south of Yokkaichi, he traced his path along the Yamakuni River’s gorge.

The autumn of Chikushi deepened with each post town along the highway. In the mixed forests, sumac trees glowed crimson; across the fields, rice ripened golden-yellow; and beneath farmhouse eaves, local specialty persimmons hung in clusters like deep red jewels.

It was a day shortly after the start of August.
He arrived at Hida Station around noon, having crossed the mountain path from Mitsuguchi over Butsuzaka Pass while keeping the sparkling autumn morning light and the clear, rushing flow of the Yamakuni River to his right.
After partaking of a simple midday meal at the desolate station, he once again set his course southward along Yamakuni Valley.
When he left Hida Station, the path once more followed the Yamakuni River, tracing along banks of volcanic rock.

As Shikurou made his way along the rugged stone-strewn path with his staff for support, he suddenly noticed four or five people—likely local farmers—arguing vehemently by the roadside.

When Shikurou approached, one of them spotted him almost immediately.

“You’ve arrived at an opportune moment.”
“A pitiful soul who suffered a violent death.”
“Since you’ve chanced upon this place, please perform a memorial service,” he said.

When he heard it was a violent death, wondering if it might be the corpse of a traveler slain by bandits, Shikurou recalled his past misdeeds, and in the remorse that surged within him in that instant, felt his legs stiffen.

“At first glance it appears to be a drowned person,” Shikurou asked timidly, “but with the skin and flesh torn in places—what could have caused this?”

“As you appear to be a traveler, Reverend Monk, you may not know this—but just fifty meters upstream lies a perilous spot called the Chain Crossing,” said one of them. “This is Yamakuni Valley’s most treacherous passage where all north-south travelers struggle. This man was a horse handler from Kawakami Kakisaka Village upstream. Just this morning, halfway across the Chain Crossing, his horse panicked. He fell nearly fifteen meters headlong and met the wretched end you see here.”

“I had long heard the Chain Crossing was perilous,” Shikurou asked gravely while gazing at the corpse, “but does such misfortune occur often?”

“Three or four people a year—sometimes up to ten—meet with unexpected calamity here.”
“Being a peerless danger spot, even when storms rot the planks, repairs never go as we’d wish,” the farmers answered while attending to the corpse.

After reciting a sutra for this unfortunate victim, Shikurou quickened his pace and hastened toward the Chain Crossing.

The remaining distance was now less than a hundred meters.

When he looked, a roughly hewn mountain towering on the river's left bank rose sheerly where it met the Yamakuni River—a cliff nearing thirty meters in height—its surface exposing grayish-white jagged folds resembling layered skin.
The waters of Yamakuni River clung to that cliff as if drawn by its pull, washing against the base of the precipice while swirling in eddies imbued with a deep green hue.

This must be what the villagers called the Chain Crossing, he thought.
The road was severed by that cliff, and along its midsection ran a precarious plank path formed by logs of pine and cedar linked together with chains.
Even those who weren't frail women or children would find it only natural to be terrified and feel their hearts tremble when looking down at the water surface over fifteen meters below while gazing up at the nearly thirty-meter cliff pressing overhead.

Shikurou, clinging to the rock face, steadied his trembling legs and finally finished crossing. The instant he turned back to look at the cliff, a great vow suddenly sprouted forth in his heart.

The atonement he could accumulate was far too meager, and he had been praying to encounter an arduous trial worthy of his zealous devotion.
When he now beheld with his own eyes this perilous spot where travelers struggled and nearly ten lives were claimed each year, it was only natural that the idea to sacrifice his own life and eliminate this danger blazed forth within him.
An audacious vow to tunnel through the cliff spanning over two hundred ken and create a path arose in his heart.

Shikurou felt he had finally found what he had long sought through his wanderings.
If he could save ten people each year, he thought—a hundred in ten years—then over centuries and millennia, he might redeem ten million lives.

Having resolved thus, he single-mindedly began his task.
From that day forth, lodging at Rakanji Temple's pilgrim quarters, he traveled through villages along the Yamakuni River seeking alms for his grand undertaking—the tunnel's excavation.

But no one would lend an ear to this wandering monk’s words.

“A madman trying to tunnel through a massive boulder over three chō long? Ha ha ha ha!” Those who merely laughed were still the better ones.
“You’re nothing but a great fraud!
Talking about peering at the heavens through a needle’s eye while trying to collect money—you’re nothing but a great fraud!” Some among them even began persecuting Shikurou over his proselytizing.

For ten days, Shikurou endeavored in fruitless fundraising efforts, but upon realizing that no one would lend an ear, he resolutely resolved to undertake this great work alone.
He obtained a stonemason’s hammer and chisel and stood at the edge of the great precipice.
It was a farcical spectacle.
Even though it was volcanic rock that could be easily chipped away, Shikurou sought to tunnel through the winding great precipice—towering over the river—by his own strength alone.

“He’s finally gone mad!” sneered the passersby, pointing at Shikurou.

But Shikurou did not yield.
After bathing in Yamakuni River’s clear stream and praying to Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, he mustered all his strength and struck the first hammer blow.

In response, only two or three fragments scattered.
But he gathered his strength again and struck a second blow.
A few more small pieces had merely broken away from the infinitely massive rock.
Third, fourth, fifth—Shikurou struck with desperate force.
When hunger gripped him, he would beg through nearby villages; when sated, he would face the cliff and swing his hammer.
When slothful thoughts arose, he chanted mantras to rouse a valiant spirit.
One day passed, then two, then three—Shikurou’s efforts continued unceasing.
Travelers flung jeers each time they passed.
Yet Shikurou’s resolve never faltered for an instant.
Hearing scornful laughter, he would tighten his grip on the hammer.

Eventually, Shikurou built a wooden hut near the cliff to shelter from rain and dew.
From dawn when Yamakuni River’s currents mirrored starlight until dusk when rapids’ roar dissolved into earth’s stillness, he never ceased.
But those who traveled the road still did not stop their scornful laughter.

“What a deluded fool,” they sneered, paying no heed to Shikurou’s efforts.

But Shikurou swung his hammer with single-minded focus.
As long as he swung the hammer, no distracting thoughts arose in his mind.
Not even regret for having killed people existed there.
Nor was there any aspiration to be reborn in the Pure Land.
There existed only a heart purely devoted to practice.
Since taking monastic vows, he felt memories of his own evil deeds—those that had tormented him with each nightly awakening—fade day by day.
He roused an even more valiant heart and swung his hammer with single-minded devotion.

A new year came.
Spring came, summer came, and before long a year passed.
Shikurou’s efforts were not in vain.
At one end of the great precipice, a cave nearly ten feet deep was dug.
Although it was but a small cave, Shikurou’s strong will had unmistakably etched its first mark there.

But the people from nearby villages sneered at Shikurou once more.

“Look at that! That mad monk only managed to dig that much! After a whole year of struggling, that’s all he managed…” they sneered. But when Shikurou looked at the hole he had dug himself, he felt such joy that tears welled up. However shallow it might be, there was no doubt that this was a true manifestation of the power of his devotion. Shikurou grew older and redoubled his efforts. At night in the ritual darkness, and even during the dim daylight within the cave, he sat upright, swinging only his right arm like a madman. For Shikurou, swinging his right arm had become the entirety of his religious life.

Outside the cave, the sun shone and the moon gleamed; rain fell and storms raged.
But inside the cave, there was only the ceaseless sound of the hammer.

Even at the end of the second year, the villagers still did not cease their scornful laughter.
But they no longer gave voice to it.
After catching sight of Shikurou, they would exchange glances and share scornful looks among themselves.
But another year passed.
The sound of Shikurou’s hammer resounded ceaselessly, like the roar of Yamakuni River.
The villagers no longer said anything.
Their sneering expressions had, before they knew it, changed to those of awe.
If Shikurou did not comb his hair, it would grow unnoticed until it covered both shoulders; if he did not bathe, he would become so caked with grime that he no longer resembled a human.
But within the cave he himself had dug, he continued to swing his hammer with madness, writhing like a beast.

The villagers’ astonishment turned to sympathy.
When Shikurou stole moments of respite and tried to set out on alms-begging journeys, he increasingly found unexpected bowls of offerings at the cave entrance.
Because of this, Shikurou could devote the time he should have spent on alms-begging to facing the cliff instead.

The fourth year came to an end.

The cave Shikurou had dug through had now reached a depth of fifteen meters.
But compared to the cliff spanning over three hundred meters, there still remained a lament of futility.
The villagers were astonished by Shikurou’s fervor, yet still, not a single soul joined forces in what appeared so plainly a futile endeavor.
Shikurou had to continue his efforts all by himself.
But Shikurou, now fully immersed in samadhi through his tunneling work, had no thought other than swinging his hammer.
Like a mole driven by instinct, he had no thought but to keep digging as long as breath remained in him.
He continued digging doggedly onward, all by himself.
Outside the cave, spring departed and autumn arrived as the scenes of the four seasons shifted, but inside the cave, only the ceaseless sound of hammer blows echoed.

“Poor monk.”
“He seems to have gone mad and keeps tunneling into that massive boulder.”
“He won’t even manage to dig through a tenth before his life ends,” the travelers began to lament Shikurou’s futile efforts.

But as one year passed, then two—by the end of precisely the ninth year—he had tunneled forty meters inward from the entrance.

The villagers of Hideta Village noticed for the first time the feasibility of Shikurou’s project.
The idea had become engraved in the villagers’ hearts—that if a single emaciated beggar monk could tunnel this far with nine years of effort, then increasing manpower and accumulating years might make piercing through this great precipice not necessarily impossible.
Nine years after unanimously rejecting Shikurou’s fundraising appeals, the villagers from seven settlements along Yamakuni River now voluntarily began contributing to the excavation.
Several stonemasons were hired to assist Shikurou’s undertaking.
Shikurou was no longer alone.
The sound of numerous hammers striking rock began escaping gallantly from within the cave.

But when the following year arrived and the villagers measured the progress of the construction, discovering it had not yet reached even a quarter of the cliff, they once again voiced their disillusionment and doubts.

“Even if we add more people, there’s no way this will ever be completed.”
“We’ve been tricked by Master Ryōkai into these needless expenses,” they muttered, having grown thoroughly weary of the stagnant progress.
Shikurou had to be left alone once more.
He noticed those swinging hammers beside him dwindling—first one fewer, then two, until none remained.
But he never chased after those who departed.
Wordlessly, he simply kept swinging his hammer alone.

The villagers' attention completely shifted away from Shikurou.
Moreover, the deeper the cave was dug, the further Shikurou’s figure—swinging his hammer deep within—receded from travelers’ sight.
The villagers, peering through the cave sealed in darkness,

“I wonder if Master Ryōkai is still at it,” they muttered.
But such attention too eventually began to fade away, and Shikurou’s presence would often vanish from the villagers’ thoughts.
But just as Shikurou’s existence held no bearing on the villagers, so too did the villagers’ existence hold no bearing on Shikurou.
For him, only the great rock wall before his eyes existed.

However, Shikurou—having sat in formal posture within the cave for over ten years now, remaining seated atop the dark, cold stone—had grown pale-faced with sunken eyes, his flesh withered and bones protruding until he no longer resembled a living being of this world. But within Shikurou’s heart blazed an unyielding, fierce resolve—there existed nothing but the single-minded focus on tunneling forward. Each time even a fraction of an inch was chipped away from the cliff face, he let out a cry of jubilation.

Shikurou, left completely alone, passed another three years.
Then, the villagers’ attention was beginning to return to Shikurou once more.
When they measured the depth of the cave out of mere curiosity, they found it extended sixty-five *ken* in total length; a single light-gathering window had been bored into the rock face facing the river, and they realized that fully one-third of this great cliff had now been pierced through—chiefly by Shikurou’s emaciated arms.

They once again opened their eyes wide in awe.
They were ashamed of their past ignorance.
The feeling of reverence toward Shikurou was revived in their hearts.
Before long, the sounds of hammers from nearly ten donated stonemasons once again harmonized with those of Shikurou.

Another year passed.
As a year passed, the villagers had unwittingly begun to regret the seemingly endless expenses looming ahead.

The donated laborers dwindled one by one, then two by two, until in the end, only Shikurou’s hammer blows resounded through the cave’s darkness.
But whether people were by his side or not, the force of Shikurou’s hammer did not waver.
He would raise his hammer like a machine, pouring every ounce of his strength into the motion, then swing it down with equal force.
He had even forgotten his own self.
The act of killing his master, the banditry he had committed, the lives he had taken—all had faded beyond the reaches of his memory.

One year passed, then two.
Where his single-minded resolve stirred, his emaciated arm did not bend like iron.
Exactly eighteen years had passed.
Before he knew it, he had tunneled through half of the rock wall.

When the villagers witnessed this terrifying miracle, they no longer harbored the slightest doubt about Shikurou’s work.
They, feeling deep shame for their two previous instances of negligence, exerted the full sincerity of the seven villages' combined efforts and unanimously began aiding Shikurou.
That year, the district magistrate of Nakatsu Domain conducted an inspection and bestowed words of admiration upon Shikurou.
From surrounding villages and nearby areas, nearly thirty stonemasons were gathered.
The construction progressed like wildfire through dry leaves.

The people, to Shikurou whose emaciated form was heartrending,

“You should now become the leader of the stonemasons. There is no need for you to swing the hammer yourself,” they urged, but Shikurou stubbornly refused.
He seemed determined to keep gripping his hammer even were he to collapse.
As if unaware of the thirty stonemasons working beside him, he continued to toil with desperate intensity, forgetting sleep and food—unchanged from before.

But it was only natural that people urged Shikurou to rest.
This was likely due to having sat deep within sunless rock walls for nearly twenty years.
His legs had grown stiff from prolonged formal sitting until their once-free movements were lost without notice.
He now had to cling to a cane for even brief walks.

Moreover, this was also likely because he had sat in darkness for so long without seeing sunlight.
Moreover, this was also likely because the flying fragments of shattered stone around him had constantly injured his eyes.
His eyes had grown dim, losing their light, and could no longer discern colors or shapes.

Even Shikurou, with his unyielding resolve, could not help but feel distressed by the old age encroaching upon him.
He had no attachment to his own life, but collapsing midway would be his most bitter regret.

“Just two more years of endurance,” he cried out within his heart, striving to forget his body’s decay as he desperately swung his hammer.

The rock wall that had stood imposingly before Shikurou—a testament to nature’s unassailable majesty—had now been pierced through by the arms of a single emaciated monk-beggar. The cave boring through its midsection pressed onward toward the mountain’s heart like a living being.

Four

Shikurou’s health had been cruelly ravaged by excessive fatigue, but for him, a far more dreadful enemy now targeted his life.

Saburobei Nakagawa—who had suffered an unnatural violent demise through being slain by his own retainers on account of matters involving Shikurou—had thereby caused negligence in household governance; with this as grounds, their house was abolished and dissolved. At that time Sanenosuke—his three-year-old sole heir—came under relatives' care and upbringing.

When Sanenosuke turned thirteen, he learned for the first time that his father had met a violent death.
When he discovered that the perpetrator was not an equal-ranking samurai but a servant raised within their own household, the boy’s heart burned with bitter indignation.
He immediately engraved the singular imperative of vengeance deep within his being.
He rushed to enter the Yagyū swordsmanship school.
At nineteen, upon being granted full mastery certification, he promptly set out on his journey of retribution.
Amidst his relatives’ exhortations—that should he successfully accomplish his mission and return, they would undertake the revival of their house—he departed.

Sanesosuke suffered many hardships along unfamiliar roads as he wandered through province after province, single-mindedly seeking the whereabouts of his enemy Shikurou. For Sanesosuke, who had never once laid eyes on Shikurou, this search felt as uncertain as grasping at clouds. Through Kinai, Tokai, Tosan, San'in, Sanyō, Hokuriku, and Nankai he spent years upon his wandering journey—welcoming new years and bidding old ones farewell—continuing this empty pilgrimage until he reached twenty-seven. His resentment toward the enemy and his burning indignation were often worn down by the journey's hardships. Yet whenever he recalled his father's bitter resentment at meeting such a violent end and contemplated the weighty responsibility of restoring the Nakagawa family, he would rouse his resolve with fierce determination.

In the spring of precisely the ninth year since departing Edo, he reached Fukuoka's castle town.
After fruitlessly combing through the mainland, he resolved to search even the remote reaches of Kyushu.

After moving from Fukuoka’s castle town to Nakatsu’s castle town, on the first day of February, he made an offering at Usa Hachiman Shrine and prayed that his long-cherished desire might be fulfilled as soon as possible.
After finishing his worship, Sanenosuke rested at a teahouse in the shrine precincts.
At that moment, he suddenly noticed a peasant-like man beside him addressing the gathered worshippers,

“That reverend monk was originally from Edo,” he said. “They say he repented killing someone in his youth and made a great vow to save all people—this tunnel through Hida you just heard of was built by that reverend monk alone.”

Upon hearing this story, Sanenosuke felt an interest unlike any he had known in nine years. Leaning forward slightly, he asked, “If I may be abrupt—I’ve a brief question. How old would this monk be?”

The man seemed honored that his tale had caught the samurai’s attention,

"That would be correct."
"I have not had the honor of laying eyes on the reverend monk myself, but according to people's rumors, it is said he is nearing sixty."

“Is he tall or short?” Sanenosuke pressed on.

“That too, I cannot say for certain.”
“As he resides deep within the cave, sir, I cannot say for certain.”

“Do you know what his secular name was?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know that either, but it is said he was born in Kashiwazaki, Echigo Province, and went to Edo in his youth,” the peasant replied.

Having heard this far, Sanesosuke leapt up and rejoiced.
When he had departed Edo, one of his relatives had cautioned him that since the enemy was born in Kashiwazaki, Echigo Province, he might well return to his hometown, and that Echigo should be searched with particular diligence.

Sanesosuke Nakagawa exulted—this was surely the oracle of Usa Hachiman Shrine. When he asked about the old monk’s name and the path to Yamakuni Valley, though well past the eighth hour, he mustered every ounce of strength into his legs and raced toward his enemy’s location. As dusk approached that day, he reached Hida Village and nearly charged straight to the cave, but reconsidering that haste might prove fatal, spent an anxious night at Hida Station’s inn. At dawn’s first light, he rose and set out lightly equipped toward Hida Tunnel.

When he arrived at the entrance of Hida Tunnel, he asked a stonemason who was carrying out stone fragments there.

“I have heard there resides in this cave a reverend monk called Ryōkai. Is this true?”

“Not here? What else’d he be?”
“Reverend Ryōkai’s no different than the master of this cave himself.”
“Ha ha ha,” the stonemason laughed without care.

Sanesosuke rejoiced and took courage, for the fulfillment of his long-cherished desire now lay directly before his eyes.
But he thought he must not act hastily.

“And is there only one entrance here?” he asked.
This was because he thought he must not let the enemy escape.

“That’s obvious.
“To open an exit on the far side, Reverend Ryōkai endures the agony of fire and ashes,” the stonemason answered.

Sanesosuke exulted that his longtime enemy was now laid before him like a rat in a sack.
Even if there were however many stonemasons working under him, it would be no trouble at all to cut them down—so he took courage.

“I have a small request for you.
Tell Lord Ryōkai that I am one who has come from afar to obtain an audience with him,” he said.
After the stonemason entered the cave, Sanesosuke moistened the eye rivet of his long sword.
In his heart, he imagined the appearance of the enemy he was about to encounter for the first time in his life.
If one were to speak of him leading the tunnel excavation, even though he was over fifty, he must be a man of robust build.
Especially since he was said to have been quite versed in military strategy in his youth, he resolved that under no circumstances could he let his guard down.

But after some time, emerging from the tunnel to stand before Sanesosuke was a single beggar monk.
It would be more accurate to say he crawled out like a toad rather than simply emerging.
That was less a human being and more what should be called the remains of one.
The flesh had completely fallen away, exposing the bones; the joints of his legs below were ulcerated in places, making it unbearable to gaze upon him for long.
Though his tattered monastic robe revealed his priestly status, his long hair hung down to cover his deeply wrinkled forehead.
The old monk blinked his grayed eyes and looked up at Sanesosuke,

“With these aged eyes having grown too feeble, I cannot discern who you might be,” he said.

Sanesosuke’s heart, strained to its utmost limit, recoiled the instant he beheld the old monk.
He had wanted a wicked monk he could feel true hatred for.
Yet before him crouched a half-dead old monk who seemed neither fully human nor a corpse.
Sanesosuke encouraged his own heart, which was beginning to falter with disappointment,

“So you are the one they call Ryōkai?” he pressed with fervor.

“Indeed, that is correct.”
“And you are…?” the old monk asked quizzically, looking up at Sanesosuke.

“Lord Ryōkai or whatever you call yourself—however much you may disguise yourself in monk’s robes, you couldn’t possibly have forgotten.”
“Thou—in your youth when you were called Shikurou—do you not remember striking down your master Saburobei Nakagawa and fleeing?”
“I am Sanenosuke, the only son of Saburobei.”
“There is no escape now—prepare yourself.”

Sanesosuke’s words remained utterly composed, yet there was not an inch of forgiveness in their severity.

But Shikurou showed not the slightest surprise upon hearing Sanenosuke’s words.

“Ah! You must be Lord Nakagawa’s esteemed son, Lord Sanenosuke.”
“The one who struck down your honorable father and fled is indeed this Ryōkai,” he answered with the warmth of meeting his former master’s orphaned son rather than an enemy seeking his life. Yet Sanenosuke steeled himself against being swayed by Shikurou’s tone.

“To slay you—the villain who murdered my lord and fled—I have endured nearly ten years of hardship.”
“Since fate brings us face-to-face here,” he declared with lethal calm, “prepare yourself for an honorable duel.”

Shikurou did not flinch in the slightest.
The thought of dying without witnessing his great vow’s fulfillment—meant to be achieved within its appointed year—brought him some sorrow, but recognizing this too as retribution for his evil deeds, he resolved to die.

“Now then, Lord Sanenosuke—strike me down.”
“You may have heard: this tunnel represents my attempt as Ryōkai to atone through excavation. Nineteen years’ labor has brought it nine-tenths to completion.”
“Though Ryōkai perishes now, its finish requires no further years.”
“Should I become a human sacrifice pillar through your hand—bleeding at this entrance—no regrets will remain,” he said, blinking sightless eyes.

As Sanesosuke interacted with this half-dead old monk, he realized the hatred he had harbored toward his parent's enemy had somehow vanished without notice.
The enemy—in repentance for killing the father—had been grinding his body and soul to dust, suffering through half his life.
Moreover, the moment he declared his intent, the monk now stood ready to lay down his life without protest.
What sort of revenge would this be—taking the life of such a half-dead old monk? Sanesosuke thought.
But unless he struck down this enemy, there would be no way for him to end his years of wandering and return to Edo.
Moreover, the restoration of his family name was something he could not even begin to consider.
Sanesosuke contemplated ending the old monk’s life more out of pragmatic calculation than hatred.
But to kill a human out of calculation without feeling the blazing hatred that burned within him was unbearable to Sanesosuke.
He tried to strike down an enemy not worth striking, all while rousing his fading hatred.

Just then.
Five or six stonemasons came running out from the cave. Upon seeing Shikurou’s peril, they threw themselves into shielding him while rebuking Sanesosuke: “What do you think you’re doing to Lord Ryōkai?”
Their faces clearly bore an expression that should not be pardoned under any circumstances.

“Due to certain circumstances, I have targeted that old monk as my enemy and by chance encountered him today to fulfill my long-held resolve.”
“If you interfere,” Sanesosuke declared solemnly, “I shall show no mercy—even to others!”

But before long, the number of stonemasons increased, and countless travelers halted their journey; surrounding Sanesosuke, they each began to bristle with resolve, determined not to let even a single finger touch Shikurou's body.

“Whether one takes revenge or not—that remains a matter of this mortal world,” declared one among them. “As you see plain before you, Lord Ryōkai wears dyed robes with a shaven head—moreover, to us of Yamakuni Valley’s seven villages, he is revered as nothing less than a Bodhisattva reborn,” they insisted, treating Sanenosuke’s vendetta as some impossible presumption.

Yet being thus obstructed by those surrounding him, Sanenosuke found his wrath toward his enemy had unknowingly reignited. Bound by samurai honor, he could not merely fold his arms and withdraw.

“Even clad in monk’s robes, you cannot escape the grave sin of Master-Slaying.”
“I shall show no mercy to any who hinder one slaying a parent’s enemy,” declared Sanenosuke as he drew his longsword.
The crowd encircling Sanenosuke all tensed.
Then Shikurou raised his hoarse voice:

“Good people, hold your ground!”
“Ryōkai stands ready to be struck down.”
“This tunnel’s excavation exists solely to atone for those sins.”
“To end this half-dead existence by a filial son’s hand—this completes Ryōkai’s earthly purpose.”
“None shall interfere!”

While saying this, Shikurou threw his body forward and tried to crawl closer to Sanesosuke.
The surrounding people—who had long since come to fully understand Shikurou’s unyielding will—knew there could be no reversing his resolve.
It seemed Shikurou’s life would end here.
At that moment, the stonemason leader stepped before Sanesosuke and said,

“You must have heard of this already, Lord Samurai—this tunnel represents Lord Ryōkai’s lifelong great vow. For nearly twenty years he has broken both body and spirit through ceaseless hardship.”
“However grave his sins may be, imagine the bitterness of meeting his end now—with his great vow’s fulfillment within reach.”
“Our collective plea asks not for long—only that you entrust Lord Ryōkai’s life to us until this tunnel is completed.”
“Once it pierces through,” he implored with utmost sincerity, “you may deal with Lord Ryōkai as you will without delay.”
The crowd voiced their agreement in unison,

“Nay! Nay!” they agreed in unison.

Sanesosuke, when told this, found he could not refuse their earnest plea.
He thought it inevitable that Shikurou—who even now willingly sought death—would feel obligated to offer his head if he waited for the tunnel’s completion, rather than suffer an ignominious defeat here by attempting to strike down his enemy only to be thwarted by the crowd.
Even setting aside such calculations, allowing this old monk—enemy though he may be called—to fulfill his great vow was by no means an unpleasant thing.
Sanesosuke, while looking equally at Shikurou and the crowd,

“In admiration of Ryōkai’s monastic form, I shall grant his wish and permit it.”
“I shall not forget your bound words,” he declared.

“There is no concern whatsoever.”
“Be it but a tenth-of-an-inch hole or a full-inch passage—the moment this tunnel pierces through to the far side, we shall not depart this place and will let you strike down Lord Ryōkai.”
“Until then, pray stay in these parts at your ease,” said the stonemason leader in tranquil tones.

Shikurou, as if keenly regretting the time squandered by this commotion now peacefully resolved, inched his way into the cave while shuffling.

Sanesosuke resented that unexpected interference during a crucial moment had prevented him from achieving his objective.
He entered the log cabin, guided by one of the stonemasons while suppressing his irrepressible resentment.
When left alone with his thoughts, he could not help but feel bitter regret at his own spinelessness—having the enemy right before him yet failing to strike him down.
His heart became filled with a grating fury before long.
He completely lost any lenient heart toward his enemy that might have waited for the tunnel’s completion.
He steeled his resolve to sneak into the cave that very night, slay Shikurou, and make his escape.
But just as Sanesosuke was keeping watch on Shikurou, the stonemasons were keeping watch on Sanesosuke.

He unwittingly spent the first two or three days idly, but it was precisely on the evening of the fifth day.
As this had become a nightly occurrence, the stonemasons seemed to have relaxed their vigilance, and around the hour approaching the Ox, several had fallen into an unseemly sleep.
Sanenosuke resolved that tonight would be the night.
He abruptly sat up, pulled the long sword from his bedside, and quietly stepped out of the log cabin.

It was an evening in early spring when the moon shone with piercing clarity.
The waters of the Yamakuni River flowed cold blue, swirling beneath the moonlight.
But paying no heed to the surrounding scenery, Sanesosuke stealthily approached the tunnel entrance, hiding his footsteps.
The chiseled stone fragments lay scattered about, jabbing into his feet with every step he took.

The cave's interior was faintly illuminated here and there by moonlight streaming through the entrance and through windows carved out at intervals. He groped his way hand over hand along the right rock wall, pressing deeper and deeper into the cavern.

When he had advanced about two chō from the entrance, he suddenly heard a clang...clang sound echoing up from the cavern’s depths at intervals. At first, he could not comprehend what it was. But with each step forward, the sound grew louder, until at last it began echoing through the nocturnal silence of the cavern. It was undoubtedly the sound of a hammer striking the rock wall. Sanenosuke felt his chest being struck violently by that tragic, intense sound. As he drew nearer to the depths, the sharp sound—like shattering jade—echoed around the cavern and violently assailed his hearing. He crawled closer, guided by this sound. He was certain that the source of this hammering must be his enemy Ryōkai. While stealthily loosening his long sword in its sheath, he held his breath and drew near. At that moment, he suddenly heard Ryōkai’s voice reciting sutras amidst the hammering—like whispers, like groans.

That hoarse, tragic voice pierced through Sanesosuke like a deluge.
Late at night, when people had departed and plants lay dormant, Ryōkai’s figure—sitting upright in pitch darkness, swinging his iron hammer—appeared vividly in the mind’s eye, even amidst ink-black shadows.
That was no longer a human heart.
Existing above the realm of human emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—it was the fervently devoted mind of a bodhisattva wielding an iron hammer.
Sanesosuke noticed his clenched grip on the long sword’s hilt had loosened without him realizing it.
He suddenly came to his senses.
When he considered himself—poised to draw his sword of wrath like a highwayman, like a beast, under cover of midnight darkness—against this virtuous saint who had already attained Buddha-mind and was enduring bodily suffering for all beings, he felt a violent shudder course through his body.

The powerful hammer blows that shook the cavern and the tragic Buddhist chants shattered Sanesosuke's heart utterly.
He thought there was nothing left but to resolutely await both the day of completion and the fulfillment of their promise.

Sanesosuke, while harboring deep emotion, crawled out of the cavern toward the moonlight outside.

Not long after that incident, Sanesosuke—clad in samurai attire—could be seen among the stonemasons laboring on the tunnel excavation.
He no longer harbored even a shred of that harsh resolve to ambush the old monk in darkness and make his escape.
When he realized Ryōkai neither fled nor hid, he resolved with goodwill to await the day when Ryōkai would achieve his life’s great vow.
But even so, rather than waiting blankly, once he realized that by lending his own hand to this great undertaking he might somewhat hasten the day of vengeance, Sanesosuke joined ranks with the stonemasons and began swinging a hammer.

The two enemies struck their hammers side by side.
Sanesosuke swung the hammer desperately, willing the day of achieving his long-cherished desire to arrive even a single day sooner.
Ryōkai, since Sanenosuke’s appearance, must have thought to achieve his great vow one day sooner and fulfill the filial son’s wish.
He, mustering even greater courage of devotion, smashed through the rock wall like a madman.

Moons departed and moons arrived.
Sanesosuke’s heart, moved by Ryōkai’s great courageous resolve, increasingly tended to forget his enmity toward his sworn enemy even as he himself labored at the monumental task of excavation.
Even in the deep night when the stonemasons rested from their daytime labors, the two enemies sat side by side, silently swinging their hammers.

It was the night of September 10, Enkyō Era Year 3—twenty-one years since Ryōkai had struck the first hammer blow at Hida’s excavation site, and one year and six months since Sanenosuke had encountered Ryōkai.
On this night too, all the stonemasons had withdrawn to their huts, leaving only Ryōkai and Sanenosuke—undaunted by the day’s fatigue—swinging their hammers with desperate vigor.
Around the ninth hour of that night, when Ryōkai swung down his hammer with all his strength, it met no resistance—as if striking rotted wood—and his right palm still gripping the hammer struck the rock with excess force. He let out an involuntary cry: “Ah!”
At that moment.
Even through Ryōkai’s clouded aged eyes, from the small hole shattered by that hammer appeared—unmistakably—the form of the Yamakuni River bathed in moonlight.
Ryōkai emitted an “Ooh!”—a tremulous cry that shook his entire body—and then what seemed a maddened cry-laugh of exultation violently shuddered through the cavern.

“Lord Sanenosuke,”
“Behold.”
“Twenty-one years of solemn vows—unexpectedly fulfilled this very night.”

As he said this, Ryōkai took Sanenosuke’s hand and showed him the flow of the Yamakuni River through the small hole.
The darkened earth visible directly below that hole could be nothing other than the road running along the bank.
The two enemies there joined hands and were choked with tears of great jubilation.
But after some time, Ryōkai withdrew and,

“Now then, Lord Sanenosuke, the promised day has come.
Please strike.
If I attain rebirth amidst such Dharma ecstasy, there can be no doubt I shall be born in the Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss.
Now, please strike.
If we wait until tomorrow, the stonemasons will interfere. Now, please strike,” his hoarse voice reverberated through the cavern’s nocturnal air.
But Sanesosuke remained seated before Ryōkai with hands clasped, only choking on tears.
As he watched the withered old monk weeping with joy welling from his heart’s depths, the thought of killing him as an enemy never once crossed his mind.
Rather than any notion of striking down his foe, his heart overflowed with awe and gratitude for this monumental feat achieved by the frail arms of a mere human.
While drawing himself closer, he took the old monk’s hand once more.
The two men there forgot everything and choked on tears of emotion together.