Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One

I

Tsuchiya Shōsaburō left the estate and wandered aimlessly through the grid-like streets. He passed by the Kōsaka residence, Baba residence, and Sanada residence, then walked toward Kajikōji Avenue. Though it was a hazy spring night already growing late, rendering the mansions deserted, “the allure of a spring night—its fragrance faintly spilling forth, bustling in feeling though devoid of people” left not a trace of gloom.

“To view flowers, which would be better—the Densō Residence or the Yamagata Residence?” When he reached the Kajikōji crossroads and halted—“Perhaps the sacred shrine grounds would be better”— having muttered this, he turned south and skirted the Sone Residence’s perimeter.

However, in reality, no matter where he went—or didn’t go—flowers could be seen in abundance. The large white magnolia blossoms facing the moon—dreamlike in their grandeur—bloomed over the Koyamada Residence’s wall, sending their fragrance down to passersby, while even in the dim light, yellow forsythia flowers and snow-white pear blossoms haloed the Morozumi Residence’s earthen walls like mist. As for cherry blossoms—favored as they were by Lord Shingen—they bloomed in profusion throughout Kōfu, spreading left, right, front, and back around Tsutsujigasaki Palace. But they were particularly abundant in the palace’s inner garden, the Densō Residence, the Yamagata Residence, and the sacred shrine grounds.

“A youth’s spring tramples flowers with equal regret. The midnight moon reflects lamplight in shared sorrow. ...Ah, how splendid the cherry blossoms are at night.” Having come to the shrine grounds while softly reciting poetry, Shōsaburō quietly approached the front of the shrine, pressed his palms together, and prostrated himself— “Prosperity for the lord’s mansion, safety for my person, long-lasting martial fortune, enduring scholarly prosperity.”

When he finished this prayer and raised his head, he saw an old man sitting before the fox-patterned latticework along the shrine hall’s veranda. The hazy moonlight, blocked by the roof, did not reach that far, and in the shadowy dimness of that area, the old man seemed to be holding something that faintly hinted at a pale red hue.

He must be another worshipper—with this thought not even registering in his mind, Shōsaburō turned to leave. Then came a call from behind. “Excuse me, young sir. Kindly wait a moment, if you please.”

――It was a hoarse voice. And so, Shōsaburō turned around. A tall old man stood before Shōsaburō’s eyes, clad in mountain hakama trousers and a sleeveless garment, a short sword at his waist, a folded black-lacquered hat perched on his forehead, and a brilliantly beautiful crimson cloth draped over his shoulders. “Old man, do you have some business?”

Shōsaburō asked. “Please buy this cloth.” The old man said hesitantly. “Oh, so you’re a cloth peddler.” “So you’ve got a red cloth there.” “It is fine cloth.” “Kindly purchase it, if you please.” “Whether it’s good cloth or bad cloth—such matters are beyond my understanding.” Shōsaburō smiled but said, “I may not look it, but I am a man.” “There’s no need for you to concern yourself.” “The cloth is of the finest quality.” The old man persistently repeated.

“Very well, let us settle it thus—fine cloth is indeed superior. However, I have no use for it.” With those words, Shōsaburō started walking.

However, the cloth-peddling old man did not attempt to give up there; circling around to Shōsaburō’s path, he spoke once more. “Kindly purchase this cloth, if you please.”

“Show me!” And Shōsaburō, as if his will had finally broken, reached out his hand while saying this at last.

“I see.” “Hmm...” “What a beautiful color, huh?”

Shōsaburō, gazing intently at the cloth handed to him as he held it up to the moonlight, could not help but marvel. “Yes, it is a beautiful color.” “That is where this cloth’s value lies…” As if to say precisely so, the old man replied. “A color that would please young women.” “Yet it hardly seems fitting for an old man, does it?”

“Yes, precisely so.” “There are many grand mansions around here. “There are also many young women. “If you take this to the inner quarters of those mansions and show it to the young ladies, they’ll surely leap at it with delight!” “Today, yesterday, and the day before—nay, for over ten days now—I have visited these mansions and received much patronage, but this cloth alone remains unsold, with but one roll left.” “It seems this doesn’t suit anyone’s tastes.”

“Everyone says it’s frightening.”

“What’s frightening?” he asked curiously. “Now, what exactly is scary about it?” “It’s that very color.” “Even if you call it color, it’s just red, isn’t it?” “The vivid red color—like it’s dyed with human blood—is what they find frightening, so they say.” “Ah-hahaha! What nonsense.” “Truly, women are timid by nature.”

Once again holding up the cloth and examining it in the moonlight, Shōsaburō could not help but shudder.

二 With that, the cloth-peddling old man sneered faintly, “Sir, even you…” “What!”

And Shōsaburō turned around.

“You are trembling.” “Nonsense!” He barked, “How much for this?” “One ōban.” “Take it!”

He flung it down. A clink of gold rang out. The figure of the cloth peddler, bent to retrieve it, cast a shadow upon the ground like a giant spider crawling—but as a sudden night gust swept through, cherry blossoms cascaded down in a flurry, threatening to bury even that shadow.

This incident occurred in the first year of Eiroku; due to the curse of the red cloth purchased that night, numerous upheavals piled one upon another in the life of Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.

However, before proceeding to describe that matter, the author intended to provide a brief explanation regarding Tsuchiya Shōsaburō himself.

Within the Takeda clan, the name Tsuchiya signified a most prestigious lineage—indeed, they counted among the Twenty-Four Generals of Kōyō and had produced military achievers for generations. But above all others, Sōzō Masatsune was known for his peerless loyalty. Years later, when Katsuyori was defeated on all fronts and betrayed by Oyamada Nobushige, leading to his suicide at Mount Tenmoku, Sōzō alone—amidst the near-total desertion of generals—killed his own child to demonstrate unwavering loyalty, then served until the bitter end. Even his enemy Tokugawa Ieyasu admired this righteous fervor, painstakingly seeking out Sōzō’s surviving family to enfeoff them with the Hitachi Tsuchiura Domain of 90,000 koku. The Viscount Tsuchiya is their descendant. Ieyasu certainly had style. To be sure, Tokugawa Ieyasu—though once crushed by Shingen at Mikatagahara—held no small respect for Kōshū-ryū military tactics, and even revered the Takeda family itself as scions of the Seiwa Genji and leaders of the Kai Genji. When presented with Katsuyori’s severed head, unlike Nobunaga who would have kicked it aside, he reportedly cradled the casket and shed a tear: “Lord, in valor you surpassed even your father… yet in your youth, you favored sycophants like Atobe and Nagasaka over seasoned generals, launched reckless campaigns, and thus met this wretched fate—truly pitiable.” Hearing this, Takeda’s unsophisticated former retainers—swayed all too easily—swarmed to join the Tokugawa house for meager salaries. But let today’s cynically minded historians have their say: “Bah! Just that old fox Ieyasu putting on a show. What did it cost him to shed a tear over Katsuyori’s head? No capital required! And if one drop bought him hardened Takeda veterans for his wars—what a bargain!” “Even if he received Katsuyori’s severed head, it wouldn’t cost him any capital; shedding a single tear over it wouldn’t give him an eye disease either.” “If a single tear could achieve great results—letting you hire Takeda clan’s surviving retainers, their bodies and minds hardened through numerous battles—then there’s no better bargain,” they dismiss it with materialism, but the hearts of people differ between an age of peace and the Warring States period. To dismiss it so blandly seems rather disrespectful toward the Warring States warriors—those flowers of history.

Be that as it may, the Tsuchiya family was a prestigious lineage within the Takeda clan, with numerous members; however, during Shingen’s era, Sōzō Masatsune served as the head of the Tsuchiya main house. And thus, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu—the protagonist of this tale, *Shinshū Kōketsu-jō*—was indeed Sōzō’s nephew.

And so, Shōsaburō was an orphan.

Shōsaburō was twenty years old this year. He had been separated from his parents at the age of four, sixteen years prior. That being said, his parents had not died. They had simply vanished without a trace. Shōsaburō’s father was Shōhachirō, the immediate younger brother of Sōzō—a warrior whose martial prowess stood unrivaled even among their clan, one who had been first to breach enemy lines in the famed Battle of Kōzuke海口城. In the eleventh month of Tenbun 5 (1536), Takeda Nobutora led eight thousand troops in an assault on Shinshū Kōzuke海口城, yet its commander Hiraga Genshin mounted such staunch defense that the castle would not fall. When December came and heavy snow fell, military maneuvers grew nearly impossible. Though Takeda Nobutora was a fierce general indeed, even he could not defy nature’s might and was forced to abandon the castle and withdraw his forces—a bitter defeat. At this time Harunobu (later Shingen), sixteen years old and accompanying his father in camp, returned to his own tent and sat brooding with arms crossed. Then appeared Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masatake. Shōhachirō was nineteen then—three years Harunobu’s senior—and served as a favored retainer ever at his lord’s side.

“Lord, what troubles you?” He inquired with evident concern. “What nonsense. “So we’re retreating, they say.” Harunobu scowled. “It’s because the snow is deep,” Shōhachirō said, peering into his face. “The snow is deep? “So what! “When winter comes, snow falls—that’s how it is. “If it’s snow that’s fallen, it’ll pile up—that’s how it is. “Nonsense,” he said, growing increasingly displeased. “The cold has grown quite severe.” Shōhachirō said again. He spoke while peering into his face.

Three “What nonsense are you spouting? Such trivial matters.” “Such trivial matters…” Harunobu glared sharply at Shōhachirō. “Even the enemy are human. They too must feel the cold.” “After all, they must be feeling the cold as well.” These words carried significance. And Harunobu remained silent.

The moment they saw the Kōshū forces retreating, the castle soldiers collectively let down their guard; seeking to warm their frozen bodies, they removed their helmets and armor, discarded their bows and arrows, sheathed their swords and spears…

“Got it!” Suddenly, Harunobu interrupted Shōhachirō’s words.

Then he went before his father.

“I humbly request your permission, my lord.” Harunobu said. Then Nobutora laughed dryly and scoffed: “In this heavy snow, even castle soldiers wouldn’t open their gates to pursue us. To know no enemies chase us yet still beg your lord’s permission—that reeks of cowardice.” Yet Harunobu remained unshaken, simply kept repeating, “I humbly request your permission, my lord.”

Then, once permission was granted and he returned to the encampment, Harunobu immediately summoned Shōhachirō. A secret discussion was held there. What followed was written not in the author’s clumsy prose but in Rai San’yō’s masterful text. 以兵三百殿。 The main army followed several ri behind. Halted and encamped. The commander personally inspected his troops and said: Do not remove your armor. Do not unload saddles. Feed your horses first, then eat. Depart at the fifth watch. Focus solely on our advance. The soldiers all secretly sneered at this, saying: The storm raged fiercely. Why maintain vigilance? Fifth watch. Harunobu departed immediately. Turned back toward Haikou. With three hundred cavalry, he galloped through the snow. At dawn, he arrived at the castle.

Gen Shin had already dispersed and sent away his soldiers. Alone, Gen Shin remained with a hundred men. Harunobu divided his forces into three. He himself led one unit into the castle. Two units raised banners outside the castle. They responded. The castle soldiers could not measure their numbers. Without fighting, they were routed. Then he beheaded Gen Shin. Then he returned and presented the head. The entire army was greatly astonished. ... This astonishment was only natural. Moreover, both the devising of this strategy and the slaying of enemy general Gen Shin were entirely the work of Tsuchiya Shōhachirō.

Afterward, Harunobu expelled his father and became governor of Kai himself—yet it was also Shōhachirō’s counsel that had compelled Harunobu to drive out his father. True to his birth in the Year of the Tiger, Nobutora possessed a fiercely courageous disposition. This very nature enabled him to subjugate—through sheer authority—the powerful clans of Kai Province: the Oyamada of Tsuru District, the Kurihara of Higashi District, Anayama of Kōchi, the Itomi of Itomi, and even the Ōi of Nishi District, bringing them all under his heel. Not content with this, he clashed militarily with neighboring Shinano clans—the Hiraga, Suwa, Ogasawara, Murakami, and Kiso—thereby burnishing the prestige of Kai warriors. However, ever since his decisive victory over Suruga’s massive army at Iidagahara in the seventeenth year of Eishō, his arrogance swelled uncontrollably. He grew increasingly tyrannical, wantonly executing his retainers. The four vassals known as the Generational Four—Baba Torasada, Yamagata Torakiyo, Kudō Toyotoyo, and Naitō Torasuke—were all executed by his hand. In addition, fifty stalwart warriors became rust upon blades.

It was then that the succession issue arose; finding his solemn and grave firstborn Harunobu less compatible with his own disposition, Nobutora sought to install his dashing and lively second son Nobushige as heir. It was the old retainers who were shocked, and it was Harunobu who was enraged. And it was Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masatake who presented this brilliant strategy.

“My lord, there is no need for concern. I beseech you to place your trust in Imagawa.” At that time, when one spoke of Imagawa Yoshimoto, he was the great military governor of Suruga, Tōtōmi, and Mikawa—a peerless commander—but having taken one of Nobutora’s daughters in marriage, he stood as Harunobu’s brother-in-law, and the two had always been on good terms.

“Indeed, this is an excellent stratagem.” Harunobu nodded happily but said, “With this, I have now borrowed crucial wisdom from you twice.” “I will not take this lightly.”

It is said that he took Shōhachirō’s hand and pressed it to his forehead in reverence.

Nobutora was soon deceived, imprisoned by the Imagawa house, and the province of Kai became Harunobu’s without any turmoil.

Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masatake was such an outstanding figure, yet in his domestic life he was an unfortunate man who could not trust his wife, Otae no Kata—the daughter of Kōsaka Danjō. Otae no Kata had a lover. It seems she firmly believed that she would become his wife and build a happy household with him, as he had been her lover since her maiden days. That lover was none other than Shōhachirō’s own younger brother, Tsuchiya Mondon Masasue. Mondon greatly differed in character from his elder brother Shōhachirō and eldest brother Sōzō, who were men solely devoted to martial prowess, and was an extremely literary person. His features were handsome, his bearing elegant; he excelled in waka poetry and literary composition—indeed, many of the poems known today as Shingen’s works were in truth Mondon’s creations.

The waka poem submitted to Kōshū Ichinomiya Sengen Shrine on a poetry slip—“May these transplanted Hatsuse flowers draped in white arrowroot / Be offered in prayer as the gods decree”—though written in Shingen’s own hand, was in truth composed by Mondon. In addition to these, his other masterpieces included: For your reign’s sake, I pray pointing to sakaki leaves / Where Ihato Mountain’s greens run deep. Praying for my lord at Kamo Shrine’s twilight cords—

In the dawn light upon my waking bed—unable to dry these tears, the sound of birds, ah!

IV As these waka poems suggested, Mondon had been a gentle man of pious heart; even when his lover had been taken by his older brother, he had not clung to resentment but rather resigned himself. And as for his lover Otae no Kata—being a gentle and earnest woman herself—once her love had been shattered and she had become another man’s wife, she had striven to devote herself faithfully to her husband, resolving to cleanly bury her romance with Mondon in the graveyard of her heart. Yet Mondon and Shōhachirō were true brothers who shared blood. Thus they had been compelled to meet face-to-face nearly every day. Naturally, this meant encountering Otae as well. They were no unfeeling man and woman. That their blood stirred had been inevitable. This proved disagreeable to Shōhachirō.

A suffocating love triangle! It had continued for five years. And then, when Shōsaburō was four years old, Mondon suddenly vanished. After some time, Otae went missing, and subsequently Shōhachirō went into hiding. From that day to this, the whereabouts of the three have remained completely unknown.

Having become an orphan, Shōsaburō was kindly taken in and raised by his relative Tsuchiya Uemon; yet this parentless child grew into a somber, somewhat eccentric youth who excelled in both letters and arms. Possessing his mother’s beauty, he became a splendidly elegant young samurai—yet one might call his nature fundamentally poetic: melancholic yet vivacious, earnest yet whimsical, ever inclined toward reverie while disdaining worldly matters.

Shōsaburō often said.

"...You know, I think like this." "My parents are alive." "But they probably aren’t living together." "They’re likely living freely and separately." "Father lives true to his role as a father." "Mother lives true to her role as a mother." "And Uncle Mondon is obviously alive too." "Ah, how dearly I must think of Uncle Mondon!" "Well, he was a poet after all." "But of course, I miss Father and Mother even more." "How I wish I could meet them just once." "I firmly believe." "I do believe that someday we’ll surely meet." "Behold that beautiful cloud!" "It’s glowing in the sunset!" "They’re in the depths of that cloud." "Father and Mother and Uncle."

Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu, upon waking early the next morning, looked toward his pillow. The red cloth was properly placed there.

“Hmm… So it wasn’t a dream?”

Muttering to himself, he got up and, taking the red cloth, went out to the veranda. The morning sun, having just emerged, cast its light from Mount Yumemi’s peak to set the mansion’s roof aglow; slipping through gaps in the garden trees, it dyed golden the water cascading from a bamboo channel into the pond and blazed all the way to the veranda’s edge. Into this crisp light, he thrust forth the red cloth—snapping its stitched threads apart—then unraveled it, turned it inside out, and held it up to scrutinize under the sun’s glare.

“Hmm.” With that, he tilted his head quizzically. Then once more, he turned it over and over, examining it again and again, but— “I can’t see it!” he muttered in puzzlement. And he stared fixedly, lost in thought. At that moment, with a rustling sound, the old man’s servant approached from the direction of the main house while sweeping up fallen petals, but— “Good morning, young master,” he said, stopping his sweeping to greet him. “Oh, Jinbee. “You’re up early.” Shōsaburō returned the greeting and sank back into deep thought.

Flowers trampled underfoot, dozens of small birds sang in the grove of the garden. An old bush warbler with a parched voice was reciting sutras in a drawn-out manner amidst white apricot blossoms. It seemed to be the height of spring in the mountain country.

“Jinbee.”

Abruptly, Shōsaburō called out. “Come here.” “Yes, do you require something?” “What an exquisite cloth this is!” While speaking, he held out the red cloth. “My word! How splendid! How splendid!” “Its brilliance could wake the very eyes.” “Where did you obtain this?” “Well—there’s some circumstance to it. I came upon this red cloth unexpectedly. Here, Jinbee—examine it closely.” “Do you see any writing here?”

“Huh?” Jinbee asked back. “Um… You mean… letters?”

“There should be writing on this cloth.” “Ah, so that’s how it is? Well then, let me take another look.”

While saying this, Jinbee examined the cloth over and over, but there were no letters—not even a scratch.

“This year I am sixty-five. My eyes must be failing me too. I cannot see anything at all.” “Hmm… So you can’t see it either.” “Yes, and what about you, young master?” “Actually, I can’t see it either.” “So you were having your fun with me.”

“But last night I could see it clearly.”

Five “Is that truly the case?” “I couldn’t help but shudder.” “And what exactly was written there?” “In moonlight’s glow—jet-black—‘Respectfully Made’ stood written at its head.”

“Respectfully Made?” “Ah, so it says ‘Respectfully Made,’ does it?” “And then what happened?” “‘Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masatake’—it was written there so vividly!” The red cloth had ample width and length to suffice whether tailored into an upper garment or a lower garment, yet mysteriously—being as thin as a cicada’s wing—it could shrink small enough to be clenched within a palm. But what was most astonishing was its beautiful luster: a crimson so intense it seemed aflame, yet not merely a surface redness. It held an unsettling vermilion hue tinged with blackness at its core, much like how human blood appears azure under sunlight one moment and yellow or black the next. So too did this red cloth transform into myriad colors depending on the light’s angle.

"Hmm, it’s just like a jewel beetle."

While thinking this, Shōsaburō gradually came to feel an attachment to the eerie red cloth.

“After all, this is the cloth that once revealed Father’s name before my eyes. There must be some connection here.” Having thought this, I decided to keep the red cloth close to me.

Before long, the cherry blossoms scattered and the kerria blossoms fell. The silver grass shoots extended their blades. Spring had fled in the blink of an eye. Early summer rains, shade beneath the trees, the whine of mosquitoes—thus summer arrived.

The summer scenery of Kai Basin was indescribably cool and refreshing; everlasting summer flowers bloomed at Kamanashi Riverbed, azaleas bloomed at Yumemi Mountain, and fireflies began to flicker and flit through the deep-wooded garden of the mansion.

One night, Takeda Shingen, with over a dozen retainers, was deeply engrossed in a clandestine war council in a secret chamber of the middle bailey, gathered around a single map. Kōsaka Danjō—the foremost trusted retainer; Yamamoto Dōki—versed in military strategy; the peerlessly valiant Baba and Yamagata; brother Nobushige; son Yoshinobu; Katsuyori, magistrate of Ina Province; and Tsuchiya Sōzō went without saying. By special exception, Shōsaburō too was included in the war council’s ranks. Moreover, Morozumi Bungo, Anayama Baisetsu, Takeda Shōyōken, Itagaki Suruga, Nagasaka Chōkan, and Sanada Danjō Masayuki formed a solemn circle—their presence imposing and grave.

When speaking of the renowned first year of Eiroku—a time when they opposed Uesugi Kenshin in three clashes at Shinshū Sarashina Kawanakajima—this was the year following their second battle, marking for the Takeda clan an era of supreme prosperity and fervent morale.

“Shōsaburō.” Takeda Shingen called out suddenly in his deep voice. “Hah!” he responded, placing his hands formally before him. “You put me in mind of your father, I tell you.” He shifted his thick brows. “Shōhachirō was a warrior of valor.” “And rich in strategic wisdom besides.” “When I find myself at an impasse, it is always him I recall, I tell you.”

“I am deeply grateful for your kind words.” “You must not fail to take after your father.” “I am endeavoring to do so, but…”

“Don’t let yourself be called an unworthy son.” “You honor me.” “In this world, everything comes down to strength! You must cultivate strength!” “I am deeply grateful for your words.”

“Good, good.”

With that, Takeda Shingen spread his unlined silk sleeves to either side and struck his war fan against his knee with a thud. Once again they plunged into war council deliberations. Having his father praised so openly before everyone, Shōsaburō appeared both pleased and self-conscious—his face flushing crimson as he stared vacantly at the map’s surface with glazed eyes. Then onto the map’s center—drip... drip... drip... drip—blood began falling from above. When he looked up at the ceiling in shock, fresh blood was seeping out in a square shape, staining the hinoki boards crimson.

“Ah!” he cried out under his breath when he looked back at the map—now stained crimson by the still-falling droplets of blood—yet strangely, not a single person seemed to notice it. “Huh?” He involuntarily gasped and looked up at the ceiling again—the moment he did, the blood that had been seeping out in a square shape on the boards fluttered down like peeling skin. Then, spinning round in midair, it floated there in space—and as soon as it did, began swaying gently from side to side.

It was not blood—it was the red cloth. Shōsaburō’s face paled as he swiftly reached into his pocket—but the red cloth that should have been there was gone.

Shōsaburō, forgetting the decorum of the setting, involuntarily sprang to his feet. All gazes in the room turned toward him at once. As he noticed with a start and tried to sit back down, the red cloth—floating in the air as if beckoning Shōsaburō—fluttered toward the doorway.

The securely bolted doorway opened suddenly from within at that moment, revealing a long corridor.

The red cloth fluttered down the corridor like a flame or a crimson bird, drifting weightlessly. Forgetting himself entirely, Shōsaburō chased after the red cloth.

Six

People are the castle, people are the stone walls, people are the moat; emotions are allies, foes are enemies.

This was a poem of Shingen’s, and it did not appear to have been ghostwritten. Its artless quality served as proof of that fact. When considered as art, it amounted to an undistinguished work; yet Shingen’s true sentiments were well revealed in this single verse.

Takeda Shingen's mansion in Tsutsujigasaki was, as the term implies, a mansion and not a castle. It measured 156 *ken* from east to west. And from north to south, it measured 106 ken. They had constructed an embankment approximately one *jō* in height around it, and a single moat had been dug. As for what constituted its defenses, within this complex alone there were three enclosures: the East Enclosure, West Enclosure, and Central Enclosure. The East Enclosure measured 24 *ken* by 60 *ken*, making it the smallest of the three, while the Central Enclosure—housing Shingen’s residence along with features like an artificial hill, garden pond, and Bishamonten Hall—possessed a certain degree of scenic beauty. The West Enclosure was the residence of the consorts and concubines and was also called the Hostage Enclosure.

Surrounding the mansion and slightly to the south, Kōfu’s grid plan had been established. The total area of the grid plan measured 530 *ken* east-west and 902 *ken* north-south, and here too stood the residences of various generals. In Shiroyamachi (Castle Town District), Sanada Danjō, Amari Bizen-no-kami, Yamagata Saburōbei, and Shiro Oribe were also there.

In Yanagimachi-dōri resided Kōsaka Danjō, Anekōji Baigetsu, Baba Mino-no-kami, Sone Shimotsuke-no-kami, Oyamada Bitchū-no-kami, and Morozumi Bungo-no-kami. In Masuyama-dōri resided Naitō Shūri-no-suke, Itagaki Suruga-no-kami, Saegusa Kageyu, Tada Awaji-no-kami, and Denkyū Takeda Nobushige as well. In Ichijō Alley resided Oyamada Daigaku, Tsuchiya Uemon, Ashida Shimotsuke-no-kami, Hara Kaga-no-kami, Nagasaka Chōkan, Ōkuma Bizen-no-kami, Yamamoto Kansuke, Hatsushika Gengorō, Atobe Ōsuke-no-suke, Imazawa Iwami, Obata Owari-no-kami, Shimojō Minbu, Kurihara Saemon, Hoshina Danjō, and Ichijō Uemon. To the northeast of the mansion stood the residence of Yokota Bitchū-no-kami, and to the north of the mansion, Takeda Shōyōken was positioned.

Exiting the enclosures and leaping over the moat, when the young lone samurai dashed through the deathly still towns like a shooting star, anyone who happened to cross his path must have been startled beyond measure. That samurai was none other than Shōsaburō, who, lured by the flying red cloth, ran toward an unknown destination. Despite the pitch-black night, the red cloth drifted weightlessly through the space about one *ken* ahead of Shōsaburō’s face—like a burning flame—as it flew onward. Trying to catch it, trying to catch it, he reached out his hand—how many times he had grabbed at it?—but each time, the red cloth slipped from his grasp and flew onward and onward.

Yet even so, he finally managed to seize the red cloth. “Got you now!” he cried triumphantly, laughing like a madman—and in that instant, his vision spun violently. Just like that, Shōsaburō lost consciousness and collapsed into the darkness.

“Excuse me, young sir!” At this call’s sound, Shōsaburō opened his eyes.

The sun blazed down. A lush green plateau spread out as far as the eye could see. And there, dyed in indigo blue and revealing its entire form, Mount Fuji towered before Shōsaburō’s eyes.

The moment he gasped and sat up in surprise— “What troubles you, sir?” a gentle voice asked. When he looked, an old man was standing there. “Old man,” Shōsaburō said first. “What on earth is this place called?” “This is the Fuji foothills, sir.” The old man’s answer was ordinary. He appeared to be a woodcutter, carrying a load of wood on his back.

“I know this is the Fuji foothills. Does it have any other name?” “It is called Three Paths Crossroads.”

“Three Paths Crossroads?” “Strange name for a place.”

“There is a crossroads here.” “The roads branch into three.” “Indeed, there are three roads here.” “If you go east, you’ll reach Mount Fuji; if you head west, you’ll come to Lake Motosu; and if you return north, you’ll reenter the human world.” “Well, the *human world*—how amusing.” “Then I suppose the others lead to the demon world?” Shōsaburō said with a laugh. “Yes, it is indeed the demon world.”

The old man’s words were solemn. At the very moment Shōsaburō, startled, instinctively widened his eyes, the sound of horses and men reached his ears. It was gradually drawing closer to this spot.

Part Two

I

Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter… The sound of hooves. Clang-clang-clang-clang—the metallic clatter suggested twenty or thirty mounted warriors were indeed heading this way. Suddenly, the old man began to panic.

“This is bad! We must hide! This way—this way!”

As he spoke, he pulled Shōsaburō by the sleeve into a thicket of hawthorn bushes. Shōsaburō’s nerve failed,

“What are you doing?!” “What are you trying to do?!” “Shh!”

The old man silenced him with a sharp look. “The death robe procession approaches...” “Yes—the blood-stained death robes, I tell you.” “If we make a sound and are found, both you and I will lose our lives.” “Quiet! Quiet!”

whispered the old man. Clang-clang-clang-clang—the sound of armor, metal fittings, and stirrups clashing against each other continued to draw nearer all the while. Is this a distant encirclement, or perhaps a warrior charge? Who could it be that is going where? With suspicion, Shōsaburō crouched down beside the old man and peered intently through a gap in the hawthorn thicket. As far as the eye could see stretched the vast summer foothills, extending in a gently rounded slope from the tip of Shōsaburō’s nose as he peered out.

At the edge of the plain floated a cloud. Perhaps backlit by the midday sun, it shone like silk. The field lay desolate and empty, with scattered groves of larch and hazel trees standing here and there like gaps in an old man’s teeth. Pale poison arrow blossoms, wild grapevines snaking across the ground, avalanche scars exposing reddish-brown earth—all served to redouble the scene’s bleakness. The old man trembled nearby. Then he pointed with his right hand. “From over there—the mounted warriors approach.” A sand cloud billowed upward. It came churning like a tornado through the empty air with thunderous booms—yet as it drew near, this wall of sand stretched over a hundred meters without revealing a single human form.

“What the—?” Before he could even finish the thought, the sound of hooves tried to rush past—but in that instant, through the wall of sand, a horse’s face jutted out. Then a horse’s tail appeared and a fragment of armor sleeve peeked through—when suddenly, clearly, a single warrior broke free from the sand cloud, revealing half his body. There was nothing unusual about his formidable bearing—the helmet crowning his head, the armor he wore, the naginata tucked under his arm—but when the blood-red death robe draped over his armor caught the sunlight, it blazed resplendently, painting the surroundings with a bizarre radiance like that of a rainbow—to Shōsaburō, this was astonishing.

And that too lasted but an instant—the warrior’s figure was enveloped in the sand cloud and seemed to gallop off into the distance. The wall of sand soon vanished. Before long, the sound of hooves also ceased. What remained was profoundly silent. The old bush warbler suddenly began to sing. Hochiyokaketaka! With a *hoo-to-to-to*, a lesser cuckoo also began singing in the thicket. The world had turned tranquil. Mount Fuji stood towering to their left, her form crystal-clear and radiant. Her surface, like hydrangeas beginning to bloom, shifted hues—deep navy, crimson-purple, lapis lazuli, birch-brown—across patches where the underlying strata differed. Jagged crags rose here and there; even the twisted mountain skeleton lay exposed. Though imperfections unseen from afar now revealed themselves, she remained incomparably beautiful. The sleek conical form demarcating sky from earth sharpened into relief—her ridgeline taut with elastic vigor as it swelled roundly upward—evoked the rounded curve of a young woman’s full hips. This sight compelled one to acknowledge that Fuji was indeed female, not male.

The area around the peak—where the poem goes "Even white clouds hesitate to drift"—appeared coldly white to the eye; it was likely the perennial snow lingering in the valley. On the slightly sunken left shoulder floated the midday moon. Yet neither the old man nor Shōsaburō let their hearts be drawn to Fuji’s beauty—instead, they strained eyes and ears toward where the vanished hoofbeats had faded into silence. For a long while, the two kept still without speaking.

“A blood-red death robe!” muttered Shōsaburō. Then he reached into his sleeve and took out that red cloth. “It’s the same color! Not a bit of difference!” “They were taken for a manhunt!” “A manhunt! It’s a manhunt!” The old man spoke in a groaning voice.

“Who on earth are those people?” Shōsaburō called out. “They are the people of Mizuki.” “What’s this ‘Mizuki’? Where is it located?” “In Lake Motosu, so they say.” “I see. And this manhunt—what is it?” “A manhunt is a manhunt… How utterly terrifying! If you were to carelessly say such things, that’s precisely what would put our lives in danger. You’d best take your leave now. Forgive me… You’d best flee quickly.”

Having thrown out these words, the old woodcutter hefted the bundle of firewood on his back and ran down toward the foothills.

The manner of his departure was so hurried and thoroughly filled with terror that Shōsaburō too felt unsettled.

“Anyway, I’ll head back to Kōfu.”

And so, Shōsaburō started walking.

II Shōsaburō quickened his pace and began descending toward the foothills. Ascending was arduous; descending was easy. This follows the universal principle of mountain climbing, but Fuji intensifies this sensation profoundly. Especially in this Sengoku era where proper paths were nonexistent, the difficulty of ascent defied imagination—only those with unwavering resolve, like lesser disciples of Yakuno Ubasoku (ascetic practitioners), occasionally made pilgrimages through its deep mountains and secluded valleys. Yet should one attempt to descend into even a sandy slope, they would be swept down to the foothills along with flowing sand in a single moment. This is the origin of the name Subashiri. However, that was limited to a certain area at the eastern entrance facing Suruga Province, and in the Yoshida area of the northern entrance where Shōsaburō was descending, no such places existed. And so, to descend to the foothills, he had to walk step by step.

Shōsaburō quickened his pace and descended toward the foothills. The area where he walked appeared to be around Mount Fuji's fifth station, evidenced by how every tree clung to the ground like lions sinking their fangs. As for the types of trees, they were rhododendrons, mountain peaches, and the like. The mountain's slope was also quite steep, making it impossible to walk without caution. ……A ptarmigan with its chicks suddenly popped its head out from the bushes.

Shōsaburō descended as if running. And below his eyes stretched a long, single line of forest as if to block his path—for it was precisely here that the fourth station’s forest belt began. The surroundings were swept utterly clear in all directions, revealing unobstructed views of the sky’s azure depths and even the drifting configurations of clouds. Unlike the shrub zone, the forest interior was dark. For countless giant trees—oaks, larches, and cypresses untouched by axes—had intertwined their branches in such multitudes as to block out the light.

Shōsaburō’s sweat-drenched skin dried refreshingly all at once as he entered the forest. He was quite fatigued, muttering "Well then, a short rest," as he sat down on a rotten tree stump. Then he surveyed his surroundings. Amidst the lush green ferns, white arrowleaf flowers floated like sea foam here and there; hundreds of upland sparrows darted through the trees; the piercing fragrance of tall trees stung the nose; where the forest abruptly ended, a pool’s water lay so blue it seemed the azure sky had melted into it—and though no form could be seen nor voice heard, a creeping demonic aura drew near! These things seemed both rare and precious to Shōsaburō.

Having rested as much as he needed, Shōsaburō regained his vigor. And so he thudded down.

It was the evening of the following day when he arrived at the castle town of Kōfu, but when he gazed upon the white stone walls of the mansion at Tsutsujigasaki, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. Though it was called his own home—in truth, the residence of his relative Tsuchiya Uemon—when Shōsaburō returned there, people stared at him with looks of astonishment. That he had reached Mount Fuji’s fifth station within a single night was unthinkable in this era; their astonishment was only natural.

“He must have been spirited away.” “No—perhaps he was taken by a tengu,” they said among themselves—and indeed, this too was reasonable to say. The more he tried to explain, the more suspicion would grow—realizing this, Shōsaburō ceased attempting to speak of his bizarre experience to anyone, no matter who asked. For a time, he stopped attending service at the mansion and secluded himself solely at home. And so, from time to time, he would surreptitiously take out that red cloth and gaze upon it, finding slight solace for his heart.

From the day after the end of Doyō, the Takeda household would always perform the airing of treasures.

This year, the eighth day of the seventh month happened to fall precisely on that date.

The Takeda clan had endured unbroken since the time of Shinra Saburō Yoshimitsu. A span of roughly five hundred years. It was only natural that rare artifacts would accumulate. One-third of the central bailey was designated as the location for the airing of treasures. Tatenashi armor. Hinomaru flag. Suwa Shingō banner. Sun Tzu’s flag. Statue of Tenjin Crossing to Tang China. Fudō statue (carved in the likeness of Shingen himself). The headquarters’ banner with three Takeda diamond crests dyed in black on a vermilion ground. Ancestral ancient texts and old books. A 2-shaku-6-sun Kuninaga sword. A 2-shaku-5-sun Kagemitsu sword. A 5-sun-5-bu Tomomitsu dagger. Mikazuki Masamune. Gō Yoshihiro. Kunitsugu’s sword. Samonji sword. Tiger’s Vermilion Seal used by Nobutora.

…Shingen’s battlefield guardian deity Bishamonten and Shōgun Jizō were also included among the treasures. Tea bowls with hand stains, likewise the tea kettle. Takeda family genealogy. Various prayer texts. Lotus Sutra in gold ink on indigo-dyed ground and scripture box. Bit from Minamoto no Yoshiie’s divine horse. Nitta Yoshisade’s dedicated armor. Suwa Hōshō’s helmet and others were particularly treasured artifacts. The ten-day airing of treasures concluded auspiciously on the eighteenth, and the entire household received wine and delicacies from Shingen within the mansion.

III

“Restraint is forbidden.” “Drink your fill—then drink yourself into oblivion!”

As he said this, Takeda Shingen himself gulped down grape wine from a vermilion-lacquered great cup.

This was the mansion’s great hall. Silver candles twinkled gorgeously. In the elevated tokonoma was displayed Tatenashi armor—Tsukikazu. Hikazu. Genta ga Ubugi. Hachiryū. *Omodaka*. *Usugane*. Hizamaru. To these was added a single suit of Tatenashi armor, collectively called the Genji Eight Armors, and those of martial lineage had become accustomed to revering them as if they were divine, inviolable treasures imbued with sacred power—but only the Tatenashi had been held by the Takeda of Kai since Lord Shinra’s time.

“Venerable Monk Kaigen, what troubles you? You’ve not partaken of wine at all…… Have the server pour for you.”

It was Shōsaburō who responded with a sharp “Hah!” and edged forward on his knees at Shingen’s words. Unusually, today he had attended service and, alongside close colleagues like Sanada Gengorō, Saegusa Sōji, and Sone Magojirō, was mediating among those seated.

“Come now, heap it up mountain-high!” “It’s spilling! It’s spilling!” “Whoa, that’s enough!” The ever-vigorous Venerable Monk Kaigen drained the poured cup in one gulp while making such jokes, but...

“By the way, Lord Tsuchiya Shōsaburō—I hear something intriguing occurred.” “They say you scaled to Mount Fuji’s fifth station in a single night...”

“Yes. “I did indeed make the journey.” “Mount Fuji is Japan’s foremost sacred mountain. “But its steepness is also Japan’s greatest. “You managed the climb quite well. “It must have been divine guidance that led you there.”

“Could it have been divine guidance?” “Could it not have been a demon’s temptation?” Shōsaburō gloomily,

“The one who guided me to the mountain was neither god nor Buddha. It was the red cloth.”

“I have heard that rumor.” The Venerable Monk smiled gently and said, “Do you have that red cloth?” “I keep it on my person at all times.”

“Might I ask you to show it to me for a moment?”

“It is a most simple matter.”

Shōsaburō smoothly pulled out the red cloth from his pocket.

The abbot of Kentokusan Kennin-ji, Great Master Daitō Chishō Kokushi Kaigen, was a renowned monk revered by Takeda Shingen, under whom Shingen studied Zen Buddhism and under whom he mastered military strategy. It was also Venerable Monk Kaigen who had brushed in large characters upon those famous banners of Sun Tzu - "Swift as the Wind, Quiet as the Forest, Fierce as Fire, Immovable as the Mountain" - and who had selected for Shingen the intriguing Dharma name "Kizan". Years later, when Oda’s forces marched into Kōfu Castle Town, he stood atop the gate tower, solemnly chanting the gāthā - "Tranquil meditation needs no mountain stream; Extinguish the mind’s fires and coolness arises naturally" - before perishing in flames to fulfill his moral duty, thereby monopolizing the heroic reputation.

He was what one might call a Sengoku-style Rinzai monk.

The Venerable Monk, having received the red cloth and placed it on his knees to stare at it, suddenly furrowed his eyes. He tilted his head and pondered deeply. From the moment the red cloth appeared in the gathering, the eyes of the people attending the banquet had involuntarily gathered upon it, and now that the Venerable Monk had tilted his head, they too all tilted their heads in unison. Takeda Shingen, who had been sitting as immovable as a mountain with the Tatenashi armor behind him, also seemed to have stirred no small curiosity as he watched the Venerable Monk’s demeanor.

Suddenly, the Venerable Monk raised his face,

“Lord,” he called out to Shingen. “As you have been made to favor scholarship and perused many texts, you must already be well acquainted with works such as *Tales from Uji*, I presume?” “Indeed…” Shingen responded appraisingly, “And what did that amount to?” “In Section 167 of *Tales from Uji*, there is an entry titled ‘The Entry of Jikaku Daishi into Kōketsu Castle.’” “The story of Kōketsu Castle? Ah, that one! I remember it well.”

“A dreadful tale, was it not?”

“Indeed, it was a cruel story.”

“In the mountains there exists an iron castle. Countless people are captured there. They are hung from the ceiling and have their fresh blood squeezed out with constricting tools. The cloth is dyed with that blood... That castle is called Kōketsu Castle. The name of that cloth is Kōketsu. Lord! It was thus described, was it not? Now this red cloth here—this very one is Kōketsu!”

While saying this, Venerable Monk Kaigen took up the red cloth resting on his knee and then lifted it high above his head.

At once, the lamps in the room seemed to lose their light, plunging the surroundings into a hazy dimness, while only the crimson Kōketsu cloth held aloft blazed brilliantly like a rainbow.

Here, the story underwent a complete transformation.

The narrative must shift to the foothills of Mount Fuji.

IV

Since ancient times, countless poets and artists vied to depict Mount Fuji’s beauty in paintings and verse, yet not a single soul ever recounted the mountain’s perilous nature. As for Mount Fuji during the Sengoku period, it was quite a perilous entity. Everywhere, wild beasts, venomous snakes, demons, and specters ran rampant, while outlaw warriors, heretics, and bandits made their dens and settled there. Moreover, during this period, Mount Fuji could by no means be called a dormant volcano. At times, it spewed forth flames. It continuously emitted smoke.

Ten'ō 1, Seventh Month, Sixth Day. Ash fell from Mount Fuji; wherever it reached, leaves withered.

Enryaku 19, Sixth Month, Sixth Day. The summit of Mount Fuji burned of its own accord.

Enryaku 21, First Month, Eighth Day. Day and night, it blazed like torches, with gravel falling like hail.

Jōgan 6, Fifth Month, 25th Day. The great volcano raged with terrible ferocity.

Kanpyō 7, Eleventh Month. Divine fire submerged in the watery expanse.

*Chōhō* 1, Third Month, 7th Day. Mount Fuji burned.

Chōgen 5, Twelfth Month, 16th Day. Mount Fuji burned.

Eihō 3, Second Month, 28th Day. Mount Fuji burned fiercely. Eishō 8. Mount Fuji’s Kama-iwa Rock burned. Hōei 4, Eleventh Month, 23rd Day. Mount Fuji’s eastern side erupted in flames, spewed sand and ash, and the farmlands of all Kantō provinces were buried.

The ten eruptions recorded above constituted Mount Fuji’s most famous explosions since the dawn of history, yet *Seikyōshi* additionally documents “Fuji burned” in Keichō 12 [1592], while *Kōshinpu* clearly states that from the Kyōroku era onward through Genki and Tenshō, Fuji continuously emitted smoke—this is how it was recorded. Speaking of the period from Kyōroku through Tenshō, this was what was known as the height of the Sengoku period and the golden age of Takeda Shingen.

In the foothills of Mount Fuji, within the dense forests of Kayuga-hara, stood a solitary mansion. Though it must have been a splendid Shoin-style structure in its time, eroded by years of wind and rain, it now lay utterly ruined, bearing no trace of its former appearance.

It was the hermitage of Naoe Kurando, former retainer of Uesugi Kenshin, lord of Kasugayama Castle in Echigo Province.

Now, a young man and woman stood talking in the ruined garden. They were Kurando’s daughter Matsumushi and Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu—Matsumushi’s cousin. "...How I have waited for you." "You’re most welcome here." "...But might you not grow weary of it all too soon and depart?" "If that were to happen, I would once again find myself in a lonely state." "Please—please do stay here forever." "But there is nothing of interest here whatsoever." "Forests and woods and mountains and wilderness—that is all there is here... Is your head truly so terribly unwell?" "Is it because of your pain?" "Like being pricked by needles?" "For a patient such as yourself, these foothills might actually prove beneficial." "I pray you will stay forever... Oh, how I have thought of you since time immemorial." "And I thought of you as—please do not laugh—someone far, far more fearsome." "...Is it unreasonable to think so?" "Not at all unreasonable." "Have you not, until now, deigned to visit us even once in our lonely existence?" "That’s why I was certain you must be a cold-hearted, terrifying, malicious person." "But now that I have met you properly and spoken with you at length, I can clearly see that what I had thought was mistaken." "I am happy."

Matsumushi’s voice was beautiful yet carried a desolate poignancy that seemed perfectly attuned to these bleak foothills. “...Where might Uncle be?” “Is he not here?” “I should like to pay my respects if I may see him.” Mondon spoke these words quietly. He still wore his traveling clothes. “My father?” “He left earlier for the woods but should return soon.” “Would you kindly wait awhile?” “...Please come inside.” “Though it be but a squalid ruin, ’tis better than remaining in the garden.” Yet even with this urging, Mondon did not step into the sitting room. Perhaps he found it improper to enter a daughter’s home when her father was absent—even were that daughter his own cousin.

“In that case, shall I guide you to where my father is?” “Please do.” “Please come this way.” Matsumushi took the lead ahead of Mondon and entered the mixed forest. The setting sun’s light—as though scattered gold dust—slanted through gaps in the trees into the forest, casting tiger-striped shadows upon the shoulders and backs of the two walking figures. On a branch above their heads, a squirrel chattered while playing. Then from the grass ahead, something pure white leaped out. It was none other than a wild rabbit.

At that moment, abruptly from far ahead came the sound of sutra chanting. It seemed dozens of men and women were chanting in unison.

“Oh,” Mondon said involuntarily. And then he stopped in his tracks. From the depths of the forest in Mount Fuji’s foothills came the sound of a sutra-chanting chorus! It was only natural to be startled by this. However, the chanting soon ceased. Afterward, everything fell utterly silent. “There is no need to fear.” “They are unfortunate people.” “…My father is their only friend.” “…Now then, shall we not proceed?”

Five

And so, the two began to walk. Before long, they arrived at the depths of the forest.

The surroundings were completely enclosed by a seamless wall of shrubs and thorns.

“...Crossing over is not possible.” “This here is the boundary... Father should be arriving shortly.” “Please wait here.” As she spoke, Matsumushi spread out some grass and sat down right there. Mondon also sat down beside her. The long summer day had ended, it seemed, and the sunset vanished without a trace. The forest was enveloped in darkness. The two sat motionless. At that moment, lantern light came shining from the thicket before their eyes. It gradually drew nearer. Then an old man parted the thicket and appeared— White hair, white robe, bare feet, flushed face. ...Holding the lantern with both hands, he passed before the two people and calmly entered the thicket on the opposite side. After a brief pause, a procession of men and women lined up in single file began walking steadily toward the thicket where the old man had disappeared, as if following in his wake. Not only were their faces completely wrapped in white cloth without any gaps, but their hands and feet too were wrapped in the same manner.

Their procession vanished soundlessly into the thicket. Before long, a sutra-chanting chorus could be heard from the direction they had departed.

The night deepened profoundly, and the forest rustled. A night wind passed through the treetops.

“What a mysterious place this is! “Who on earth are they?” Mondon muttered involuntarily.

“They are pitiful patients. “Leprosy, gangrene, consumption, stomach cancer—they are patients with no hope of recovery.” This was Matsumushi’s reply. “Even so, what could they possibly be doing in such a forest, and on such a dark night as this?” Mondon asked with a look of wonder.

“They cling to Konohanasakuya-hime, the sacred deity of Mount Fuji, praying that her blazing power might bring even slight improvement to their condition through their hundredfold pilgrimage.” “…And the white-robed, white-haired old man who was holding a lantern with both hands and walking at the head of the procession is a divine emissary.” “And that very person is none other than my father, Naoe Kurando.”

Here dwelled a strange bandit commonly known as the Ceramicist. What people today call womb-crawling rituals—he had infested this area while nominally engaging in pottery making. Aged thirty-seven or thirty-eight, with a pallid complexion and well-proportioned features. At first glance he was a splendidly handsome man, but when it came to cruelty, they say none could compare. Today too the Ceramicist sat on the straw mat before his kiln. After prolonged clouds, the mountain stood clear at last, the blazing summer sun turning the vast foothills golden.

The Ceramicist let out a big yawn. Then he began humming a tune. Though called humming, it was a Chinese poem. Spring departs, summer comes to new trees' edge, In deep shade's recess here I linger; My common nature indulges in idle talk, Preferring cuckoos' cries to orioles' singer.

At that moment, a traveler—a young samurai in the manner of one on a warrior’s pilgrimage—came approaching from the direction of the foothills. “Ceramicist, pardon me,” he offered a traveler’s courtesy with a brief greeting and attempted to pass by. And then, suddenly raising his sickle-shaped head like a striking snake, the Ceramicist called out to stop him. “Leave a rib behind!”

“What?” The samurai turned around. With a clang, the Ceramicist wordlessly lifted the kiln lid. What abruptly appeared was not unglazed pottery but a steamed human—had it been pottery, it would have been fired; precisely because it was human, it had been steamed. “Leave a rib behind!” The Ceramicist spoke again. It was a riddle meaning “Leave money behind.” “Ah, so it’s you.” The young samurai showed no surprise; he violently discarded his woven hat and resolutely approached the kiln. “I had heard there was a bandit called the Ceramicist in the foothills of Mount Fuji.” “Ah, so it’s you.”

“Oh, I’m the Ceramicist, yeah? Now then—what’re you supposed to be?” “Just a wandering samurai passing through.” “Got some spine in ya, don’tcha?” “Ha! That how I look to you?” “You ain’t the type to cough up coin easy.” “Your move then. What’s next?” “After all that fuss—end up roastin’ in my kiln, eh?” “You?” “Or maybe you?” “Well now—got grit in those guts. …Let’s hear that name proper-like.”

“Exceedingly simple.” “I’ll declare it.” “I am Takeda’s retainer Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.”

Part Three

I “So you’re Takeda’s retainer Tsuchiya Shōsaburō?” “I see.” The Ceramicist said this without showing any particular surprise. “Then shall I redeclare myself properly? “The Ceramicist of the Third Station—that’s who I am. “Leave a rib.” ——He returned to demanding a rib. This was code, of course. “Hm—so you’re the Ceramicist. “I’d only heard rumors of your name before.”

Shōsaburō showed no surprise either.

“Not only a rib—I won’t give you even a single finger or sliver of fingernail.” With that, he turned sharply and began striding straight across the foothills. “Wait!” Yet just when it seemed he would call out, for some reason he did not. Suddenly, laughter rang out. It was neither a guffaw nor a snicker— A laugh caught between the two.

“Damn it—he laughed.” “That’s the laugh.” Shōsaburō spread his knees and dropped into a precise kneeling stance on the ground. The moment he did, something whizzed over his head, struck a distant tree ahead, and sent sparks flying. It was a searing red-hot iron hammer.

“So you’re Takeda’s retainer Tsuchiya Shōsaburō?” “Wait.”

When he said this, the Ceramicist abruptly became lost in thought.

Shōsaburō did not let his guard down. While keeping his hand on his sword hilt, he observed his opponent’s movements—he had heard of the Ceramicist’s name both as a heinous, ruthless bandit and as a remarkably skilled fighter. He had once been a samurai of noble lineage. He had heard that the Ceramicist had suddenly transformed into a bandit due to some inexplicable motive; that he had studied swordsmanship under Tsuchiya Toranosuke and was unmatched in the Tenshin Shōden Shintō-ryū school; and that despite his serene appearance—wearing a master’s headgear matching his Rikyū-style tea jars, white leather tabi socks, and lucky straw sandals—he earned his living firing ceramics around the Third Station of Mount Fuji’s foothills… among other things. What was especially terrifying was his laugh—Shōsaburō had heard that once that eerie, ambiguous laugh escaped his lips, the opponent—regardless of gender—would surely be done for.

There had also been a day when he heard Lord Shingen sigh: “By rumor, Hōjō Naiki lives in the foothills under the false name ‘Ceramicist of the Third Station’—truly a regrettable waste of talent and resources. Yet that man is a bloodsucking demon, a madman obsessed with the sword. Impossible to take into service.” A peerless master true to his reputation—how should one describe the ferocity of that iron hammer he had just thrown? Precisely because he had heard rumors about the terror of that laugh had he barely managed to avoid it—had he not, his body would have been torn in two.

A surge of dread!

Shōsaburō observed his opponent’s movements vigilantly and thoroughly. The Ceramicist closed his eyes and waited calmly.

Scattered sunlight cast a streak of gold that left speckled spots upon his shoulder, where a white butterfly had alighted moments before and remained motionless. From its thin wings—trembling now and then—white powder faintly scattered in all directions. The occasional crackling sounds were likely from firewood being split in the hearth. A thick column of pearl-colored smoke rose from its mouth. Beyond the green tunnel stretched a vast slope—the very skeletal frame of Mount Fuji—bearing great forests, deep ravines, mountain streams, and cascading waterfalls as it extended endlessly upward into the sky. Clouds clung to its midslope, pierced by eight peaks that towered in lapis lazuli hues.

Quietly, the Ceramicist opened eyes.

“Though abrupt, I must inquire.” The tone of his words had changed. “Might you be related to Lord Tsuchiya Sōzō Masatsune—a retainer of the Takeda house bearing the Tsuchiya surname?” “Indeed,” Shōsaburō nodded. “I am his nephew.” “Ah,” said the Ceramicist upon hearing this, his tone growing even more formal. “Then might your esteemed father be Lord Shōhachirō?” “Yes,” he said, but Shōsaburō hesitated slightly in his reply.

“What’s this man going to say next?” he thought, keeping wary—for one must never lower their guard. “Ah! So it stands confirmed...” The Ceramicist made a shallow bow of courtesy. “This humble one acted in ignorance and committed grave discourtesy. I beg your magnanimous forgiveness.” His speech grew increasingly formalized. “Truth be told—though presumptuous to say—I received countless kindnesses from Lord Shōhachirō.” A nostalgic warmth tinged his voice. “To learn you are his son... it stirs old affections within me.” Then with polite insistence: “Might I inquire after your full honored name?” “I bear the name Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu.” “Then first—pray take your seat here.”

After saying this, he swept clean the rush grass round seat he had been sitting on and pushed it toward him.

Because he thought refusing would be cowardly, Shōsaburō took his seat. The two were silent for a time.

Insects chirped nearby. Flutter-flutter-flutter-flutter-flutter-flutter—a swarm of rock swallows swooshed and darted past overhead. Even that only heightened the desolation of the place.

Again, the Ceramicist closed his eyes. He sank deeply into contemplation. Shōsaburō gazed directly at his demeanor, He couldn't help but think, Hmm? The ruthless, merciless killer—on the Ceramicist's face drifted an inexplicable loneliness, a hint of desolation akin to a masterless stray dog that had lost its beloved owner. It was the wretched anguish of one who could no longer endure conscience's torment and was bereft of soul's bearings—the shadow of desolation, ghastly beyond measure, wrung from such suffering... To put it plainly, it was the countenance of a villain's remorse laid bare.

Two

Shōsaburō’s state of mind softened upon seeing that. He even began to feel a sense of familiarity. Even if one was called a villain—he was no demon—it seemed completely eroding one’s conscience was no easy task… Moreover，what people called good and evil were ultimately not absolute．In the end，they were but fluctuations of the mind．Killing people and taking things—this act poisoned the world．It was indeed a single evil act，but what followed an evil act was a remorseful heart as noble as any god’s．Good and evil were one．Truly，it was so．

At this moment, the Ceramicist opened his eyes.

“To be traveling alone through these perilous foothills of Mount Fuji—might I ask where you are bound?” “Yes, to Lake Motosu…”

“What? To Lake Motosu?” “Hmm, and what business do you have there?”

“I go to seek someone.” “To seek someone?” “Indeed… And whom might you be seeking?” “My parents and uncle,” Shōsaburō revealed without hesitation.

“You would do well to abandon that endeavor.” “And why might that be?” “Lake Motosu is a demonic realm.” “I have been well aware of that since long ago.” “There exists a terrifying water castle.”

“I am going to that water castle.” Shōsaburō said calmly.

“Going to the water castle? To get yourself killed?” “No—to meet my father.” “There is no such person there.” “Whether they exist or not, I will go to confirm it.” “There’s only the masked lord of the castle.” The Ceramicist stated bluntly, “Do you practice the martial arts?” “I do, to some extent.”

No sooner had he spoken than the Ceramicist stood up—and by the time he was on his feet, a gleaming white blade was already gripped in his hand. A sudden laugh erupted—mysterious and abrupt! Startled, Shōsaburō leaped back. There was no time to cross blades properly, but he intercepted the strike perfectly with his hilt. The tea-colored hilt cord scattered in disarray. Without tearing it off entirely, they locked blades. He planted himself firmly in the Seigan stance.

The Ceramicist adopted the jōdan stance. Hff, hff, hff—resounding with a low, sinister chuckle, he stole measure and closed the gap, edging forward on tiptoe with a grating scrape. The sword style learned from Tsuchi Doro no Suké, direct disciple of Morooka Ippa, himself a direct disciple of Iizasa Chōi-sai Naoka. The sword tip, thick with murderous intent, seemed to reek pungently of blood. However, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō too had honed his skills under Matsuoka Hyōgonosuke, the sole disciple of Tsukahara Bokuden. While gratingly pulling back, he also aimed for an opening to thrust out.

Then, as the Ceramicist’s eyebrows twitched spasmodically, his body swayed obliquely and—swish!—he unleashed a massive one-handed diagonal slash! Unable to either flee or counter, Shōsaburō thrust forward. Their positions had shifted only slightly; neither thrust nor cut having landed, the two remained tightly poised. Withered leaves rustled down. Passing between the two swords, they overlapped and scattered across the ground. “Wait!”

The Ceramicist called out. Maintaining his stance, he stepped back and steadily made his way to the front of the hearth. There, for the first time, he lowered his sword, sheathed it with a snap, and formally resumed sitting in his former position. At that moment, a thick log burning crimson flew out from the hearth's mouth with a loud noise.

“Dangerous, dangerous!”

While muttering this, the Ceramicist picked up the fire tongs. “Terrifying things are not limited to swords alone. “It is precisely such ambushes that should be feared.”

He plucked a log and fed it into the hearth before finally turning around. “Splendid skill… For now… I can rest assured…” He smiled lightly yet meaningfully—

“You are the only one who has ever crossed swords with this humble one.” “I usually finish them off with a single strike. ……First, come here.” Shōsaburō had maintained his combat stance until this moment, but upon discerning that his opponent bore no killing intent, he quietly sheathed his sword. Then he tapped both arms. Stiffness had spread throughout his entire body. Following what was said, Shōsaburō returned to his original round cushion and assumed a seated posture, but remained silent for some time.

“With such skill as yours, you’ll be safe wherever you go.” “On your way to Lake Motosu too, you’ll face many hardships.” “Yet even those will pose no danger to you.” “……Still, might you tell me why you’ve concluded beyond doubt that your father Lord Shōhachirō’s whereabouts lie in Lake Motosu’s submerged castle?”

In the Ceramicist’s voice as he spoke these words, there was a note of human compassion. Goodwill and apprehension were interwoven within it.

However, Shōsaburō remained silent. He likely saw no need to speak. Even so, his departure from Kōfu’s castle town and coming to these foothills had been driven by sufficient reason.

The two silently exchanged glances.

A cool wind blew in. Flames flickered from the hearth, and the butterfly from earlier—its wings perhaps singed—rolled about on the parched grass. "So you deem this humble one suspect and refuse to divulge your reasoning." "An unavoidable circumstance." As he spoke thus, the Ceramicist closed his eyes once more,

“You seek your parents and dare to venture into the demonic realm. Yet in contrast to you, this humble one—having failed to obtain what I sought, driven mad by obsession, having lost my mind—has become a wretch who cannot live a single day without seeing human blood, writhing in torment! ……Ah, these arms crawl with desire! I do so wish to hear even a single cry from a human writhing in agony. Heh heh… Heh heh heh heh.”

Suddenly drawing his sword into his left hand and stomped his right foot forward, “No—I cannot cut you down. I have long been indebted to your father, Lord Shōhachirō.” Having said this, he slumped into a seated position and fixed his gaze on the hearth’s mouth.

“What is it that you seek?”

Shōsaburō asked quietly. “‘Unrighteousness’ and ‘betrayal’—none other than these two are what this humble one seeks.” “What will you do once you’ve captured them?”

“Cut them down in one stroke! The blade’s rust!”

“In this floating world, are there not already countless acts of unrighteousness and betrayal?” Shōsaburō asked coldly. “Unrighteousness directly related to this one’s own person.”

The Ceramicist's words were also cold. He then quietly waved his hand. "There’s no need." "You may go." The day ended once again. Fuji clouded over. "Well then, take your rest."

No sooner had he spoken than he rolled over and lay down before the hearth. What surfaced on his face was anguish too painful to witness - a repentance steeped in desolate loneliness.

Shōsaburō muttered.

“My lord’s words contain no falsehood.” “Bloodsucking fiend!” “Murderous maniac!”

Shōsaburō stood up. Then he crossed the foothills. Before long his figure was hidden among the silver grass, leaving behind only a profound silence. The setting sun blazed across the plains. Fuji began glowing with an agate hue. Shadows of objects turned purple as those cast by forests and groves stretched steadily outward before one's eyes.

At that moment came a rushing sound of wind. However, it was not the wind. It was the sound of two mounted warriors galloping up from the foothills, parting the tall susuki grass as they came. The red cloth draped over the belly band, struck by the setting sun and shining crimson like blood, contrasted with the desolate wilderness, evoking an eerie aura. “Hey——!” called one of the warriors.

“Lord Hōjō Naiki! Lord Ceramicist!” The other warrior called out in succession. “Hey——!” answered the Ceramicist, but grabbing his sword, he leapt to his feet and spun around. “Here—accept today’s prey!” Along with the voice, one warrior swung and threw down a small man bound to the saddlebow.

“Much obliged!” he retorted, twisting his waist into a true iaido draw. By the time it was drawn, it had already cut. From the base of the left ear, splitting the jaw, tearing open the throat, cutting through three ribs under the arm, leaving only the skin intact as it cleaved clean through… “Adulterer! Have you seen it now? Divine retribution strikes before your very eyes!” Then came that characteristic dark chuckle of his—a low, sinister sound—as he laughed.

III

The samurai nimbly dismounted from his horse. He unfurled several yards of white silk in a steady stream. He pressed it firmly against the severed edge. The silk was instantly dyed blood-red. As they pulled, three meters became six—crimson silk stretching endlessly.

“Here—the next one!” The other samurai wrenched the woman bound to the saddlebow from under his arm and threw her down. The woman was half-dead. She curled up her limbs and made no attempt to move. “Adulteress!”

The Ceramicist called out. Then he gave a blood-curdling shudder. He tried to let out a cackling laugh—a strained, manic sound. With a thud, he kicked her back and plunged a single blade with both hands beneath her breast. A piercing scream— trembling fingertips. The color of the nails rapidly turned gray, and what was torn at the clenched fingertips was a single bellflower.

The Ceramicist spun around and changed direction. He headed back toward the kiln. With his bloodied sword hanging down, his footing unsteady, he shambled along—a pallid complexion, unblinking eyes, lips growing ever redder—a ghostly figure. Before the kiln, he knelt down and collapsed limply onto his side. Holding the long and short swords under his left arm and keeping his eyes tightly shut, he did not move. He seemed to be trying to sleep. Then an expression of repentance surfaced. The reason he occasionally opened his eyes to glare at the sky was likely because he found it difficult to sleep.

Before long, dusk crept in. The stars twinkled brilliantly in the sky, and the cawing of crows could be heard from the thickets, wilderness, and forests. At the mouth of the kiln, a blue fire burned like will-o'-the-wisps.

IV

Around this time, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō was walking through the foothills. That he had slipped out of Kōfu and returned to the foothills was due to the following circumstances. It was the night of the Insect-Repelling. Upon seeing the red cloth, Venerable Monk Kaigen—

“This is Kōketsu,” he said.

“I visited China in my youth.” “Yes—three times perhaps?” “There I saw Kōketsu.” “This must be that red cloth... No—wait, it differs slightly.” Having said this, the Venerable Monk turned it over and over again, scrutinizing it,

“The color and sheen are nearly identical. Yet the weaving method differs.” “Huh? When you say ‘weaving method’…?”

“This red cloth is of Japanese weave.” “It is absolutely not Chinese cloth.”

At that moment, Lord Shingen— “Venerable Monk, Venerable Monk,” he called out. “If this Kōketsu is indeed of Japanese weave, how should we interpret that?” “If my presumptuous imaginings are permitted,” replied the monk, “this humble monk would consider it thus: Might not those who resent this world have hidden themselves in some remote mountain valley, constructed Kōketsu Castle exactly following Tang legends, indulged in wicked deeds there, and produced this dreadful kōketsu?” “Hmm,” Shingen nodded. “In this fleeting world where Matsunami Shōkurō the oil seller has pacified Mino and been proclaimed Saitō Dōsan...” “One cannot say such mysteries are impossible.”

“Venerable Monk,” Shōsaburō said earnestly, “please tell me in detail about Kōketsu Castle in China.” “No, no—there’s no need for me to explain. Please consult *Tales from Uji*.”

Therefore, when Shōsaburō returned to his residence, he took out *Tales from Uji*. “The Matter of Jikaku Daishi Entering Kōketsu Castle” “Hmm, this is it,” Shōsaburō nodded as he read on. “Long ago, when Jikaku Daishi had crossed over to Tang China to study and propagate Buddhism, it came to pass that during the Huichang era, Emperor Wuzong of Tang eradicated Buddhism, destroying temples and pagodas, capturing monks and nuns to perish them, and encountered a rebellion where some were forced to return to secular life. When they sought to capture even the Master himself, he fled and retreated into a certain hall. While the envoys entered the hall and searched, the Master, finding no means of escape, hid himself within a Buddha statue and fervently chanted to Fudō Myōō. When the envoys sought him out, he was found within a newly made statue of Fudō Myōō. When they, finding this strange, took it down and looked, the Master had returned to his original form. The envoys, astonished, reported this matter to the Emperor. The Emperor decreed, 'He is a saint from another land. Expel him swiftly.' Upon this command, they released him. The Master, rejoicing, fled to another land. Beyond distant mountains stood a house encircled by high earthen walls with a single gate, where a person waited. Rejoicing, he inquired. ‘This is the house of a wealthy man,’ they replied, then asked, ‘What manner of monk are you?’ They answered: ‘I am a monk who crossed over from Japan to study and propagate Buddhist teachings. Yet having encountered such sudden turmoil, I wish to hide here awhile.’ To this they said, ‘This is no ordinary place where people come. Stay here for a time, and once the world has quieted, you may go forth and study Buddhism as well.’ When the Master joyfully entered inside, they locked and secured the gate as he proceeded deeper within. Later, when he stood and went to look, he saw various houses built continuously, with many people bustling about. They placed it nearby. Now, as he looked around for a place where he might study Buddhism, he saw no Buddha statues, sutras, monks, or anything of the sort. At the rear near the mountain, there was a house. When he approached and listened, many human moans could be heard. When he peered suspiciously through a gap in the fence, [he saw] people bound and hung from above, with jars placed below to catch the dripping blood. Astonished, he asked why, but they gave no answer. Greatly perplexed, when he listened elsewhere, he heard similarly moaning voices. When he peered inside, there lay numerous emaciated figures with ghastly blue-tinged complexions. When he called one over and asked, ‘What is this? How can you endure such unbearable suffering?’ the figure took a piece of wood and, extending a thin elbow to write, revealed: ‘This is Kōketsu Castle. Those who come here are first fed a drug that silences them, then a drug that fattens them.’”

After that, they hung them from a high place, stabbed and cut various parts of their bodies to draw blood, dyed kōketsu with that blood, and sold it. Without knowing this, they met with such a fate. In the food there was a black substance resembling sesame seeds—this was the drug that silences speech. If they served you such a thing, you were to pretend to eat it and discard it. Should anyone question you, you were to do nothing but moan. Then you were to make whatever preparations you could to escape and flee. They locked the gate so securely that ordinary means offered no path to freedom.” Having been taught this in detail, he returned to his quarters. After some time someone came bringing food. As he had been instructed, there was a substance resembling sesame seeds within it; pretending to eat it, he placed it in his robe and later discarded it. When someone came and asked questions, he moaned and did not answer. Now that he thought their task was complete, when they served him various fattening drugs, he similarly pretended to eat them but did not consume them. When those people had left and there was an opening, he faced northeast, rubbed his hands together in prayer, and entreated “Sambō of Iwayama, aid me!” At that moment a large dog appeared and bit his sleeve to pull him away. Realizing this was the way, as he emerged in the direction it pulled, he was drawn out through an unexpected sluice gate. When he emerged outside, the dog vanished. Having now resolved thus, he ran in the direction his feet carried him. Beyond distant mountains there was a village. When he met someone and was asked “From where does your lordship come running in such a manner?” he replied “I went to such a place and am now fleeing.” “How reckless!” they exclaimed. “That is Kōketsu Castle. No one who goes there ever returns.” Without the aid of an ordinary Buddha’s divine intervention there would have been no way to escape. “Ah how noble a person he must be” they thought bowing reverently before departing. Thereafter he fled further and stealthily made his way back into the capital. In the sixth year of Huichang Emperor Wuzong passed away. “The following year in the first year of Daichō [Dazhong] when Emperor Xuanzong had ascended to the throne and the eradication of Buddhism had ceased he studied Buddhism as he had intended. After ten years he returned to Japan and propagated the Shingon teachings—so it is told.”

V

When he finished reading, Shōsaburō sank into deep suspicion.

“With this, I can imagine most of Kōketsu Castle’s history and legends.” ……If the red cloth I possess is truly a Japanese-made kōketsu, then there must be a Kōketsu Castle somewhere in Japan that produces it. Then where could it be? I saw a group of strange mounted samurai on Mount Fuji’s midslope. They were wrapped in red cloths. Red cloths that did not differ at all from the one I possessed… If the red cloth I possess is indeed a Japanese-made kōketsu, then it seems reasonable to conclude that the red cloths they wore must also be the same kōketsu. They who wore such rare kōketsu cloth so casually! Could they not be the very soldiers of Kōketsu Castle? And yet it is said their main fortress is the aquatic castle in Lake Motosu. Then could it be that the aquatic castle in Lake Motosu is none other than Kōketsu Castle? … And on this red cloth I possess, Father’s honored name once appeared—with “Reverently Made” boldly inscribed at the top, and “Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masatake” written slightly apart. Oh! Could it mean Father has been captured by that most cruel Kōketsu Castle in all the world?

Having thought this through, Shōsaburō could no longer sit still.

“Let’s go, let’s go to Lake Motosu!”

Shōsaburō resolved. That night, he secretly prepared his travel gear and set out stealthily without informing anyone.

Shōsaburō walked on. When had he lost his way? No matter how far he walked, Lake Motosu refused to appear. Dragging his exhausted legs that had sought the path by starlight, he trudged onward and onward. At that moment, far ahead along the path, the light of a lantern came into view. “Ah, there must be a house here.” “I just hope it’s not the dwelling of some villainous ceramicist or the like.” As he drew closer and looked carefully, there stood a Shoin-style mansion surrounded by a dense forest. Through windows not yet closed, the firelight shone into the darkness.

Shōsaburō approached but casually peeked through the window. A young samurai seated a beautiful girl before him and appeared to be discussing something. Shōsaburō felt relieved. That they were not villains could be discerned from the couple’s demeanor.

Shōsaburō once again went around toward the entrance to request lodging for tonight.

It was the following morning.

Accompanied by Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu and his daughter Matsumushi, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu departed from Kurando’s mansion.

At the foothills of Mount Fuji after the midsummer heat, Katategahara Plain lay shrouded in morning mist, with bellflowers, maidenflowers, meadowsweet, and others drenched in dew. “No matter how long you see me off, this parting reluctance will not easily be spent.” “Please do turn back now.”

It was when they had come about one ri that Shōsaburō stopped and said this.

“It seems the time has truly come for us to part.”

Mondon also stopped and spoke. “May you arrive safely.” Matsumushi also stopped and spoke. “Since last night’s kind hospitality, I hardly know how to express my gratitude.” Once again, Shōsaburō expressed his gratitude. “A chance meeting under a tree’s shade or by a river’s flow—even a mere brush of sleeves stems from bonds formed in past lives. What need is there for thanks?” With these words, Matsumushi smiled, but her smile seemed lonely. This girl who grew up in the wilderness must feel affectionately toward anyone.

“You are Takeda; I am Uesugi.” “Though we stand divided as enemy and ally, now we are both wanderers.” “Having spent a night beneath the same roof and exchanged tales—this shall become a cherished memory.” Mondon smiled as he spoke, yet his smile remained tinged with loneliness. “I am frail.” “Unversed in martial arts.” “Moreover, this ailing body knows not when death may claim it.” “To part today without knowing when we might meet again fills me with unease... Though we conversed but one night, your excellency—so peerless in both scholarship and swordsmanship—has grown as dear to me as an elder brother.”

“I feel the same.” Shosaburo solemnly said,“I shall never forget your profound kindness.” “Yesterday around noon—encountering that fearsome ceramicist bandit chilled me to my core—but come nightfall,I found myself feeling human kindness soothing me profoundly.”

Gradually, the mist began to clear. The foothills spread out clearly into view. At last, the time for parting arrived.

“Farewell.” “Farewell,” he called out. Shōsaburō pointed toward the foothills, and the two began making their way back through the dew toward the mansion.

Shōsaburō energetically strode down the foothills.

Six "Those two are far too lonely. "I hope they don’t meet with misfortune." Shōsaburō walked while unable to stop worrying about Mondon and Matsumushi’s circumstances. “Though he is an unseasonably young scholar astonishingly versed in Japanese literary classics, his martial skills fall short even of a farmer’s—useless with both spear and longsword. In this chaotic Sengoku era, such a man is utterly ill-suited.” “Within the Uesugi household, the Naoe name should signify a splendid distinguished family—yet given Lord Mondon’s current state, one can only call it frustrating.”

Such thoughts also crossed his mind. The sun gradually rose higher until it became noon and then afternoon. At that moment, Shōsaburō realized he had once again lost his way and come to an unexpected direction. “This is troublesome,” he muttered, unintentionally coming to a standstill in the field—but even as he stood there blankly, no brilliant plan seemed likely to surface, so he set off walking briskly again.

There was a gloomy forest. Passing through it revealed a cedar-covered hill. Circling around the hill's base, he suddenly looked ahead to find the field terminating abruptly before his eyes. At its end rose a massive rock wall. Even describing it as stretching unbroken across several ri would constitute no exaggeration—this towering precipice extended endlessly left and right in one steep, high expanse. Perhaps it resembled a castle wall more than natural stonework. Weathered by wind and rain through the years, this rampart-like rock formation had darkened to a dusky brown, with shrubs clinging sporadically to its surface.

“This must be what they call a natural fortress.” Shōsaburō, overcome with emotion, approached the rock wall—but standing at its base and looking up, it seemed even higher. “Is this interior a field?” “Or is it a mountain of continuous rock?” While thinking such thoughts, he stood gazing up for a while, but as his legs had grown quite fatigued,

“Alright, time to rest.”

While saying this, he leaned his back against the rock wall with a thud.

The moment he did so, the rock pivoted sharply around its axis, sending Shōsaburō tumbling headlong into its interior. When he sprang upright in alarm, absolute darkness enveloped every direction. "Mustn't panic," Shōsaburō mentally commanded himself as he settled into a cross-legged position. He focused on steadying his breathing. "There must have been a rotating mechanism in the rock face," he reasoned. "My careless contact must have triggered it." The realization crystallized: "The door opened and shut again—that's how I became trapped inside... But then—where exactly am I now?"

He stretched both hands out to either side and felt around. Cold rock touched fingers. "It appears I'm inside a cave formed within the rock."

At any rate, he figured this much out.

Well, let's examine the doorway. Shōsaburō stood up and cautiously made his way toward what seemed to be the doorway while feeling along the rock with both hands. Before long he collided with stone and groped blindly across its surface. He tried pushing but found no movement. It's no use, he thought and sank into contemplation. Then once more he began cautiously feeling his way toward the opposite side. What appeared as an extremely deep cave showed no end however far he progressed. This doesn't seem like a cave. It must be some sort of path.

This thought occurred to him after he had traveled about ten ken. Shōsaburō perked up. While taking great care with his footing, he strode steadily forward. In this way, he advanced another ten ken or so. ……Then from far ahead came a pale, faint light shining through.

“Thank goodness. This must lead to the open field.” “So this leads to the open field after all.”

Shōsaburō dashed toward the source of the light. Gradually, the light grew brighter. And so, at last, Shōsaburō emerged into a beautiful valley where evening light flowed through the grass. Overwhelmed with joy, Shōsaburō could not even speak. He simply surveyed his surroundings. Peach Blossom Spring, Mount Wu, Penglai—could this be what they called the otherworldly realms of the world? The surrounding scenery was so noble and beautiful that it seemed to justify such thoughts. Mount Fuji! Indeed, Fuji’s peak loomed so close it seemed to brush against his brow, suspended within arm’s reach as if floating in air. Gentle contours, unbroken slopes—flowing down to where he stood.

In essence, that gentle slope had been blocked by a rock wall at some point, resulting in the formation of a single valley between the rock wall and the slope—and at one spot in that valley, Shōsaburō now stood dumbfounded. This was the scene that now lay before his eyes. And so, on one side, the valley was bordered by a winding rock wall that demarcated it from other foothills, while on the other side, Mount Fuji severed all connection to the outside world, thereby carving out an entirely separate new world here.

The valley country of this new world appeared to be extremely vast. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to call it long rather than wide—in any case, on one side it stretched endlessly along the rock wall, while on the other it spread interminably alongside Mount Fuji.

“I’m sleepy.” Shōsaburō muttered. For the air was sweet, the scent of flowers rich, and from trees to thickets, thickets to rocks—even in the songs of small birds singing as they flitted about—there lay a mysterious charm that lured listeners’ hearts into peace.

“I’m sleepy,” Shōsaburō said again. Then he flopped down onto the grass. From somewhere far away came the deep toll of a temple bell—a single gong resonating through the air.

"It appears there’s a temple somewhere." ……Then came an ethereal chorus—as though multitudes of men and women sang in unison—drifting to his ears. "A large group is singing," Shōsaburō muttered while asleep within a dream. "Where on earth is this place?" Go-o-on—again came the bell’s toll echoing through emptiness. Following it rose choral voices solemn and sacred as surging tidal waves.

Where on earth was this place?

The Fuji Sect's Mysterious Realm!

Part Four

1

Tsuchiya Uemon timidly came forward before his lord and addressed him.

“Tsuchiya Shōsaburō has absconded from his residence the night before last.”

“What?”

Shingen puffed his cheeks. It was his habit when surprised. However, he did not often get surprised.

“Shōsaburō has run away?” “Hmm, is that so?” “He’s a troublesome fellow.” “He is indeed a troublesome fool.” “What could the reason be? The reason he ran away?” “I’m afraid we have no idea whatsoever.” “Did he have some grievance?” “Never, never—I assure you there could be no such thing.” “So, do you have any leads?” “Huh? “Leads, my lord?” “The leads on where he fled!” “No, well—we’ve no leads whatsoever—” “You’ve no leads whatsoever? You’re being rather obtuse.”

"I am deeply ashamed." Uemon wiped sweat from his forehead. Shingen glared sharply at this but furrowed his brow and fell silent.

Shingen’s face was large and severely jowly. His jaw jutted out in two distinct layers. Thick eyebrows—long and stiffly erect—angled sharply upward at their ends. Though his eyes might be called ordinary, deep wrinkles crowded their corners and framed them above and below, lending him an aged appearance. A thick mustache hung beneath his nose, its limp ends giving it an unremarkable look. His lips were thick and discolored a dusky hue. Were the beard removed, his face would bear considerable resemblance to Ieyasu’s—not merely in features, but more profoundly in their shared craftiness.

Just as his face was large and corpulent, Shingen’s body was also corpulent. His neck was literally a bull neck. Ears drooping like those of Daikokuten. Even having shaved his head, he kept only his cheek beard, maintaining great dignity. He had thick chest hair. His overall demeanor was choleric, greasy, and dull. He was not the type women would fall for. He did not appear to be the sort of refined man who could impregnate the Suwa family’s princess and produce a handsome lord like Katsuyori-sama straight out of paintings.

Indeed, the dignity befitting an illustrious house was present. It was a brooding sort of dignity—one that grew eerily formidable when he fell silent in contemplation. “Uemon, you’ve dispatched pursuers already, haven’t you?”

After a moment, Shingen asked thus. "We have divided our forces in all directions and dispatched search parties, sir." "I'll dispatch pursuers from my side immediately." "Yes, as you see fit, sir." "It cannot be helped—it is the clan's law." "Yes, as you see fit, sir." "I am not one to complain." Shingen said gloomily. "But even so—why did Shōsaburō leave the province without a word? As the law of Kai Province dictates—that those who leave the domain without permission must be pursued through every blade of grass and hanged—even he should know this. Even so, he would leave the province without permission—"

“He is an utter fool.” “The problem is that being a fool won’t settle it.” “...I owe a debt of gratitude to Shōsaburō’s father, Shōhachirō.” “Shōsaburō is a dear and important retainer to me.” “Allowing him to leave the province is truly regrettable—and capturing and killing him is emotionally unbearable—but this Shingen cannot break the laws that this Shingen himself established.” “Would that not be the case?” “As you command, my lord.” “If we were to permit this, those who leave the province would only increase.” “Those who have left will undoubtedly seek ties and pledge allegiance to the likes of Uesugi, Hōjō, and Oda.” “Kai Province’s secrets must inevitably leak from their mouths to enemy forces.” “This is truly a terrifying thing.”

“It is indeed a dreadful matter, my lord.” “Therefore, I shall shed tears and resolve to capture Shōsaburō.” “I most humbly entreat you to act according to the law.”

“However, I am sad.”

Shingen darkened again.

“Gentarō!”

Shingen called out. "Hah!"

The one who slid forward as he spoke was a page with a forelock. “You shall join the search party.”

Shingen solemnly issued the command. “Understood.” The fourteen-year-old boy samurai—Kōsaka Gentarō, born to Kōsaka Danjō’s concubine—acknowledged the order. “You are to depart immediately.” “Understood.” “Employ that brilliant cunning you displayed last May during the Boys’ Festival when you stole the shieldless armor, and bring Shōsaburō before me.” “As you command.”

After bowing, Gentarō smoothly slid out of the presence.

Two

That dusk, a bird catcher set out from the Kōsaka residence.

It was Kōsaka Gentarō in disguise. That was a charming bird catcher. On his head he wore a hood. The hood was pure scarlet. On his legs were mountain hakama made of birch-colored tanned leather. He wore a tortoiseshell-patterned kudzu garment with cylindrical sleeves over a moegi-colored sleeveless robe. At his waist hung a game bag with a glue tube attached. The two-and-a-half ken long glue-tipped pole could be freely extended, while spare poles were carried on his back. He was fair-skinned and round-faced, with a high nose, thin lips crimson as if rouged. Those almond-shaped eyes held an unsettling quality—the whites visible beneath the irises, pupils perpetually half-hidden beneath upper eyelids.

For a Sengoku-period warrior, they were rather small but round and plump, appearing capable of deflecting a blade. They were highly elastic.

He circled around the western side of the mansion to Atobe Ōi’s residence, then trudged steadily north until he reached the Koyamada residence—there, at the edge of the grid district.

“Now, which way should I go?” Gentarō pondered briefly before declaring, “For times like these, rod divination—that’s the ticket.” He planted his glue-tipped pole firmly into the roadway with two solid thumps.

“Oh, it fell southeast. Southeast... that would be the direction of Fuji. Alright, alright—then I’ll head to Fuji.”

It was an extremely simple matter. Shouldering the long glue-tipped pole, *Behold the bird-catcher arrives! Where are the birds? Oh, the great birds— Haahoi no hoi!* A bird-catcher’s song popular at the time. Singing this spiritedly, he set off ploddingly along the blacksmith road toward Mount Fuji. Huh, what a predicament I was in. Disguised as a pursuer, the one I must capture was my own cousin—it was like something out of an old tale. Nevertheless, Lord Shingen—our boss sure had a twisted sense of irony. After all, he was ordering me to capture him with that brilliant wit I’d shown last May during the Boys’ Festival when I stole the shieldless armor. Lord Shingen’s shaven pate—seemed he’d really held back that time... Cheep cheep—something was chirping away annoyingly somewhere. Well damn—that’s a mountain dove.

Looking up, he saw a grey mountain dove perched on a great camphor tree before his eyes.

“Well, isn’t this one inconveniently perfect.” The pole didn’t quite reach. “Alright then—time to try the throwing pole!” He threw it with a whizz without taking aim. Weaving skillfully through the dense branches, the pole extended like a war arrow toward the distant treetop, and when it fell back down, its tip had ensnared the mountain dove with glue. He wrenched it off and twisted its neck. He let the blood trickling from its mouth drip onto his arm guards and smirked, “Killing living creatures is quite something." “The twitching soft skin, the warm metallic blood—with this, there’s no stopping the killing.”

He forcefully shoved it into his game bag,

“……Behold the bird-catcher arrives! Where are the birds? Oh, the great birds—…Lord Shingen’s shaven head—seems he’d been quite startled that time.” Last year—the third year of Kōji—on the night of the Boys’ Festival, they had decorated the Tatenashi armor per family custom, and Lord Shingen had hosted a banquet. At that time, Shingen recounted a tale about Tatenashi. “It was in the sixth year of Kanshō. Our third-generation ancestor Lord Nobutada dispatched Itagaki Saburō and Shimoyama Gorō as vanguards to subjugate the traitor Atobe Kageie at Yūgarisawa. Kageie had been entrusted with our family’s treasured Tatenashi armor. Donning it, he rode forth leading several thousand horsemen. Lord Nobutada lay in wait alone beneath a tree’s shadow, timed his shot perfectly, and loosed an arrow that struck true to Kageie’s chest—slaying the traitorous general. Yet the arrow’s scar remained upon the armor, marring Tatenashi’s divine authority. Fearing that an arrow piercing this ancestral treasure portended the clan’s decline, Lord Nobutada lamented. Resolving to test it himself, he donned Tatenashi after returning from battle and ordered three skilled archers—Mutō Gorōshichirō, Koyamada Jūrō, and Saegusa Shikibu—to shoot at him. Every arrow was deflected.” “How wondrous this divine protection! Tatenashi serves as guardian deity of the Takeda clan—its power manifests only when held by our rightful lord. Let any other who touches it face divine wrath!”

“It is a most divine armor, my lord.” The retainers reverently replied.

Yet someone among them laughed. When he sharply looked toward the source of the voice, Kōsaka Gentarō was laughing. Then, Shingen looked puzzled, “Now, Gentarō, what’s so amusing?” “I have touched it. “…I touched it time and time again. However, it seems divine punishment has not been meted out, for as you can see, I remain unharmed.” “Such reckless audacity for a child! Divine punishment will surely befall you.” Then Gentarō snickered and, “If you would but grant me permission, I shall steal Tatenashi and present it before your eyes.”

“Steal Tatenashi?” “This is interesting.” “Very well—I’ll allow it. Try stealing it.” “As you command.”

3 And with that, Gentarō slipped past the lord and vanished on the spot.

“What could Gentarō possibly do?” Shingen glanced at his retainers and let out a wry smirk, but soon even the memory of that promise—and of Gentarō himself—had faded from his mind. However, according to Takeda family custom, the Tatenashi armor had to be enshrined in the treasure house that very night—and at the Hour of the Ox in the dead of night, with Shingen himself personally overseeing its placement.

And then, when the appointed time arrived, Shingen slowly stood up. The Tatenashi armor was placed into a box and carefully loaded onto a palanquin. It was four samurai who carried it. Nor were they Kai-nade samurai. Hyūga Yamato, Katsunuma Nyūdō, Imagawa Ise, and Hemmi Sakyo—each was not so much a warrior of unmatched prowess as they were imposing commanders. After Shingen proceeded, then followed Nobushige, Yoshinobu, Katsuyori, and Shōyōken of the clan. As the vanguard was Baba Mino-no-kami; flanking the palanquin were Koyamada and Amari. It was indeed a grand procession, but this one wound its way at length through the corridors until it reached the treasure house. The treasure house stood between the First and Second Baileys, but when the procession reached it, they came to a solemn halt. Shingen himself took the key and opened the treasure house with a creak. And the procession began to move, but this time, Shingen took the lead and guided them into the storehouse. Once they had enshrined it, the procession quietly exited the storehouse. During this entire interval, they could not utter a single word. Even coughing was considered improper. At this moment, Shingen, as the lord, was the last to emerge from the treasure house, but then took hold of the key again and attempted to close its door. Then he suddenly grew uneasy.

“Something feels off,” he muttered. “I get the feeling someone’s still inside.” He peered intently through the gap, but inside the unlit treasure house lay what is called crow-jewel darkness, where not even the patterns of objects could be distinguished. Shingen looked back behind him. None were missing from the prescribed number. He muttered “It’s just my mind playing tricks on me,” then closed the treasure house door with a creak. He then clicked the lock shut with a firm clack, but at that moment, a faint, solitary laugh seemed to drift out from within the treasure house—or perhaps it had only seemed to.

Though it weighed on his mind, Shingen dismissed it as an auditory illusion and briskly retraced his steps down the corridor.

Now, the following morning, Sanada Gengorō, one of his close attendants, formally seated himself before Shingen. “I humbly wish to convey Kōsaka Gentarō’s message.” “What?” Shingen demanded sharply. “Last night, Gentarō spoke these words to me.” “‘I request you open the treasure house tomorrow morning.’” “‘The Tatenashi armor has been stolen by that wretch Gentarō…’” “Ah!” Shingen let out a startled cry before hearing the full message. At that instant, he recalled last night’s promise with lightning clarity. He kicked his cushion as though scalded and sprang up, abandoning all customary composure as he dashed toward the treasure house.

Impatient even to fully open the door, Shingen stepped into the treasure house and saw—there in the faintly lit depths, by a box containing Tatenashi, sat Kōsaka Gentarō. Leaning against the container, a lit matchlock pistol in hand, he boldly aimed its muzzle at Shingen, his unsettling sanpaku eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Lord!” called Gentarō. “If I were to fire this Tanegashima’s full charge into the armor chest, Tatenashi would be reduced to dust.” “And should I aim it at you, your life would be forfeit.” “Had I but the strength, I would’ve carried Tatenashi out myself.” “Outrageous! You impudent cur!” “Where did you enter?” “How did you enter?” “From my vantage point, your stronghold might as well be sievelike.” “Keh, keh, keh, keh.”

He burst into laughter—but this was no ordinary laugh. It was the cruel cackle of a sexual deviant or natural-born criminal, one that even the courageous Shingen could not help but stiffen in response to.

“Lord Shingen’s shaved head—seems he was quite startled back then.”

Along the Kajiya Highway toward Mount Fuji, Gentarō strode briskly while chuckling at the memory.

“What could be more amusing in this world than thieves? There’s nothing.” “This is proper work indeed.” Taking what belongs to others—that’s what makes it great. I mean—it belongs to others! Claiming it for myself! The beauty lies in erasing self and other. Equality beyond duality… When gold coins like koban or ōban appear—every last fool scrambles madly for profit. They hoard their gains like misers. Then lord it over everyone else. That’s their greedy nature. Snatching it away with a polite “Thank you kindly”… The rush when stealing. The thrill before the act. Ah—indescribable! …Most elegant work there is. A craft demanding wit and skill… Alright—I’ll steal that thing! He pondered deeply. But no… Not like that… Maybe this approach? Ah—that way… All comes down to outsmarting them single-handed.

"What an elegant job this is!"

Four

The sun had long since sunk below the horizon, and dew clung damply to the grasses along the path.

"But even so—what utter fools they are, not noticing me stealing right under their noses! …Though I’ll admit, my late mother was something else when it came to spotting theft." "She always had a sharp eye for it." "Ho! What’s this? Pointless—what good’s thinking about that now?" "Behold! The bird catcher makes his entrance!" "Haa-hoi and hoii!" "...Where to bed down tonight?" Gentarō strode briskly onward.

Since he carried the Takeda family tally token granted by Shingen, he could come and go through Kai Province as he pleased and lodge wherever he wished. That night found Gentarō at Shimomuke Mountain’s post station along the Fuefuki River’s banks, but come dawn he set out early to trace the Takigawa Highway toward Furuse in his characteristic stride. After lodging in Furuse that night and departing before daybreak, he encountered no proper path ahead—only a deep valley where the Shaka-dake range and Ō-dake peaks pressed together in jagged folds. One might grudgingly call it a passageway, though travelers found its autumn beauty—a tapestry of crimson maples amid evergreen pines—no comfort against its treacherous footing. Gentarō forged onward along this valley-floor trial. With each step the path steepened, pines and maples clustering thicker as lava strata multiplied, until at every turn new obstructions barred his way.

“Ah, I’m already sick of walking.” Even Gentarō sighed and came to an abrupt halt at the valley floor. But since he couldn’t stand there forever, he steeled himself and pressed onward until the valley finally ended, giving way to a dense, shadowy forest. That place is known today as Aokigahara. “Well, this is a relief,” Gentarō muttered as he wiped his streaming sweat and settled onto a tree root—just as a figure came trampling through the tall susuki grass toward him. “A Buddha in hell… Might as well ask for directions.”

He was about to call out cheerfully when, startled by something, he said “Oh,” and hid himself in the shade of a maple tree. From within the overlapping leaf shadows, peering out with only his eyes visible, he watched as the figure gradually drew nearer. As he observed closely while the figure approached, he saw a man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight who wore a master’s hood and juttoku robe, with long and short swords tucked at his waist—appearing both as a tea master and a samurai. Whether from illness or drunkenness, his steps were unsteady; though it was an old-fashioned description, he swayed this way and that as he staggered forward.

"What a terrifying face. Hmm—just like a ghost," Gentarō inadvertently murmured from beneath the maple's shade. There was indeed something uncanny about the man's features. The nose stood high, the eyes long and narrow, lips thin and crimson; brows finely shaped and drawn straight left no doubt this was a handsome countenance—yet not human beauty, but rather that of a specter from Yomi's realm or some mask-wearing phantom, devoid of vitality or blood's flush. From translucent blue-tinged forehead to gaunt hollowed cheeks stretched shadows so frail and desolate they cast sorrow upon all who saw. Gaze fixed vacantly ahead while muttering words to none.

“……Today I killed again. Three of them. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Three of them… Kill after kill after kill—still not enough.’ ‘What must I do?’ ‘Kill after kill after kill—still not enough.’ ‘…Wait—’ He stopped mid-sentence. Surveying his surroundings intently, he fixed his gaze on the maple tree.”

“Ah, a human is hiding here.” As he said this, blood color swept up to his face. His crystal-pale complexion transformed into an agate-like peach hue, while his posture stiffened and his faltering legs planted firmly. “Come out, brat!” he shouted. “This isn’t good.” “He must’ve spotted me.” Gentarō gripped his glue-tipped pole and stepped into view. “Good day, Sir Samurai.” He grinned with three-white eyes.

“Hmm, a bird catcher… Where are you headed?” he said, taking a single step forward with a gritty scrape. Gentarō took a step back, but “Yes, I’m off to Fuji.” “This is the foothills.” “What are you here for?” He took another step forward with a gritty scrape. Gentarō also took a step back, “I’ve come to catch birds.”

“There are few birds on Mount Fuji. You there, bird catcher—you’re new to this, aren’t you?” “As you say, I’m new to this. …You can’t go scaring people like that. What a scary face you have.” “Is my face that scary?”

“You don’t look like a living person to me. Whoa—better not—” “Don’t come closer!”

“Bird catcher!” The samurai advanced again, his sandals scraping against the gravel. “Do you know where you stand?” “The foothills of Mount Fuji, I’d reckon.” “This is Lake Motosu’s shore.” The blade at his hip caught dull light as he took another step. “Aokigahara.” “Heh. That so?”

V

“Hmph.” The samurai sneered. “You don’t know anything at all.” “You haven’t heard the rumors?” “Nope, haven’t heard a thing.” “There’s a water castle in Lake Motosu.”

“Oh, is that so?” “The people of the water castle want a young man like you.” “Oh, is that so?” “Young men have plenty of blood.” “Oh, but of course it is.” “If squeezed dry, you’d yield three *shō*.”

“Huh?” Gentarō asked back.

“The color will likely be vivid as well.” “Huh?” Gentarō asked again. “You there, aren’t you afraid of dying?” “Dying is the last thing I want, I assure you.” “But in the end, you cannot escape.”

“Do you think I’d just drop dead that easy?” “No, no—you’ll end up dead either way.” “Who’ll do the killing then?” “The water castle folk’ll finish you.”

“Oh, is that so? The people of the water castle, huh.”

“If not, I will kill you.”

He placed his hand on the sword hilt.

“Not a chance.”

Even as he spoke, Gentarō jumped back and firmly readied his glue-tipped pole.

“Hmm.” The samurai widened his eyes. “Oh-ho! You’re handy with a spear.” “You bet I am!” Gentarō retorted, his unsettling three-white-eyed gaze glinting through dappled sunlight— “Enough games, samurai.” “No mere bird-catcher wields a pole like that.” “That disguise can’t hide it—you’re samurai-born.” “And worse—a Takeda dog!” “You took up this bird-snaring farce to hunt someone.” “But you’ll bleed out before ever finding—” “Though I must say… what a repulsive mug you’ve got.” “Think that frightens me?” “Back! Back, I say! Not another step!” “See this pole? Mark it well!” “Two-and-a-half *ken* of glue-tipped yew—becomes a spear in these hands.” “Guard those peepers!” “Eyes are my specialty.” “Though legs make fine targets too.” “So watch your shins! …Draw it! Draw, damn you!” “Out with that blade—now!”

“And yet you’re not charging in with gusto.” “I’ll let you see the grain of my blade…… Hmm hmm, still won’t draw it?” “What an oddly impatient bastard you are.” “Ah—you’ve gone and released the hilt.”

“As a Takeda retainer, you’re searching for someone?” “Who exactly are you looking for?” The creepy samurai asked quietly.

“The person I’m looking for is my cousin.”

“I have information.” “What name?”

“The name? Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.” “Ah ha... So it’s *that* man.” “Then you *do* know him, old man?”

Gentarō’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I know him.” “We’ve crossed paths before.” “When?” Gentarō pressed forward. “Few days back.” “At a certain spot.” “Which way’d he head then?” “Said he was bound for Lake Motosu.” “Much obliged!” No sooner had Gentarō swung his glue-tipped pole onto his shoulder than the samurai struck—a lightning draw aimed at that fleeting unguarded moment. No time to parry. No room to dodge. Gentarō hit the dirt rolling. The blade grazed air where his neck had been—heaven’s mercy, that—then as steel withdrew, he bounded up evading the second slash before sideways-leaping.

He planted himself firmly on the lava. “Drifting cloud! Idiot!” For the first time, Gentarō spat out the insult with venom, though his labored breathing betrayed his exertion. However, he was gripping the glue-tipped pole. This was evidence of his composure.

Behind the lava was a cliff. From the front, the samurai was closing in. Though he had readied his glue-tipped pole as a spear, it must be said that he was now cornered. The samurai grinned, baring his white teeth, but he couldn’t advance left or right because the tip of the glue-tipped pole kept swirling and swirling between both eyes, disrupting his focus—leaving him secretly astonished. "This wasn’t a taught spear technique." It was undoubtedly self-trained, but even so, this one’s terrifying. The spear tip wouldn’t leave my eyes... What odd retainers the Takeda have. "First Tsuchiya, now this guy—strangely, they’re all martial arts masters. Hah!"

With a sharp battle cry, he swung up the spear tip in a flash. And then he clattered forward in pursuit. “Come at me!” Gentarō barked as he yanked his glue-tipped pole and thrust it out. It shot toward the right eye like an arrow. He flicked it upward with a snap. Then yanked it sideways toward the left eye. Clattering backward, the samurai had no choice but to brace himself defensively. “Hey, samurai! What’re you scheming?” “Hurry up and finish this!” “I gotta get to Lake Motosu.” From atop the rock, Gentarō called down impatiently.

“Take your time,” the samurai said with a laugh as he sat down on the rock.

“Behind you’s a sheer cliff—no climbing down. “But Lake Motosu lies that way. “And I’m blocking your front. “Go on—try descending from wherever you can!” “Ah! So Lake Motosu’s behind the cliff? “Right—I’ll jump down and show ya!”

Gentarō shouldered his glue-tipped pole and ran off toward the lower mouth of the ravine.

Six “Brat! You planning to jump from there?” The samurai called out in astonishment. “Below’s a rock bed—leap down and your bones’ll shatter!” “Behold the bird-catcher arrives…” Gentarō started humming a tune through his nose, but— “Samurai! Let’s meet again!” “Ah, you drifting cloud!” By the time the shout echoed, Gentarō had vanished. “Reckless fool!” The samurai cursed while scrambling onto the rock, glaring down into the ravine.

The early autumn sunset bathed the trees of the ravine in crimson. Jagged lava rocks thrust their angular peaks skyward, towering and piling upon one another. Meanwhile, the gray mist that had begun to rise enveloped those rocks and trees, creeping steadily closer.

“How pitifully he must have died.”

The moment he muttered this, a singing voice rose from the depths of the ravine. “...Are there no birds? Any large birds?...”

“Huh?” The samurai’s eyes widened. It appeared that guy hadn’t even been injured.

“...Haahoi no hoi...” The singing voice gradually grew distant.

“Hmph, that guy’s just like a monkey.” “Behold, the bird-catcher arrives…”

He seemed to have already gone far away. The singing voice was hard to make out. For a while, the samurai stood dumbfounded atop the lava rock, but suddenly coming to his senses, he tried to sheathe the sword he had been gripping into the scabbard at his waist. As he did, his face reflected on the blade. He gazed intently at it. “This is truly a terrifying face,” the samurai groaned. “With this face, it’s no wonder people fear me.” “Hmm… I am wretched.”

He sheathed his sword with finality and stood for a moment in dismay, then growled, “To the Human Cave!” “To the Human Cave!” “There... I’ll fix this face of mine.”

He started walking down from the rock. All his former vigor vanished without a trace, the color completely drained from his face, and even his footsteps grew listless. With fixed eyes staring vacantly ahead, he staggered right, staggered left, and walked westward.

By today’s measure of distance, from Motosu Village to Hitokuchi Village would be approximately three ri and ten chō. The village had thirty-odd households, a path for climbing Mount Fuji, and in summer seemed to bustle considerably, with two inns standing there. Turning left at the village entrance and walking about one chō, one found the famous Human Cave there. Though now merely an unremarkable rock cavern several dozen ken deep—with only the grave of Kakugyō, founder of the Fuji cult, a small Asama Shrine, and stone pagodas standing about—one might ask what made it a notable site. Yet in ancient times, this Human Cave appeared to have been extraordinarily deep, as recorded thus in the Azuma Kagami.

“The Shōgun (Minamoto no Yoriie) proceeded to Fuji no Karigura in Suruga Province.” At its foothills lay another great valley named Hitokuchi. To investigate its depths, Nita Shiro Tadayoshi and his six retainers were sent in. Tadayoshi received the imperial sword and entered the Human Cave; on that day, he did not return to his lord’s camp—thus concluding [the matter]. [Omitted text] At the Hour of the Snake, Nita Shiro Tadayoshi emerged from Hitokuchi and returned. The journey had taken one day and night. The cave was so narrow they could not turn around, so dark they could not proceed at will, their minds tormented. Master and retainers each held pine torches. From start to end of their path, flowing water soaked their feet; bats flew past their faces—countless in number—and ahead lay a great river with raging swollen currents. When they sought to cross, all means were lost. They had no recourse but confusion. Here, as firelight shone across the river and they beheld a strange phenomenon, four retainers suddenly perished. Yet following the spirit’s instruction, Tadayoshi cast the imperial sword into that river—thereby preserving his life and returning safely, it is said. “The elders said: ‘This is the sacred abode of Asama Daibosatsu. Since ancient times, none have dared look upon that place; they say its current state is most fearsome.’”

The aforementioned events occurred during the era of the Minamoto clan’s decline in the third year of Ken’ei (1203); however, even in the Sengoku period, the Human Cave had remained largely unchanged, still a deep cavern as it had been.

Now, near a lateral cave close to the entrance that still exists today—in the vicinity of the Fuji cult’s cage huts—a female mask artisan had secretly secluded herself at that time.

She appeared to be twenty-eight or twenty-nine—a woman of striking beauty with graceful features—yet wore a pure white ascetic robe. By the faint light of animal-oil lamps, she remained secluded within Shiki Cave, wholly absorbed in carving masks as her chisel struck the wood with a relentless clack-clack-clack-clack. However, these masks being crafted were no ordinary ones, but rather bizarre creations unseen in the mortal world. Moreover, the mask artisan Tsukiko herself counted among the supernatural beings that lurked in Fuji's foothills—though we shall explain this in due course. Now, let us turn to a certain day. Tsukiko the mask artisan sat upon her customary stone seat as always, her spirit fully concentrated into each movement of the chisel.

Then, there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Tsukiko called out.

“It’s me! It’s me!” “You should recognize my voice.” Tsukiko paused for a moment, “Understood,” she said quietly, then went to the door and removed the latch. “It’s been a while,” declared the bandit potter as he staggered in—none other than the infamous ceramicist brigand himself.

Fifth Chapter I

I “Lady Tsukiko remains as beautiful as ever.”

As he said this, Tōkishi sat down on the round cushion beside him. “What are you saying, coming here so abruptly…” Tsukiko did not even laugh. She also sat on a round cushion and stared intently at his face. The potter said with a pained squint, “You mustn’t look.” “You mustn’t look.” “Having you look at me makes my skin crawl.” “…You shouldn’t look at people’s faces like that.”

“What an unpleasant face you’ve made. ……With this state, you couldn’t have stayed away, could you?” “……So I came today.” “When I look at your face, a sharp metallic scent of blood fills the air.” “Because I made sure to cut down one person each day.” Tōkishi smiled. It was a bloodsucker’s smile. “How’s business? Thriving, I imagine?”

“Thanks to you, it fares quite well.” Tsukiko’s voice remained composed. “Your main occupation?” “Or your side venture?” “The latter would be my concern.”

“It appears there are many fools in the world.” “Yes, that includes someone like yourself.”

“Is it me?” The potter’s face darkened. “I act out of unavoidable necessity.” “Of course it’s out of unavoidable necessity.” Tsukiko laughed for the first time, “How pitiable you are.” “I don’t need your pity!” The potter was displeased. “Have you still not been able to meet them?” “I have no idea! None at all!” “They likely aren’t in the foothills.”

"No—they're definitely in the foothills." "That much I've ascertained." The potter declared firmly. "How pitiable those people must be..." she murmured abruptly, her voice tinged with loneliness.

“What?” the potter demanded. “Pitiable? Those bastards?” “Those two being hunted by someone as fearsome as yourself.” “Tomogenjō and Sonjo? Heh-heh-heh! What’s pitiable about that! What’s pitiable about adulterous scum?! The one to pity here is me! If such things were tolerated, even samurai would’ve fallen to ruin.” His voice sounded choked. “You too are pitiable.” “I don’t need your pity. Though...” he said, shuffling closer on his knees,

“If you would pity me…” He abruptly grasped Tsukiko’s hand.

“Oh, if you would pity me, then pity this heart! A burning heart! A scorched heart!” Yet Tsukiko did not so much as twitch. Cold and thus calm. “I have sealed away love.” Her voice was chilling. “Release me. Shall I glare at you?” “Stop that!” With this command, the potter released the woman’s hand he had been gripping. “Being glared at would be premature.” “I want to remain sane a while longer.” The potter slumped dejectedly.

“How truly weak you are.” “Weak?” he snapped his head up. “The only one in all the world who can make this potter weak is you.” “How truly weak you are.” “Yeah, I am weak.” “I am a weakling!” The potter slumped dejectedly again. She carved slender shoulders. A stifled sob escaped. The potter was crying. …… Tsukiko quietly reached out her hand, took up the chisel and mallet, and with practiced skill, chipped away at the half-carved mask—chip, chip, chip. The pungent scent of camphorwood wafted through the air; the mask material was aged camphorwood. The wood chips fluttered down like snow to either side of the carving stand, while some danced like moths.

The mask was modeled after the Jūni Akui-type Noh mask—narrow forehead, round eyes, flattened nose, gaping mouth, white beard trailing from the chin, and serpentine wrinkles creasing the cheeks beneath the eyes—all forming the sinister visage of a wicked man who, burdened by love’s weight yet unable to bear it, died and came to haunt an imperial consort: a mask crafted to resemble the ghost from Yamashina Manor.

The cave was cold. An icy coldness pressed relentlessly against the skin. The cave interior was dimly lit. From a niche hollowed out of rock, an animal oil lamp cast a faint glow, its pinkish dreamlike light enveloping the cavern’s interior—roughly twenty tatami mats in size—in a hazy mist, causing all implements within to emerge dimly like scenes from a phantasmal folktale: round mirrors hung on stone walls; masks of San Kōji, Ōtobi-de, Ko-omote, Shunkan, Ōbeshimi, Chūjō, Hannya, and Shaka strung along those same walls; and extravagant gold brocade curtains draped over three doorways leading to adjacent chambers.

The trickling, trickling sound came from clear water flowing down the rocks, but in a corner of the cavern, stones had been piled to form a well-like reservoir. The lamplight reflected there was particularly mystical. Chip, chip, chip—the sound of the chisel continued to humbly make small noises all the while, as if stitching through the stifled sobs.

Two

The sound of stifled sobs grew louder but was suddenly severed. With that, the potter raised his face, "Lady Tsukiko," he entreated pleadingly, "show me my face. Show me my face." "That's easily done. I'll show you."

Tsukiko stopped her chisel work but, raising her knees, stood up. “Pray, come along.”

With that, she turned her back in one swift motion, lifted the hanging curtain of an entrance, angled her body, and slipped away as though vanishing. The potter slowly rose to his feet, “How dreadful,” he muttered, leaning against the rock wall. “……To see one’s true self—what a dreadful thing it must be.”

From within came Tsukiko’s voice calling out. “Pray, come along.—What troubles you?”

“I must go. I’ll go and see. Confronting my own ugly fate head-on may be necessary at times for an accursed being such as myself. That’s right—to fortify my desire for revenge when it threatens to dull, and to extinguish those occasional surges of pity…” “What troubles you? Pray, come along.”

“I’ll come now.”

With that, the potter forcefully opened the gold-brocade curtain.

The cavern spread out before his eyes held nothing particularly strange or mysterious—merely an extremely narrow horizontal tunnel too cramped for two to walk abreast, stretching endlessly into darkness. What one might call strange were the two shelves running parallel along both rock walls, bearing countless unpainted wooden boxes each measuring one shaku square, meticulously arranged. A single candelabra cast its pinkish light across the space, projecting the shadows of two figures onto stone walls that swayed gently from some unseen draft. From the tunnel's far depths came a faint roar like a great subterranean river—perhaps that very waterway recorded in *Azuma Kagami*, which Nitashirō had once sought but failed to trace through Mount Fuji's roots.

“Pray, behold.”

With that, Tsukiko took down a single box from the shelf. “……” The potter, having received it in silence, began to hesitate there again.

“Pray, let me brighten the lamp.” “That won’t be necessary.”

At that moment, there came a flap-flap, flap-flapping of wings. “It’s the bats.” “I see.” With that, he removed the lid. “It is your face.” “Yes. My old face!” “It’s my old face!”

In the box he peered into intently lay a single mask. A bulging forehead, flattened nose, mismatched upturned eyes, lips swollen like kimono hems to expose front teeth, a purplish birthmark smeared across the left cheek—an ugly, terrifying human face glared up from the box's depths. The potter stared. He stared as though drilling through it. Sweat streamed down his forehead. A short, sharp groan leaked between his clenched teeth.

Flap-flap, flap-flap—the bats flitted around the two of them. The lamp flame swayed in the gusts from their wings, and the shadows on the wall stretched and shrank. And then, the sound of a great river could be heard.

“Lady Tsukiko,” said the potter. “What a terrifying face this is!” “What a terrifying face you have.” “What a repulsive face this is!”

“What a repulsive face you have.” “With this face, even a wife would betray me.” “Do you consider this natural?” “I think it natural. I think it absolutely natural!” “Then do not bear resentment.” “I will resent them eternally. I shall not let them live!” “That defies reason.” “This hatred forged in icy days cannot be erased overnight!”

The potter's voice seemed to choke. Tsukiko spoke as if instructing, “Then you cannot attain enlightenment.” “Enlightenment? Enlightenment? Kah, kah, kah!” Laughing as if tearing from the depths of his throat, he spat out, “What is enlightenment?!” “What is enlightenment?!” “Eternal reincarnation cycle!” “Eternal reincarnation cycle!” “Through endless cycles of life and death—I’ll kill people again and again!” “What will you do when it all ends?” “When it all ends? When it all ends? I’ll still kill people in the end.” “You cannot be saved. You cannot be saved.”

“But there exist humans in this world far more cruel than I!” “And who might that person be?” “The Lord of Kōketsu Castle!” “A masked demon! “A bearer of foul disease! “That cannot be called human.” “...In the end, I too shall go there.” “And have my poisoned blood wrung out.”

“No,” Tsukiko said solemnly. “I urge you to come to the Fuji cult! It is there that you will be saved.”

Three

However, the potter did not respond. With trembling fingertips, he removed the lid of the box and placed it in Tsukiko's hand. He kept his head bowed low for a time, but when he slowly raised it again, he suddenly spoke.

“I want to kill people again!” He lifted the brocade curtain and staggered out into the adjacent room. “Lady Tsukiko!” he called from the adjacent room. “Please give me the sacred water. “Please adjust my face.”

Tsukiko stood before the shelf. Then she hung her head. "Ah, my face-making technique is never put to good use."

The roaring, roaring sound of the great river could be heard from deep within the side tunnel.

“They say if you go up that great river, you can reach the Fuji cult.” “To the Radiant Light-pervading Fuji Cult.”

“Lady Tsukiko!” he called out from the adjacent room. “Please give me the sacred water.” “Please adjust my face.”

“That man was pitiable.” He was a man worthy of pity. ……He was not a true villain. “He could not yet be called a true villain.”

“Please fix my face.” “Please give me the sacred water.” “Please… let me sleep.” Gradually，the voice grew weaker.

“Perhaps there are no true villains in this world... This humble artisan has secluded myself here to carve the faces of dozens, hundreds of people—all manner of faces using all manner of techniques—yet never have I seen one that could be called a true villain’s face. A villain’s mask unlike any bugaku or Noh mask—carving such a mask is this humble artisan’s dearest wish, yet I fear this wish may never be fulfilled.”

From the adjacent room, the sound of feeble whimpering could be heard.

"I wish I could see the Lord of Kōketsu Castle’s face… even just once…" The roar of the great river, the sound of whimpering voices, and the fluttering of bats’ wings all intermingled in the air. "This wish... this obsession... perhaps this is already karmic retribution." "I cannot speak of others." "I too am a pitiable artisan!" The candelabra’s flame swayed violently, and in that instant, the shadow on the wall took the shape of a giant spider—this was said to reflect Tsukiko’s avaricious wish.

The origins of face-making techniques in Japan—it is said they date back to the Age of the Gods.

“…Hereupon, he wished to meet his younger sister Izanami no Mikoto and went forth to the Land of Yomi.” When she came forth from the palace door to greet him, Izanagi no Mikoto declared: “Beloved my younger sister Izanami, the land that you and I created remains unfinished; therefore you must return.” Izanami no Mikoto replied and declared: “How vexing that you did not come sooner—for I have partaken of the hearth of Yomi.” “However, as my beloved Nase no Mikoto’s arrival fills me with dread, I shall first consult in detail with the Yomi deities—do not gaze upon me!” Having thus declared and returned inside her palace, he waited impatiently for what seemed an eternity. At last he removed a single male pillar from the sacred comb stuck in his left hair-tuft and lit a fire. When he thrust it in, maggots squirmed upon her corpse—with Great Thunder dwelling in her head, Black Thunder in her belly, Split Thunder in her genitals, Young Thunder in her left hand, Earth Thunder in her right hand, Roaring Thunder in her left leg, Crouching Thunder in her right leg—thus eight thunder gods came to dwell there. Hereupon, Izanagi no Mikoto saw and was awed, fleeing back. [...]”

This is a passage from the Age of the Gods, but of those eight thunder deities, it was Great Thunder—the one who dwelt in the head—who became the founding ancestor of Japan’s face-making techniques. Thus, Black Thunder—who dwelt in the abdomen—was the deity governing all matters of the belly (what we would today call an internist); Split Thunder, who resided in the genitals, was needless to say the deity of sex and procreation; and the deities dwelling in the left and right limbs were none other than the gods of hands and feet.

Four Returning the dead and decayed Izanami no Mikoto to her living body was a considerably difficult task, but the eight thunder gods accomplished it. Above all, while the face is the most vital part of the body, Great Thunder took that deathly visage—a face of putrid flesh, writhing maggots, and dried blood—and masterfully restored it to living countenance. Thus he could be called the founding ancestor of face-making techniques. The descendants of Great Thunder became the Izumo clan and spread to Izumo, served the heavenly descendants from the Izumo court, and then successive generations went on to serve in the Yamato court. There they blended with face-making techniques that had come over from China and Korea.

“From Korea: sixty-eight jade pieces; one gold-and-silver-decorated tachi sword; one mirror; two bolts of Yamato brocade; one white-eyed, green-feathered horse; two white swan wings; one face-making artisan; and fifty loads of ritual offerings.” This passage conveyed recent developments. It occurred during Emperor Kinmei’s reign. Afterward, the Izumo clan served the Soga clan and received great favor, but when the Soga fell and direct imperial rule began, they were swiftly stripped of official positions in the effort to eliminate redundant posts. From then on, they practiced their craft among the people as a private faction. When power shifted to the Fujiwara clan, they abruptly became Fujiwara vassals, and indecisive courtiers took pleasure in having their faces maintained. During the Genji-Heike conflicts, they served the Heike and received stipends, but from this era onward gradually declined until even the main Izumo lineage became utterly disordered and unrecognizable. When Sanetomo of the Minamoto clan—which had declined further after becoming the Genji—introduced capital fashions out of curiosity, he summoned face-making artisans too. But Sanetomo died young, leaving the artisans adrift; for the first time, they wandered into cities and took up rural labor. When power passed through the Hōjō to the Ashikaga clan, Yoshimasa alone delighted in this art. As recorded in Ichijō Kaneyoshi’s memoir, he gathered dispersed face-makers to Kyoto and had them further beautify his beloved wife Tomiko’s already exquisite features. Yet soon came the Ōnin War. As Iio Hikobei lamented—“Ah, do you know the capital? Even seeing skylarks rise over evening fields brings falling tears”—Kyoto’s ruin grew so complete that they could no longer linger nonchalantly in the city. Once more they wandered out in all directions before vanishing entirely.

Thus began the Sengoku period. Who could have imagined that within the caverns of Fuji’s Hitokuchi, the sole face-making artisan would be clandestinely practicing their craft?

Tsukiko quietly hung the curtain and appeared in the front room. The Ceramicist held his head between his hands, pressed it to the ground, and wept as his shoulders shook. For a man known for his cruelty and brutality, the sight of him weeping like this was all the more pitiable, but Tsukiko merely glanced at him before parting the curtain that hung on the far side and briskly entered the room.

This was the face-making operating room.

Faintly visible in the light of animal oil candles was the bed. On the rock shelf beside the bed were placed innumerable instruments. What could be called today’s surgical instruments—a silver-colored scalpel, scissors of the same hue, an ivory spatula, tanned deerskin, a swan-feather brush, sharp iron needles, brass rings—and alongside these, large and small boxes filled to the brim with powdered and liquid medicines were neatly arranged. “Please come in, Master Potter.” Tsukiko called out gently. The Ceramicist would soon enter. And thus, the surgery would be performed. That surgery was indeed the most intriguing scene in the entire story.

However, the author decided to temporarily divert the course of the narrative and wished to provide a brief account of what became of Kōsaka Gentarō, who had parted ways with the Ceramicist in Aokigahara.

“Behold, the bird-catcher arrives!” “Where have the birds gone? Oh, the great bird—” An idiotically cheerful song could be heard from the shore of Lake Motosu.

Looking, Gentarō was there. That place being the lakeshore, the water-filled lake spread out far into the distance. “Haa-hoi-hoi…”

A voice that seemed to melt into the calm early autumn air. Having finished his song, Gentarō—appearing utterly carefree—steadied his darting gaze and stared intently at the lake surface, "When I think about it, this lake’s a bit strange. There’s always haze hanging over it so you can’t see t’other shore. No matter where I look—not a soul—yet weepin’ an’ shriekin’ comes driftin’ from nowhere. Damn creepy lake... Three days since I came here. Clear skies yesterday an’ today too—why won’t th’lake clear? Makes no sense. All this haze risin’ up—maybe th’whole area’s damp. ...What’s that? Ah! A hawk! Flyin’ off all pleased with itself."

Five

In the deep blue expanse of the clear sky high above, a single hawk flapped its wings and soared across the lake. Ahead lay a mountain. Mount Ōgaku stood 1,600 shaku tall, cradling Lake Shōji at its base as it towered into the northeastern sky. To the west, Shaka-dake embraced Yatsusa Pass while its peaks continued toward Gaga-dake. At the Suruga border stood Ryūgadake alongside Amagadake, but beyond Ōmuroyama, Nagaoyama, and Tenjintōge Pass, the sacred peak of Mount Fuji rose—a truly majestic sight.

The foothills of these mountains gathered from all directions, converging at a single point where Lake Motosu lay. One *ri* east-west and one *ri* two *chō* north-south—this was Lake Motosu's dimensions. Its total circumference measured three *ri* five *chō*. These figures represented its size during the Meiji, Taisho, and modern eras, for in the Sengoku period, Lake Motosu had been significantly larger. Its circumference must have spanned six *ri*. From ancient times until the Jōgan era, Lake Motosu had formed a unified body with West Lake and Lake Shōji. Even now, the three lakes remained connected at their depths, evidenced by their identical water volumes.

As a certain travelogue stated—"The Fuji lake region lies high and arid, with Lake Motosu being the loftiest; its surface constantly shone as though filled with quicksilver"—so too did Lake Motosu’s waters glow with a subtle silver hue each morning and evening. But even more mysterious was how—just as Gentarō had suspected—a billowing haze rose from what seemed to be the lake's center. This was no ordinary mist; rather, it resembled an infinitely long white cloth stretched horizontally across the water's surface before being hoisted high into the sky. Shrouded by this haze, objects on the opposite shore were completely concealed, and even the sky was half-veiled.

Now, parting that haze, a sailboat appeared. It was an extremely antiquated vessel of unfamiliar form. Countless sails hung in horizontal alignment. And their hue was red as blood. Three people rode aboard, all robed in crimson.

As the ship advanced, the waterfowl that had been flying in flocks swarmed toward the bow only to burst apart like snowflakes—a sight that could be said to be the sole moving presence in a landscape where all else lay still. About twenty meters from the shore, the ship quietly lowered its sails. Then, one person stood at the bow, “Child, child, what are you doing?” the sailor called out to Gentarō. “Huh? Damn you! Mocking me?!” Gentarō was indignant. “How dare someone call me a child! I ain’t gonna associate with a bastard like that!”

And so Gentarō did not respond. “Child, child, where do you think you’re going?” “Child, child, why don’t you answer?” “Child child child child, go ahead and say it two hundred times.” “I just won’t give any response.” Gentarō plopped down. He sprawled belly-down on the grass, bent both elbows to prop up his chin, thrust the supported chin forward, and glared defiantly.

Perhaps finding this strange, those aboard the ship had been whispering among themselves, but when one came out to the bow instead, “Sir Birdcatcher! Sir Birdcatcher!” he called again, altering his address. Then, abruptly, Gentarō raised his head like a serpent and rose up, “I’m the Birdcatcher. You need something?” “AHAHAHA! How straightforward! Well, you’re quite the amusing birdcatcher, sir… So—have you caught any birds yet?” “If I wanted to catch them, I could catch as many as I like. The birds around here are stupid, you know.”

“So, have you caught many birds yet, sir?”

"But I haven't caught a single one." "I let them go the moment I caught them, you know." "Then your business can't be doing well, can it?" "My real trade lies elsewhere." "Ah! So that's how it is!"

“Finding people is my real profession.” “Whom might you be finding?” “As far as I’m concerned… he’s my cousin.” “So your status remains that of Sir Birdcatcher?” “No!”

Gentarō turned away. "I may look like this, but I'm no born-and-bred Birdcatcher, you know." "That must indeed be the case." "My cousin's a samurai." "So he's a samurai sir?" "He's twenty years old—a fine man."

“That must indeed be a fine man.” “He should have come to this Lake Motosu.” “Ah—Lake Motosu?” “Ah—Lake Hon’gara?” “Well, you lot—haven’t you seen him?”

The three sailors huddled their heads together and began whispering among themselves. The surroundings were utterly silent.

“Ah, what fine weather.” “No mistake it’s autumn.” Narrowing his eyes and lowering his brows, Gentarō gazed vacantly at the lake surface, free of thought or resentment.

Sinking into the water and floating upon it, suddenly taking flight and swiftly descending—save for these white-winged waterfowl, nothing stirred upon the lake’s surface. Near the shore bloomed yellow waterweed flowers. The surface of the lake lay flat and thick like oil, yet it was neither clear nor limpid. Holding infinite mysteries in its depths, its surface betraying an air of unease, it spread out in a dull, oppressive haze. Then, the boatman called out—

“Sir Birdcatcher! Sir Birdcatcher!”

“Hey,” Gentarō looked up. “Yes, we have met him.” “Oh! You met him?” “That samurai?” “Yes, we have met him.” “So where’d you spot him?” “Right there, sir.” “Near that shore, sir.” “And where did he go then?”

“Across the lake to the opposite shore.”

“Then I must go too.” “Please board the vessel, Sir Birdcatcher.” “Oh! You’ll let me board that ship?” “It would be our humble pleasure.”

The boat creaked closer.

Gentarō abruptly stood up and nimbly leaped from the shore to the boat. The boat rocked heavily once but immediately raised its sail smoothly, turned its bow completely toward open water, and glided away. In the blink of an eye, their figures grew small; leaving but a single water trail behind, both boat and people faded into the hazy air, dissolving into obscurity.

Part Six I

I

The small boat with its red sail sailed on, carrying Kōsaka Gentarō. A gentle breeze blew across the lake surface. The red sail swayed and flapped noisily. Gentarō sang merrily. "Behold, the birdcatcher arrives…"—it was his favorite birdcatcher song. The three sailors remained silent. They did not speak, like wooden statues. They only smiled occasionally. The smiles were eerie. When he looked back, Mount Fuji stood like a giant in the sky above its vast, boundless foothills. It was majestic but not forbidding. It was the form of a noble person. It watched Gentarō intently.

"Don’t go—don’t go! Come back. There’s danger waiting over there!" Mount Fuji seemed to be calling out just so. The flowers across its foothills swayed in the gentle breeze, as though they had drawn down a rainbow from the heavens. As the boat pressed forward, those rainbow hues grew faint. When at last the red-sailed ship vanished completely into the thick vapor wall, the floral rainbow’s colors had already faded entirely from sight. The waterfowl that had circled the ship and followed it ceaselessly now took that vapor barrier as their limit, abandoning the vessel to wing away.

The boat plowed steadily onward through the thick wall of water vapor. ……Gentarō’s body grew damp—damp from the water vapor. Thick white vapor billowed densely in every direction they looked, leaving them literally unable to see an inch ahead. Even the sailors aboard the same boat seemed veiled behind sheer gauze. Peering down to glimpse the indistinct water revealed not the lake’s blue depths but only a milky haze. There was no telling how thick that vapor wall stretched—a wilderness of pure white, a maze oblivious to east or west. Any vessel reckless enough to wander here would never return. As fortification, Kōketsu Castle stood peerless. This vapor was clearly artificial: proof lay in how it neither drifted sideways nor sank downward but surged ceaselessly upward like an inverted waterfall.

The red-sailed ship plowed steadily onward.

The ship turned right and left, sometimes making full about-faces as it pressed steadily onward. Though invisible to the eye, a fixed course seemed to have been established, and they appeared to follow it. Suddenly, drumbeats resounded from ahead—boom, boom-boom, boom—four strikes in total, then after a pause, another four strikes. This was clearly a signal drum. Within the boundless fog enveloping them, the drum's cavernous echoes held profound mystique, yet when answered by the conch shell's resonant blast from the red-sailed ship, an even deeper layer of mystery permeated the air.

The thick white wall of water vapor gradually thinned. Faint as it was, the blue water could be glimpsed beneath the fog. The ship's speed slackened gradually, and the taut red sail began to loosen. At that moment, a grey object emerged from within the fog before them. It was Kōketsu Castle’s stone wall. The boat crept eastward along the stone wall. Then from the depths of the fog came a faint golden glimmer. Drawing closer, they saw it was a massive elliptical brass water gate. As the boat neared, the gate yawned open sideways. When the metallic groan of hinges faded, they had passed through. Beyond lay a broad waterway—or rather, an inlet. This was likely meant to conceal the stronghold. Darkness shrouded the inlet. The boat advanced through the blackened waterway. The passage seemed to narrow as they progressed. They continued slowly onward. Suddenly two fiery points flared ahead. The boat drew toward the flames. The inlet constricted further still. Where it narrowed completely stood a wide granite staircase.

There were people on both sides of the stairs. They held pine torches in their hands. The inlet’s water lapped playfully at the lowest stone step of the stairs, and in the light of the pine torches, one could discern that the entire area was adorned with moss. The stairs extended high upward with a gentle slope.

The boat came alongside the stairs.

One sailor twisted his body and leapt from the boat onto the stairs. The two other sailors also leapt across. Next, Gentarō leapt across as well. The two holding pine torches took the lead and advanced. The sound of six people’s footsteps echoed off the walls and ceiling. The walls and ceiling were constructed of rock. Bonfires burned in places. Thus they had finally entered the grounds of Kōketsu Castle.

It was noon on the 20th day of the Seventh Month in the first year of Eiroku.

Two

At Kōketsu Castle, they referred to prisoners as “important guests.” The rooms for these important guests were lined up almost endlessly along both sides of a wide, infinitely long corridor that was immaculately cleaned.

One day—about ten days after Gentarō had infiltrated Kōketsu Castle, on a dazzlingly bright afternoon—a piercing woman's scream echoed through every corner of the vast Kōketsu Castle, heard from the far end of the great corridor. The panicked guests rushed toward the brass-latticed rectangular windows lining the corridor like startled grasshoppers, straining to glimpse the screamer. Yet nothing could be seen—the corridor stretched endlessly, with the voice still distant at its extremity. Gradually though, the cries drew nearer until their source became visible: a nun bound to a wheeled cart being dragged forward. She appeared twenty-one or twenty-two years old, her cropped hair framing a face above ink-black robes, a tattered brocade kesa draped over her shoulders. A crystal rosary clutched in her hand contrasted with her bare feet as leather straps crisscrossed her body, binding her to a copper pillar. A samurai in dark blue armor and blood-crimson battle surcoat walked beside the cart gripping a whip, while a servant pulled its shafts. The cart crept forward with deliberate slowness.

The nun began to scream ferociously. It was a voice like thunder. "...Revering and honoring one's ancestors is by no means a bad thing. Revering both gentle and wild spirits is by no means a bad thing. But that alone leaves us unfulfilled! In this universe exists something far more deserving of reverence than such matters. It is none other than Buddha!...Using divination to inquire divine will; building shrines for Daijōsai vestments; abhorring defilement while cherishing purity— This is by no means a bad thing. But there remains something far greater we must do. That is to believe in Buddha!"

Whirring and whirring, the potter's wheel spun. "Ah... So that's it," he murmured through clenched teeth at the window grate. "That nun... They mean to kill her too at last."

The young man who had been peering out from one of the windows while watching the corridor muttered these words and let out a small sigh.

“Oh how dreadful – she’s half-naked.” “Through those tattered priestly robes you can see her fair skin showing.” “So young... what a pity.” This came from a woman’s voice – its owner peered through another window with tearful eyes.

"Serves her right." "Divine punishment!" "Let them beat her harder!" Suddenly came a shouting voice.

From the window of another room aligned under the same eaves as the young man’s room, the shouts could be heard. “What use is Buddha? What use is Buddhism? “In short, it’s nothing but a barbarian religion!” “Japan has its own religion.” “It’s Shinto—the ancient path of the gods as they are!” “It is ancient Shinto that I serve!”—so declared a white-bearded old man. He appeared to be a negi—a Shinto priest. “Exactly right! Precisely! “Let that one be thoroughly beaten!” “Not only Shinto but even the teachings of Confucius and Mencius—that woman insults them all!”

The one who chimed in was the master of the adjacent room—a beardless old man. In an intimidatingly harsh voice, the nun shouted again.

“...Oh, Shinto is no religion! A pitiable purification ritual at best! The teachings of Confucius and Mencius are mere statecraft! Both fall short of guiding human hearts! O Sutra of Cause and Effect! O Nirvana Sutra! Only Buddhism deserves praise! ...Shameful is this human world! The wretchedness of our warring age—polygamy, uncles wedding nieces, fathers and sons locked in strife, kin pecking at each other’s flesh! ...Such folly is superstition! These foolish superstitions must be cast aside! Do they not claim Mimuroyama’s sacred object is a horned serpent? Do they not declare Hitachi’s Yasha Daijin a phallus? In Bitchū Mimasaka they venerate apes; in Kawachi they bow to river spirits! These superstitions must be discarded!”

Whirring whirring whirring, the potter’s wheel cart continued to creak down the corridor all the while. From windows here and there, countless eyes peered through the lattices with scorn, pity, anger, or contempt, but they whispered furtively among themselves. “How pitiful that nun is” — “They say she’ll be burned at the stake” — “Having your blood drained is still better—you can die easily, like in a dream.” — “Burning at the stake is terrifying.”

“Why must she suffer such a fate?”—“Punishment for her preaching, I say.—They say that nun came to this castle of her own accord. She plotted to use Buddha’s power to save the people here from sin.” “There’s no need for us to be saved. We’re extremely fortunate, I tell you.” “That’s right—we’re happy. Because we don’t have to worry about our livelihood.”—“Splendid rooms, soft clothing, delicious, plentiful food… Though of course there’s a monthly lottery where those selected have their blood drained—but with over a thousand people and only fifty chosen each time, it’s not something you’d easily get picked for.” “It’ll soon be five years since I came to this castle.”

“This year makes four years for me.”

“This year makes seven years for me.” “Then again, that monk with his convictions got killed the very day he arrived, didn’t he?” — “That’s because his next life was cursed.” — “Just an unlucky fellow, that’s all.” “I’d love to tell those folks out there.” “Rather than rotting in poverty in this wretched world, come to Kōketsu Castle instead.” “If they let you live in such luxury for four or five years, what’s a little blood draining?” “That’s right, exactly right!”

III “O you who dwell in comfort—arise from your beds! “O women of gluttony—cleanse your mouths! “Cling to mercy—to Buddha’s mercy!” The nun shouted once more. “She’s started shouting again”—“But she’s quite a looker for a nun.” “She’s got skin like ivory”—“Yes, she’s really beautiful.” “Escape Kōketsu Castle! “Flee the demon’s lair! O demon lord of Kōketsu Castle!”

“O demon lord of Kōketsu Castle!” Crack! At that moment, a sharp whip crack resounded. The attendant samurai wearing a blood-crimson jinbaori struck the nun’s back with his leather whip.

Creak creak creak creak went the cart, and the nun continued shouting without flinching. “It is Buddha’s teachings that deserve praise!” “They are not teachings of withdrawal.” “They are teachings of bold advance and constructive action!” “Teachings of abstinence! Teachings of self-mastery!” “…This unworthy one will soon be slain.” “This unworthy one will soon burn at the stake.” “Yet what I’ve said will linger in your ears.” “Stay—I beg you, stay.” “Hear me say it once more!” “Form abstinence pacts! You must all grow leaner.” “You have grown far too fat.” “There flows too much blood within you.” “You must all grow leaner.” “Shun gluttonous feasts.” “Eat not to excess.” “Grow lean and bare the demon’s snout!” “Bare the Kōketsu Castle lord’s true snout!”

Into the dim corridor’s space, the leather whip swirled. With a crack, a sound rang out. The leather whip lashed the nun’s exposed shoulder. “Beat me if you must. Strike me down. Blows are refinement—yes, refinement! Let truth’s pearl shine brighter still! Rend this flesh! Spill this blood! May these flames scorch my body to ruin! Buddha’s mercy never ceases. Cling to Buddha! Cling to his mercy! Forge abstinence pacts! Form starvation alliances! Through self-mastery! Through self-mastery! Lessen your blood’s measure!”

The leather whip whirled again and again through the gray space. Each time, a fierce sound rang out. Crack, crack, crack, crack. Creak—creak—creak—creak—, the lathe rotated.

“Oh, how pitiful.” “Oh, how terrifying.” “So much blood pours from her shoulder!” “It’s swollen purple—” From one window came a woman’s voice shouting such exclamations. “How beautiful she is! Even beaten and wounded so grievously!” “How beautiful that nun is! Truly beautiful.” “Though whipped so brutally—” came a young man’s voice from another window. “The blood streams like cords.” “How vivid its crimson hue.” “Her thighs, shoulders, chest, arms—even her face—all savagely wounded. Why does such beauty remain?”

“Because she’s proclaiming the truth!”—a voice shouted from out of nowhere.

“Because she’s telling the truth!” Again, a voice cried out in the same manner. It was unclear who had shouted. Yet there was no doubt it had been one of the guests in some room.

“Because she’s sacrificing herself!” Another voice could be heard shouting this. “The nun is filthy. Strike her down!” There were also those who shouted in opposition. “Strike! Strike! Beat her down!”

“Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Filthy wench!” “Filthy wench!” “Strike! Strike!” “Beat her down!”

“Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Beautiful!”

The cacophony of voices gushing from the windows echoed across high ceilings, floorboards, and chamber walls to form a dreadful roar—yet piercing through this din, the nun’s screams and the cart’s creaks gradually receded into the distance. They receded northward along the corridor. The end of the corridor formed a T-shape where two passageways branched off, but the lathe cart—still carrying the nun—turned east at the intersection. The screams abruptly grew faint, yet they did not vanish completely.

“……Escape from Kōketsu Castle.” “……Oh, if only in spirit!”

The sound of a whip could be heard. And the creaking of the cart as well. “...Transcend material desires. “...Starvation Pact...Ascetic Pact.” “Cling to mercy… To Buddha’s mercy...”—but soon even that voice grew distant and inaudible, and the long, wide corridor was once again enveloped in desolation. The faces in the windows withdrew inside, and even the murmuring voices could no longer be heard.

IV

The room was deathly quiet.

The balcony jutted out over the sea. The sea breeze blew into the room. The crimson wall hanging trembled at its hem, and the smoke of incense rising from the burner swayed left and right. A sharp, stinging odor! That is to say, it was the scent of incense, but it filled the entire room. It was the smell meant to block the nauseating stench emitted from his own body by the Kōketsu Castle lord, bearer of a malignant disease.

The room was the castle lord’s parlor.

In the center of the room, facing the sea, the Kōketsu Castle lord sat. He wore an armor-robe made of Kōketsu cloth but had not donned his armor. His face was turned toward the sea. Yet this was not his true visage. It was a leaden mask. The moon hung in the sky - A pallid midnight moon. Through the half-opened balcony door, moonlight streamed into the room with the wind. Not a single candlestick stood in the chamber. When speaking of light, there was only moonlight.

From behind the lead-colored mask came the castle lord's voice. An expressionless voice. As expressionless as the mask itself. The cruelty of that expressionless voice! But there was little need for further explanation.

“It must be about time for the midnight bell to toll.” “The hour when happy people sleep soundly... What about you—not feeling sleepy, are you?”

It seemed he was addressing someone. Then immediately came a reply.

“No, I am not drowsy.” “I am not the least bit sleepy.” “Strangely enough, tonight my eyes seem to grow clearer by the minute.” The owner of the voice was a woman—a young, beautiful woman. She had deliberately huddled in a moonless corner, which was why her figure had remained unseen until now. “Not sleepy?” “Oh? Is that so?” “You’ll grow drowsy soon enough… Yet tonight you seem terribly agitated—restless.” “As if awaiting some lover.” “No need to turn away.” “Let me see that lovely face… Hmm, your eyes look splendid.” “Exactly like an adulteress’s eyes.” “Your lips too—quite exquisite.” “The very shape of an adulteress’s lips.”

“I beg your forgiveness. “Oh, please—I beg you not to speak of such terrifying things. “It pains me even to listen. “…With your permission granted, I humbly wish to retire to the bedchamber.”

The woman stood up gracefully. From her neck down to her shoulders was illuminated by moonlight. The slender shape of her neck appeared fragile yet beautiful. Her disheveled hair swirled into a vortex, strands cascading down her left shoulder trembling as they were teased by the faint breeze. "You must not return. You must not return. Didn't you say you weren't sleepy?" ...Yes—standing like that, that gaze fixed on me was the very picture of an adulteress. My chest surged violently. My legs began trembling. My breathing grew labored. You see me as terrifying...Wait! "Where do you think you're going?!"

“I beg your pardon.” “Tonight feels strange.” “I cannot calmly listen to such violent language as ‘you’.” “One does not use such words toward someone they love.”

“Forgive me.” “I was wrong.” “Using harsh words was indeed my mistake.” “Then I’ll take it back.” “You mustn’t get angry.” “Don’t be angry.… Well, sit here.” “Then I’ll tell you an interesting story or something.”

The woman quietly sat down. “Show me your hand—your hand.” …White and soft, like tanned leather. “Ah, how many men’s sturdy shoulders have these hands embraced!” The woman’s entire body trembled. And then she tried to say something.

“Now now—say nothing.” “Forgive me if I’ve offended you.” “I sometimes say strange things.” “This must be because I lack common sense.” “No no—this comes from illness... What do you think of me?” “What do you mean by that?”

“Do you find me endearing? Or do you find me detestable?” “This unworthy one need not voice it.” “You are a cherished presence.” “Endearing? Me?” “Do you truly mean that?” “What aspect of me could possibly be endearing?” he sneered.

Suddenly, the castle lord reached out his hand. He thrust both hands forward. They could be described as two white wooden sticks—from his arms down to the tips of his fingers, they were tightly wrapped in white cloth without a single gap. They must be bandages meant to conceal skin ravaged by a foul disease.

“Ah, do you think these hands are cute too?” “The Noh mask of a general I always wear—this wooden mask that neither weeps nor laughs—and my face behind it!” “Is this face also cute?” As he spoke, he thrust his face forward. The mask’s color was leaden. It was because the white had aged, taking on a tinge of yellow. Faintly scattered eight-shaped eyebrows, sorrowful wrinkles beneath them, slightly drooping fish-shaped eyes with pupils positioned at their centers, pierced through with holes. Peering through those holes was a red light like charcoal embers—the ever-feverish eyes of the Kōketsu Castle lord, afflicted by a foul disease. With its slightly flared yet still well-shaped straight nose, a half-open mouth revealing teeth, a thin mustache beneath the nose, and sharply gaunt cheeks tinged with loneliness, the Noh mask of a general was calm and elegant—yet this very quality made it all the more terrifying. And thus, it looked utterly unnatural.

“I always find you adorable, my lord”—the castle lord’s beloved consort managed to utter these words despite trembling uncontrollably. “Suihō,” the castle lord sneered, “do you still find me cute tonight?” “Yes, my lord.” “No no—tonight I should be hateful. Wouldn’t you agree, Suihō?” The castle lord laughed through his shoulders.

Five “If you say so, then tonight of all nights, I cannot help but find you hateful, my lord. It is because you are speaking with uncharacteristically violent language.”

“That cannot be.” “It’s impossible.” “You must hate me in another sense.” “Ah—there are times when you seem more precious to me than gold or pearls, and times when I could cut you down without remorse, so hateful do you appear.” “When you try to deceive me with such hollow words—as now—I want to kill you... But enough—say nothing.” “You need not make excuses.” “Even if you did, I wouldn’t listen.” “...Playing the koto alone in your room at midnight—this cannot be called a proper habit.” “...Suihō—you meant to play that koto again tonight, did you not?”

“Yes…No…Oh, my lord!” “So it’s ‘no’? ‘My lord,’ you say? No—no—you’d been trying to hide from me and secretly play the koto with that man. Yet despite the late hour, I summoned you to this chamber. So now you must hate me.” “The man you speak of—who might that be?” “Chief Attendant Shikibu—the one you’re always cozy with, which is precisely why I detest him.”

“Oh, Lord Shikibu! Lord Kinugawa Shikibu!” “That man is beautiful. Handsome like an adulterer. His silk-like eyes pierce through every woman’s garments, staring only at what lies beneath their breasts. His mouth—like a ripe pomegranate, red and sticky—utters nothing but obscenities. That too seems to be what women find appealing.” “No, no—it isn’t true! I detest him! Kinugawa Shikibu! Ugh! Disgusting! I detest him!”

“Oh? You detest him?” “Heh heh heh heh. Is that so?” “But women are beings who often delight in telling lies.” “They even claim to hate what they love most.” “Yet they secretly yearn to play with what they despise.” “But if you hate it, so be it.” “The time will come when you understand naturally.”

The masked castle lord stood up. Then he began walking sluggishly. His gait appeared thoroughly burdensome. “Suihō, follow me. Let us go to your room.”

When he opened the door, there was a hallway. The hallway stretched straight ahead. No one could be seen in either direction. Bonfires burned on both sides. Only when passing before these fires did the tall gaunt shadow of the castle lord fall upon the opposite wall—his mask glowing blood-red and flickering like flames. But once they moved beyond each firelight’s reach, that lieutenant’s mask turned leaden again, its shadow vanishing entirely. Suihō followed behind him. Terror rendered her body unresponsive. She teetered on collapsing forward at any moment. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the floorboards without blinking—she seemed to have forgotten how. Hands clasped desperately over her chest, she screamed soundlessly within herself: Ah! I’ll be punished! Just like all those before me! I’ll never see daylight again! The twentieth... thirtieth... thirty-seventh victim! No—wait—maybe I’m number one hundred? No! Two hundred! Three hundred!

"Is this man even human? He might be the lord of the Blood Pool Hell!" They arrived before a room. The masked castle lord touched the door. It opened inward without a sound, revealing an opulent woman's chamber. A koto stood propped in the tokonoma.

“Suihō, play the koto.” “And let me hear it too.” “Play that song that man loves.” The castle lord remained standing as he issued his command. “Now play the koto quickly!” The woman was silently trembling. She suddenly collapsed onto the floor. “There’s no need to tremble.” “You just need to play a little—” The castle lord took out the koto. He pushed it before the woman. “Just play a little. Now hurry up and play.” Suihō softly raised her face. Her eyes were bloodshot like a madman’s.

“So I am to play that song, then…” As she spoke, her finger touched the strings. A lonely hum of a sound resonated.

“It’s around the time when the midnight bell tolls.” “It’s always when that man comes...... Now play.” “Keep playing.” “This is hell! There’s no God. No matter how much I call or scream, there’s no salvation!” The woman muttered under her breath. Producing one desolate note after another, she played the koto piece with perfect clarity.

“Ah… That is the prelude.” The masked castle lord coldly stated, “By the time this prelude is played, that man should always be outside the room, near the flower garden.” “And he must have come tonight as well.……”

The melody of the koto changed completely. It produced a sound akin to lamentation. “...By the time this melody is played, that man should always be standing under the window of the next room.” “Therefore, that man should be standing under the window tonight as well.”

Six The melody changed completely once more, becoming a sound akin to stifled sobs.

“…Suihō, you must see that man’s figure vividly before your eyes now.” “He should be wearing a grass-green hitatare with an eboshi court hat, a slender tachi sword tilted at his hip, and as always, a single poppy flower pinned near his chest.” “Then that flower should be moved from the man’s chest to the woman’s hair.” “And by dawn, that flower should wither languidly and fall between the pillows where the two had lain together.”

The melody of the koto gradually faded lower, as if about to cease. “Now, that is the final melody. By now, the man should have crossed through the window and entered that adjacent room. Exactly—to your bedroom!” At that moment, an agonized scream came from the bedroom directly ahead.

Suihō stopped playing the koto.

The sliding door in between opened from the other side, and a large man appeared. He was holding a large hatchet in his hand. Fresh blood was dripping from the blade’s edge. On the blood-dripping floor lay a man. He had died with his chest gouged out.

“Oh!” Suihō cried out. She tried to stand up, but her legs did not seem to obey. She crawled closer on her knees and hands, then tightly embraced the corpse. “He should be wearing a grass-green hitatare.” The castle lord stated expressionlessly and coldly, “He should have a poppy flower pinned to his chest. That is your lover.” “Lord Shikibu! Lord Shikibu!” Suihō called out frantically. “Lured by the sound you played, the pitiful man came. Manbei was the one who carried out the deed. I’m the one who ordered the killing. But you too bear guilt. Your sin weighs heaviest. Because you drew the man to his death.”

Suihō abruptly leapt up. She lunged toward the castle lord to grab him. The moment her hand touched him, she swiftly lifted the lieutenant general’s mask he wore with one hand. Suihō’s face and the castle lord’s face met directly and unflinchingly. A scream suddenly rang out. It was a piercing shriek. It came from Suihō’s mouth. Suihō covered her eyes with both hands. But it was too late. Those who see Medusa’s face must die instantly where they stand.

“Manbei,” said the castle lord in an expressionless voice, “transport these two corpses.” “Take them to the underground factory.” “Use cloth dyed with their blood to make my coat.” Bong—the bell began to toll. That was the midnight bell.

On this night, in one section of the castle grounds, the nun was burned at the stake. Choked by smoke, scorched by flames, she reportedly continued screaming until the very moment her life expired. “Burn me with fire, beat me with whips—compared to Renge-shiki Bikuni, who was hated by Devadatta and had her head split open and filled with lead, this unworthy one’s martyrdom is not even worth mentioning. Compared to the Venerable Maudgalyāyana, who was attacked by heretics on Mount Ishigiri and killed through stoning, this unworthy one’s martyrdom does not even merit counting. This unworthy one thanks you all. The whips with which you strike this unworthy one are indeed the other-power that leads to nirvana! This unworthy one thanks you all. The flames of the pine torch that smolder this unworthy one are indeed the fuse that leads to shinnyo! Oh people, cast aside your desires! Desire is what breeds the cycle of reincarnation. Rightly perceive! Rightly think! Destroy and break free from the cycle of reincarnation! Only then will you be saved. O Buddha… This unworthy one has now at last fulfilled her duty as an arhat! From now on, as a woman—as a gentle, weak woman—this unworthy one shall come into your embrace. Oh, this unworthy one can no longer see. This unworthy one’s eyes have been burned away, yet your form—the form of perfect compassion—I can see clearly.”

When the flames roared up and completely engulfed her, her screams reportedly ceased. And when those flames had died out, her body, charred completely black, reportedly remained standing upright against the jet-black night sky.

Kōketsu Castle lay silent and deep into the night; listening closely, from underground came a sound like something groaning. The sound of blood-squeezing machinery greedily devouring human blood without end. To produce exquisitely beautiful cloth—Kōketsu cloth—the machinery is kept rotating day and night without ceasing.

Part Seven

One

“Don’t mess around, don’t mess around!” With his characteristic sanpaku eyes gleaming, Kōsaka Gentarō shouted. “Then that ain’t how we agreed!” “Yeah, that ain’t how we agreed!” “What the hell are you gonna do about this?” “What the hell are you gonna do about this?” “Hmm, is our agreement different?” “However, as for myself, I’m afraid I cannot offer any proper response.”

In a silken soft tone, the young man opposite responded evasively.

It was a room in Kōketsu Castle.

“No way—it’s completely different. “I’m really inconvenienced here!” “Now, now, please be patient.” “Nuh-uh, no way! I can’t take any more of this! “Hey, hurry up and do somethin’ about this!”

“So, what should I do?” “Let me meet my cousin.” “And who might that be?”

“Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu.” “Ah, Lord Tsuchiya? You mean Lord Shōsaburō?” “Yeah, that’s right. Hurry up and let me meet him!”

"Hmm, I wonder if he's even within the castle?" "He must be here. He must be here—they said so when they brought me here!"

“And who told you that?” “The boatmen.” “Three of them.” “Red-robed boatmen.”

“And when approximately might that have been?”

“Ten days prior.” “No—twelve days.” “Yes, yes.” “Twelve days prior.” “And where might that have been?”

“You ask too damn many questions... It was on Lake Motosu’s shore—Lake Motosu!”

“And which shore of Lake Motosu was that?” “What a nuisance! You damn bastard! Quit yappin’ and let me see him already!” However, the young man continued to smirk repeatedly in that silken soft tone of his. “Now now—do practice patience,” he said smoothly. “Patience proves most vital here—especially within these castle walls.” “These walls ain’t worth shit! Hah—what kinda damn castle d’you call this? Every last soul here’s nothing but kidnappers!” Gentarō unleashed his venomous tongue. “If ya won’t let me meet ’im—then get me outta this hellhole!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” “What d’you mean you can’t? Why can’t you?” “Because here is Kōketsu Castle.” “What about Kōketsu Castle?” “Because this is Kōketsu Castle.” “So what? What’s your damn point?” “Once captured, we will never release you.”

“But I’ll get out and show you!”

“That would be reckless.” “I’ll definitely break out and show you!” “Because outside the castle is a lake.” “There must be boats.” “There should be boats.” “You cannot possibly steal a boat.”

“But I’ll steal one and show you! When it comes to stealing, I’m a genius.” “Even if you were to steal a boat, you would not breach the lake’s defenses.” “What defenses? What do you mean by ‘defenses’?” “It is the mist barrier that soars to the heavens.” “How could mist even reach the heavens? Quit using those weird adjectives! I’ll break through that paltry mist barrier and show you!” “Because that is impossible for you.”

“No—it’s possible.” “I’ll make it possible and prove it!” “Yes, many before you had insisted it was possible—some had even attempted it, but...” “What’s the matter? They all succeeded, didn’t they?”

“But in your case, it’s the opposite.” “Hmph—every last one of ’em must’ve been idiots.” “They were such clever gentlemen.” “If they were clever, they should’ve made it!” “Ah—but they were clever in excess.” “Too much is as bad as too little.” “Which proves they were idiots through and through!” “Because their courage overflowed its measure.” “So how’d they turn tail?” “One gentleman stole a boat and rowed out onto the lake.” “Yet on the eighth day, only the boat came back.” “Blown right home again, you see.”

“So—was there no one on it?” “Well, there was someone on it—reduced to skin and bones and frozen solid, you see.” “Hmm... Why’d they die?” “Starved to death, I suppose.” “Starving’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” “What could be odd about that? They couldn’t escape the mist barrier—wandered eight days without food or water.”

“What happened to the others?” “They met much the same fate, I suppose.” “So everyone starved to death?”

“One gentleman perished from shock.”

II “What do you mean, ‘perished from shock’?” “What the hell is ‘death from shock’?” Gentarō furrowed his brows slightly. His eyes with their prominent whites grew slightly clouded, and a wrinkle formed between his brows.

“In other words, he died without regaining consciousness, you see.” “He must have seen something truly dreadful, I suppose.”

“So he died in the mist barrier after all?” “Whether by fortune or misfortune, that gentleman was unable to steal a boat. After wandering confused through the castle grounds, he apparently slipped into an underground chamber. There, he must have glimpsed something dreadful.” “What exactly lies in the basement?” “Who knows what might be there?” The young man released another silken laugh,

“I haven’t the faintest idea, you see.”

“Don’t lie to me! That’s impossible! People living in the castle not knowing their way around—that’s impossible! They should know. You keep saying this and that—” “No, that area falls under a different jurisdiction—there’s no reason they should know. In other words, my duty is to serve as an attendant to esteemed guests—specifically, to ensure newly arrived guests are treated with due care. That is my duty.” “Well, what a fine attendant you are. You’re nothing but a panic-stirring attendant bastard! So you’re really not gonna spill it after all?!”

“Now, now—this simply won’t do! You’re quite the brute, aren’t you? Though mere children, you brandish brute strength at every turn—and formidable strength at that. For Akemizu Koshirō, Head of Attendants, this proves most troublesome indeed.” “Damn right it does. Goes without saying. I ain’t built like no ordinary brat. Don’t you dare underestimate me. ...Hey—what d’you see there?” As he spoke, Gentarō raised his hand toward the wall. A secretly stored glue-tipped pole stood propped against it.

“Well, that would be a glue-tipped pole, I suppose.” “Does it just look like a glue-tipped pole to you?” “There’s no other way to perceive it.” “When I hold it, it becomes a spear.” Gentarō began boasting. “If you doubt it, see for yourself.” He strode to the wall and snatched up the glue-tipped pole. Planting himself before Koshirō at the room’s center, he thrust the weapon—swish—swish—through the air. The needle-sharp tip whirled into a vortex before Koshirō’s eyes, expanding and contracting at will. When the spiral swelled largest, Koshirō’s chest heaved violently, breath coming in ragged gasps. Like a man peering from a cliff into an abyss—drawn to its depths despite knowing they spell his doom—he felt compelled to hurl himself into that whirling spearhead’s heart.

Step by step, Koshirō walked forward. The vortex gradually grew larger. It reached the ceiling and walls until—to Koshirō’s eyes—the swirling mass appeared to fill the entire room, and there at its core emerged a single face. A face like a mischievous child’s—mouth gaping, eyes bulging, cheeks puffed out, nostrils flared, the unsettling whites of his eyes glinting sharply—it was none other than Gentarō’s visage. Soon the vortex at the spear’s tip began steadily shrinking. With each contraction, Koshirō found himself forced backward step by step. His chest constricted as if squeezed by a vice, his ragged panting not from exertion but from cowering fear.

“Hey, bastard! Had enough?!” Gentarō’s mischievous child-like face suddenly turned menacing, but—

“Bird! Bird! A big bird!” “If I imagine you as a big bird, let me pierce through those wings with the Kōsaka-ryū glue-tipped spear!” “Here it comes—your chest!” “Now it’s your gut—your big fat gut!” “Ayah! Ayah! Ayah! Ayah! Big bird! Big bird!”

Shouting, he pressed forward. Koshirō was drenched in sweat from head to toe, drops trickling down his forehead, his wide upturned eyes fixed in a rigid stare, both hands hanging limply at his sides as he retreated step by step. “What’ll it be? Will you talk or refuse?!” “What exactly’s in the underground chamber?” “Hey! Boss! You’re not saying anything!” “If you don’t wanna talk, I’ll stab you dead!” “Yeah—I’ll skewer you dead in one thrust!” “You’re making a mistake if you think this’s a joke.” “We never joke around.” “If I say I’ll kill, I’ll definitely kill.” “So set your resolve firm and state clear—will you talk or refuse?” “…Hmph! Damn bastard—you really won’t talk?!” “Staying silent like a damned golden Buddha!” “Got nothing to boast about with that muteness of yours!” “Alright—if you’re that determined, I’ll give another scare.” “Hyah!”

With a battle cry, he thrust out the spear he’d been gripping in a drawn-back stance with a swift motion. Just as a chill wind struck Koshirō’s cheek—he’d been standing there entranced—a *thud* resounded simultaneously. “Keh, keh, keh, keh! How’s that, bastard?!” “Behold the spear technique I call ‘gold-walled fortress-piercer’!” “Hey! Look behind you!”

III When told, Koshirō turned to look—and there it was: the heavily fortified oak plank wall, five *sun* thick, cleanly pierced through by the tip of that flimsy bamboo glue-tipped pole. “Well now, esteemed attendant—when this humble one holds this pole, it truly becomes a spear, doesn’t it? Keh, keh, keh, keh! Take a good damn look!” “If you still won’t talk after this, then next time it’s your gut.” “Dengaku-zashi, Yatsume-zashi, or Hishihoko’s hollow thrust—shall I demonstrate by piercing you however you wish?” “Well, boss? Yes or no?!”

Pulling the pole close to himself, he twisted it around and thrust the butt end onto the floor with a thud. Then he thrust his face forward aggressively, snapped his eyes wide open to reveal the whites glaring, and flicked out a long tongue between his teeth. It was an expression of intimidation and mockery.

Koshirō let out ragged gasps—Hah! Hah!—and collapsed limply to his knees on the floor. Even if one had walked ten ri, they likely wouldn’t have become this exhausted. “I will tell you.” “I will indeed tell you.” He finally managed to say just this.

“Hmm, you’ll talk?” “That’s the spirit.”

“So… where should I begin?” “Start with the underground chamber’s secret.” “What else would there be?” “Now… regarding that underground chamber… it is… a dreadful place.” “First—is the underground chamber large?” “Yes… it is quite large.” “What in blazes is down there?” “There… there is a factory.” “A factory? What sort of factory?” “You see… it’s no ordinary matter—” “Hmph! You think threats will rattle me?” “…Then try telling me what manner of factory it is.”

“There are several factories.”

“Then start talking from the beginning.” “First is the waterwheel facility.” “What’s this? Some lousy waterwheel facility?”

Gentarō was not a little disappointed, but “What’s so damn special about that?!” “But sir, that is no ordinary waterwheel.” “Hmph, how the hell should I know?” “It is the driving force behind everything within Kōketsu Castle.”

“Who in their right mind would actually do such a thing?” “Whether you believe it or not is a separate matter. I have merely reported the facts as they are.”

“The driving force behind everything in the castle? You’re making some grand claims there.” “But… we still can’t clearly grasp the meaning.” “It is that mist barrier you know of—those waterwheels are what maintain it in such a manner.” “Hmm, so that mist barrier is artificially created, huh?” “It is the work of the waterwheels.” “So—is the waterwheel large?” “It would have a diameter of about ten ken.” “A diameter of ten ken? Huh?” “Hmm, I see now.” “Yeah, just a bit on the large side.” “Of course there’s only one waterwheel, right?”

“No, there are twenty.”

“What, twenty? You sure about that?” “The castle is square-shaped. They say five are installed on each side.”

“How do the waterwheels spin?” “The lake’s water gets channeled into them.”

“You mean they divert the lake’s water?” “Where on earth are these waterwheels located?” “They say it’s in the deep, deep lake—the very depths beneath the depths.” “That’s only natural.” “It is said that the mist barrier forms from the tremendous force of the cascading water.”

“It cascades down with tremendous force, huh?”

“Because it cascades down with tremendous force.”

“What else is in the basement?” “There is a pitch-dark factory.”

“What’s in there?” “Countless pulleys that forever groan, countless gears that forever mesh, and hundreds of drive belts that forever race about.” “What on earth is that room?” “It’s a pitch-dark factory... But they say blue sparks sometimes go crackling and sparking through the air.” "...Darkness and groans and blue sparks!" “Such is the nature of that factory.” “…In other words, a factory that distributes power—”

“So, what else is there, huh?” “There is a weaving factory.”

“Oh, I see. I like this one.” “Clackety-clack, clackety-clack—morning, evening, day and night—there are many young women weaving at their looms.” “Now this one’s really growing on me!” Gentarō smirked, but asked: “Are there any belles in there?” “Why yes, there certainly are.” “Damn it, I’ve gone and fallen in love with this place. By the way—what are they weaving?” “White plain silk, sir.”

IV “Are there still more?” “Why yes, sir—there certainly are.”

“Go on, tell me—what kind of factory is it?” “There is a crimson-dyeing factory.” “Ah, so you dye white silk there, huh?” “Why yes, precisely so.” “Dyeing workshops are so lovely and nice, aren’t they?”

“They certainly are beautiful, the dyeing workshops.”

“Do they dye it into various colors?”

“No, you are mistaken.” “Not so, you say? Then what is it?” “We dye it in only one color.” “You’ve got no imagination, using just one color.” “Indeed, we have no imagination whatsoever.” “What color do you dye it?” “In a blazing crimson color.” “So, in other words, it’s dyed a blood-like color, huh?” “Yes, yes, precisely so.” “So you dye it with suō or something like that, huh?” Koshirō laughed, but “Yes, precisely so indeed.”

“Huh? That’s an oddly forced laugh.” Gentarō readjusted his grip on the glue-tipped pole.

“What exactly is so funny?” “There is nothing amusing.” “I am not laughing at all.” “No, you laughed.” “You certainly did laugh.” “Don’t fuck around, don’t fuck around!” “Are you trying to blind me?” “See here—both these eyes of mine see just fine.” “Don’t go thinking they’re blind—you’d be dead wrong.” “Now talk! What were you laughing at?” He thudded the spear’s metal butt against the floor. “Or if you still won’t talk, I’ll just have to demonstrate the Kōsaka-style glue-tipped polearm again.” “And this time, it’ll be proper form.” “I’ll drive it into your gut and spin you round like a windmill!”

He snapped into a mid-stance.

Koshirō suddenly jumped up but then flopped back down onto the floor,

“Yes, I laughed.” “Yes, I certainly laughed. …You… are quite difficult to handle.” “Please, spare me the spear.” “…No—it’s simply too dreadful to behold. …Yes, I certainly laughed.” “What was so funny that you laughed?” “Well… yes, since you mentioned suō.” “I said ‘suō,’ but why was that funny?” “The dye is not suō.” “Is that really so funny?” “Because you know nothing at all.”

“What do you use to dye it in the first place?” “The dye comes from living blood.”

“Hmm,” said Gentarō, though he couldn’t help shuddering. “Dog blood?” “Horse blood?” “It is human blood.” “Shut up!” “Idiot!” “Quit your bullshit!” “It is human blood.” “So, where do you get it from?”

“We keep them within the castle.”

“What? You keep humans?” “They are esteemed guests.” “Guests, you say? Then I’m a *guest* too.” “Yes, precisely so.” “Then will you drain *my* blood too?” Gentarō shuddered violently. “Hey! Are you going to drain my blood too?!” “In time, yes—that will come to pass.” “Hmph, so you’re going to drain my blood too?” “If such a fate should come to pass...” “Are you in your right mind saying that?” “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“Then this place is hell.”

“It is Kōketsu Castle.” “Hell! Hell! This place is hell!” “Yet one might also call it paradise.” “A blood-pool hell! You’re a jailer of hell!” “Sweet foods, beautiful garments, days free from hardship—this is paradise.” “Help me! Help me!” “I cannot help you. No one has ever been saved.” “Help me! Help me! Lord Koshirō, I beg you—save me!”

Gentarō suddenly knelt in seiza. "I am a prison guard." Calmly, Koshirō rose. "Prison guards have no tears." "When will I be killed?" "When the lot is drawn." "When? When do they draw it?"

“It will be precisely tonight.”

“Tonight?!”

As he shouted, Gentarō fixed his eyes as if in despair.

“So, what time is it now?” “There are two hours until the lottery.”

“Only two hours.” “Only two hours.” “I cannot say it will definitely be drawn.” “No—it’ll be drawn. I can feel it’s going to be drawn.” “You should pray.” “Pray to the gods and buddhas.” “What’s the proof it was drawn?” “What mark?” “A skull is drawn on the paper.” “And if it isn’t drawn?” “There’s nothing written.”

Five “So if I draw a blank paper, I’ll be spared?” “It means the deadline will be postponed.” “Does drawing the skull mean execution?” “You will enter eternal stillness.” “Only two hours. Only two hours.” “There is no escape.” “Lord Koshirō, save me!”

“I must take my leave now.” “Idiot!” As soon as he spat those words, Gentarō sprang up like a swallow in flight. He seized the pole, angled it diagonally, and scythed Koshirō’s legs out from under him.

Koshirō, taken by surprise, fell onto the floor with a thud as Gentarō firmly pinned him down using the butt end of the pole. “Heh, how’s that? Did I surprise you?” Yet Koshirō did not struggle; pinned down, he grinned. “I must ask you to refrain from such roughness. What do you intend to do with me?” “Too bad—you’re being locked up. I’m not letting you out of this room.” “Lock me up—and then what?” “Then I’ll torture you.” “Torture me—and then what?”

“I’ll get it out of your mouth—the escape route from Kōketsu Castle.” “I will never tell.” “Then you’ll have to die.” “Then I’ll die, will I?” “Yeah, that’s right—before me.” “Then by all means, kill me at once.” “Take your time. We have two hours.” “Someone will come to interfere before long.” “Interference? What kind of interference?” “It seems I have stayed a bit too long in your room.”

“So what? What’s your point?” “What reason could I possibly have for coming to this room?” “It’s obvious—same as always. You came to bring dinner, right?” “That may be so. Which is precisely why this won’t do.”

“That may be so.” “That’s why it’s not allowed.” “Hmph, say whatever you like.” “As per the rules of this castle, there are time restrictions.” “What time are you talking about? Huh? What are you—” “It’s the time allotted for conversing with esteemed guests.” “What does that have to do with this?” “It seems I have stayed a bit too long in your room.”

“So? What’s your point?” “My comrades will come searching.” “That’s nonsense. Quit lying!” “I would never lie.” “You see, among our esteemed guests, there are those—much like yourself—who mistreat us dutiful attendants.” “They try to extract the castle’s secrets, try to force us to disclose escape routes beyond the walls, and torment us for sundry other reasons.” “As a preventive measure against such acts, time restrictions are enforced.” “At most a quarter-hour—that is the absolute limit.” “When that limit is exceeded, they deem some abnormality to have occurred and commence a search.” “Even as I speak these words, my comrades may well be approaching.” “Now they will come to this room—finding me pitifully taken captive—oh, this is dire indeed.” “Should that transpire, there will be no reprieve—you shall be swiftly conveyed underground and rendered into dye.”

“Fine, yeah, that’s just fine too.” “If I’m going to be killed either way, it’s easier to accept if it happens sooner.” “And there’s one more fun thing.” “When their comrades show up, it’ll be an all-out slaughter—I’ll mow down every last one of ’em with this glue-tipped spear.” “I’ll pile up a mountain of corpses.” “I’ll take you all to hell with me.”

“You’re quite spirited, aren’t you.” “And do you really think you can build that mountain of corpses?”

“Don’t worry—I’ll build it.” “There will be two at most, I imagine.” “Whether it’s two, twenty, thirty—even a hundred coming—I’ll slaughter them all.” “Such remarkable courage you have. However, against such warriors, the castle has made corresponding preparations.” “You’re a pain in the ass, bastard. Take a breather!” Pressing the spear tip to Koshirō’s throat, Gentarō gradually applied force. “Ah, it’s painful. This is unbearable… You’ll regret this soon enough.” “This is unbearable… Ah, it’s painful… And now I hear footsteps approaching.” “They’re my comrades… You’re strangling me—you’re strangling me!” “Ah, it’s painful.” “This is unbearable.” “……So you’re finally going to kill me.” “You little brat!” “You damn brat!”

The room gradually darkened. Night crept in. A low groan sounded. Koshirō stopped breathing. However, he had not actually died. His breathing had been temporarily stopped.

Six

At that very moment, there was a knock on the room’s door.

“Well, they actually showed up.” Gentarō strained his ears, pressed his body flush against the wall, and listened for movement in the corridor.

The sound of knocking on the door soon ceased. For a while, everything fell eerily still. Gentarō approached the doorway. He positioned himself parallel to the doorway and pressed his body tightly against the wall. He fixed his eyes intently on the doorway and lay in wait for enemies to appear. There was a creaking sound. One of the double doors seemed to have opened. Then, once again, everything became eerily still. In this manner, some time passed. At that moment, the door of the room that had been faintly visible before Gentarō’s eyes slowly began to open. And then from there, a human figure half-emerged like a shadow. Then, as Gentarō’s hands shot forward like lightning and were swiftly pulled back, a sharp cry of “Ah!” rang out. The shadow-like figure stumbled lankily into the room before collapsing face-first.

“Hey, what happened?”

As the voice sounded, another figure emerged. Gentarō’s hand shot out. And when it was pulled back, the same scene repeated itself. The figure entered the room and collapsed face-first onto the floor. With a heavy thud, the door slammed shut. There came the sound of a latch dropping, followed by footsteps racing down the corridor. Then complete silence fell. Even Gentarō held his breath. He crouched down and reached out to examine the two corpses. One had its throat pierced through; the other, its chest impaled.

“Just took down two jailer mutts.” “Ain’t got nothin’ to feel guilty about.” After muttering coldly, he wiped the pole with the corpse’s sleeve. Blood dripped from the tip of the pole, making a faint sound. A pungent, fishy smell stung the nose. The air was murky; the room was hot. “Now then, what should I do next?” Gentarō pondered hurriedly. “There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing to do but wait here. They will undoubtedly attack in force. I’ll stab every last one of them to death.”

He listened intently, keeping watch on the corridor’s movements.

At that moment, footsteps could be heard. However, it was not the sound of many people. They were the footsteps of three or four people. They stopped on the other side of the door. They seemed to be whispering something.

“Hmph, they’re finally here.” “What’s taking them so long?” He pulled the glue-tipped pole to his side, made his eyes gleam in the darkness, and lay in wait for the door to open. The outside of the room was quiet. The whispering voices had ceased completely. Yet there was a sense of someone being present. Then suddenly, a strange crackling noise reached his ears. “Huh? What’s that sound?”

Gentarō was momentarily stunned and had no choice but to think. Crackle, crackle—the sound kept coming from the corridor.

Something like fog began entering the room from nowhere in particular. It was not fog but smoke. Along with that, Gentarō’s chest gradually grew tight. His limbs were gradually becoming paralyzed. “Ah, damn… That’s poison gas!”

Gentarō collapsed limply onto the floor. “Damn it, damn it! You cowardly bastards!” “They’re trying to smoke me out like a raccoon or fox with poison gas!” Ah—everything was spinning. Everything swayed. Mom... Mom... “Mom!”

In the darkness before his eyes, blue flames danced. Gradually, he grew weaker. First he released the pole he had been gripping, then convulsed both legs. And then he stopped moving entirely.

At that moment, the room’s door opened, and a large man appeared.

It was Manbei, the executioner. He carried a giant axe. He glanced around the room once, then turned his face toward the doorway,

“It worked. …Come in.”

In response to the voice, three men appeared from the doorway. “Let’s get to disposing of the corpses. Two comrades, one guest, and three bundles of dye—that’s the tally.”

“I wonder if Koshirō’s all right.” A man whispered.

“That guy’ll probably come back to life.”

There, the three men hoisted the corpses and carried them out into the corridor. Manbei followed behind. The four men proceeded silently down the long corridor. Eventually they reached the end of the corridor. There stood a heavily fortified wooden wall. Manbei's hand touched it. Then a pitch-black opening gaped wide there. Stairs leading to the courtyard came into view from within the darkness. The four men silently descended those stairs. At the bottom they rested briefly. Then they cut through the courtyard and walked toward the lakeshore. It was a starless moonless night. Ahead through the darkness, the faint glow of a lantern glimmered into view.

There was a building there. It had been constructed to guard the first descent of the great staircase leading to the underground chamber, but the four individuals carrying corpses solemnly entered it. A staircase three ken wide—approximately 5.4 meters—constructed from massive stone slabs spiraled downward toward the depths of Avīci Hell. The four individuals descended step by step, lower and lower. As they went, various sounds rose from the earth's depths. The creak of pulleys, the grind of gears, the groans of drive belts clashing and racing past each other. ...drowning out these noises, an indescribably thunderous roar echoed gloomily—this was likely the sound of the great waterfall pouring into the waterwheels.

The four individuals continued silently descending the great staircase.

Part 8

1.

It was sixteen years in the past. In other words, in the summer of Tenbun 11, a young samurai arrived at the ravines of Mount Fuji’s foothills.

He had beautiful features and a refined appearance; though considerably emaciated, his countenance still retained a noble air, allowing one to imagine he was a young lord raised in an upper-class household.

He had been unable to endure the torment of love and had come to find a place to die.

The object of his love was his sister-in-law.

At first glance, it seemed like an illicit love affair; however, the truth was not entirely so. The young samurai and the maiden had been in love since childhood; both they themselves and everyone around them believed they would eventually marry. Yet the young samurai’s biological elder brother had unreasonably snatched it away—there lay the first step of the tragedy. The maiden, being of gentle nature, quickly submitted to fate. The young samurai, too, was of a gentle disposition—both religious and literary, possessing a noble spirit unbefitting of a Sengoku warrior—and thus he too submitted to fate.

Thus, the maiden fulfilled her role as a chaste wife for her husband, and the young samurai fulfilled his duty as a loyal younger brother to his brother, attempting to pass their days peacefully. However, this was nothing more than an extremely unnatural "fantasy." This deformed triangular relationship could never continue peacefully. The more he tried not to love her, the more his feelings redoubled in strength—until at last, the young samurai found himself in love with his sister-in-law. The sister-in-law felt the same. This suffocating love between the two was soon detected by the elder brother.

It must be said that it was only natural for the elder brother to abuse his wife and hinder his younger brother.

Before long, the woman gave birth to a child. Of course, it was the husband’s child.

But from the husband’s perspective, there was something undeniably suspicious about the child. The child seemed to be the younger brother's. This was truly an incomparable agony for him—a pain that should be common to all people as parents. From that time onward, he tormented his wife and younger brother in every matter. As the child gradually grew and became more adorable, this pain only intensified, and consequently, he had no choice but to torment the two even more severely. —This was the second step of the tragedy.

And so, when the child reached the adorable age of six, the final tragedy arrived. The brothers attempted to duel.

As a general rule in such situations, the one with stronger morals is almost certain to lose.

It would be better to die than fight my brother... With this thought, the young samurai wandered out from home. He had always been fond of Mount Fuji. The visage of a flawless and sagely noble! Such was the form of Mount Fuji. Even dogs or birds, when drawing their final breath, invariably seek a place to die.

From Kōfu to the foothills was not far. And so, when the young samurai left home, he wandered off toward the foothills of Mount Fuji. Now, when he arrived at the foothills, he began searching all around for a place to die.

At that moment, a capricious summer rain came pouring down, accompanied by thunderclaps. Even at death's brink, being drenched by rain was anything but pleasant. He tried to evade the downpour and frantically scanned his surroundings. And there—at the rock's base—gaped a narrow crevice, scarcely large enough to admit a single person.

And so, without a single thought, he hastily concealed himself there—yet this very act would prove to be the subtle divine providence that redirected his fate onto an entirely different path. To his surprise, the crevice was far from being as small as it appeared, extending much deeper than he could have imagined. Driven by sudden curiosity, he pressed steadily deeper into the cave. As he progressed, the crevice gradually widened into a flaring shape, its walls and ceiling no longer brushing against his body. And what was truly strange—light seemed to stream from somewhere, filling the entire cavern with a faint twilight as pale as firefly glow.

After walking for over an hour in this manner, he suddenly found a desolate plain spread out before his eyes. The sky was high and dark, evoking a starless night. The surroundings stretched vast and boundless, illuminated only by a pale, azure light that seemed to stretch endlessly. In this otherworldly realm, that which glittered like silver foil in the far distance must have been the accumulated lake waters. Here and there were hills and rivers; bizarre rocks and stones lay fallen, with moss blanketing the ground everywhere.

Still and silent, devoid of human presence; there were no houses, nor any chickens or dogs. It was a vast and boundless land of death. However, when stated plainly, it was nothing more than a single enormous cave. In other words, this was a divinely wrought natural cavern—one that had been excavated through Fuji's rocky fundament for several ri.

II

Still, where did this light come from—this azure glow that illuminated the vast cave, brighter than a moonlit night yet duller than twilight? It did not come from anywhere. It was the light emitted by countless billions beyond reckoning of bioluminescent creatures dwelling within the cavern.

Struck with astonishment, the young samurai stood blankly for a time, but soon began wandering through the "Cave Country" like a sleepwalker. And there, he came before a massive boulder. When he glanced idly, an iron door was embedded in a part of the boulder. He reached out his hand and touched it. Over the long years, even the sturdy lock had corroded, and with a touch, the door opened. Beyond the door was an altar. Inside the altar was a person. Wearing a hood and clad in a pilgrim’s robe, with single-toothed iron geta on his feet and gripping a staff in one hand—it was a noble old man, but he was not alive. It was none other than a human mummy.

Countless sutras were stacked high around its knees.

When the young samurai took the topmost sutra scroll in hand, he unthinkingly opened it.

“Upon the altar sits a golden peacock king; above it rests a white lotus flower”—so read the opening passage of the scroll, which turned out to be the Mantra of the Peacock Sutra. "What a mysterious person! Who could this be?" Muttering thus, the young samurai peered further into the altar.

At that moment, what unexpectedly caught his eye were the characters carved into the rock wall. "I am En the Ubasoku, Though my flesh lies buried here, My spirit shall pervade the universe. A thousand years hence shall find this one, Thus they are disciples of my teachings," The characters clearly read as follows:

The characters were clearly read as follows: Ah, so this person was En no Ozunu? It was recorded that he had crossed to China in the first year of Emperor Monmu’s Taihō era, but it seemed he had later returned to this land and entered eternal meditation here.

Having thought this through,the young samurai was struck by astonishment,but simultaneously felt reverence welling up spontaneously within him.It was carved here that “the one who discovers this a thousand years hence shall be a disciple of my teachings,”yet a thousand years had already passed.The one who discovered it was none other than himself.Was he not then,the prophesied disciple of these teachings?

As he further contemplated this, he was overcome with astonishment. And then he shouted: “I refuse to die! I’ll become a disciple!”

Five years had flown by since the young samurai, his love shattered, turned his heart to religion and devoted himself to every austerity and penance humanly possible.

At that time, the great ascetic Kōmyō Ubasoku—radiant with divine splendor and so named by many—descended from the foothills of Mount Fuji into the world.

Bearing the three doctrines of “Repentance,” “Endurance,” and “Mortification of the Flesh,” he set out on his missionary journey. Thus, during those five years, Kōmyō Ubasoku made his missionary journey throughout every town and harbor of Japan. And when the autumn of the fifth year arrived and he returned to the foothills of Mount Fuji, the Fuji cult—annotated as having a thousand followers—was established. And when six more years had swiftly passed, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu infiltrated this Fuji cult.

The Fuji cult's sacred territory was divided into two parts: "Inside the Cave" and "Outside the Cave." "Inside the Cave" was the sacred realm, and "Outside the Cave" was the human world.

The center of the human world was "the Hill". "The Hill was annotated as being sixty ken in height and half a ri in circumference, but in reality, it was smaller than that." "The Hill was also called by another name, 'Sacred Altar,' and was adorned with several shrine buildings." The Sacred Altar was originally a rocky mountain. They had leveled the summit of that rocky mountain through tremendous effort and built a temple there, yet even now its surroundings remained layered with rocks. That which united nature and artifice—this was the Sacred Altar. At the center of this Sacred Altar stood a building of utmost magnificence, and it was said that the principal deity enshrined within was the Peacock King Wisdom Deity. However, the inner sanctum was dimly lit, and with incense smoke constantly rising to obscure all objects, worship proved impossible. The only things barely visible were the brass-colored furnishings, the brocade cloth spread over the altar, and the figures of a few shrine maidens moving ceaselessly about. To the left of this building stood a single stone statue. The pedestal’s height measured over one ken, and the statue standing atop it soared well beyond four ken. It depicted En the Ascetic. Wearing a hooded cloak and ascetic’s robe, donning high clogs, leaning on a metal-ringed staff, it made the two mountain deities Zenki and Goki kneel at its feet. Yet many believers, upon seeing this magnificent stone statue, would unanimously declare: “This is indeed En the Ascetic, but at the same time, it is also Kōmyō Ubasoku.”

III This was because the statue’s face bore a striking resemblance to Kōmyō Ubasoku. To call this figure an ascetic seemed almost improper, for its face bore too sorrowful an expression. En the Ascetic, as the embodiment of will and a symbol of the superhuman, must have been equipped with a fierce, demon-subduing countenance. Yet on the face of this stone statue there, not even a shadow of such qualities could be found. All that existed there was sorrow. All that existed there was heartrending repentance. Many believers revered this stone statue as the concrete embodiment of both En the Ascetic and Kōmyō Ubasoku.

The monks’ lodgings were located southwest of this stone statue. Fire ritual platforms, purification grounds, repentance chambers, countless small places of worship, and innumerable stone shrines—all were densely constructed throughout the vast temple grounds, leaving no space untouched.

Surrounding this divine “Sacred Altar” and stretching out in all directions was the town inhabited by the believers.

Five hundred houses, their roofs aligned and eaves connected, standing in orderly rows—their appearance differed not from that of an ordinary town.

It was truly peaceful. Even if one tried to hear voices of conflict or shouts, such sounds could not be heard in this town. A single main road ran through the town, extending all the way beneath the Sacred Altar, but even beasts of burden such as cattle and horses walking there—along with dogs and chickens—were calm. A river flowed along the road, and summer grasses bloomed along its banks. Houses selling Buddha statues, shops dealing in ritual incense and flowers, and various other stores lined the streets, yet no garish colors were to be seen.

In the streets, people walked. The houses were filled with people. And yet it was profoundly quiet. That said, over a thousand people lived and thrived there. It could not be said that love, marriage, jealousy, or competition were entirely absent. Yet in this town, those things were conducted with elegance and grace.

Every two hours, the temple bell could be heard from the bell tower of the Sacred Altar. At that moment, the people joined their hands in prayer.

In the fields and hills at the edge of town, countless tents stood. These were temporary dwellings for people who had recently arrived in this area and still had no homes of their own.

In one of those tents lived Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.

That Tsuchiya Shōsaburō—who had slipped away from Kōfu to search for his parents and uncle—now lived here in this manner, as if he had forgotten those very relatives, might seem contradictory at first glance, but in reality, it was not so at all.

He was still searching for his parents and uncle. However, to him, this cult was profoundly suited to his heart. First, the believers were kind. Second, everything about the cult was mysterious and fascinating. Thirdly, to him, Kōmyō Ubasoku, the cult leader here, did not seem like a stranger. He liked the cult. Though he thought this, he still did not attempt to leave the cult and continued to live each day as it came.

However, even this peaceful cult had a terrifying enemy that constantly threatened its people. When Shōsaburō learned of this, his heart wavered.

That day he sat inside his tent, lost in thought. Suddenly shouts erupted from the town’s direction. Startled into action, he rushed outside to find the normally tranquil street transformed into a scene of fire-like chaos—people dashing about in panicked confusion. "How strange," Shōsaburō murmured as he broke into a jog. Reaching the town center brought fresh astonishment—not a single woman or child remained visible. Every house stood barred. Only strapping youths filled the streets now—bows gripped tight, limbs armored with leather guards—their faces snapping upward repeatedly as they shouted in unison while crisscrossing the thoroughfare.

“They’re here! They’re here! The bloodsucking fiends!” “The Masked Castle Lord’s minions!” “Look out for the women and children!” “Quickly, quickly! Get inside the houses and hide!” “They’re here! They’re here! The bloodsucking fiends!” “The Brass Castle’s fiendish minions!”

In unison, they drew their bows and let their arrows fly with a whizzing sound.

IV Finally overcome with shock, Shōsaburō looked up at the sky. And then, for the first time, the truth became clear. In the sky, Mount Fuji towered. In one part of that rocky ridge, innumerable mounted warriors were swarming. And then arrows came flying from there. That appeared to be an invading force from somewhere. They gradually drew closer. As they drew closer and he looked carefully, each and every one of them was uniformly wearing blood-red battle surcoats. "Oh, those blood-stained death shrouds, eh?"

The moment Tsuchiya Shōsaburō involuntarily shouted, a thunderous war cry erupted.

From the mountain toward the city, the invading army descended. The battle had shifted from an exchange of arrows at a distance to close combat. Shouts, curses, screams, groans, the clashing of swords against swords, the crossing of long blades against long blades, and a roaring uproar instantly engulfed the town.

The invading force was estimated to number over two hundred men, each clad in armor and mounted on swift-footed horses, making their ferocity incomparable to that of the cult’s people. Moreover, they invariably formed pairs in every engagement. Two would attack one. Their tactics seemed focused not on cutting down their opponents but on capturing them. Two mounted invaders spurred their powerful horses forward and charged in swiftly, cornering a young panicked believer between their steeds. Even while mounted, they reached out and snatched him up in an instant. The believer, paralyzed with terror, still writhed in an attempt to escape—but within moments, he slumped lifelessly. He had been completely taken prisoner.

Five, ten, twenty—before their eyes, the believers fell prey to the invading army. And gradually, the believers were driven into narrow alley after narrow alley. Now, twenty horsemen of the invading army, causing their red headbands to billow, charged into a narrow alley. Then, roars and screams erupted, followed by an earsplitting clash of swords that thundered through the air. But when the sound of hooves returned and the group of twenty red headbands reappeared at the alley’s mouth, they held ten prisoners captive.

The midday sun burned. A fresh green wind was blowing fiercely. Mount Fuji and the surrounding mountains towered serenely around the cult, with no change in nature.

And yet, in the world below, countless people were killing each other, stealing from each other, and swarming together.

Sand and dust rising like clouds, flowers trampled along the riverbank, horses and cattle on the verge of death—everything here was mercilessly destroyed.

This was no peaceful paradise after all. Here too was still the fleeting world.

Jostled and jostled by the fleeing, panicked crowd, Shōsaburō found himself beneath the "Sacred Altar" before he knew it, and in his heart, he muttered thus:

"No matter the era or land, as long as there are breathing humans dwelling here, conflict seems unavoidable." "...Battle!" "...Bloodshed!" "And then death." "That's right—humans could die at any time!" Having come to think this, Shōsaburō could not help but realize now how naive he had been.

"I must get out—get out of here." "There was supposed to be a purpose." "I need to find my parents and uncle."

However, he could not get out. The crowd overwhelmed him. The invading army attacked. Thick smoke swirled in from what seemed to be a burning house somewhere. Shōsaburō was pushed by the crowd until he found himself atop the *Sacred Altar*. Hundreds of believers had already taken refuge there. They shouted in unison: “Peacock King Wisdom Deity! “Peacock King Wisdom Deity!” “Deliver us! Deliver us!” It was a gruesome prayer. Even in such circumstances, their faith persisted—this was the believers’ distinctive form of devotion.

The voices of prayer coalesced into a mass and echoed from the hill toward the town. In that town, the manhunt was still underway.

However, when the sound of battle gongs echoing from Mount Fuji’s rocky ridges eventually ceased completely, the manhunt came to an end. The invading army had withdrawn.

Peace had returned to the cult. The believers repaired the destroyed remains with jubilation. The devil’s destruction is temporary, but God’s repair is eternal. Thus comforting one another, they devoted themselves to their respective duties—Shōsaburō, who had resolved to leave the cult, found that upon witnessing the believers’ attitude, his resolve could not help but waver once more.

Five

The night deepened with an eerie stillness. Stars shone in the sky. However, the moon had not yet risen.

At that moment, a single figure appeared before the stone statue. That was a monk with hair. He was clad in a monk’s robe. He held prayer beads in his hand. However, his feet were bare.

The monk with hair quietly prostrated himself on the ground before the stone statue, then began praying fervently. His voice was choked.

At that moment, a young man came from the foot of the "Sacred Altar." Lightly stepping on each of the long stone steps one by one, he eventually climbed them all and approached the stone statue.

When he saw the monk with hair praying, the young man suddenly stopped in his tracks. The monk’s overly fervent manner of prayer seemed to have captivated him. “…I am a weakling. I am a pitiful fool. Please, please… Use your great spiritual power to transform me into a strong person. Please transform me into a clever person. …And please, I beseech you—remove these ugly, lustful desires from my heart... Even now, I remain lost. Even now, I am restless. ...This wicked love! An unlawful love! And moreover, I remain lost. …I beseech you—deliver me.”

From the monk with hair’s prayers, these words could be discerned. The young man listened intently. The night was dark, the surroundings quiet, with no sign of others apart from the two of them.

After concluding his long, fervent prayer, the monk with hair stood up. It seemed that only then did he notice someone was by his side. However, without showing any sign of surprise, he said “Excuse me” in greeting and walked toward the descent.

Just then, the young man called out to stop him. “Please wait a moment.” “Yes—do you require something?” “Seeing you belong to this cult, I wish to make a request.” “If it lies within my power, I shall gladly assist you.” The monk with hair turned back. “It’s nothing significant.” “If you would show me kindness, it could be settled at once.” “…I humbly ask that you help me leave this land.”

The monk fell silent and observed the young man’s demeanor, but— “It is a simple matter.” “Please take your leave at once.” “But I cannot leave.”

“There must be a way through.” “But I cannot leave.” “The checkpoint stands unguarded.”

“But I cannot leave.”

“How curious indeed.” The monk tilted his head slightly,

“Then what in the world is stopping you?” “Yes, it is the cult.” “How should I put this… The mysterious and sacred power possessed by this cult has seized me and will not let go.” “I see,” said the monk upon hearing this, as if he had finally understood.

“Then please remain.” “I have a purpose.” “A purpose that must be accomplished.” “…And to accomplish it, I must leave this place.” “Then by all means depart.” “What shall I do about this mysterious force that holds me captive?”

The monk with hair did not respond.

“I find it mysterious.” “I cannot comprehend the reason.” “Where does this mystery, this sanctity, come from?” “Does it come from the countless imposing palaces?” “Or does it come from the phantasmagoric scenery of ‘Inside the Cave’?”

However, the monk did not respond. “I did not come here because I intended to.” “It was by chance that I came here.” “Unintentionally losing my way, it was that I strayed into this place.” “It is precisely because of fate that you have come here.” “Please make your life here.” The monk said sternly for the first time.

However, the young man did not back down. "I cannot live here." "I absolutely must leave." "...However, before I leave, there is something I wish to confirm."

“What do you wish to verify?” “The source of this mystery—”

“The source of the mystery?” “That is repentance!”

The monk once again said sternly. His voice held a lecturing tone.

Chapter Nine

I

To kill living beings is the gravest of sins. Needless to say fish and birds—even plants and trees have life. Yet from the very moment all humans are born into this world, they have been taking these lives. First consider the birth garment that is put on—if it is cotton fabric, its raw material must be cotton. Cotton is the flower of the cotton plant. Flowers have life. And by killing that life, cotton fabric is created.

If the birth garment was silk fabric, then the raw material of the silk fabric was silk thread, and the foundation of the silk thread was silkworms. That is to say, silk thread and silk fabric were produced by killing silkworms. When infants grew into children, they began regularly consuming grains, fish, and birds. These things contained life. They could not survive even a single day without taking these lives. For humans to live meant seizing the lives of other beings. When they became youths and went walking, with each step they took beneath their feet, dozens of small insects and hundreds of slender grasses had their lives stolen. They were trampled and killed. Furthermore, they went river fishing and took countless fish lives. When playing in fields they killed snakes; when walking mountains they killed cicadas. And thus they became adults. Then they waged wars and killed people. They fought and killed people. They killed each other—fellow humans slaughtering fellow humans.

From the moment they are born until the moment they die—whether unconsciously or consciously—the number of lives a single human being takes must be said to be truly immense. But what then is life?

That which flows toward fulfillment—this is life. And life takes "the individual" as its foundation. A single person, a single beast, a single fish, a single tree, a single blade of grass, a single insect... these are what it takes as its foundation. Even those things that seem inanimate—mountains, rivers, stones, earth, the sun and moon and stars, wind and rain and frost and snow—in truth, all possess life. In other words, all phenomena in the universe possess life. Furthermore, to rephrase this, the universe is “the essential form of life,” and all phenomena are its manifestations. “The life of the individual is connected to the essential form of life, and the essential form of life connects back to the life of the individual.” Therefore, it can be said that two are one and one is two. Therefore, when a single human being commits a sin, it not only defiles the life of the individual but also defiles the essential form of life. It is, in other words, a twofold sin.

Suppose we name “the essential form of life” as “the great life,” and conversely designate “the life of the individual” as “the small life.” Then, as “the great life” ceaselessly advances and develops toward fulfillment through endless cycles of transmigration, “the small lives” too shall each freely advance and develop, thereby influencing “the great life” and hastening its fulfillment. When will fulfillment be achieved? It can be said to be eternally impossible, yet also achievable in an instant. “If ‘the small life’ could live rightly and escape all sin, fulfillment would be achieved instantly.” But that is impossible. The reason is that “the small life” ceaselessly commits sin; for example, humans have been taking the lives of other things from the moment they are born. Then, is it impossible for humans to escape from sin for all eternity? Indeed, there is no escape from sin. However, one can cleanse that sin to some extent....

“It is none other than repentance.”

The monk with hair said this and stared intently at Shōsaburō. The late moon had not yet risen, and the Sacred Altar was dimly dark. A gentle breeze blew all around. It was a breeze before moonrise. The sweet scent of withered flowers and incense offered to Buddha mingled with the breeze and drifted over. Somewhere, a small bird sang. Enveloped in thick groves, it must have been sleeping peacefully until startled by sudden voices and roused from its dream. As he listened, sutra chanting drifted from nowhere in particular— likely earnest invocations from ascetics practicing in rocky clefts, beneath trees, among brambles and thickets. When he looked, firelights pierced the midnight darkness here and there. They were lamps offered to Buddhas enshrined throughout the Sacred Altar, swaying and flickering in the gentle breeze.

The autumn night sky was black and clear, with countless stars scattered across it. A single giant stood sharply cutting through that night sky. It was none other than the statue of Yakushi Ubasoku; though neither face nor form could be discerned, the solemn outline alone sufficed to guide the viewer's heart toward reverence and awaken the aspiration for enlightenment.

At the foot of the Sacred Altar, beneath his gaze, the houses of cult followers stood clustered in blackness. No human voices could be heard nor any lights leaked out—there existed only sleep and peace. The Sacred Altar and dwellings—that which loomed protectively over them was Mount Fuji at twelve thousand shaku, yet now even that Fuji slept. As it slumbered, growing ever more august beneath night’s veil, its form—increasingly beautiful—stood directly before the Sacred Altar. The mystical realm within Fuji’s womb! Surely that too lay sleeping.

As if urging "Sleep, sleep," the gentle night wind still blew. However, the small bird stopped singing. It must have returned to its nest and fallen asleep.

II

The story told by the monk with hair was a marvel to Shōsaburō. "Human beings are sinners from birth," "the great life," "the small life." Indeed, all these explanations were entirely new to him. Of course, he could not fully comprehend all their meanings. Seventy percent remained incomprehensible. Yet despite this, the monk's story struck him as truth. The great truth—boundless as an abyss! This very incomprehensibility, he realized, must be why it could not be grasped at once.

Moreover, he found the storytelling manner of the monk with hair quite appealing. When dealing with laypeople, most monks tend to speak condescendingly. However, this monk was not like that. He spoke modestly and quietly. It was not in the style of teaching, but rather in the style of conversation. He neither became excited nor raised his voice, remaining as calm as water. Yet despite that, the force pressing in was indescribably strong. He spoke almost nothing superfluous. He spoke only in essentials. It was as if, amidst all manner of noise, a single refreshing flute note could be heard in perfect harmony. And when he listened in silence, it even felt melancholic.

"This person does not seem ordinary."

As he listened, Shōsaburō was seized by a feeling of respect. Then he respectfully inquired: “And by ‘repentance,’ you mean…?”

Then the monk explained. “Repentance means recognizing one’s sins and offering apology.” “To whom does one apologize?” “For instance, to something greater than oneself.” “Who would that be?” “Or to something smaller than oneself.” “Who would that be?” “For practical purposes here, we have established repentance toward Yakushi Ubasoku.” “If one repents in this way, will their sins be purified?”

“Yes – in any case, at least to some extent…”

Then the monk began to speak. As long as human beings live in this world, whether consciously or unconsciously, they must inevitably commit sins. This is unavoidable. However, through repentance, only conscious sins can be avoided. This alone is a blessing. Then what happens when one dies? Death is never extinction. It is the temporary return of the "small life" to the "great life." And thus, the "great life" indeed transmigrates to achieve fulfillment. And thus, during its course of transmigration, it gives birth to and nurtures "small lives" twice, thrice—nay, infinitely. Death is merely a phenomenon. Death cannot atone for sins. ……

“Thus, I have a question for you.” The monk with hair said to Shōsaburō.

“Among humans, beasts, mountains, rivers, plants, and in this vast universe—does it not strike you as strange that such distinctions exist?”

“Yes, I find it strange.” Shōsaburō answered honestly. “It is through the degree of life’s activity that such distinctions arise.” “When you speak of ‘the degree of activity’…?” “Things in which life is highly active—those are living beings.” “Things in which life is slightly active—those are non-living beings.” “And thus, among living beings, humans are those in which life’s activity is particularly most vigorous.” “Therefore, it is they who commit the most sins.”

The monk with hair’s words were imbued with unassailable confidence. “Therefore, more than anything else, humans must repent. By carrying thorns on one’s back, by walking on a single leg, by staring directly at the sun, by this arduous manner of walking—ten steps forward and eight back, twenty steps forward and nineteen back—and by various other ascetic practices, it is necessary for humans to inflict punishment upon their physical bodies and thereby awaken a repentant heart. … Even being persecuted by the ‘Brass Castle’s kin’ may, when viewed in this light, be something one should perhaps endure as a form of physical punishment.”

Gradually, the monk with hair’s voice took on a sorrowful tone. It could be called a choked voice, or perhaps an imploring one. Yet this did not make him appear feeble. Rather, he seemed a valiant figure—one who shouldered all humanity’s sins and wept in their stead. “Who in heaven’s name is this man?” Once more, Shōsaburō turned this question over in his mind. The western horizon began to flush orange. The moon was rising. When its pale blue-white light fell upon the stone face of Yakushi Ubasoku’s statue, Shōsaburō looked up.

“Oh?” he blurted out involuntarily. For the stone statue’s features—said to closely resemble those of Kōmyō Ubasoku, this religious order’s leader—and those of the monk with hair were eerily alike. “Ah—then could this person be Kōmyō Ubasoku?” Astonished, Shōsaburō tried to get a better look at the monk with hair standing before him.

III

With that, the person lowered his head and began walking toward the stairs. Moonlight struck near his shoulders, and a long shadow fell to the ground. The monk with hair descended the stairs. He cut a truly desolate figure. He cut a figure like a criminal.

The moon cast a pale bluish-white light over the Fuji cult's towns. Kōmyō Ubasoku wandered through them like a shadow. A soul-rending infant's wail leaked from a house. The ubasoku who had halted then quietly tapped the window shutter with his finger.

“Child, child. Did you have a dream? The night runs deep—cease your weeping now.” He murmured the words like a whispered incantation. At once, the infant’s cries stilled.

From a house came the sound of a man and woman arguing. And again, the ubasoku knocked on the window. “You who are husband and wife—do not quarrel.”

Then, at once, the quarrel ceased.

When he left the town, it was a wilderness.

Kōmyō Ubasoku started running. It seemed less like running and more like dancing. Something resembling a white cloud, translucent in the moonlight, danced across thickets and shrubs with tremendous speed—it would have been more apt to describe it thus. Yet this was assuredly no sorcery. The long years of repeated ascetic practices as a holy practitioner had likely rendered his body light and instilled in him the secret art of swift movement. The rugged fields at Mount Fuji's foothills lay drenched in heavy dew. Insects chirped among the grasses. And autumn flowers bloomed. Parting the grasses and scattering dew, Kōmyō Ubasoku ran straight onward. He raced past Kagatagahara where Naoe Kurando's mansion stood. He swept like wind past the entrance to the Human Hole where Tsukiko, the beautiful mask artisan, resided.

Eventually, he arrived at the shore of Lake Motosu. In the deep slumber approaching dawn, the lake still slept. The occasional flapping of wings among the reeds along the shore was undoubtedly from a sleepy water rail. The wind roared fiercely, yet the lake’s surface lay unrippled, cradling the moon in one spot as it smoldered with a purple haze. And there, the aforementioned mist barrier soared high into the sky. It was within the depths of that mist barrier that Kōketsu Castle lay. And it was in a room of that castle that the masked lord resided.

“Brother!” Suddenly, Kōmyō Ubasoku called out toward the lake. “Do you still bear hatred for me? Unfortunate soul, unfortunate soul!”

It was a strange voice. A voice that mingled hatred and pity—anger and sorrow intertwined. And that voice crossed the water, pierced through the mist barrier—a great booming cry that seemed poised to reach Kōketsu Castle itself. Yet no answer came. Only the forest's echo returned.

“Brother, you are a coward. “You always come plundering when I’m away. “You should hold no grudge against the Fuji cult. “To hate believers is unjust. “Yet you kill believers and destroy the Fuji cult. “Brother, you are a coward!”

Kōmyō Ubasoku continued to shout. “Brother—no, no! Masked demon! “You who bear an accursed disease—Lord of Kōketsu Castle!” “I will hate you!” “You alone I cannot forgive!” “Be cursed!” “Be punished!”

Gradually, that voice weakened. “But…but…oh Brother!” “I fully acknowledge your grievances!” “Your hatred toward me—your fury toward that person—I recognize their full validity!” “Moreover, you bear Divine Punishment Disease!” “The infinite resentment festering from it has coalesced—through it, you curse all things in this world!” “I acknowledge every grievance! But these matters belong to the past.” “They cannot be undone.” “I implore you to forget them.” “And I beg you to join hands with us.” “Why should we three not attain enlightenment together—hand in hand?” “We are all wretched.” “We are all weak.” “The weak must clasp hands with fellow weaklings.”

His shouts transformed into appeals, then into entreaties, and finally into choked sobs. “Just as you have your reasons, I too have mine.” “It was you who took my lover first.” “However, even this is an unchangeable matter of the past.” “Repeating past grievances and deepening resentment should not be our true intention.” “It is our duty to purify through repentance the various sins we committed in the past.” “……Unify one’s entire life through repentance!” “This is of utmost urgency.” “……I long to meet you.” “I beseech you to meet with me.” “Ah, but you do not deign to meet with me.” “That is why I have come here, knelt in the lakeshore grass, and called out toward the lake.” "You remain far away." “My voice will not reach you.” “Even so, my sentiments should reach you.”

Four

The night still showed no sign of breaking. From the lake came no reply. It remained mercilessly silent. Kōmyō Ubasoku collapsed onto the grassy thicket, his hands still pressed together in prayer. A star flew by, trailing a blue tail.

At that moment, there was a rustling as someone parted the grass, their approach palpable.

A man emerged, bathed in the hazy glow of moonlight. He wore a hood and priestly robe, appearing dazed. The man drew near quietly—like a beast stalking prey—toward Kōmyō Ubasoku. When he stared down at the white-robed ascetic lying prone, even in darkness one could discern the fierce glitter in his eyes. “Shall I slash you, or perhaps stab you?” His hand closed on the sword hilt. He shuddered violently yet vigor rapidly suffused his entire body. The blade slipped from its scabbard—from tip to hilt turning white under moonlight like a rod of ice—

“Ascetic!”

he called out once. He attempted to decapitate him with a single sword stroke as he was getting up. Kōmyō Ubasoku did not move. “Get up!”

He called out again. However, the Ubasoku did not rise. At the moment when the sword tip, swung down with a swift “Hah!” on the third cry, was about to touch the Ubasoku’s shoulder, it was abruptly halted in midair.

“This is strange. “I can’t cut you.” At that moment, the Ubasoku stood up.

Thus, the violent murderer and the saint faced each other.

The night plateau lay in utter stillness, insects singing mindlessly. A cool dawn wind blew through the space between them.

And then, the Ubasoku said deliberately.

“Who are you? What business do you have here?” “You must have heard my name—I am the Sangōme Potter.” “I have long heard rumors. Ah, so you’re the Potter.” “Who are you? State your name!” “People of the world call me Kōmyō Ubasoku.”

Upon hearing this, the potter involuntarily took a step back. And he stared intently at the other man, “That cannot be. That can’t be right!” “Why is that?” Kōmyō Ubasoku said with a smile. “Because it’s so utterly different from what I expected. ...There’s no reason for someone like Kōmyō Ubasoku to kneel on the ground and weep.” “If one is sad, anyone would cry.” “If you’re Kōmyō Ubasoku, you ought to be far more of a warrior.” “Then am I not a warrior?”

“If you’re Kōmyō Ubasoku, you should have a far more imposing presence.” “So, do I look that impoverished?” “You’re like a stray dog.” “You’re like a roadside beggar.”

“You’re correct—that’s precisely it.” “There’s not a shred of saintly dignity about you.” “Why would I be a saint?” “You’re like a prisoner in a jail cell.” “Indeed, I am a sinner.”

“You’re like grass beneath a great tree’s shadow. “You’re like a human who never sees the light of day.”

“The truth is, I am exactly that. I am always being pressed down by a great, great force.” “Among all the humans I’ve ever met, there has never been another as pitiable as you.”

“I am the most pitiable of all humans.”

“How strange!” And suddenly, the potter leaped up and let out a shriek.

“Even though you’re so pitiful, I can’t cut you down!”

“Why do you think that is?” asked the Ubasoku.

“Why is that? “I don’t understand! “It’s just… I can’t cut you down.”

“Why do you think that is?” he asked again.

The potter did not answer. Suddenly throwing down his sword, he plopped to the ground. “Now I understand! Venerable Kōmyō Ubasoku!” “Venerable Kōmyō Ubasoku!” His hands were clasped in prayer. “Stand up,” the Ubasoku said gently. “When one acknowledges the existence of a grander life, they become infinitely weak.” “When that weakness reaches its utmost limit, true strength emerges.” “I am neither a saint nor anything of the sort.” “I am merely one who has reached the extremity of weakness... Now I have a question for you.” “Why do you kill people?”

“Yes,” the potter said feebly, “because it’s unbearable... It is out of necessity.” “So you claim it’s out of necessity to survive, then?”

Five

“Yes, that is correct.” “There is a demon in my heart that makes me kill people.” “What if you didn’t obey its urging?” “Then I would be killed instead.” “Yes, I would be devoured by this demon in my heart.” “I would self-destruct.” “Yet even if you kill people, your heart should know no peace.” “Only in the instant I see blood…” “There may be moments when your heart finds respite.” “But soon it will double, and unease will assail you.”

“And then I’ll kill people again.” “Then it will immediately quadruple, and anxiety will assail you.” “And then I’ll hunt more victims.” “Blood enacts an eternal cycle of vengeance!” “And then I’ll hunt more victims! And then I’ll hunt more victims! And then I’ll hunt more victims! And then I’ll hunt… and then I’ll hunt… Hell! It’s hell!” “Blood Pool Hell!” “Avīci Hell! “Avīci Hell! You’ll never escape!” “Please save me!” “Please save me!”

“Do you find it terrifying? “Do you find it terrifying?” “It’s terrifying!” “Ah, how terrifying!” “Repent!”

"There is no other path," the lay monk said pityingly. "Repentance?"

The potter repeated. Then he fell silent for what seemed an eternity.

The stars gradually lost their light as the horizon grew faintly pale. Yet the autumn night had not yet broken. Insects cried out like falling rain. The scent of wildflowers blooming riotously filled the entire field. Fuji towered behind. Lake Motosu spread out ahead. Both remained shrouded in night’s pitch-black curtain.

A guttural "Guh, guh, guh" laugh leaked from the potter’s mouth. He stood up. After sheathing his sword, he began speaking mockingly.

“Repentance!” “I see, that’s a fine word.” “First, it has a remarkably good resonance.” “Repentance!” “Hmph, what fine enunciation.” “Right, I too once seriously considered it—in a certain era.” “About that splendid word.” “So what result did that yield?” “Thinking about this makes me laugh.” “As a result, I gained absolutely nothing.” “Repentance!” “What an absurdly fine word that is.” “Though its substance is hollow.” “That’s precisely what makes it so terrifyingly splendid.” “So, since you’ve gone to the trouble of treasuring it, you should use it sparingly—doling it out bit by bit.” “But I have no use for it.” “Such a thing is nothing but a hindrance.” “Hmph, I’ve mostly come to understand your worth now.” “What kind of saint are you?” “It’s laughable you think you can lecture people.”

“Especially someone like me! There was one who urged me—‘Come now to the Fuji cult!’ It was Tsukiko, the mask artisan. Even I felt moved. ‘Could someone like me achieve liberation there?’ Ah ha ha! What nonsense! To demand repentance—you treat me like a starving ghost! Hear this, monk: Repentance isn’t your monopoly! Every villain under heaven is a wretched penitent! They repent while sinning—sin while repenting! This inseparable dance of contrition and corruption—that’s their true state. And mine! How could a hypocrite like you fathom this torment—this writhing beneath repentance’s weight? I stand your opposite! I’ll tear out this festering remorse root and branch! I’ll be thorough—having embraced evil, I’ll wallow in its depths!”

“It is repentance that hinders that.” “It seems you’re trying to be thorough through repentance.” “By all means, be thorough then.” “Study hard! Put it into practice! And never preach to others!” “Ah, but when I think about it—what is evil? What is good?” No—there is neither evil nor good. The only thing barely defined is this: pain is evil, pleasure good. That which obstructs life’s flow—this is evil; its opposite, good. But even that wavers… Then what should I do?! By what measure should I proceed? There’s no measure! “Go away! Go away, Venerable Monk Kōmyō Ubasoku!” “Ku, ku, ku, ku… O Saint!” I’m sleepy—I must sleep. “Go!” “Feeble ascetic!” “Now I can cut you down!” “Flee before you’re cut down!” “Go on now, Venerable Ascetic!” “Ah ha ha ha! Well then—a nap.”

He laid his elbows down and rolled over to sleep.

The tall susuki grass immediately closed in from both sides and covered him. The accumulated white dew on the leaf tips all at once pattered down, and the whitish moon and stars in the sky peered down at him from above. The face that had been polished by Tsukiko, the face-making artisan, was exquisite in its beauty. Yet that very face was also one of the most eerily unsettling things in the world. How beautiful artificial "beauty" could be, and how ugly—both became clear when looking upon that face.

He sank deeply into sleep.

VI

Kōmyō Ubasoku stood frozen. He vividly experienced how weak his own power was. Against such evil people, he had to admit he was utterly powerless. His face looked sorrowful. Like a beaten dog, his body trembled.

There are times when Devadatta appears greater than Shakyamuni Buddha. There are times when Judas appears greater than Christ.

Now was such a time.

How enormous the sleeping potter appeared, and how diminutive the trembling Kōmyō Ubasoku looked in contrast!

Eventually, Kōmyō Ubasoku began to walk.

Lowering his head, folding his arms, and parting the grass on the foothills, he walked aimlessly away.

“Not enough.”

he muttered.

"My ideology contains no error. My convictions will not crumble. Yet strength remains insufficient. Until ideas transform directly into power capable of subjugating all, one cannot call it truth."

He wandered through the wilderness.

“I shall not return to the Fuji cult.”

He muttered sorrowfully. "I will practice more austerities." "For now, I will absolutely not preach to others." The white-robed Ubasoku walked away with excruciating slowness. He climbed hills, descended valleys, and pushed into the woods.

That night, within Kōketsu Castle, the masked lord of the castle—the bearer of the vile disease—sat alone on a camp stool in his usual room, as was his custom. An incense burner burned in the room. The terrace door stood open. This differed not from usual. Moonlight streamed through the gap of the open door.

“It seems someone is calling me.”

Suddenly, he muttered. However, no one was calling. No human voices could be heard. "I'm definitely being called."

That’s right—no one was calling. But despite that, something seemed audible to him. “Who’s there?!” he shouted. Of course, there was no response from anywhere.

"That’s right—it’s not just tonight. Up until now, there have been times when I hear what sounds like a voice calling me from the lakeshore. Strangely enough, whenever I hear it, my heart grows heavy. Why is that? I don’t understand! Moreover, there’s a considerable distance between here and the lake. There’s no way the voice could reach here. Is this an illusion? That must be it. …Ah, tonight too, my spirits are sinking. Someone is calling me."

At that moment, there came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said listlessly. The door facing the corridor slid open soundlessly from outside, revealing a man. “Hmm. You? Manbei?” “Yes, it is I.” Executioner Manbei bowed respectfully within the threshold. “Do you have business? Hurry up and speak.” “We have taken three temporary bundles of dye down to the underground.”

“Hmph. What? Is that all?” “Therefore, having received your permission, I wish to proceed with the extraction.” “Tonight I am in a foul mood—though truth be told, I’m always foul-tempered, but tonight my spirits sink beyond measure. You thoughtless fool! You stupid oaf! Bring more interesting news when you knock on my door!” “I… have received your permission…” “When did I ever say I wouldn’t allow it? Go ahead and start the extraction.” “Very well, my lord.”

Manbei tried to leave the room.

“Wait! Stupid oaf, where’s the register?”

“Yes, it is here.” Manbei timidly stepped forward and reverently presented the register he held in his hand. “Hmm, good, good. Three of them.” “Yes, that is correct.” “...First Room Attendant Kyōjirō.” “Second Room Attendant Sakujirō.” “What’s this? These are my own subjects, aren’t they?” “They were killed, my lord.”

“Hmph. Who killed them?” “By one of our esteemed guests.” “Who exactly is this person?” “It is recorded there, my lord.”

“Hmph. So it’s this one, huh. Kōsaka Gentarō, fourteen years old. What? He’s still just a child, isn’t he?” “He is a terrifying child.” “A terrifying child? What’s his status?” “Yes, he is a bird-catcher.” “You’re saying a mere bird-catcher is terrifying?” “He is a master of the spear.”

Seven

When he heard this, the masked castle lord made a gesture of sudden rage. “It is our law that no guest within this castle may carry any weapons. Who gave him a spear?!” “No, they are glue-tipped poles.” “What? Glue-tipped poles? Is that a spear?” “Yes, that is correct. The Kōsaka school of glue-tipped pole spears states it thus.” “So he stabbed two men to death with that?” “Both of them had their throats pierced and were killed.”

“So he’s quite the skilled one, it seems,” the masked castle lord narrowed his eyes. “So—is he truly a bird-catcher by trade?” “No—originally he claims to be a retainer of Takeda in Kai Province.” “Ah, I see—a samurai, then. …Hmm, a retainer of the Kōshū Takeda clan… And his family name is Kōsaka, is it?” The castle lord fell deep into thought.

“With your permission received, my lord, I humbly wish to apply the strangulation.”

However, the castle lord did not respond. Manbei looked puzzled and fell silent. "Why would that splendid Takeda retainer become a bird-catcher?" he muttered as if to himself. "Yes, he stated that it was to search for someone."

“Ah, I see. So that’s how it was.” “In any case, within the Takeda clan, the name Kōsaka signifies no ordinary lineage.” “And that’s a name with ties to me… Kōsaka Gentarō, a Takeda retainer.” …Takeda…Kōsaka…Names tied to my past…I recalled old memories…A long-forgotten flute’s melody seemed to drift back unexpectedly. …It felt as though an old wound from a viper’s bite had begun to throb. …Hateful yet nostalgic.

“So… who did you say he was searching for again?” “Yes, it is said he seeks one called Tsuchiya Shōsaburō—a cousin of that person.”

“What?! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō⁉ Oh! You did say that, didn’t you?”

The castle lord stood up from his camp stool. Both hands thrust onto the table trembled in tiny, rapid shivers. Those hands slowly rose, and no sooner had they reached high above his head than he swung them down as if to repel some unseen terror.

“An ill-omened name! An ill-omened name I’ve heard!” That voice was a shrill, cursing-like voice. “Oh, oh, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! My child! No, no—he’s that bastard’s child!”

He staggered forward unsteadily. “Manbei! Did you indeed say that?” “You did say that. You did say that, my lord.” “You did say ‘Tsuchiya Shōsaburō,’ did you not?” “Yes, my lord, you did say that.” “So you’re saying he’s searching for Tsuchiya Shōsaburō?” “Yes, that is correct, my lord.” “Where is that Shōsaburō?!” “Why would I… my lord!” “He isn’t in this castle, is he?” “It is said that the bird-catcher came here searching for him, believing he was present.”

“Then he’s here? In this castle?”

“No, no—he is not present here.” “Surely he can’t be…?” “Among the guests?” “Yes, I guarantee it.”

“An ill-omened name! I’ve heard an ill-omened name! A nostalgic name! I’ve heard a nostalgic name! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! Shōsaburō!” He’s that woman’s child. That’s right—this much was certain! But whether he’s my child or that bastard’s—if only I could confirm this secret… That damned woman! She was my wife! That hateful adulterer! My own flesh-and-blood brother! “Oh, that I cannot even confirm this!” “So then, having received your permission, I wish to proceed with the blood extraction.”

“Manbei!”

And the castle lord resolutely strode forward, “Go and tend to him properly! “That Kōsaka Gentarō!” “Ah—then shall we proceed to the blood extraction?” “If you let so much as a single finger touch him, I won’t suffer you to live!” “So you intend to spare him?”

“To me, he is the child of my wife and brother! “That wife of mine from long ago—”

The door closed without a sound. For a brief moment, Manbei’s hastening footsteps—echoing through the corridor toward the basement—resounded in the room. But as they gradually faded away and finally vanished entirely, only the heavy tread of the castle lord’s footsteps now filled the chamber with a lonely echo.

The pale light of the nearing dawn moon shone through the gap in the door. And from the distant lakeshore, a voice calling out to him could still be faintly heard. “Brother! Brother!” it called… “Brother! Brother!” it called…

Part Ten

1 “I must report.” Even as he spoke, Inumaru, the attendant, halted his movement. “Hmm? What is it?!” “What is your business?”

“There is a visitor.” “A visitor? What sort of visitor? Who is it?” “A shabby old man.” “I’ve no use for such a one. Drive him out! Drive him out!” “But he refuses to leave.” “Insolent cur! Cut him down where he stands.” “Cut him down where he stands.” “At once, my lord.”

“But wait, wait—what does he look like?” “Yes, an old man of unusual appearance—with a white beard flowing down his chest, clad in arrowroot garments, and leaning on a natural wood staff.” “And what full name did he give?” “He introduced himself as ‘the old man of Hitachi Tsukahara.’”

“Oh! Well now—what a rare visitor has come.” “Send him through at once—and mind your courtesy.” “Then... does my lord recognize him?” “A man I’ve met more than once at the Muromachi Shogun’s residence in the capital.” “Ah—who might he be?” “No matter who—just bring him quickly!” “As my lord commands.” Inumaru, the attendant, slid from his seated position.

After some time had passed, the sliding door opened, and an old man appeared. “Ah, Bokuden! You’ve come at last.” “I am most delighted to hear of Lord Kenshin’s continued good health.” “Proceed further. There’s no need for hesitation.” “This old man detests hesitation—yes yes, I’ll gladly come closer!”

The two knelt facing each other.

It was within Kasugayama Castle in Echigo. The host was Bushitsu-an Uesugi Kenshin; the guest was Sword Saint Tsukahara Bokuden—they came face to face precisely.

For a while, the two said nothing. They simply exchanged smiles with their eyes. “Gramps,” Kenshin said abruptly. “Yes yes, what might that be?” “I’ve obtained something splendid.” “Given your lordship’s tastes, it must be a famous sword. Could it be the renowned Azuki Nagamitsu?”

“No, no—that’s not it. It’s nothing of the sort.” “Ah ha! I see—this was a blunder.” Bokuden clapped his hands once, but— “This time I’ve got it—no chance of missing.”

“This is amusing—try guessing.” “If I guess right, what’ll you give me?” “You—you! What a greedy old codger!” “I’ll give anything.” “Name your wish.” “How exceedingly gracious.” “But if you’re wrong—what then?”

“Exactly—if it’s wrong… then it stays wrong.” “You’re a bad one.” “That’s absurd.” “Then I’m the one who loses everything here!” “That’s just how it should be for a wealthy man like you...” “Just go ahead and guess already.” “A head, perhaps? “It has to be a head.” “A head?” Kenshin was left dumbfounded.

“It’s a head—Shingen’s head! Ah ha ha! Or perhaps not yet?” Even Kenshin couldn’t help but give a wry smile at this sarcasm.

Kenshin abruptly reached out his hand. He was firmly grasping something. “It’s not a head—nothing of the sort. Something much, much smaller. It’s right here. In my fist.” Then Bokuden also reached out his hand—and indeed, he too was holding something. “What—so you have one too?!” “Lord, you have one too? ……Then he wasn’t coming after all.”

The two men opened their fists simultaneously. And there, resting silently in both their palms, were golden pills. “Bokuden, how did you obtain yours?” “Lord, how did you obtain yours?” “One horse and two swords—that’s what it took for me to finally obtain mine.” “Ah ha—it was your retainer, then.” “Yeah, Amakasu Bingo.” “I obtained it myself.” Bokuden fixed his gaze intently, but— “I cut him down with a single stroke and disposed of him!”

“You’re a heartless man. You didn’t have to kill him.” “It is for the sake of the world. It was better to kill him.” “So, it seems the medicine seller was a villain after all.” “He is a minion of the devil.” “Who is the Demon King? Do you know?” “Needless to say—the medicine’s creator!” “Indeed. Indeed it is.” “Resuscitation from death’s door, divine miracles beyond comprehension, a medicine of such truly remarkable efficacy—not even the hand of God could create this.” “Indeed, indeed.” “Only the Demon King could create such a thing.”

"I think so too—it’s the work of a demon." “It is indeed the work of a demon.”

II

“Do you have any idea? “Do you have any idea at all?”

Kenshin shifted a knee forward.

“First and foremost, the Kōshū dialect...” “The Kōshū dialect? You mean the medicine seller?” “A medicine seller whose left arm was torn off at the shoulder from gangrene! The one I disposed of! He spoke in the Kōshū dialect.” “The medicine seller Amakasu encountered apparently lacked a leg.” “Gangrene. Undoubtedly gangrene.” “Then it appears there are multiple medicine sellers.”

“It must have spread to every corner and shore of Japan.” “I want it—I must have it at any cost. At least a hundred... no, a thousand pills...” “The same here. This old man wants it too.” “I promptly tried it out. Pitifully, Nagae Mimasaka had contracted leprosy and was on death’s doorstep, so I gave him a single pill. But guess what? But guess what!” “Would this count as resuscitation from death’s door?” “Yes—every last one made a full recovery.” “This old man has tried it on my son. My second son Tojirō had fallen ill with consumption, and since his condition seemed beyond hope, I administered a single pill when…”

“Hmm, so he made a full recovery after all?” “It was as effortless as peeling away tissue paper.”

“Miracle drug! Miracle drug!... How I want it!” “In truth, I thought you might not be aware of such a remarkable medicine, Lord. Thus have I come today to offer you a single pill.” “You have my thanks—this is most generous.” “Though Japan teems with military commanders, this old man favors you alone, Lord.” “My gratitude grows ever deeper—this gladdens me.” “Because you overflow with chivalrous spirit.” “What chivalry? Not exactly...” “For Murakami Yoshikiyo’s sake, I crossed blades with Lord Shingen time and again—does this not count as chivalry?”

“What nonsense—that was mere caprice!” “That very caprice is what I find most desirable.”

"Be that as it may—is there no scheme to obtain this miracle drug?" Then Bokuden slid forward smoothly on both knees— "My lord, show me the archives." "What need is there to make such a fuss?"

“I humbly request to examine the records.” “What do you intend to do by looking at the records?” “What other purpose could there be—it is to identify the creator of this miracle drug through the records.”

“Oh!”

With that shout，Kenshin thudded his war fan against the floor. “Bokuden!” “Can you figure that out?” “Lord.”

Bokuden lowered his voice. “The very method of this pill’s creation is of the Echigo-ryū school!” Kenshin fixed his gaze in silence.

“This gold leaf applied to the surface—this is indeed Sado gold.” “Ah!” Kenshin blurted out. “This slightly elliptical shape itself is none other than Echigo’s distinctive military medicine form—is that not indeed so?” “…………” “In other words, the drug’s creator exists among your retainers.”

Kenshin remained silent, staring intently.

It was a slightly oppressive silence. At length, Kenshin inquired probingly. "Who could it be? Do you have any inkling?" "If I were to examine the records, I would likely be able to form an estimation." "Hmm, I see. Then I leave it to you."

Even for a hero of Kenshin's stature, he had ultimately said, "I leave it to you."

Tsukahara Bokuden Yoshikatsu was born in Tsukahara, Hitachi Province; his biological father was known as the Governor of Tosa and had been the lord of Tsukahara Castle. It was in his youthful years that he studied the Tenshin Shōden Shintō-ryū under Iizasa Chōisai of Shimōsa and earned acclaim for surpassing his master. Afterwards, he traveled through various provinces, studied military arts under Sano Tentokuji, Yūki Masakatsu, Yuganji Temple, and others, then further pursued the secrets of the Kamiikage-ryū under Kamiizumi Isenokami, ultimately formulating his own school called the Bokuden-ryū. Among his disciples exceeding ten thousand, the most renowned were Ashikaga Yoshiteru, the shogun, and Kitabatake Tomonori, Governor of Ise, who in later years came to be celebrated alongside Yagyū Tajima-no-kami—instructor to the Tokugawa shogun—under the epithet “Two Great Instructors of the Realm.”

When he traveled through various provinces, leading horses and carrying hawks with a retinue of approximately one hundred retainers, it was truly a magnificent sight; indeed, in terms of pomp and authority, he rivaled military lords. Yet at other times, he would dismiss his retinue and traverse mountains and valleys alone on horseback, subduing demons and spirits—so it was said his actions defied all conventional measure. The founder’s chronicle records him as open-hearted yet keen-witted, neither corrupted by wealth nor cowed by authority, viewing no heroes under heaven as worthy of regard—and precisely because he was such a man could he outmaneuver Uesugi Kenshin and spin his tall tales.

Three

One day, as Bokuden was engrossed in reading military texts within his hermitage, a voice sounded from outside. "Five Viscera Pill! Five Viscera Pill! Come get your Five Viscera Pill!" "Hmm?" When Bokuden heard this, he closed the book he had been holding and set it down. Then he sent the child running to buy that Five Viscera Pill.

He had someone fill a teacup with water and then threw the pill into it. Then, the pill began circling the inside of the teacup like an animal, but suddenly leapt up with a *pon* and struck the ceiling board.

“Oh! This is the real thing!” With a groan, Bokuden smoothly stood up and, grasping his tachi, dashed out. Unaware of this, the medicine seller walked toward the castle town. With a shout of “Wait!”, he cut him down with a single stroke of his blade and seized ten Five Viscera Pills.

There was a valid reason for this.

Though still in his prime, he had gotten lost in the Hida mountains and had nearly starved to death. At that time, an elderly hunter who often passed through those parts happened upon him; carrying him into a boar hut, he took a pill from his flint pouch and tossed it into water. The pill swam across the water's surface like a living creature before dissolving into brown liquid. After drinking it, Bokuden felt instantly revitalized. "What a miraculous elixir! What manner of medicine is this?"

Bokuden inquired admiringly.

“It is a counterfeit Five Viscera Pill.”

“Hmm. What was it made from?” “I crafted it from a monkey’s five viscera.” “Calling it counterfeit seems absurd, don’t you think?” “This is a counterfeit.” “Then what of the genuine Five Viscera Pill?” “It is manufactured from human five viscera.”

“Hmm, what a dreadful medicine.” “It is a dreadful medicine.” “Where is that manufactured?” “Well, in what they call the Southern Barbarians’ country.”

“Oh! So it’s not made in Japan?”

“Well, they say it’s not in Japan.” “Then what sort of efficacy does it possess?”

“No, they say it’s effective against all manner of illnesses.” “And when you put that in water, they say it goes *pop* and leaps up to the ceiling.”

In other words, it was because he had experienced such things in the past that upon hearing a medicine seller’s cry of "Five Viscera Pill" that day, he immediately demanded a pill. Yet when he discovered, to his astonishment, that it was indeed the genuine Five Viscera Pill, his shock defied all description. So it appears there is someone in Japan manufacturing the Five Viscera Pill. The Five Viscera Pill—manufactured by hollowing out the viscera of living humans! What devil’s work could this be?

Then he thoroughly researched the Five Viscera Pill. The result of his investigation revealed that the pill’s manufacturing method bore a striking resemblance to the military medicines used by the Uesugi of Echigo.

And so, for reasons of his own, he had come nonchalantly to Kasugayama.

Four

About a month after these events, one day, a group consisting of an old man and a boy were walking through the foothills of Mount Fuji. “Kikumaru! Kikumaru! Come now, sing! Sing away!”

“As you wish, Master Hermit.”

Thereupon, the boy began to sing. Flowers scatter because of the wind The moon dims because of the clouds Sassa sassa Sassa sassa “Well done, well done! Truly splendid! Perhaps I should sing next.” “Please sing. Please sing.”

Thereupon, the old man began to sing.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, heave-ho! Thump-thump, thump-thump, heave-ho! Heave-ho, heave-ho! Heave-ho, heave-ho! It was utterly unamusing. It was a nonsensical song.

The two plodded along.

“Kikumaru, oh Kikumaru!”

The old man started up again. “Before you, Master Hermit.” The boy knew the drill. He replied in the manner of a kyōgen performance. “Shall we engage in riddles?” “Riddle away, riddle away!” “Red and white and pitch-black too—Saa-sa, what in blazes could this be?” “Hmm, this one’s got me stumped.” Kikumaru finally burst into tears. That seemed to amuse the old man, who smirked repeatedly. “I don’t know. I yield.”

“Oh dear, this is quite a pickle. I must admit, I don’t know either.”

With this, the riddles came to a quiet end, and the two walked on in silence. It was truly a carefree journey. Today too, the mountain stood under clear skies, its eight peaks visible in sharp relief, their surfaces gleaming like lapis lazuli. And a wind swept across the foothills, swaying the flowers of the autumn grasses.

Where on earth were they headed? When it came to the foothills of this era, they were the dwelling place of wild beasts, venomous snakes, demons and spirits, marauders, and murderous fiends. ...Every direction was fraught with danger, and nowhere offered peace. ...One was a decrepit old man, and the other an eleven- or twelve-year-old child....And yet they walked along so carefree! To call it bold would be bold indeed, but it could also be called thoughtless. ...Just what manner of beings were these two? From where to where could they be going?

Gradually, the autumn sun began to sink toward the mountains. A flock of birds returning to their roost flew through the crimson sunset toward the foothills. The days at this time of year—said to fall as swiftly as a well bucket drops—quickly ushered the foothills into night and dimly veiled the surroundings in darkness. “Master Hermit, Master Hermit, night has fallen.”

Kikumaru spoke up uneasily. “Indeed, indeed. Night has fallen.” “We must find lodging somewhere.” “Indeed, indeed. We must find lodging.” But even if they spoke of lodging, there were neither houses nor wayside shrines.

So the two had to keep walking.

Then, at that moment, a speck of firelight appeared from far ahead. "Oh, Master Hermit, I see a fire!" Kikumaru raised his voice. “Wait, wait!”

The old man restrained him in a low voice and stared fixedly at the fire.

The fire remained fixed in one spot, neither moving nor flickering. "Well, that's a blessing—it seems there's a house."

“Master Hermit, let us go and ask for lodging!” The boy Kikumaru pressed insistently.

"However," the old man began uneasily, "dangerous, dangerous—we must be cautious." "What exactly are we being cautious about?" Kikumaru said with a slightly discontented tone. “First listen well—there is an old poem: ‘Though night falls and you lie in the fields, seek no lodging at Adachigahara’s solitary house.’...For if carelessly we request shelter at a demon’s abode, it would be dire indeed.” “But this is the Fuji foothills, not Adachigahara.” "Hmm, now that you mention it, I suppose that's true."

“Shall we not request lodging?” “Very well, let us go then.”

There, the two quickened their pace and walked toward where the light was visible. When they arrived and looked, surrounded by a grove of trees, stood a single mansion. Even in the darkness of night, it appeared terribly dilapidated, yet its structure remained an imposing Shoin-zukuri style that seemed to hold some historical significance. The old man at the entrance called out, "I humbly beseech you, I humbly beseech you." He called out a couple of times. But no response came from anywhere.

The old man tilted his head slightly but once again requested guidance.

Then from deep within came a voice calling back with an "O—," followed by the sound of quick, short footsteps, until finally a small man appeared holding a hand lantern. He was a disagreeable hunchbacked man. "Are you the ones who requested guidance?"

The hunchbacked man asked arrogantly. "Yes, indeed it is." The old man bowed respectfully. "So, what's your business?" "We are travelers who have lost our way, and though it is most presumptuous of us to ask, we humbly seek lodging for the night..." "Ah, so that's why you've come." "But this is not an inn." "Yes, yes, indeed it is." "This is Kagitegahara Sanatorium." "Ah, I see. Is that indeed the case?" "That is to say, Lord Naoe Kurando's sanatorium for the ill, which he operates."

“Ah, I see. Is that indeed the case?” “If you’re patients, we’ll take you in. If you’re healthy, we turn you away.”

Then a glint of light appeared in the old man’s eyes, but suddenly his voice trembled feebly— “That is indeed most fortunate, for I am a most wretched gangrene patient.” “What? Gangrene?” “Ah, I see.” “Very well—you may enter.”

With a hiss, he drew the hand candle closer and jerked his chin toward the two.

Chapter 11

I

On the night when an elegant old man—clad in kudzu robes, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff, his long white beard cascading down his chest—and his attendant Kikumaru sought lodging at Naoe Kurando's aged mansion in Kagitegahara beneath Mount Fuji's slopes, a peculiar incident was transpiring within a remote chamber of that same estate. The room stood divided into two sections. Beginning with the front chamber: its floor lay entirely sheathed in soapstone, while its most striking feature was an exceptionally lofty ceiling. A black drape hung across the doorway leading to the rear chamber, and a fortified door had been installed at the entrance connecting to the courtyard. Though all four walls of pure white paneling enclosed the space, one wall bore several tiers of shelves—a defining characteristic of this chamber—upon which countless jars stood arrayed. Each vessel contained medicinal compounds, their surfaces adorned with papers bearing inscriptions of arcane characters.

Slightly forward from the medicine shelves, at one spot on the soapstone floor, there lay a rectangular stone structure resembling a bed—what in modern terms would be called a ghastly surgical dissection table. The white cloth having already been removed from it suggested a sacrificial victim would soon be brought forth. Gleaming scalpels and scissors, a small saw, a metal hammer, several pairs of forceps of varying sizes, and a silver case containing white cloth—all meticulously arranged on the adjacent table—intensified the scene's macabre atmosphere.

In the corner of the room facing the back chamber stood an enormous pitch-black iron furnace built into the wall, its yawning firebox resembling a demon's maw where crimson flames raged endlessly. The blaze hungrily licked at a cylindrical cauldron suspended above—a sight far from pleasant—while the shin-shin-shin-shin of boiling water within that vessel remained the room's only sound. A single large hanging lamp suspended by chains from the ceiling cast a whitish glow over the entire chamber. Given how brilliantly it shone, this light seemed not to come from fish oil or animal fat but rather something chemical in nature—though its true source remained uncertain.

At that moment, the room held no human figures, so quiet it verged on desolation. Then came the sound of footsteps in the courtyard. An old man of dignified bearing appeared from the back chamber, parting a black hanging cloth. He approached the doorway in silence, removed the latch, and opened the door. Through the opened entrance came men bearing a stretcher. Reaching the dissection table's side, they carefully lowered their burden to the floor. With that, the old man gave a signal. The four men who had nodded first stripped away the white cloth that had been draped over the form, then slowly lifted the human lying beneath onto the stone slab. After bowing respectfully, they slid back out through the doorway as smoothly as they had entered. Solemn silence reclaimed the chamber. Only the shin-shin of boiling water from the iron cauldron persisted.

The being lying on the dissection table was indeed a living human, yet resembled nothing so much as a crudely chopped log—a mere torso devoid of hands or feet. One end tapered into a narrow section where protruded a single bulge: undoubtedly the head. Now the left eye heavily opened its eyelid, that dull white orb—its flicker of life nearly extinguished—first drifting slowly toward where a right hand should have been, then sluggishly shifting leftward before suddenly snapping shut. Yet again the eyelid quivered violently, the white eye gaping open once more; this time it rolled upward before gradually shifting downward. He must have been surveying the room. His skin had taken on a coppery hue, pus oozing from various lesions. The clump of hair at his crown had turned paper-white—this too surely wrought by the malignant disease.

A nauseating stench had gradually filled the room—the distinctive foul odor characteristic of gangrene. Standing beside the dissection table and looking down at the patient was an old man clad in a surgical gown; he picked up a scalpel and tapped it rhythmically against the table's edge. At that signal, someone parted the hanging cloth of the back chamber to both sides as a young man and a maiden entered—the maiden promptly moving to stand by the table while the youth retrieved a silver basin from a shelf and took position before the furnace.

Cruel it was, if one were to call it cruel; bizarre it was, if one were to call it bizarre—the human dissection began in truth from that very next moment. “Anesthetic!” the old man intoned solemnly. “…………” Wordlessly, the beautiful maiden swiftly took up the incense box from the table and passed it to the old man. Having received the incense box, the old man deliberately removed its lid, pressed it against the patient’s nose, and observed for a time.

II “Good,” he said, replaced the lid, and pushed it toward the table.

Before long, the old man said, “Scalpel.” Then, the honed large scalpel was passed by the maiden’s hand. The moment the blade was thrust cleanly beneath the Adam’s apple, a wave-like convulsion rippled through the victim’s entire body—yet in the next instant, there returned an utterly serene, absolute peace.

A spurt of blood gushed upward, leaping over five sun in the air simultaneously with that convulsion—but that too lasted merely an instant, as the brownish powder scattered by the maiden congealed the flowing tide of blood. The blade of the large scalpel was drawn in a straight line from the throat to the chest and then to the abdomen of the exposed deceased—proof that the surgery had entered its second stage. Hot blood dripped from the incision to both flanks but was immediately congealed by hemostatic agent. "Saw!"

The old man said. The maiden's hand then passed it from the table to him. An eerie sound of ribs being severed resounded through the room until ten ribs from both sides—drenched in blood—were extracted. At that moment, the old man cupped both hands as if scooping something and plunged them deep into the thoracic cavity until they were stained crimson from elbows to fingertips. When he withdrew them again, he held in his palms a soft, pulpy mass of unidentifiable matter.

“The lung,” he said calmly. He then looked at the young man and commanded, “Bring the silver basin!” The young man promptly advanced, received the lung into the silver basin, then slowly pivoted and walked on tiptoes to the furnace. Near the top of the cylindrical cauldron, he carefully tilted the basin. The shin-shin sound of boiling water intensified—for it had swallowed its prey. The young man pulled the basin back to his side upon seeing the last drop of blood fall from it into the cauldron. Then he turned around sharply. And there before his eyes stood the old man, holding the second prey in his palms, calmly waiting for the young man.

“The silver basin!” “The heart!” Thus the old man said. Twice the cauldron rang out loudly, twice the young man clutched the silver basin to his chest, and when he changed direction, there stood the old man—holding the third prey in his palms—in the same manner as before.

"The silver basin!" "The liver!" Again the old man spoke coldly. The liver too fell from the silver basin into the cauldron. When the young man turned back a third time, the old man stood holding a kidney in his palm, awaiting the silver basin. When he turned back a fourth time to look, there stood the old man still waiting with the final spleen held aloft.

When all the human viscera had been placed into the cylindrical cauldron, the surgery came to a complete conclusion.

The room was stiflingly hot, saturated with the stench of pus, the metallic tang of blood, and the acrid bite of medicine. The light from the hanging lamp grew ever whiter, illuminating every nook and cranny of the room as brightly as day. From the moment the surgery began until its conclusion at this very instant, the actions taken by the three were frighteningly calm—so methodical in their execution of well-practiced, systematic work that one could sense a complete lack of emotion, as though they were merely following prescribed protocols. Yet within that calmness lay not a trace of the cruelty characteristic of a murderer; rather, it was imbued with what might be called the clinical detachment unique to scientists—a quality present in abundance.

The three pulled the plug from the large bathtub installed in the corner of the room and washed their hands one after another with the warm water that gushed forth. After carelessly draping a white cloth over the victim, they parted the black hanging curtain as though nothing unusual had occurred and filed into the back room in unison.

Separated by a single black hanging curtain, here in the back chamber lay a delightfully opulent space bearing no resemblance to the ghastly front chamber. However, while the high ceiling and talc-paved floor were no different from those of the front chamber, there were no eerie furnaces, dissection tables, or small stands lined with sharp instruments.

At the center stood a rosewood-carved round table, surrounded by two camp stools, one deep-cushioned armchair, and likewise one long deep-cushioned chaise longue—though the leopard pelts draped over the armchair and chaise longue did not appear to be of Japanese origin. Seated in the armchair was that dignified old man who had wielded the dissection scalpel—none other than Naoe Kurando—and behind him stood an enormous bookshelf towering nearly to the ceiling, though most of the piled volumes were unfamiliar Southern Barbarian texts.

Across the table from the old man, seated side by side on the chaise longue were the aforementioned young man and maiden—the young man being none other than Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu, and the maiden, Matsumushi. Due to the pleasant fatigue after their work, the three appeared somewhat lethargic, yet they were conversing cheerfully. Among the various room decorations, the textiles hanging on the walls were especially rare and magnificent. On them were embroidered temple halls, pagodas, and figures in an extremely antiquated and exotic style using colored threads.

They were wall hangings with Egyptian motifs. The rich fragrance that enveloped the room came not from the flowers in vases but likely from some synthetic perfume placed somewhere within. The light from the ceiling-hung lantern wasn't piercing white, but a violet hue that lulled one into soft slumber. Outside lay a desolate autumn night with a storm brewing, yet inside this room remained warm, as though music might start playing at any moment.

“Is Lord Kenshin greater than Lord Shingen? Oh ho! And why might that be, I wonder?” It was Kurando who had spoken—a ruddy-faced, towering figure draped in snow-white surgical robes, his half-grayed long hair cascading over his shoulders. His bearing held divine majesty yet bore no resemblance to anything Japanese. “I don’t understand. Why might that be?” He repeated once again. “Lord Shingen revels in warfare; he pursues conflicts without renown.” “In contrast, Lord Kenshin has ever remained constant to the way of chivalry, waging only wars of consequence.”

It was Mondon who answered thus. From the time he had come to this mansion from Echigo Province in late spring this year, he had gained weight and developed a healthy complexion, appearing robust. Perhaps the climate and scenery of this land suited both his body and mind. Even his once-pessimistic spirit seemed to have turned optimistic, his words and movements now brimming with vitality. "I see," said Kurando upon hearing this, a calm smile floating across his face, "but when I speak of it, both Lord Kenshin and Lord Shingen are all equally barbarians."

III "Oh Father!" Matsumushi interjected in apparent surprise from beside them—the beautiful maiden’s voice cutting through—"Was Lord Kenshin not our former benefactor? Surely there are kinder words than ‘barbarian’..." "No no—that wasn’t my meaning." Kurando gave a slight wave of his hand. "I didn’t use that term contemptuously. By my philosophy, whether Imagawa or Hōjō, Asai or Asakura—all so-called warriors are barbarians through and through."

“And why might that be?” Mondon asked dubiously this time. “Why, you ask? It’s simple—from the perspective of the natural order of living beings, they’ve strayed from the proper path. By nature, humans must not wage conflict against their own kind.” "And that’s how the natural order works." "What a strange law that is!" Matsumushi interjected with a laugh. "Then against what should humans wage conflict?"

"Let me see," said Kurando with a solemn expression, "humans must wage conflict against things like floods, Lord Thunder, fires, earthquakes, and wild beasts—those sorts of things first. Oh! There's one more—" "I'd forgotten something crucial." "It's none other than disease."

Then the young man and woman burst into laughter in unison，but before long，Matsumushi teased mockingly， “That’s because you’re a pharmacist，Father—that’s why you say such things.”

"That’s certainly true—it goes without saying," Kurando remained cheerful. "But in my youth, I was nothing like the pharmacist you see today." "Why yes, we’re well aware of that," interjected Naoe Mondon. "Your martial exploits remain legendary in Kasugayama even now." "Indeed—I was twenty then," Kurando said, falling into silent reverie as if dredging up half-forgotten memories. "The entire household had gone rabbit hunting at Dengaku Plain. Naturally, I attended as part of our lord’s retinue." His voice grew taut. "...Then a massive bear appeared." He leaned forward, hands shaping invisible dimensions. "Its size—twice, no thrice my own bulk—must have panicked at the sudden commotion." A hunter’s intensity sharpened his words. "It came charging straight for the banner guards!" "They closed ranks, loosing arrows from all sides—yet not a single shaft found purchase." His fingers twitched in remembered frustration. "Clang-clang-clang—the beast swatted them aside like reeds!" "Then our lord commanded—'Kurando! Finish this!'" The old surgeon’s breath quickened. "...I charged forward... only to freeze." His calloused hands turned palm-up in helpless pantomime. "The hunting arrows had failed—what hope had I?" Resolve hardened his features as he mimed drawing steel. "So I gripped my armor-piercing dagger—like this—and reversed my grip!" His wrist twisted violently. "The crescent mark! The crescent mark!" Blade-hand stabbing air, he cried: "Strike there!"

As he spoke, Kurando took a brush from the inkstone box on the table and gripped it in reverse with an awkward yet gallant gesture. “Oh! How wondrous the floating clouds are!” Matsumushi’s heart raced with excitement— “And then what did you do?” “Aye, I slew it without trouble,” he replied. “The moment it lunged at me, I dodged aside and thrust my blade clean through—from chest to back.” “Most valiant indeed,” Mondon said, his voice thick with emotion.

“But the aftermath wasn’t good.”

Having said this, Kurando looked displeased and fiddled with the ends of his long hair.

IV

“The reason I say this is none other than—” Kurando continued after a moment. “I saw its face—the bear’s face!” “Then I shuddered.” “The bear was laughing!” “That’s right—the bear was laughing.” Before their eyes, a look of melancholy drifted into Kurando’s eyes, but— “A bear’s face is inherently so adorable that one would never think it a beast.” “But the bear was dead.” “It was killed despite being innocent.” “And yet that face was laughing.” “In the instant I thought ‘Ah!’, countless enemy heads I had beheaded on battlefields appeared before my eyes, lined up in a row!” “And all of them were laughing!”

Having said this, Kurando closed his eyes. At this, both Mondon and Matsumushi—as if struck by some spectral presence—exchanged glances, then sighed in unison as though by prior agreement.

Through the room that had appeared vibrant, a black streak of something seemed to brush past. And there alone, a large hole seemed to have gaped open.

And Kurando continued. “Since that time, military feats have come to seem worthless to me." "And so I have come to think this way." “There must be something of greater value in this world beyond war and military exploits…” “Ah, so that is why Father became a pharmacist.” It was Matsumushi who had said this.

“That’s right, for now. But to reach that point, I endured many sufferings and sorrows. ……But for now, there is peace. One might even call this prosperity… If only you two would succeed me.”

At that moment, a knocking sound could be heard from the wooden door leading to the main house.

“Please come in.”

Kurando said quietly.

The door opened immediately, revealing an ugly hunchbacked little man who appeared with humble demeanor. “Kogenta, do you have business?” “We have new patients, sir.” “Hmm... At this late hour?” Kurando narrowed his eyes. “What manner of people are they?” “One appears to be an old man, and the other a page boy.”

“Did you ask their names?” “Yes, he said he was called ‘Hitachi no Jiji’.”

“Old Man of Hitachi?” “And the diagnosis?” “It is said to be gangrene.”

“Gangrene. I see. Then that’s acceptable.” “For the time being, I have placed them in Ward Two.” The hunchbacked Kogenta made to leave. “Well then, I shall go pay them a visit.” “Kogenta, light the lantern.” “As you wish.”

Soon, the two descended into the courtyard, passed through the gate, and emerged outside. The night was dark, the storm fierce, its winds lashing directly against them.

After walking a little over half a chō (about 55 meters), they came upon a low hill. They climbed up the hill and descended, and there lay a wide clearing surrounded by woods, where over twenty small wooden-walled houses stood. It was the Kagitega-hara Sanatorium. The light of the lantern Kogenta carried hesitated momentarily before one of the small houses as he fumbled with the lock, and with a gloomy creak, the front door finally opened.

There was a narrow corridor with five small rooms in total—one directly ahead and two on either side—which served as the patients' living quarters. Kogenta led the way with Kurando following behind. When they entered the front room, both the old man in kuzu robes known as the Old Man of Hitachi and his page boy Kikumaru remained awake, having not yet retired to sleep. "The Lord Director has come to visit," Kogenta announced with ceremonial gravity. The instant he lifted his head, the Old Man of Hitachi fixed his gaze intently upon Kurando's face—

“Just as I thought! It was you after all.”

“Oh! What—” Kurando cried out in surprise at the same moment. “Lord Tsukahara Kotarō Yoshikatsu?!” “It’s me—Bokuden. Surprised?” “Hmm,” he said before suddenly laughing. “Anyone would be startled.” “What madness brought you here?” “Well then,” Bokuden said with a glare, “I’ve come to claim your head.” “This head?” “What would you do with it? Don’t!” “As a depraved and immoral madman—I’ll expose you at Sanjō Riverbed!”

“Oh, is that so? How amusing.”

“Kurando!” Bokuden snapped. “This is no joke!” “This is no laughing matter!” “Since when did you become a demon?” He placed his hand firmly on the dagger he had drawn earlier.

V However, Kurando stood as calmly as water. Then, pulling a nearby stool closer, he sat down on it leisurely, but— “First, you sit down too. We can talk. Then we’ll see.” “We can talk.” “Then we’ll see.” “Absolutely not!” Bokuden flatly refused. “Harvesting five viscera from living humans to make medicine? Only demonic fiends would do such things! Even Southern Barbarians wouldn’t know this depravity—you’re the only one in our land!” “I’ll hear your explanation! If you have one, out with it!”

“Ah, so that’s why you came.” “You’ve gone through quite the trouble.” “But Bokuden!”

Kurando looked at him with pitying eyes, “Before you blame me, why don’t you blame yourself! "No—it’s not just you! Why don’t you condemn Lord Uesugi, Lord Takeda, Mōri, Shimazu, Ryūzōji—all those lords!" "They’re the true murderers!" “Sophistry!” Bokuden snapped back. “Those daimyos are flowers of this turbulent age! War remains self-defense—fundamentally different from selfish greed!” “What nonsense! You inhuman monster!” “Bokuden,” he said with growing pity, “you may be peerless in swordsmanship—unmatched in combat—but you’re shockingly blind to reason.” “One general’s success bleaches ten thousand bones—don’t you grasp this world’s truth?” “……War as self-defense?" "I see." “But today’s war has surpassed that.” “Today’s war is invasion. “Today’s war is greed. "No—today’s war has sunk to mere amusement." “The thrill of oppression! The ecstasy of trampling! War for war’s sake!” “When war brings victory—” “Only lions and their kin claim the spoils.” "The people gain nothing." "When war brings defeat—"

“Then they die in battle.” “Though it may seem tragic, their glorious battlefield deaths become poems and songs.” “Some are even enshrined as gods.” “But the people must labor endlessly under new masters’ whips—crushed by extortion and exorbitant taxes... And yet they call these daimyos flowers of this turbulent age!” “Indeed they are! Indeed they are!” “But those flowers bloom from blood!” “Flowers nourished by the people’s very lifeblood!” “Well now, Bokuden—isn’t that precisely so?”

Kurando continued speaking.

“Now comes my work. One kill to save many! “One kill to save many! No further explanation needed—this is my purpose!” “I see,” said Bokuden as he slowly withdrew his right hand from the dagger, yet— “Even one killing remains killing—why commit such cruelty?” “Then let me ask you. Why do you bear that sword at your waist?” “To vanquish demons.” “Where do these demons dwell?” “Look inward—they reside in your own heart and mind! Seek outward—they permeate all creation!”

“What are your means of striking down demons?”

“At times a sword of slaughter, at others a sword of salvation!” “My, you seem awfully busy. So what exactly is your ultimate goal?”

“The unity of sword and Zen – enlightenment! Enlightenment!”

"But you will ultimately die." "All sentient beings must perish." "Death isn't particularly something to be grateful for."

"But for Buddhas, that isn’t the case." "Nah, I still wanna live."

“What are you trying to say?” “What do you think of death?” “Death? “Death, you see, is reincarnation.” “Don’t talk nonsense! You think we get reborn?” “Once you die, that’s it!”

“Kurando!”

“Hah! More sophistry, I see,” Bokuden said suspiciously.

“Bokuden!”

And Kurando stood up. “Be honest—you don’t want to die either.” “Hmm,” Bokuden reluctantly said. “You said ‘Hmm,’ didn’t you? Well said. No one wants to die. This is the instinct of all living beings. The single-minded desire not to die produced religion, produced swordsmanship, and thus produced medicine. Now, religion is negative, and martial arts are ultimately nothing but lethal weapons. Only medicine exists that strives to save human lives. The essence of life is matter... And that which saves matter must also be matter. It’s medicine! It’s the Five Viscera Pill!”

Kurando calmly left the room.

“First think it over slowly. Then sleep on it slowly.”

Kurando returned to the mansion.

Chapter Twelve

I

Religion, by its very nature, was something inherently great.

For it was both a philosophy and an instrument of salvation.

Undoubtedly, all religions must have been simple at the time of their founding.

The emanation of the founder's entire being is none other than religion itself. Just as with all new ideologies, every religion in its founding era rebels against its time. Therefore, they are persecuted. Law is dead matter. It is only through the excellent administration of judicial officers that it comes to possess vibrant life.

The same held true for religion. It was through the monks' exceptional proselytization that it radiated a dazzling brilliance.

The Fuji cult was no exception. Kōmyō Ubasoku’s entire being formed that religion. And it was his thorough proselytization that further elevated it to greatness. Without Kōmyō Ubasoku, the Fuji cult could not exist. If he were gone, the Fuji cult too would have to cease to exist. Religion demands idols. That is human weakness. Unless they can grasp something concrete, most people will not feel secure.

Buddhist statues, holy paintings, hymns, prayers—all were idols in a sense. And thus, with almost no exceptions, the founder himself was an idol.

The followers' emotions toward their founder could almost be called romantic love. And thus romantic love was sexual desire. That was why it held such power. That was why they could commit martyrdom without hesitation. Martyrdom was pleasure to them. Kōmyō Ubasoku had been their beloved.

That beloved was gone. The followers lost the beloved. The cult lost its idol. Could they help but be thrown into turmoil? Rumors spread everywhere.

“It’s been a month today since we last saw him.” “This has never happened before.”

“There were days when we didn’t see his presence for two or three—five at most.” “…But never anything like this before.” “Where could he have gone?” “Might he have abandoned us?”

“What are we to do? This is dire.” “This is dire.”

“I’m so terrified I can’t stand it.” “Before long, something terrible will surely happen.”

"He must have been angered by something. By one among us." "Ah, please return to us swiftly!" "We must search. We must search." "But how are we to search? We have no leads. It’s beyond imagining." "Could it be that the Venerable Ubasoku has perished somewhere?" "He’s a saint, a saint! Such a thing cannot be!" "But he has a mortal body!"

“But he can perform miracles!”

“Could he have ascended to heaven? Left this mortal world for the celestial realm…” “I feel I might lose my faith.” “Should I abandon the cult?” “I’ve grown tired of ascetic practices. Tired of burning incense too.” “A rebellion will surely erupt.” “Who? Who’s the traitor?” “I feel like I might just die.” “My former self was darkness. Only here did I finally find light. But that light now fades. Then there would be twice the darkness.”

"The temple bells no longer rang properly these days."

"The voices of prayer could no longer be heard." "Scuffling, grappling, quarrels and arguments... All traces of the past had vanished." "En no Ozunu-sama, En no Ozunu-sama, please protect our Venerable Ubasoku!"

Whether in their homes, inside tents, out on the streets, or even at the "sacred altar," the followers whispered among themselves.

It was now winter.

Mount Fuji, the "sacred altar," the building of that altar, and even the giant ascetic statue—all were enveloped in the pure white of snow. From the eaves of the cult’s houses hung long icicles, and the stream flowing through the town was sealed under thick ice. Winter is a season for quiet contemplation.

For the cult, it was the opposite.

It was a season of suspicion, anxiety, distrust, unrest, and thus of debate.

II In the wilderness surrounding the cult, beasts starved of food were howling. Wolves formed packs, bears brought their wives and children, and boars wandered alone as ever, all searching for prey. One evening, a brave bear infiltrated the cult. And then it stole a horse. Next, a boar sneaked in and plundered the vegetables in the barn. Then, wolves formed a pack, suddenly appeared behind the "sacred altar," and killed and devoured the chickens and dogs.

Moreover, the cult members did not even attempt to prepare for it. They argued, fought each other, and hurled curses at one another. At one house, an old couple exchanged vulgar insults with each other. Then the wife’s sharp claws gouged out her husband’s right eye. Then, at another house of a young couple, while they were indulging in debauchery, their only child—a two-year-old—fell into the river and died. At that very moment, a new family that had just passed through the eastern gate to join the cult took one look at its rampant disorder, lost all faith, and turned back the way they had come.

An astonishing event erupted.

The first theft since the founding of the Fuji cult was committed.

Next, a murder was committed.

Then another arson was committed. When sacred things reverted to defilement, they became more tainted than the secular world. That very corruption was now descending upon the Fuji cult. People doubted people. Then they doubted their faith. Then they awakened to greed. Thus another month passed.

Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return. “He’s truly abandoned us at last,” they murmured among themselves, “abandoned us wretched ones.” “Curse you, villain!” one cried out, while another’s inner turmoil surfaced: “…Ah, I’m penniless now. I gave everything as offerings. There’s nowhere left for me to go.” “That wretch made me destitute,” a voice spat from the crowd. “Should’ve never come to this cursed place.” Before long, their whispers of betrayal crystallized into open hatred toward Kōmyō Ubasoku.

The sun rose and the sun set. And then early spring arrived.

Around the waterfall basin, daffodils bloomed. In the thicket, mandarin oranges hung like strung pearls. The marsh ice melted day by day, and the water dropwort burst forth with sprouts. Wild geese and ducks began to clamor. One day, a soft wind blew. Oh, that was the spring breeze. Suddenly, a bush warbler sang out. When one looked, at the base of the south-facing hill, white plum blossoms had burst their buds. Deer began to cry in the wilderness. And then, around the riverbank cliffs, countless rock swallows soared through the air. Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return.

The followers became murderous.

“Destruction! Destruction!” Voices cried out. Several Buddhist statues were destroyed.

Skylarks began to sing in the sky. The snow gradually melted away. And then the mist began to rise. Mt. Fuji began to laugh. But the pure white robes had yet to be removed. As expected, Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return to the cult. Where on earth had he gone? Why hadn’t he come back? —That was something no one could know. However, since that time—since encountering Sangōme Tōkishi, the Third Station Potter—he had hidden himself away somewhere.

III Even Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu could not remain unshaken.

He spent one winter living in a tent. For him, a noble scion, this was truly an extraordinary way of life. It was a life of hardships and austerities. Food was scarce. Clothing was scarce. The blizzard blew in relentlessly. Moreover, there wasn’t even sufficient fuel.

But for him, it was not painful. That was because he burned with religious ecstasy. Although he had met Kōmyō Ubasoku only once beneath the stone statue of En no Gyōja, that alone was enough for him. He was completely convinced. He was instantly smitten—spiritually. In Shōsaburō too existed the same state of mind as that Brahmin who, after a single encounter with the Buddha in Nirvana that spiritually awakened his entire being, cried “If I hear the Way in the morning, I can die content in the evening!” and immediately hanged himself to death. Though their meeting had been brief, to Shōsaburō, Kōmyō Ubasoku was in one sense a “thunderclap,” and in another sense, the “sun.”

And yet now, due to Founder Kōmyō Ubasoku’s disappearance, the cult had plunged into utter chaos. Now, the cult was no longer a peaceful utopia. It became a defiled realm—the most vulgar of the vulgar—where deceit and corruption ran rampant. It wasn’t strange—it was only natural.

He could not help but think.

"How great Ubasoku was as a human being could be imagined from this single fact alone. For them, doctrines and such were ultimately of no real consequence. They had both loved and believed in none other than Kōmyō Ubasoku himself. Even when the Masked Lord’s wretched retainers plotted to destroy the cult, it was precisely because Kōmyō Ubasoku had been present that they could immediately embark on reconstruction.—But now Ubasoku was gone. They had lost their shepherd. They had become straying sheep. 'It’s only natural for them to scatter.'"

And then he said to himself.

“Now then, Shōsaburō, what will you do?” Me? I shall depart. I shall return to my original purpose. I shall search for my parents and uncle. In truth, I had been enchanted by Kōmyō Ubasoku—in the best possible sense. To put it bluntly—I had been deceived. But now I had regained my senses. The possessing spirit had left. "Ah, even so—how fated this crimson-dyed cloth was for me!"

And then one day, Shōsaburō took out the crimson cloth he had stored away from among his belongings, spread it across his lap, and examined it.

Through a gap in the tent, the spring sun cast golden shafts of light. The crimson cloth blazed with radiance. Its depths held a faint trace of blackness, while its surface gleamed like a ruby. It was a blinding red that shifted between azure and violet depending on the angle. Even now, Shōsaburō could not help but marvel. He gazed at it transfixed. This was his cursed destiny. A monk chanced to pass by and idly peered into Shōsaburō's tent. His face went pale in an instant.

He hurried back toward the sacred altar.

In an instant, a rumor too dreadful for this world began to spread from ear to ear. “They say minions of the Masked Lord have infiltrated!” “They say he possesses the crimson-dyed cloth!” “Retainers of the Brass Castle!” “So that’s why Venerable Ubasoku hasn’t returned!” “Now the truth has finally been revealed!” “Crimson-dyed cloth! Crimson-dyed cloth!”

The whispers gradually grew louder. They became mockery and terror; they became curses and rage. The entire cult erupted.

The people held lethal weapons in their hands. And then, shouting, they ran toward Shōsaburō’s tent. They were no longer believers—they were a mob. They were indeed a blood-starved mob.

However, Shōsaburō did not know. He did not know what had so surprised and angered the followers.

He was dragged out of－the tent. “To－the－Sacred－Altar!” “To－the－Sacred－Altar!” The mob screamed.

Shōsaburō was hoisted into the air and carried onto the "Sacred Altar". The great stone statue of En the Ascetic stood imbued with sorrow. Beneath it, Shōsaburō was placed. “Kill him!”

Someone roared. “Lynch him!” someone immediately responded. “Crucifixion! Crucifixion!” “Burn him alive! Burn him alive!” The crowd screamed in unison.

The crowd began shouting all at once.

The most cruel thing in life is perhaps the psychology of the crowd. It shows not a trace of self-reflection.

Frenzy! Frenzy! Frenzy! Frenzy! Frenzy! Frenzy! Such was their state. It felt no responsibility. Nor did it fear being held accountable. They say the mouths of the multitude can melt metal—the psychology of the crowd was precisely that force. The King of France was killed for it, and modern-era politicians were felled by it. And now, Shōsaburō too was about to be killed for that very reason.

However, there was something in the followers' state of mind that warranted sympathy. To them, the Kōketsu Castle Lord and his minions were enemies. They were archenemies whom even devouring their flesh and drinking their blood would not satisfy. How their brethren had been plundered for their sake, had their blood drained for their sake, had been turned into dye for their sake, and had become sacrifices for the crimson-dyed cloth! And how their precious cult had been destroyed for their sake!

To the followers, the crimson-dyed cloth was nothing less than a symbol of death. It was Shōsaburō who possessed it. That they believed him to be an enemy spy could hardly be called unreasonable. Moreover, since last winter, they had nearly lost all common sense. And thus had grown increasingly bloodthirsty. The entire cult had gone completely mad.

Had Kōmyō Ubasoku still been reigning, they would not have become so violently frenzied. Misfortune comes all at once! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō saw an ill-omened thing at an ill-fated moment.

IV

"What in the world is happening?!" Shōsaburō's entire being was distilled into these words. He couldn't comprehend anything. He only sensed danger encroaching upon him. Yet gradually, understanding dawned. And with that understanding came terror he could not suppress.

He resolved to explain himself.

He leapt onto the stone statue's pedestal like a ball. "No!"

He first shouted. “I am not one of the Kōketsu Castle Lord’s men! I may not look it, but I’m a retainer of the Takeda clan! I am Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu!” Unfortunately, his plea went unheard. It was only natural that it went unheard.

Amidst curses, jeers, and roars, his voice was drowned out.

And then he was dragged down from the pedestal. “By the law! By the law!” The crowd finally shouted thus. Shōsaburō’s fate was decided. He had to be executed according to the law. Serenely, the sky was clear. There a skylark sang. And a lone cloud scudded by. Filtered through silk-thread vapor and possessing an oil-like fineness, the three o’clock sunlight illuminated roofs and thoroughfares. And children frolicked about while dogs, cats, and chickens each sang in their own voices.

At the windows and doorways of houses, elderly people were anxiously conversing. And so hundreds of young men and women filled the thoroughfare like a wave, lying in wait for the arrival of the young samurai who was to be executed.

Before long, a group of people came from the direction of the 'sacred altar'.

Shōsaburō, with his hands bound, was walking down the middle of the thoroughfare. Ahead of him marched a group of monks. Flanking him on both sides stood followers bearing weapons. Bare spear blades, bare naginata blades, and several matchlock guns glinted in the sunlight.

Shōsaburō gave up. It was a miserable state of mind.

He could explain himself, but they would not permit him to do so!

But perhaps what was called society at large was indeed such a thing. The adversaries were far too numerous. Even if he were to wield his sword and resist, it did not seem he could defeat them. Moreover, his swords had already been taken away. A boy who had been climbing a tree suddenly hurled a small stone. Then two or three others imitated him. In moments, stones came raining down. One must have struck true—blood began trickling from Shōsaburō's cheek.

There was a woman who had gone mad after her husband was taken by the brass castle’s kin; she suddenly rushed forward and jabbed the tip of the scissors she held into Shōsaburō’s arm. Blood gushed out from the wound. Immediately, two or three others imitated her. The clothes he wore were torn. Blood flowed from his arms and shins. Visions passed through Shōsaburō’s mind. The mansion in Kōfu... Lord Shingen’s figure... His friend Sanada Gengorō... Night cherry blossoms blooming riotously... An elderly red cloth seller... And then... the face of Kōmyō Ubasoku...

"I will never see Father or Mother again... Death! Execution! The cult's law! I shouldn't have come to this place... They're going to kill me any moment now... It hurts! They'd stabbed me with a dagger... Where are you taking me?! You villains! You scoundrels!"

The procession soon turned at the crossroads. Then they turned left at the T-junction. And so they proceeded slowly and sluggishly. No matter how far they went, there were crowds.

The faces of the crowd were nothing but mouths. Nothing but curses assailed him. Once again, the procession turned at the crossroads. They walked through every town. He was to be made a public spectacle. And so, in the end, he was to be killed. Gradually, Shōsaburō grew fatigued. His steps grew ever slower. He could no longer lift his head. His mind gradually grew dazed. He could no longer see anything at all. Even the illusions had vanished. But only voices could reach him.

“Return our husbands!”

“Return our children!” “Be cursed!” “Be cursed!” A solitary wail reverberated. Then came peals of laughter.

He had to keep walking. He had to become a public spectacle.

“Father!” Shōsaburō suddenly cried out. “Oh, Mother! “Mother!” “Where are you?!” “Where are you?!” “I’ve been searching so desperately!” “I’ve been searching so desperately!”

Five

He had to keep walking.

Dust rose from the thoroughfare. It rose into the sky like a cloud.

He no longer wanted to die. And yet both his body and spirit were on the verge of death. That must have been why he no longer wanted to die.

“This is unjust!” “This is utterly unjust!” “To think I’d be killed over a misunderstanding!”

He resolved to explain himself. Stretching out his blood-soaked body, he waved his hand toward the crowd. “Listen to me! Listen! Quiet down and listen!” “I am Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! Last spring—on a night of cherry blossoms—I went to make a pilgrimage to the shrine in Kōfu!” “There was an old cloth seller there.” “That old man forced it on me—the crimson-dyed cloth! The red cloth!” “My father’s name was written on it.” “The name of the father I’d parted from in childhood.” “That’s why I deserted.” “Abandoned Kōfu’s mansion! Betrayed the Takeda clan!” “Yes—to find my father!” “...And that’s how I wandered here.” “To this sacred realm of your cult!” “This is my whole truth!” “That’s why I carry the red cloth!” “I’ve committed no crime!” “I have no ties to Kōketsu Castle! I’m a devout follower!” “Let me out of this cult!” “I must go find my parents!” “And find my uncle too!”

"Ah, dying is terrifying!" _I can’t stand this! I can’t stand this!_ "You’re mistaken!" "You’ll regret this soon!" "Release me! Set me free!" "My throat’s dry… Give me water!" "Agh! Agh! Agh! You cut me again!" A roar of laughter erupted, burying his voice. He had to keep walking.

Suddenly everything before his eyes went dark. Ah—night must have come. No—no—the sun was shining. The sunset was staining the sacred mountain. His vision had been weakening. He could no longer walk. Then terrible pain shot through his shoulder. And so he broke into a trot. Thus he was struck with a whip. He tried to numb himself. He nearly collapsed at every step. No matter how far he went—faces. All those faces were laughing.

At last, he arrived before the gate.

At the entrance of a horizontal tunnel leading straight to Mount Fuji's mystical inner sanctum stood an elliptical copper door guarded by several gatekeepers. With a creak, the door opened. Three straight rows of bonfires stretched endlessly before him. The crowd did not follow. Only jeering voices reached him from behind. Shōsaburō walked onward.

A group of monks and armed believers, numbering over fifty, followed.

He walked on in silence.

The path was narrow and low. And on both sides of the rock walls, various carvings were engraved.

The path gradually widened. And the ceiling grew higher. But it did not come to an end quickly. It seemed to stretch for ten ri.

Staggering, stumbling, and falling again, Shōsaburō walked on. His entire body was drenched in blood. It reflected off the bonfires.

How he suffered as he walked! In the end, what awaited him was the law and death. Moreover, he was to be killed for being innocent. He finally walked the entire way.

The first gate of the womb-like interior swallowed him whole. At that gate stood guards. “Who goes there?”

asked one of the guards.

“A sinner.” said a monk.

There, the gate opened inward. Thus did the mystical realm of Mount Fuji’s inner sanctum come to receive the procession. The inner sanctum that Kōmyō Ubasoku had first discovered in his layperson days now bore no resemblance to what it once was. At that time, the inner sanctum had been a cavernous realm—nothing more than a land of caves. Now countless buildings stood packed tightly together. At last, the procession passed through the Jusō Gate and emerged before a stone-built tower gate. It was called the Four Defilements Tower. There, four statues of evil deities had been placed under binding curses. Passing through it, there was a bell tower. The temple bell, blue with verdigris, hung high in the sky. Glaring at the Five Peaks Tower and Six Ministries Tower to their left, they proceeded toward the Kyūyōden Hall. In the black-wood palace, all treasures belonging to the cult were stored there.

They passed through an arched gate. To the right lay the Komoridō, carved out from the rock wall. To the left lay the Ascetic Hall, also carved from the rock wall. They exited into a courtyard and climbed a slope. At its summit stood a tower. It was a beautiful three-storied vermilion-lacquered pagoda where sutra scrolls were enshrined. They descended the slope to the other side. At that moment, Shōsaburō suddenly let out a piercing scream and shook his clenched fist overhead. And then he collapsed face-first to the ground. And then he finally stopped moving.

Six

By the light of the bioluminescent creatures, the land within the womb was hazed in lavender hues. Every structure—whether man-made or natural—stood bathed in a shadowless, faint glow. The surroundings were utterly still and silent. The sky hung dark and immeasurably high. Where its farthest edge met infinity lay Fuji's inner rock formations. Here existed neither sun nor moon, nor any stars at all. The crevices untouched by the creatures' light remained realms of absolute darkness. Shōsaburō had not died. How peaceful it would have been had death taken him—yet he lived still. He had merely lost consciousness.

Three believers ended up carrying him. One took charge of the head, another the torso, and the third the legs. A group of monks took the lead, the unconscious Shōsaburō followed behind them, and armed believers flanked the sides and brought up the rear.

The procession did not utter a single word. Only their footsteps echoed. A single river flowed. A short stone bridge spanned it. They crossed that stone bridge.

A long corridor appeared. A white-wood confession hall appeared. When they passed it, there was a riverbed.

A massive boulder of divine natural artistry emerged from a sea of phosphorescent flames. It bore not a single ornament. Of all the buildings encountered thus far, this was the most divine.

Enshrined there was the solemn mummy of Yakushi no Gyōja, guardian deity of the Fuji cult, maintaining its ancient form as it had for ages.

The procession passed before it. Then, in the far-off twilight, a silver streak of light became visible. It was a stretch of lake water.

The procession moved toward that direction.

At last, they came to the lakeshore. The water glistened like metal leaf. The phosphorescent flames of the bioluminescent creatures blazed with radiant intensity. The water did not so much as ripple. It lay vast and still.

The shore was paved with rocks. It formed a gentle curve and extended far to the left and right. An old-fashioned dugout canoe was moored. The gentle up-and-down rocking was likely due to faint ripples forming.

The procession came to a halt for the first time. Then the ritual was performed. Shōsaburō was transferred into the dugout canoe by the believers’ hands. He was cast into the lake of death. Two or three people pushed the boat away. And the boat convulsed as it slid away toward the open water.

The lake water was moving. Though exceedingly slow, it moved ever toward the open sea—swirling as it crept seaward, endlessly seaward.

And so, the boat was pulled toward the offshore following the whirlpool's current. The boat was pulled all the way to the lake's center. There, it lay still for a time. Then, it gradually began to drift onward.

The boat drifted out to the southeast.

The lake water continued into a great river. The great river deep within the Human Hole—the one Nita Shirō Tadatsune had been unable to fully explore—was indeed born from the lake's waters. Shōsaburō in the boat had still not regained consciousness. He lay with his bloodied face turned upward, motionless as a wooden statue. The boat emerged from the lake into the great river. The river flowed gently. How far would it drift? Would it merge with another great river? Or would it flow into the sea? Or would it plunge into the abyss of the earth's axis?

The nameless mighty river that pierced through Fuji's bedrock and flowed onward—just as it bore no name, where it was destined to flow remained unknown even to this day. It was an endless river. It would likely disappear suddenly beyond the earth's surface. The boat trembled as it drifted onward. No bioluminescent creatures remained. The waterway was sheer darkness. The water's roar gradually intensified.

The path to salvation had been severed.

The boat surged forth rapidly.

Chapter XIII

I

The boat swiftly drifted away. Inside the boat, Shōsaburō had still not regained consciousness.

The waterway was utter darkness. Only the sound of water reverberated. This was the depths of Fuji. The spaces above and flanking the waterway were likely rock or earth. And likely, not a single plant grew there. Of course, not even one fish could inhabit the waterway. There must have been no aquatic plants either. Not one living thing existed here. Water! It flowed! Thus it could be said only the water lived. Through death's womb coursed a single great river, alive and swift. Yet regarding this water's destination, none knew. It might flow endlessly until vanishing. Or perhaps plunge into the earth's depths.

The boat drifted swiftly for a time. Within it, the water's force appeared to calm; gradually, the vessel slackened its speed until it began drifting calmly. From that moment, the surroundings began growing brighter. At first, a faint glimmer resembling fireflies appeared far ahead, and as the boat advanced, this pale light intensified. Dimmer than moonlit night, less vivid than dawn's hues—it was a pale, ethereal glow that could only belong to bioluminescent organisms. Countless billions of these luminescent creatures clung densely to the rocks along both banks, permeated the water itself, and coated the towering ceiling above. That the very stone seemed to glow like a luminous entity, that even the water appeared suffused with hazy light—this had to be accepted as natural.

And then, the boat entered the light. Shōsaburō’s form—with his pallid face, sunken eyes, and blood-smeared limbs lying supine on the boat’s bottom—appeared not as a breathing human. He might die like this. Without meeting his parents or uncle, he might be buried from darkness into darkness.

The boat proceeded slowly through the light. The light stretched endlessly. Then the waterway curved gently to the left. The current remained calm. Almost no sound of rapids could be heard. There seemed not a single ripple. Only a long wake trailed from the boat's stern. Bathed in the glow of bioluminescent creatures, it shone with exceptional vividness - like a white serpent racing through water.

The waterway gradually expanded.

It emerged into a small inlet. It was an inlet carved by the water’s force from one cliff face, perhaps half a chō in circumference, with a rocky islet at its center. The boat followed along the inlet’s shore and began slowly circling the island. Gray ripples soundlessly washed against the island’s base. The inlet’s water lay flat and calm, like oil spread across a surface. Had Shōsaburō regained consciousness and studied that island closely, he would certainly have been astonished.

For on the rock walls surrounding the island, Buddha statues were carved. Those holding iron alms bowls with both hands; those treading upon fierce tigers; those sitting before incense burners; those with palms pressed together in full lotus meditation; and those astride cloud dragons... A thousand forms and myriad postures of arhat statues were carved into the rock with such vividness they might have been chiseled only yesterday. The blue light filling the inlet—likely from the bioluminescent organisms' movements—flickered ceaselessly without pause like blinking eyelids. As this light shifted, the expressions of the thousand Buddhas brightened and darkened in turn. Now one arhat's eyes closed as though dreaming. At that same moment, a white streak emerged along the folds of its priestly robe. But in the next instant, those closed eyes faintly opened while the robe's folds vanished. Then in the very next moment, a fragrant wisp of smoke rose softly from an incense burner.

The boat continued its slow circuit. As the boat advanced, the multitude of thousand Buddha statues bade it farewell and greeted its approach.

As long as Buddhas were carved, there must have been carvers. Could people have dwelled in this uninhabited realm? Who might have lived here? Centuries past, En no Gyōja had resided here, ceaselessly wielding his chisel day and night to carve Buddhas into the stone. In this dark world unknown to humankind, traces of efforts made unseen by others endured as a thousand Buddhas. This was a creation of faith. Simultaneously, it was a creation of will.

It was also a symbol of the perfect fusion between self-perfection and the salvation of all beings.

However, there the thousand Buddhas were solemnly carved. And there, it was an uninhabited realm. It was the depths of the earth, unvisited by people.

Now, the small boat drifted close. At the bottom of the boat lay a person. Yet he was no rational human being. The boat would soon drift away. Once gone, it would never return again. No one would ever come here again.

The traces of the great saint's arduous efforts would thus remain unknown to people forever and be buried into oblivion.

II After completing a circuit of the inlet, the boat finally emerged into the waterway.

The current remained gentle. Parting the faint light and drawn by the water, the boat drifted slowly onward. Both banks could be seen hazily in the distance. The banks immediately became cliffs, the cliffs immediately became a ceiling, and the ceiling gradually lowered. From there, drops came trickling down. The waterway wound several times. The waterway began narrowing rapidly before their eyes, the water's surface swelled upward, and as cliffs closed in from both sides, a single waterfall cascaded down.

The waterfall fell from a high point on the right-hand cliff, landing precisely around the center of the waterway. The waterfall spanned approximately nine meters in width, its thunderous roar reverberating throughout the cavern. The waterfall bore stripes. The waterfall bore stripes because the light emitted by bioluminescent organisms cast shadows upon the water’s flow. Foam misted over the waterway. It was tinged with faint light and strung dull pearl jewels. The plunge pool churned like boiling water. The reason the surroundings appeared bright was because the waterfall reflected the faint light.

The boat was about to plummet into the plunge pool. The boat tilted sharply. By that momentum, it advanced forward. And thus, the boat was saved.

Foam fell upon Shōsaburō’s body lying prone at the bottom of the boat. Shōsaburō’s entire body was thoroughly drenched by the foam, and drops trickled down from his face. When the boat had escaped far from the realm of swirling waves, the waterfall's roar grew distant. The current quickened slightly. The boat, rocking forward and backward, pressed onward. When the roar of the waterfall had completely vanished and the water’s flow had calmed, silence returned once more. While cleaving through the blue light, the boat continued its journey.

Thus, the waterway gradually widened, until eventually it became a great river. And thus, the sound of rapids became audible. As the river widened, the riverbed appeared to grow shallower.

Even when crowned with foam, Shōsaburō did not regain consciousness. He was treading the path toward death. His complexion grew increasingly pale, and his lips had almost no trace of blood. A single droplet had come to rest beneath the corner of his left eye, resembling a tear. The old-fashioned dugout canoe thus gradually drifted away.

And then, a single lamp appeared from the right-hand bank. That it was an artificial light could be discerned from the flame's reddish hue. Against the pale blue glow of bioluminescent organisms spreading like a sky-blue veil, a peach-colored flame burned, marking a single distinct spot.

Around that light, a square space measuring one ken on each side was tinged with pale crimson. Bathed in that light, a young, beautiful woman knelt at the riverbank. She seemed to be washing something.

Behind her stood a steep cliff with a hole at its base—likely the entrance to the Human Hole. The woman appeared to be Tsukiko. She immersed her long white arm into the water up to the elbow, washing something with focused intensity. One by one, she cleaned each item before setting it aside—over a dozen Noh masks being purified in succession. The boat drifted slowly downstream. Had she glanced up, she might have spotted it. She could have rescued Shōsaburō from the vessel and brought him ashore. But her gaze remained fixed on her hands as she devoted herself completely to her task.

And thus, the opportunity was lost. The boat drifted away down the river.

Was it night? Was it day? How much time had passed by now?

Shōsaburō was unconscious. There was neither time nor place. There was neither night nor day. It flowed and flowed and flowed without cease.

The river water suddenly increased in volume. A tributary flowed in a single stream.

Passing that point, there was a deep pool. And from around that time, gradually, bit by bit, the pale blue glimmer began to fade. Soon, darkness closed in.

Through the darkness drifted a boat of darkness, carrying a youth of uncertain fate toward an unknowable destination. Whereabouts was it drifting? Could it be toward Suruga Province? Or perhaps the Kōshū side? Which direction was it flowing? Was it east, or was it west?

If it were midday, spring sunlight would be illuminating the foothills, small birds would be singing, flowers would be smiling, and travelers tilting their hats would be walking about in delight.

And in Kōfu’s castle town, that dashing Lord Shingen might have been hosting a cherry blossom viewing banquet.

But here, there was no trace of human life.

Cold and darkness and death and fear—and that too, unknown to anyone—were tenaciously festering.

III

The boat drifted on relentlessly. It was a voyage toward death. At that moment, a thunderous roar resounded from the darkness ahead. From the sound, it seemed a giant hole had opened in that vicinity, into which the great river was abruptly plunging. The boat rocked and surged forward. Had there truly been such a massive hole there, neither the boat nor Shōsaburō could have survived. The thunderous roar drew nearer. In the darkness, the crests of breaking waves glimmered faintly like specters. There were rocks around the large hole, and water appeared to be colliding against them.

The boat was pushed backward and spun around two or three times. And then, in the next instant, it darted off as swift as an arrow. Then, it suddenly veered to the side. And then, what a strange turn of events. Calmly, the boat drifted. And then it began to flow quietly.

A few meters before the great pit, a horizontal hole had opened. The rushing water and rebounding waves sandwiched the small dugout canoe between them, and instead of pulling it into the great pit, forced the boat into the side tunnel. Because luminous organisms had made their home there, the side tunnel blazed with light. And that was not ordinary brightness—it was a brilliance akin to midday.

The side tunnel was quite narrow. The hole was so narrow that had Shōsaburō awakened and spread his arms to either side, his fingertips would have reached the walls. To this narrow side tunnel, luminous organisms clung thickly, which was why it was so brightly lit.

The ceiling was exceedingly high. And the water was deep. And the air was pure. It was indeed a side tunnel, yet it was still a waterway. Or rather, it was a tunnel.

The boat glided along the waterway. The waterway was now in full bloom. There, a "festival" was underway. On both sides of the gently drifting boat, along the narrow high rock walls, alpine plants and Fuji flora bloomed in profusion. A solitary rock jutted out. The entire surface was covered in moss. There, blooming like snow with pure white flowers, was the Fuji plant Odoriko Utsugi; the Utsugi blossoms scattered. It must have been due to the gentle breeze softly rustling. The purple flowers of the Fuji thistle drooped their corollas low toward the water, mirroring their forms. The blazing peonies bloomed side by side with the golden flowers of willow dandelions. And a small winged insect parted the pistils and flew out. And pollen danced into the air, scattering like gold dust.

Trembling its slender antennae, the winged insect danced through the air for a while before flying onward along the waterway as if guiding the small boat. At the bend in the waterway where it curved, azalea flowers were blooming. The pale purple flowers of Kodakira Orchids, the spotted blossoms of Kuruma Lilies, the peach-colored blooms of Kanikōmori Grass, and the pale red petals of Tsuga Cherries intermingled with ferns and rock orchids, blooming like a rainbow. In the water, families of fish played tag. Now, a red-backed fish broke away from the group and darted forward. The moment it did, the waterweed flowers swayed. And from that shadow emerged a salamander the size of a thumb.

The pure air was filled with the scent of flowers so thick it was suffocating. A fantasy realm straight from a storybook! The boat glided onward.

If God exists, He should have been in such a place as this.

Because of rocks protruding from the riverbed, the boat was occasionally halted. Because of flowering trees extending from the rock wall, the boat was often supported. But still, it proceeded. The waterway curved right and wound left. Each time, a new landscape unfolded before the boat. Where rock walls stood on both sides, they were red as vermilion lacquer. In some places, the crevices in the rock formed patterns that seemed to depict figures of demons, bodhisattvas, and youths.

But Shōsaburō did not wake up. He could neither see nor hear. Lying on his back at the bottom of the boat, entrusting himself to its movement when it advanced and to its stillness when it halted, he slept in the space between life and death.

The boat once again changed course.

At that moment, an unexpected light came shining from far ahead. It was a light like new sake. Undoubtedly, it was the light of the morning sun. The morning sun came shining in. Could there be a cave mouth leading to the outside world somewhere around here?

The boat moved in that direction.

The flow of the water grew rapid, and though small, the mouth of the cave came clearly into view.

IV

It was a certain morning.

The water gate of Kōketsu Castle opened with a dull sound.

And a sailboat kicked up waves as it raced out.

A merry song rang out. “Behold the bird-catcher arrives!” “Are there no birds? Ah, the great bird!”

Hood, sleeveless garment, work clothes, mochizao pole—Gentarō was aboard the boat. All of his garments were new, with only the mochizao pole remaining as it had been.

On a certain day in autumn past, the same red-sailed ship that had carried him to Kōketsu Castle was now carrying him from Kōketsu Castle to the lakeshore.

Gentarō was round and plump. His complexion was good, and he had a healthy glow. And he was extremely energetic. "Hey, hey, boatman! What do you think, huh?"

Straining in the middle of the boat, he launched into biting remarks. "Once they catch someone, they never let go—what's Kōketsu Castle thinking, letting me escape? ...Nah, wrong—I ain't escapin'." "Hmph! Why'd someone like me run away?" "I'm bein' sent back in grand style! ...But truth be told, Kōketsu Castle treated me right." "They decked me out in fancy clothes, stuffed me with good eats, let me do whatever I damn well pleased." "...So that's what they call paradise on earth, eh?" "Everything was smooth sailin'... But y'know, there's one thing still nags at me." "Nothin' else really." "I never met the castle lord." "...Still pisses me off." "Goin' back without meetin' the lord who welcomed me proper." "Rumor says he wears some mask—must be a real pain." "...Wait—we did catch a peek at that masked bastard once." "Anyway—ah, damn it all!" "That blasted artificial fog's still clingin' thick!"

The artificial mist rose from the lake’s surface like a single white cloth unfurled, standing to veil the sky. Boom-boom-boom-boom! Pound-pound-pound-pound! From beyond the artificial mist, deep beneath the lake's surface, an indescribably uncanny sound ceaselessly reverberated—the noise of blood-extraction machinery. The boat abruptly dashed forward. However, not even an inch ahead could be discerned. It was because they were moving through the artificial mist. And from a certain spot ahead, the sound of a drum resounded. In response, the sound of a conch shell horn resounded from within the boat. They were both signaling sounds.

Even when looking back, Kōketsu Castle could not be discerned anywhere. Whether gazing ahead or looking down, not a shadow of obstruction could be seen. Be it called cotton or silk gauze, only white substances rising endlessly upward met the eye. Just when it seemed to advance, it would retreat backward; just when it seemed to turn left, it would veer right—the boat's course remained erratic. This was to prevent the stronghold's location from being revealed. Even the boatman's form could not be made out.

Nevertheless, Gentarō spoke to the boatman. "...Even remembering it gives me the creeps. "...It was when I was walking in the garden—I glanced up, and there that thing was, wasn’t it? "A crimson surcoat and a gray mask! From the watchtower above, that thing was staring straight down at me, I tell you." Huh? When I looked again, he was already gone... He looked terribly lonely. And he looked extremely pitiable. He must have been worried about something. He must have been such a pitiable person. He must have been so very lonely... Hmm, and then there was this thing that happened. Now this one’s a tale to tell! When I was wandering the corridor one night, some bastard was definitely staring at me from behind. I felt an odd chill and suddenly whirled around to look behind me—only to find that damn idiot wasn’t there at all! But he must have been there. That person must have been there. Yeah, right—the masked castle lord... When I was in my room, some bastard peeked in through the window. When I stared intently—hmph, this guy’s an idiot too—there’s no one peeking at all! But they must have been watching. It really must have been that person... Whether walking or sitting, sleeping or awake, I always had this strange feeling that that castle lord was watching over me. ...But now I must bid farewell to that as well.

The boat sped swiftly forward. His body became thoroughly drenched. It was the work of the thick artificial fog.

The artificial mist thinned, the color of the water became visible, and soon the full form of Mount Fuji appeared high in the sky ahead.

“Whoa, Fuji! It’s Lady Fuji!” Gentarō jumped up inside the boat. “Good morning, Lady Fuji! What fine weather! It’s been ages since we last met! That damn mist blocked the view—couldn’t see you from inside the castle at all... I’m back, Lady Fuji! That’s right—it was last autumn! When we tried to head to the castle, you saw us off with such a sad face... Poor thing, I’ve come back now!”

Five Gentarō rambled on excitedly. "But you know, Lady Fuji—truth be told, we're disappointed." "Mr. Shōsaburō isn't here, I tell you." "Uh-huh, right—he isn't in the castle. So we had no choice but to come out here." "So there we go on another search." "We'll have to search all around your midsection, combing through every inch of your foothills... Splendid!" "You haven't changed a bit!" "How beautiful!" "Spring!" "Damn it!" "A bridal veil!" "You're wearing a snow bridal veil." "You're always a bride!" "That's why your foothills are in full bloom." "That's what they call a hem pattern!" "...Ah! There's something I need to ask you." "Somewhere around your waist—what was it called? The Fuji cult? Yeah, the Fuji cult! They say it's there—where exactly is it⁉ Tell me, please!" "The castle folks told me wanderers in Fuji's foothills end up in either the Fuji cult or Kōketsu Castle—one or the other." "So my cousin Mr. Shōsaburō must've wandered into the Fuji cult's mystical realm."

“If it’s our lord’s command, there’s no choice but to obey.” “I’ll have to sneak into the Fuji cult and track down Mr. Shōsaburō.” “To find a man, I’ll journey beyond distant seas and mountains!” “It’s written plain as day in the folk song verses!” “So let’s have a little chat—which way should I go about this, eh?”

Yet Fuji stood silent and solemn, its brow furrowed. The resilient mountain surface, bathed directly in the refreshing morning sun, shone with hydrangea-colored brilliance. The accumulated snow had half-melted, and the slopes below the midpoint lay bare.

The green of the sea of trees remained as it was last year, blackened and rusted like iron, but soon this year's fresh leaves would undoubtedly swell with new verdure. Here and there were patches of crimson mist—if not peach blossoms, then mountain cherry blossoms. Now a flock of mountain doves soared up like a tornado. Then they scattered in all directions with a sudden burst. But gathering once more, they sliced through the sunlight with their gray wings and came soaring to the lakeshore. Then suddenly changing direction, they turned back toward the sea of trees. They must have been startled by something. Sure enough, a single hawk soared up from a pine treetop and chased after the flock of doves.

The lake surface shone like silver in one area and rippled in the wind in another. The lake water, awakened from its long hibernation, still seemed somehow dazed and half-awake. It swelled sluggishly with lingering drowsiness. And thus its color remained dull. The only lively ones were the waterfowl, raucously quacking while splashing water away with their paddles. And now the red-sailed ship glided away as if sliding.

At the bow and stern, there were boatmen. They were young, sturdy boatmen wearing robes of kōketsu cloth—two of those very boatmen who had abducted Gentarō to Kōketsu Castle in early autumn last year. “Feels great! The wind blows! It’s a warm wind! A spring breeze!” Gentarō continued to ramble on excitedly.

“Boatman, I’m begging you—turn us around!” “Spin the ship around completely!” “Circle all around the lake now!” “Grab the halyard!” “Change direction!”

There, the ship moved along the shore and continued forward in a circular path. “Hey, a rabbit! It’s leaping!” Gentarō clapped his hands joyfully.

Gentarō clapped his hands in delight. It was because a chestnut-colored rabbit had leaped out from between the dead grass on the shore and disappeared into a thicket of bushes.

At the chestnut tree, a squirrel chittered. In the hollow of a rotten tree, a wildcat growled at something. "Oh! A strange boat's driftin' this way!" He shouted this while pointing. A weathered, sullied dugout canoe drifted sluggishly toward the mist, drawn by the water's pull. The red-sailed ship and dugout canoe gradually drew nearer. Then they attempted to slip swiftly past each other.

In the bottom of the dugout canoe lay a young samurai, collapsed. A pallid face, sunken eyes, arms and legs caked in blood—he bore no resemblance to a living, breathing human.

“Oh, how pitiful—he’s dead.”

Gentarō muttered. Yet at that moment, the red-sailed ship was already sailing several boat-lengths ahead.

The distance gradually increased. And then, before long, the dugout canoe was enveloped in mist and disappeared from view.

A gentle breeze. Sunlight. Wildflowers. Waterfowl. Yamagami Lake’s spring was tranquil. And thus it was as though nothing had happened. Undoubtedly the dugout canoe was being drawn by the water and would soon lie moored sideways at Kōketsu Castle’s watergate. Then the watergate would open. Then a separate fate would carve itself out of its own accord.

The red-sailed ship arrived at the shore. Kōsaka Gentarō disembarked. Treading on the morning dew of spring, he embarked on a new journey.

From the direction of the sea of trees came that familiar bird catcher's song. Now the bird catcher comes forth!

………………………

But that voice too soon vanished. At last, the morning sun turned into the midday sun, and the dew on the plants and grasses began to vanish. And thus, Lake Motosu fell into a stillness where nothing moved except for waterfowl.

VI

"I remembered my past," "I want... no—I must see Kōfu again."

The Masked Castle Lord muttered.

Though night had only just fallen, Kōketsu Castle lay in utter silence, not a single sound to be heard. The guests too seemed to have gone to sleep.

A single lamp was lit in the room. A white moth that had fluttered in through the window left distinct spots on the dark floor where the lamplight did not reach. Then it fluttered about and suddenly stopped midair. There was nothing strange about that. It was because there was a black desk there.

On the other side of the desk was the Kōketsu Castle Lord. He sat on a camp stool. The profile of his lead-colored mask and the shoulder of his crimson jinbaori—crafted from kōketsu cloth—glistened in the lamplight, resembling some grotesque sculpture. Sacredness was an appellation without parallel. The malignant disease he bore had no equal in this world. And it was a sacred disease. As God remained ever lonely, so too did he dwell in perpetual solitude. What brought joy to his isolation was Kōsaka Gentarō’s visit; through it, he had recovered long-forgotten kinship bonds. Thus he permitted Gentarō to live unrestrainedly, even flouting castle edicts. And thus he ever watched those deeds from shadowed places.

From Gentarō's unrestrained actions, he recalled his own boyhood's unrestrained life. From Gentarō's singing voice, he recalled the popular songs he had often sung in his youth. Even into his misanthropic heart, the flavor of human compassion had begun to creep in unnoticed. And so during those days, he was even happy.

But that Gentarō had left. He had departed at today's dawn. And once more, desolate loneliness welled up within the Castle Lord’s heart. There existed nothing lovable near him. Likely even in days to come, no solace would visit him. Loneliness. Desolation. Loneliness. Desolation. Undoubtedly this would endure eternally. Finding even that fleeting comfort now tormented him.

"I remembered the past. "I wanted to go to Kōfu and see." It was a yearning from the very depths of his heart. The him of old would never have even dreamed of such a thing. He, the bearer of this sacred malady—no matter where he might go, he would likely receive no welcome. Hometown was but another name for cruelty. Only those who achieved worldly success were accepted in their hometowns. He—the Castle Lord—was no success. Even if he went to his hometown of Kōfu, what comfort could he possibly find?

Yet he was hungry. He had wished to be sated. He was not one to choose his food.

When he rose unsteadily, a knocking sound came at the room's door. “Enter,” he said dazedly.

The one who entered was Manbei.

“An honored guest has arrived.”

“I see,” he continued vacantly, “Nothing unusual. Who is it?” “An unusual guest of honor has arrived. They came aboard a dugout canoe characteristic of the Fuji cult... A young samurai. He had lost consciousness. But with care, he has been revived.” Manbei bowed deferentially. “Very well,” the Castle Lord said coldly. “According to protocol—to the guest room. Now, Manbei, prepare the ship!”

“Where are you going?”

“Prepare the ship!” “Open the watergate!”

The Masked Castle Lord repeated.

Two shadows moved in tandem, proceeding along the long corridor. When the figures vanished, the sound of the watergate opening echoed. Next came the sound of sails flapping.

That night, the moon did not appear. The sky and the heart of the lake were filled with nothing but stars. Then a drum sounded. A conch trumpet answered with its high-pitched wail. The sail of the ship racing across the darkness-drained lake remained undimmed by night's ink-black hue, blazing crimson—for it was woven of Kōketsu cloth.

Chapter Fourteen

I The Masked Castle Lord went ashore, and the ship turned back and departed. The foothills of Mount Fuji were shrouded in darkness. Stars alone drilled holes into the sky. Through that pitch-black lacquered night, two flames receded into the distance. One was the robe worn by the Masked Castle Lord traveling overland; the other was the sail of the sailing ship. The sail and robe, crafted from Kōketsu cloth, glowed like flames in the darkness as they parted ways—one across water, the other over land. Longing for his homeland’s soil, yearning for his homeland’s people, he set his course toward Kōfu.

But would the people of his homeland truly welcome him? He was a bearer of galloping leprosy. He was the bearer of a "sacred disease." Sacred meant "there are not two." That was its meaning. That was what 'unparalleled' meant. If God were not "the only one," then it could never be called "sacred." It is precisely because God is "the only one," "all things," and "the universe" that He is deemed "sacred." The Masked Castle Lord’s leprosy was the only one of its kind in the world. It was the last remaining entity. Leprosy may be abundant in this world. However, in terms of its malignancy, the Castle Lord’s leprosy had no parallel elsewhere in existence.

The Masked Castle Lord walked on.

Night dew that had pooled on last year’s grass pattered down. His legs were wrapped tightly with white cloth, leaving no gaps. Therefore, they should not have been cold. Illuminated by the light of his robe, a space measuring one ken square glowed around him. Within the suddenly flared halo of light, the crimson robe burned like a flame, advancing ever forward.

His gait was less a "walk" and more a wandering. No—it was more of a stagger. He staggered left and right as he pressed ever forward. The Shōshō mask he wore, illuminated by his crimson robe, shone with the same hue. The area around its forehead glistened wetly, looking as though droplets of blood might drip-drip down from there to beneath his feet at any moment. However, that face remained expressionless. Only when tall grass blades and sideways-jutting tree branches blocked his path did they cast shadows that seemed either oddly comical or sorrowfully forlorn.

Though his gait resembled a staggering wander, his pace was swift. For from far ahead, the voice of his homeland was calling. He even ran like a war arrow. For at that moment, the voice of his homeland reached him with particular clarity. But he soon slackened his pace and let out a labored gasp. The sound of footsteps parting the grass and the occasional gasps that escaped were the only sounds in the foothills of the night growing ever deeper.

A length of cloth blazed like flame, bearing atop its gathered peak a Noh mask with thick slanted brows, long fish-shaped eyes, a sharply carved nose, and half-parted lips—and to think this apparition moved through the desolate wilderness of starless night—what words could possibly describe it? The Masked Castle Lord walked on.

The wilderness ended and became a deep forest, and when he pushed into that forest, his figure vanished for a time. However, before long, a mass of flames wove its way between the trees. When the birch trees welcomed him, their trunks—dusted as if with powder—reflected off his robe and took on a peach hue for a time. However, the moment he departed, they were swallowed again by darkness. Goumi shrubs blocked his path, and when he detoured around them, a mountain dove that had been nesting there awoke in alarm at the light. And for a long time afterward, it did not cease its cries.

In one spot, there was a layer of lava. Clear water flowed along its base. As he passed along its edge, for an instant, the water turned to fire.

While yearning for warm human connections, the Masked Castle Lord walked on, heading toward his birthplace of Kōfu.

The forest gave way to a bald mountain. He crossed over that bald mountain. There, a valley lay sprawled. And when he descended to the valley bottom, he took his first rest. The night showed no sign of breaking. He had to walk. Another mass of burning flames crept along the slope of the valley. Kōfu, oh Kōfu! My beloved Kōfu! And so, he reached the top.

A wolf was sleeping. He was not hungry. It was no longer winter. His prey was everywhere. In the hollow of a decayed tree that had fallen to the ground, he stretched out his satiated body at full length and slept contentedly. Something awakened him. It was a firelight devoid of heat. He violently emerged from the den. But immediately hunched his back, tucked his tail between his legs, and pinned his ears back. Why aren’t you howling, wolf?! For it was because something terrifying—unlike anything he had encountered since birth—had just rushed past before him.

II When he reached Lake Shōjin's shore, the spring night still showed no sign of breaking. He walked north along the bank. Crossing Fujimaru's mountain stream, he laboriously gathered up his robe's hem. From beneath the lifted hem emerged two legs swathed in thick white cloth—what an uncanny vision they made. Awkwardly bending those limbs, he picked his way across the stepping stones. Mushōno was a larch forest infested with venomous snakes. He walked without fear. Into the woods he went. Then came a susurrant hiss—countless serpents raised sickle-shaped heads from withered grass, surging forth. Yet none dared strike. They arched their backs like storm waves, coiling in place. This unexpected sight—this blazing crimson radiance where none should be—must have shocked even their dull senses.

He passed along the edge of Otohisa's ancient pond and swept through Chinamori's age-old battlefield as though running. The Ashigawa River flowed swift. And when he had come that far, the edge of the eastern mountains began to color. "The night ends." he muttered.

Yet he pressed onward. The summit of Mount Ōgaku, rising 1,220 shaku, gradually took on a pale blue hue. Yet its slopes remained dark, the entire mountain still slumbering. Shaka-dake across from Ōgaku stirred halfway toward wakefulness. Then the storm erupted. A dawn tempest. All at once trees began rustling, wild grasses bending low. The mixed grove—bare of new leaves—thrust its branches skyward like broom handles, lashing them left and right. The stand of evergreens shivered their year-old dark foliage with weary languor.

Now, a violent gust blew down from the summit of Mount Ōgaku. At the mountain’s base, the larch forest was the first to shudder. The cedar grove that followed soon raised a moaning howl. And then—a hill of withered grass. The storm struck even this. It mowed down the desiccated stalks. Yet undiminished in force, the tempest charged onward. Beech, hornbeam, red pine, black pine. —Nothing in the storm’s path escaped its baptism. It sent rocks tumbling from the valley. It flushed out a warren of hares.

And then, it sent the Masked Castle Lord’s robe swirling around his body—left and right, front and back.

Now, the violent gust struck the Castle Lord. Until now, it had been merely a single beam of light shining quietly yet resplendently. But now this was no longer so. Now it was a raging hellfire. It became utter living immobility. It pressed ever forward. Only one thing remained motionless. That thing was none other than the mask. At last, the storm abandoned him and raced toward Shaka-dake. Suddenly, around his left hand, the same turbulence welled up. From groves to woods, woods to forest, forest to plain, plain to hill. Then it crashed against the mountain's bones. The storm's final remnant showed itself when a young boar—awakening from rocky slumber—roused the tree spirit and roared.

The surroundings became deathly quiet.

Nothing that moved remained.

Only the Castle Lord alone kept advancing ever forward. From around that time, the stars began to vanish. The smallest speck of a star was the first to lose its light. Then two more, then three more, vanished one after another. The aqua hue of the eastern sky began gradually changing its color, precisely from around this time.

The breaking of night too had its order. First, the dark aqua gradually became transparent, eventually turning into a pale birch color. Then it gradually turned indigo, and slowly transformed into egg-yellow. There, crimson was applied. Just as flower petals might bloom, the crimson spread. The mountains' skin revealed folds, the sunken areas remaining dark, the protruding ones tinged with color.

Around this time, sparrows began chirping in the treetops. A symphony of color and sound was now about to envelop the foothills.

When the greater part of the sky flushed crimson and that red reached its zenith, a single golden arrow shot resplendently from Mount Ōgaku’s peak into the heavens. Then countless golden arrows streaked across the sky in all directions. The Masked Castle Lord’s Kōketsu robe completely absorbed that light, becoming an ordinary crimson garment.

Three

A single oak tree stood.

It was extremely tall. When the sunlight seemed to strike a single branch on that treetop, today's sun first revealed its brow at the summit of Mount Ōgaku.

The foothills were wet with dew.

The dew glowed all at once. However, in the next instant, the foothills were shackled by mist and vanished from sight. The Masked Castle Lord descended down and down through that mist. Furuse, Iida, Hashigo, Shin'ya—scattered here and there were small hamlets. He intentionally avoided the hamlets and pressed onward and onward.

Gradually, the mist rose. His legs had grown weary. He loathed being seen by others.

Eventually, he came to the slope of Takidoyama. A single massive weeping cherry tree stood thickly covered in blossoms all the way to its roots.

In that shade, he decided to sleep.

He faced the lead-colored Shōjō Noh mask toward the sky through the cherry blossoms, piled dried grass behind his head, stretched out both legs, laid his hands together, and lay down on his back upon the ground.

Would he truly be able to sleep? Even he was human. He would have to get some sleep. But his sleep would not be perfect. Yet he was fatigued. Before long, he appeared to fall asleep. It was a strange tableau—the Jindai cherry tree’s weeping branches were so laden with blossoms they seemed ready to burst. And thus, those flowers were past their prime. And they scattered profusely without cease. Some fell upon the mask, others upon his robe, still others upon his limbs—the falling blossoms sought to bury him.

The spring afternoon sun was warm. It steamed the flowers, steamed the people, steamed the earth, steamed the grass. Heat waves rose from the earth and ascended toward the sky.

Filtered through flowers and branches, sunlight the color of new wine dappled both the mask upon the Masked Castle Lord’s face and his body beneath. He had fallen asleep. But the mask did not sleep. The fish-shaped eyes, devoid of expression, remained wide open. The lips, equally expressionless, stayed parted. The surroundings blazed with vitality, all things pulsing with raw life. Butterbur shoots thrust through soil, purple violets exuded fragrance, dandelion blossoms splayed their hands, and primroses beckoned to bees.

A breeze that lured all varieties of spring flowers toward conception drifted from blossom to blossom.

Then, a pheasant cried out. Then, a mountain dove called out. Then, a skylark sang. Flowing through the ocean of the sky, singing a wandering song in full voice—it was the skylark's song that would not easily cease!

The Masked Castle Lord’s sleep did not break. All things strained and strove to grow. Only the Masked Castle Lord's flesh marched inexorably toward ruin. A dreadful occurrence took place. A sparrow flew down to the ground and looked about as if searching for food. Then it discovered the Castle Lord. There it flew innocently and landed with a hop upon his hand. The cloth was wrapped all the way to the back of his hand. Only his fingers were exposed. But could they truly be called fingers? At any rate, there were only three. They had neither nails nor flesh. What remained were naught but decayed bones. Moreover, they curved like hooks. And from their tips oozed a thick, viscous liquid of eerie aspect.

It was "sacred liquid." It was not called pus. When the sparrow touched it, a dreadful occurrence took place. Convulsions! Wing-flapping! Full-body paralysis! The sparrow stiffened like a ball.

And then it plopped to the ground. It fell as a corpse.

The blossoms scattered without cease.

A deluge of light and music drowned heaven and earth. The Masked Castle Lord’s sleep did not break.

From the thicket of beech trees beside him came the sound of noisy chattering. What soon appeared were a dozen Kōshū monkeys. They were playing hide-and-seek. Moving from branch to branch, they frolicked with wild abandon.

A particularly large male monkey discovered the Masked Castle Lord.

IV

There, he called his companions. Since the Castle Lord's condition differed from that of humans they normally encountered, they first surrounded him in a circle and stared curiously. From among them crept the large monkey on stealthy feet. It tugged at the robe's sleeve. Yet the Masked Castle Lord remained motionless. The emboldened monkey drew nearer and pulled at the hook-like fingers. Still, the Masked Castle Lord did not stir. All at once, the monkeys cheered. Thoroughly pleased, they began imitating the large male one after another.

Still, the Masked Castle Lord did not move. Because their plaything remained so unresponsive, they gradually grew bored. There, they abandoned the Masked Castle Lord and resumed their former game of hide-and-seek.

Had a little over ten minutes passed? The large male monkey that had climbed the weeping cherry tree let out a shriek. And then it rolled down from the branch. Convulsions! Contraction! And then rigor! ……The large male monkey became a corpse in an instant. Next, several Kōshū monkeys followed the same path and died. The world’s only galloping leprosy took the lives of those who touched it.

The Masked Castle Lord’s sleep did not break.

The beauty of nature remained unchanged. Along the distant mountainside, a line of large deer ran past. The time had come when the shrikes ceased their calls. The long spring day drew toward dusk. The time had come when the crimson robe of Kōketsu cloth once again blazed like flame. One by one, the stars were born.

At that moment, the Masked Castle Lord awoke. And then, unhurriedly, he rose to his feet. It was as if a single pillar of fire stretched upward unrestrainedly. At its summit was a face.

“To Kōfu,” he groaned. The pillar of fire began moving sluggishly. It gradually accelerated. A nostalgic call from home sounded. He had to hurry. He had to hurry!

While following the Kajiya Highway, the Castle Lord ran as if flying. The villages of Sayūkuchi, Shinkōji, Nakaoka, Takikawa, Rokudai, Terao, and Shirai Kawara stood scattered along the way. He naturally avoided them as he passed through. However, the villagers had likely caught sight of him. "Oh, a glowing figure is passing by!" "Oh! A pillar of fire streaks past!" "Something terrible is coming!"

“O God, protect us!” Some of them might have prayed. “To Kōfu!”

And the Castle Lord uttered groaningly. And then he ran on single-mindedly.

People of Kōfu，beware! The “sacred disease” sought entry. Lock your gates—quickly! Close your windows—quickly! Let none venture outdoors! Do not gaze! Do not make contact! Take utmost care! Avoid all others! Even Shingen’s martial might could not halt this. Not Baba’s stratagems，nor Yamagata’s cunning，nor Sanada’s schemes，nor Kōsaka’s wiles could stay its course. Neither kinsmen’s blood ties，nor ancestral elders’ wisdom，nor vanguard troops’ valor，nor generals’ prowess，nor young lords’ vigor，nor magistrates’ decrees—no courage could repel this blight.

More than the valiant warriors of Uesugi, Hōjō, Imagawa, and Oda—these enemies—one must fear the Masked Castle Lord. The Masked Castle Lord ran onward.

He passed Hama, Ochiai, and Kominato. He finally crossed the Fuefuki River. He came to Yamashiro, Shimokajiya, Kose, Shimokawara, Sumiyoshi, Ogawara, and Aze. And there, in the far distance, the lights of Kōfu's castle town came into view. “Hometown!” And the Castle Lord spoke longingly.

“Hometown!”

And he said once more.

From the spring of Eiroku 2 onward, a great pestilence arose in Kōfu. However, the Fudoki records it thus. However, very few would know by what paths it traveled or in what manner it spread.

A bridal procession was passing through. It was night in Kōfu's castle town. The lantern lights glowed. A large crowd surrounded the bride and walked murmuring. The procession tried to turn at the crossroads. Then a pillar of fire abruptly erupted. At its peak was a face. People scattered in all directions. Only the bride remained. Trembling, she stood. Then the master of the pillar spoke. “People of my homeland… Be blessed!” He touched the bride. It was a caressing touch.

There, the bride said timidly. “O God, I thank you.” The master of the pillar of fire turned at the crossroads, and the crimson light vanished in an instant.

Once again, the procession began to move. And the bride groaned. “It feels like insects are crawling all over my body.” Then the bride spoke again. “Ah—my whole body burns like fire… Ah—both elbows itch… Ah—my knees itch… Everyone—what’s happening?… Now my brows itch…” “…They seem swollen.” “…Oh—my eyes have changed.” “…Something seems to be dripping from my body.” “…Oh—oh—what is happening?!” “…My little finger and ring finger have bent.” “…I try to straighten them—they won’t budge.” “…It hurts! It hurts all over my body!” “Oh—oh—my legs won’t move anymore.” “…My body is so weary I can’t bear it.” “…My legs are cramping up… I can’t bear it.” “…My fingers…!” “My fingers…!” “My ten fingers…!” “My fingers have bent like hooks.” “…My eyes… I can’t close them!”

"...Ah... something vile was oozing out..." ……”

But the people celebrated. “God has bestowed His blessing.” “What an auspicious wedding! What an auspicious wedding!” “Did you see that face?! How divine it was!” “How divine it was!” “A halo was shining from your body!” However, the bride continued to groan. When they had gone more than two blocks, she suddenly pitched forward and collapsed. Chaos erupted at once. An old man held the bride. Innumerable lanterns were thrust forward. At that moment, the bride’s bridal hood was removed.

There was no bride’s face there—instead, an unknown monster’s face had thrust through the collar of her wedding finery and lay abruptly exposed to the lantern light. Her complexion was lead-colored. Countless purple spots clung like bruises. Her forehead shone like polished copper, eyebrows and eyelashes gone. Her hair too had fallen out, forehead bald to its furthest recess. Eyes! Yes—eyes! One should look at those eyes—only they remained wide open. Eyes that would never close. Lower eyelids swollen outward, capillaries distended like red silk threads. Yet vision remained. Pupils stayed fixed open. Whites filled with blood glowed like banked coals. Her mouth twisted diagonally upward, swollen thick as a futon’s hem. Its hue matched leaden skin. Thick drool oozed downward. From ear bases to neck, edema clustered dense. “Not pus—‘sacred liquid’!” It seeped from swollen flesh.

Her ten fingers bent like hooks, and her ten nails had not even a trace left. They had all fallen out. Edema had formed in both her hands and feet. Her eyebrows swelled in the blink of an eye. And then, her face revealed a lion-like visage. A little finger plopped off. But she was not dead. Her consciousness remained remarkably clear. However, her entire body was paralyzed.

She screamed "Agh!" Because neuralgia had struck her. The necrotic process that would gradually occur over three to five years, or even ten, and longer periods of twenty to thirty years, had been completed in an instant. It was the nature of galloping leprosy. She was no longer a bride. She had to abandon her beloved groom. She had to abandon her home. She had to become a beggar.

The old man who had been holding her screamed and released his grip. The lantern flames scattered chaotically. The wedding procession dispersed in all directions. Voices calling out to one another became entangled.

The second victim was the old man. He had been infected with the "sacred disease" simply for holding the bride. Eyebrows fell out, eyelashes fell out; purple spots, edema, and nodules made his appearance grotesque. The third to be claimed as a victim was the unfortunate old man’s wife. Merely for nursing her husband, she plunged into the same fate. At that moment, a group of lanterns came rushing in, brightly illuminating the dark night. It was that the groom, having heard of the disturbance, came running with his family.

The groom was adorned in ceremonial attire but embraced the bride who had collapsed on the ground. Yet overcome by terror, he cast aside the bride he held. Before their eyes, his manly form transformed into a horrifying visage. Thus he collapsed entwined with the bride, falling prostrate as a leper. It was an illness that must not be touched. This was the "do not touch" disease. The parents of both bride and groom each tended to their children.

And so, the parents too touched what they should not have touched. And thus, they all became bound to the same fate.

Five

It was a night of terror.

Kōfu’s castle town under Shingen’s rule—which had never once suffered foreign invasion—now found itself tormented by an unforeseen evil disease. Within that single night alone, dozens upon dozens must have collapsed. A traveler who had been plodding along was clung to by another traveler and tended to them. And they too became a patient. Patients went on creating patients. Groans, curses, insults, cries of grief—they could be heard at every crossroads.

The night was already quite late. And tonight, there was no moon. Even the stars were sparse.

Lord Shingen’s mansion alone lay in deathly silence.

Mt. Yumemi towered in the southeast, and Tsutsujigasaki lay to the northeast.

The mountains stood dark and still. But the towns descended into madness.

It was "the terror of red."

There was the sound of the crowd fleeing. That sound echoed through the houses. They were fleeing in alarm at something. Then came the sound of gathering footsteps again. They had to cluster together in one place; otherwise, the terror would be too terrifying to bear. “Where did he go?” “Where is he?”

“What’s going on? What’s going on! What happened?!” “What happened?!”

The shutters banged open. The windows clattered open. Contrarily, the shutters slammed shut. The thud of a latch being dropped followed. A large star that had slipped through the clouds cast its shimmering reflection into the moat. A samurai dashed along Kajikōji Street toward the mansion.

Then, from the shadow of the Sone estate’s earthen wall, a samurai came running out. “Wait!” “What are you doing?!” “Wait!” “Shut up!” Suddenly, swords were drawn against each other. Soon, a short cry rang out. One samurai was cut down, and another samurai looked on.

It was Masugata Tōma. He was my close friend... Why did I kill him?... I don't know why. Because I was terrified. ...I can't go on living... I'll cut my belly open... I'll cut it open.

He sat on the ground and cut open his belly. It was an act born of the red terror. In one house they grappled with each other. In another they wailed and screamed. Something—yes, something terrifying—must have infiltrated. But eventually night gave way to dawn. A pitiful procession passed by. A young woman in bridal attire stood unsteadily at the head, a square white cloth hanging over her face. A young man followed. Though resplendent in groom's finery, he too hid his face behind white cloth. Behind them came dozens more—all faces shrouded in white cloths—crawling on hands and knees, dragging themselves forward, or shuffling along with leaden steps.

Those with fingers torn off, those missing a leg, those with arms removed, those with rotting ears—they were lepers created overnight. They abandoned their homes, left their hometown, and wandered without knowing where to go. And then, the bell clanged. It was a bell hung on the chest.

The sound echoed through the houses. The sky hung heavily overcast. And then, the bell clanged again. Along the highway at the outskirts of the castle town, the procession moved sluggishly onward. Dogs barked, chickens crowed, and smoke rose from farmhouses. In the fields, rapeseed flowers were spilling over in full bloom.

The holy chants sung by the procession gradually faded into the distance. It was a journey with no destination to return to.

The voices of the holy chants faded into the distance.

When the day of anxiety ended, the night of terror descended. The castle town at night stood eerie and desolate, with not a soul daring to pass through. The bell tolled midnight.

At that moment, a pale red light faintly shone upon the corner of the stable’s earthen wall. Gradually, the light took on a reddish hue, until it became a blazing pillar of fire. It advanced toward Tsuchiya Uemon’s estate, following along the earthen wall. The expressionless mask of the major general remained perched atop the pillar of fire. To bless Shingen’s residential castle and the town of Kōfu—it was for this purpose that the Masked Castle Lord had appeared.

“My cherished homeland! My longed-for Kōfu! Accept my blessing!”

Chapter Fifteen

I

“Is Kōfu really that terrible?” “That’s news to me.”

The one who said this was the potter.

This was the third station of Mount Fuji.

A fire was burning in the hearth. It looked as viscous as candy.

Today, Mount Fuji was shrouded in clouds. The air hung strangely humid. The small birds grew listless too, hiding in the shade of leaves and refusing to sing. "It doesn't make for much of a story," "The saying 'streets filled with starved corpses' comes from Kyoto during the Ōnin era, but Kōfu today's so packed with lepers you can barely move." Though they called it spring, the cold lingered. Shielding his hands over the hearth's fire mouth, Mōri Shinbee—leader of the grass bandits—spoke with languid disinterest. "They say a pillar of fire appears." The potter inquired curiously.

"Yes, they say it appears every night." "So that’s the source of the plague." “Yeah, that seems to be the case.” "Did you see it? The pillar of fire?" “Whether by fortune or misfortune, I didn’t see it. … I went to Kōfu’s castle town thinking there might be decent work, but just ten days prior—it was such chaos that work was out of the question.” “I just scrambled back here in a panic.” Mōri Shinbee gave a bitter smile there. “You fool. You spineless coward.” The potter sneered. “That’s the kind of chaos where you should’ve taken Shingen’s head in the confusion.”

“What? Shingen’s head? That’s no joke! What’re you saying? You think such a reckless stunt’s even possible? And I don’t have any grudge like that either.” “Even without resentment, it’d be a feat. He’s Japan’s foremost magnate—certified by all of society. Return to your former lord and you’ll be reinstated—granted a fief of ten, twenty thousand koku.”

“No way, no way!” Mōri Shinbee clumsily shook both hands. “First off, I’ve no intention of returning to service for some fief.” “My current station suits me well enough.” “Hmph.” The potter snorted. “So you’re content being chief of ten thieves?” “But I should outrank you.” “True enough—I’ve no underlings.” “How pitiable to be all alone.” “I’ve my own designs.”

“I would very much like to hear that. What sort of plan might that be?”

“Because I’m confident.” “And besides, I hate humans.” “You hate humans? “This is interesting.” “Then you should hurry up and die.” Then, without laughing, the potter—

“That’s right—I hate humans. That’s why I’ll preserve my health and live a very long life.”

Shinbee didn't understand the meaning. He silently stared at the hearth fire.

"And then," the potter said offhandedly. “Your neck looks terribly easy to cut.”

Mōri Shinbee involuntarily shuddered.

“What are you saying? You creepy bastard!” he blurted out, hastily pulling his neck back. “Death itself is not frightening,” the potter remarked in a calm tone, as if speaking to himself.

"What's terrifying is the association with death... And what's truly dreadful is being alive... Yet humans cling to life eternally under death's shadow... Because they crave that very terror... How tedious life would be without fear... Cowards commit suicide." "They let death's shadow devour them." "...But enough of that—let's hope it doesn't rain."

The potter glanced up at the sky.

The sky was uniformly gray.

It was undoubtedly midday now. But the sun was nowhere to be seen. A mass of black clouds gathered in one spot. A single white streak lined its edge. The sun might be there.

Taking a log in hand, the potter pushed it into the fire. Sparks burst forth and scattered in all directions. One of them flew over and burned the potter's left cheek.

“Shingen must be troubled. No matter how strong one is in battle, they cannot prevail against a terrible disease after all.”

“That’s right,” Shinbee nodded. “It means they’re panicking.” “Fudō Zazan—I suppose even this battle standard has become invalid.”

“Moreover, Uesugi has sent troops and pressed toward the border.”

"I see. It's finally getting interesting." "Lord Hōjō has also sent troops and pressed toward the border, it seems." "Hmm... I see. Lord Hōjō as well." The potter looked oddly breathless, "The lord seems ever more vigorous... It's been ages since we both became rōnin." "But those days were stifling." "...I don't find them nostalgic... My current position suits me best... What about you? Ever feel like reminiscing?" Shinbee's tone was sarcastic. "Me?" The potter said listlessly. "I'm trying not to remember."

Two “Ahahaha! I bet that’s right!” Shinbee grew increasingly sarcastic.

“For some people, memories are pure joy.” “You don’t seem to share that.” “But what’s this about?” “Hōjō Naiki of the Hōjō clan—was he not a samurai of noble lineage?” “The foremost among generals, blood kin to his lord.” “A peerless warrior and martial arts master—surely cherished by his lord.” “You should’ve had every blessing.” “Ah, those dear old days.” “This is how it should’ve been.” “Yet you call memories painful?” “I don’t understand. Not one bit.” “Ahahaha! Makes no sense!” “Though... thinking it through... maybe there’s an unavoidable reason.” “Oh yes—a classic case.” “Must hurt to remember.” “That’s why you became rōnin.” “Disgrace in battle? Manageable. But cuckolded? No shame cuts deeper.” “But even that couldn’t be helped.” “Right—couldn’t be helped at all.” “But worst was how the household’s sympathy flocked to those adulterers—never reaching you, the cuckold.”

“With a face like Lord Hōjō Naiki’s, even his own wife would grow sick of him.” “And that wife of his—Sonoyo—she was the household’s greatest beauty.” “Tomo Gennojō played it well—to seize that Sonoyo and flee the province makes him a fortunate man indeed.” “And that Tomo Gennojō—he was the handsomest in the household. What a perfect couple they made,” people whispered behind your back.” “Even you must have been overwhelmed.” “So you left the Hōjō clan and became a rōnin, embarked on that clumsy woman’s vendetta… No wonder those memories pain you.”

Mōri Shinbee spat venom with amusement, one poisonous word after another.

“Well now, there’s one thing I want you to hear.” “There’s nowhere else.” “The adulterous couple’s hiding place.” I casually gleaned this information.

“How’s that? How’s that? You’re dying to know, aren’t you?” “Heard it in Kōfu’s castle town.” “Could tell you if you like.” “But giving it free’d be a damn waste.” “Hand over some coin. Eh? How much?”

The potter did not respond. He slowly stretched out. He laid his right hand as a pillow, placed his left hand naturally at his side, closed his lips and eyes, and lay listening in silence. “Hey, what’s wrong, Master Potter? If you’re just putting on airs, you can stop now.” “If you’re gonna posture like that, then get lost.” “True enough—back in the old days, there was a clear pecking order between us.” “I was just a lowly storehouse magistrate; you were some fancy high-ranking samurai.” “But now we’re equals.” “Comrades crawling with demons and monsters in Mount Fuji’s foothills, ain’t we?” “What difference could there possibly be?” “Yeah—just this much already feels damn good.” “Exactly, exactly—for my part anyway. What past could there be worth missing?” “Ooooh… What’ll it be, Potter? Pay up or shut up? Don’tcha wanna know?”

He pressed on with his words, his intensity mounting.

Shinbee looked frighteningly delighted. Back when they had served the same household, he had been oppressed due to their difference in status; even after both became bandits, he found himself intimidated by the other's superior skills—venting that pent-up resentment seemed to bring him inexpressible delight. Even as he pressed his words insistently, he never ceased his hollow snickering.

But the potter remained unperturbed. He laid his right hand as a pillow, placed his left hand naturally at his side, closed his eyes, and kept his lips shut. Yet his face was ashen. His complexion grew increasingly pale. And then, the fingertips of his left hand convulsed faintly, faintly.

“Shinbee,” the potter said abruptly. It was a calm voice. Ice-cold. Yet threaded with dread. “For your own sake. Stop talking.” “What?” Shinbee spat spitefully. “Still putting on airs?”

“Poke at old wounds, and they’ll burst.” “Oh ho—your old wounds.” “No good… The throbbing’s starting.”

"What a pity, eh? How tragic, how tragic!"

“Blood seeks vengeance,” warned the potter. “Mark my words.” “So what?” retorted Shinbee. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Poke at old wounds and they’ll rupture.” “And then fresh blood comes gushing out,” Shinbee sneered, completing the metaphor. “Blood demands repayment,” the potter repeated coldly. “You’d do well to remember that.” He lowered his left hand to his abdomen.

But Shinbee did not notice. “Sangōme-dono, my my—what a stingy fellow you are.” “Alright then, I’ll tell you for free. This tale I heard in Kōfu... like a dream, yet not without roots.” “At Kai-Shinano’s border—deep in Fujimi Highlands, Yatsugatake’s valleys—they say there’s a Pure Land Paradise.” “A monastery stands there.” “A hideaway for illicit lovers—the abbess being a nun.” “But they say she keeps her hair.” “Take refuge there once, and they’ll shelter you—no matter your wicked deeds.” “Your two targets likely dwell there too.” “A nun? No allure there.” “But hair kept changes things.” “Well—a fine paradise indeed.” “No separate living—lovers cohabiting.” “Thus lives of repentance.” “This repentance ain’t half bad.”

Three

The potter remained unperturbed as ever.

However, the left hand gradually moved. It moved inch by inch. Eventually, it slid down from the abdomen. It moved toward the feet, feeling its way through the soil with its fingertips. Shinbee still did not notice.

Somewhat, the fight had gone out of him.

Because his opponent remained too composed, he felt he'd missed his mark. And he grew anxious. He remembered wanting to say even crueler things to provoke a reaction. "What a splendid business. I've grown fond of this adultery trade." "I've really taken to this illicit business." "So let's search there too." "Doubt there's any witless husbands there." "A husband like you though."

“Shinbee.”

And at that moment, the potter said. It was a strained voice. “What’s this? You need something?”

Shinbee licked his lips. "I think I'll switch sides." "Huh? Switch sides? What're you talking about?" At this, even Shinbee was shocked. "Shinbee, step aside from there."

“What?!” Shinbee bristled with ferocity. “Don’t overreach yourself. Things aren’t what they used to be.”

“I met Kōmyō Ubasoku.” Even during this exchange, the potter’s hand kept creeping toward his feet—inch by inch toward his feet. The tachi had been placed there. It began sliding in that direction. “To the Fuji cult’s leader...?”

“That’s right,” the potter said calmly, “I took that bastard down.” “That has nothing to do with me.” “But I got taken down too. Ever since then, I haven’t been able to kill anyone. Shizen Kamado is hungry too.” “So what? What do you mean?”

Even as he said this, Shinbee shot a sharp glance toward the enormous pot placed on the hearth, his expression one of disgust.

“Then you came along and dug up my old wound.” “How pitiful. It must be agonizing for you.” “Well then, I think I’ll switch sides.” The potter’s hand kept moving. From two sun this side of the sword’s hilt—when it reached that point, it stopped moving.

“Hey,” the potter said again. It remained a voice of composure. “Look at my eyes—they’re not open.” Indeed, those eyes stayed shut. With a heavy thud, the potter turned over.

The sword was smoothly drawn, tracing a circle upward from his waist in reverse motion with his left hand. The sunlight did not pierce through the overcast sky. And no glint came forth.

Suddenly, “Wah!”—a scream erupted.

The potter stood up.

A small bird suddenly began to sing. It wasn’t that the wind had blown.

Dandelions were blooming. They were dyed crimson. They were soaked in blood.

A corpse lay sprawled in truly grotesque configuration. Two legs jutted upward toward the overcast sky, twitching spasmodically. Arms stretched outward with fingertips clawing at empty air - a headless cadaver frozen in final convulsions. Blood streamed from the severed neck, gushing with obscene vitality. The detached head rested one ken away beside the hearth's cold stones, mouth clamped around withered grass like some macabre bridle.

Absently, the potter stood. Nothing had changed.

“But,” he said cheerfully and brought his right hand to the back of his head. “Feels good—around here." “Seems whatever was stuck came loose.” He approached the corpse, wiped his sword on its sleeve, and cleanly sheathed it. Then he grabbed both legs of the corpse and dragged it over to the pot. He took off the pot lid with one hand. Steam rose up. He threw the corpse in with a splat. Then he threw in the head. Then he put the lid on the pot.

"Now then," he pondered. “Which way should I go?” “……First, I’ll head to Kōfu anyway.” “Then I’ll go to Yatsugatake next.” “……I can probably cut people to my heart’s content.” He briskly descended the mountain.

IV

It was precisely the same day.

Along the Kajiya Highway toward Kōfu, two old men were traveling. They were of similar age, similarly clad in travel robes, and both wore long hair. One carried a short sword, the other a wooden sword—both weapons thrust at their waists. The man who had tucked the wooden sword into his waist was shouldering a medicine chest. At first glance they might have seemed master and servant, but their conversation revealed them as companions.

The owner of the wooden sword was Tsukahara Bokuden; the other was Naoe Kurando. They walked along chatting loudly and cheerfully. "How pitiful. I'll carry it," Kurando said, looking toward the medicine chest. "There's no need. I'll carry it," Bokuden replied, shaking the medicine chest. In the cultivated fields flanking the highway, rape blossoms blazed vividly under the overcast sky. The muted light intensified their colors to a nearly blinding brilliance. The two men were bound for Kōfu.

To Naoe Kurando’s sanatorium at Kagiutegahara on the foothills of Mount Fuji, leprosy patients had been flocking ten or twenty at a time over the past several days. Kurando was completely astonished. So he asked them. And thus he learned of the disorder in Kōfu. The master of the malignant disease? The pillar of fire apparition! He came to know of these things. “Ah—galloping leprosy.” He had already intuited it. “But galloping leprosy should have been eradicated”—thereupon he examined various documents concerning leprosy.

In the West, it had long been present in the Bible. “Leprosy cannot be purified.” Thus spoke Christ. It seemed to have existed in the East since ancient times as well. It already appeared in the Analects. “When Bo Niu fell ill, Confucius went to inquire after him. ‘Such a man,’ he lamented, ‘and yet such an illness!’” In Japan, it appeared to have existed since the divine age of antiquity. It appears in the Nakatomi Purification Ritual. “Kunitsu-tsumi refers to the defilement of life, the defilement of death, white leprosy, and black leprosy,” it is recorded. The term “Hakujin” referred to white leprosy, and “Kokumi” referred to black leprosy.

"In the deserts of Arabia there was a plague—galloping, it destroyed human bodies in an instant. It was eradicated during Muhammad's time." This was recorded in the *Fu-ron Hen*. "That terrifying galloping leprosy—a plague that should have been eradicated—why would it appear now?" Kurando found it utterly perplexing.

So he went to Kōfu, deciding to at least observe the situation.

Around this time, Tsukahara Bokuden—having been persuaded by Kurando—remained at the sanatorium as Kurando's faithful confidant. The two men decided to go together.

And so they were now walking. The sky looked ready for rain. “Kurando,” Bokuden called out. “Is there no medicine? No medicine to cure leprosy?”

“Well,” Kurando grimaced, “there’s no effective cure to be found. Six types—rhubarb, soap pod, white mustard seed, turmeric, coptis, and evodia—ground into fine powder and taken at dawn. At present, this is all there is. But one will likely discover it before long. No—I’ll be the one to discover it.……Then, as a gold-silver formulation, I also administer pills containing seven types—gold powder, silver powder, deer antler, white-flowered snake, crow snake, camphor, and tiger gall—but even this remains merely symptomatic therapy. In the East, they practice acupuncture, but this seems almost entirely ineffective. As pure drug therapies, they use Japanese snowbell fruit, aconite tuber, monkshood root, processed aconice, Fischer’s euphorbia, and lime—but these prove even less effective.”

“Are there many types of leprosy?” “Well, there aren’t that many. There’s macular leprosy and pemphigus, tuberculoid leprosy and paralytic leprosy. Papular leprosy and phthisis bulbi, leonine leprosy and ulcerative leprosy—but most present as mixed forms.” “Aren’t they said to be surprisingly long-lived?” “It’s because the disease progresses slowly. But galloping leprosy traverses a twenty- or thirty-year course with the momentum of a galloping horse, passing through it in an instant. That’s precisely why it’s so terrifying.”

The sky grew increasingly overcast. The two men gradually quickened their pace. “But in the end, they die, don’t they?” “All patients are meant to die.” “All humans are meant to die.” Kurando replied nonchalantly. “When their brains or internal organs are affected, leprosy patients drop dead.” “But if you ask me, all diseases are equally terrifying, without distinction.” “However, leprosy disfigures.” “That’s why people detest it so intensely.” “That’s why they fear leprosy.” “If one maintains a firm belief, even contracting leprosy holds no terror.”

The day gradually grew dark. It looked ready to rain, yet refused to fall.

Kōfu was still far away.

By the time they reached Sumiyoshi-shuku, the sun had sunk completely. It was a moonless and starless dark night.

Bokuden pricked up his ears. "Hmm?" he muttered under his breath. "Kurando, you go on ahead." "Why?" Kurando asked back. "Walking side by side would be perilous. No matter—just go ahead." And so, Kurando took the lead. "Listen well, Kurando—I'll tell you this: don't look behind you!" "Understood," Kurando replied in a hushed voice. Bokuden reached for his bokken. But nothing happened. The two men proceeded briskly.

Smoothly, Bokuden drew his bokken. The so-called spring night's floral glow—though it was called darkness, remained faintly bright. A pale line of the wooden blade appeared to float within the gloom. Bokuden fixed his eyes upon its tip. Then, as if his fighting spirit had reached its peak, "Haa!" he let out a single shout.

Five The voice must have echoed two hundred meters. The tree spirits could only return it. “That should be enough now,” Bokuden said. Then he sheathed his bokken at his waist and hoisted up the medicine box with a swing. “What on earth was that?” Kurando asked.

“Who knows? I can’t say for certain,” “But that murderous intent was overwhelming.” “I myself felt genuine fear.” “Did someone target us?” “Without doubt.” “Someone of such formidable skill?”

“Their skill was formidable,” Bokuden said, letting his voice quiver slightly. “What was formidable was their spirit.... No—in truth, there exist terrifying individuals in this world. If you were alone, you’d have been cut down. It’s because I was here that you survived.” “Was that shout one of your secret techniques?” “It’s not what you’d call a secret technique. Secret techniques of the sword? They’re trivial things. I just let out a fierce cry—that’s all. It was merely deflecting the enemy’s intent. Think of it as a Zen bark.”

“Ah, so it’s the unity of sword and Zen.” “Hmm—that’s one way to put it. But truthfully, you shouldn’t speak of it so. There is no sword, no Zen, nothing at all. I simply gave a fierce shout—nothing more.” “Fascinating. I approve.” The two marched steadily forward. Passing through Azumashuku and beyond Minamiike, they at last entered Kōfu.

At the outskirts of Sumiyoshi on Blacksmith Street, standing dazed in the thoroughfare was none other than the Third Station Potter. He released a long, hoarse sigh. "This floating world is vast. There exist formidable men. That 'Haa!' shout they unleashed—it felt like being thunderstruck. What manner of man was he? He'd seemed some feeble elder at first glance... Ah... It still echoes in these ears." Slowly, he slid the bare blade back into its scabbard. "Kōmyō Ubasoku and that old man just now—only those two have I failed to cut down."

He began walking sluggishly. It seems they've gone to Kōfu too... I've grown afraid to go to Kōfu. ...But one might call it a thrilling delight. If we were to cross paths again for a single strike—I'd want to cut him down somehow and be done with it. My skills would surely improve. My courage would surely be bolstered. He began trembling violently. It was a warrior's tremble anticipating blood.

And then, he broke into a run.

He slipped into Kōfu’s castle town.

That night, a grand council was being held at Shingen’s residence. Lined up at the front of the hall were Takeda Tenkyū, Takeda Shōyōken, Takeda Katsuyori, Ichijō Uemon, Takeda Hyōgo, Anayama Baisetsu, and eleven other relatives, while Baba Minō-no-kami, Naitō Shūri-no-shō, Yamagata Saburōbyōe, Kōsaka Danjō, Oyamada Yasaburō, Amari San’emon, Kurihara Sahyōe, Imafuku Jōkan, Tsuchiya Uemon-no-jō, Akiyama Hōki-no-kami, Hara Hayato-no-suke, Oyamada Bitchū-no-kami, Atobe Ōi-no-suke, and Koyama Tanbuchi—that is, the hereditary senior vassals—were positioned on the left side. Sanada Gengorō, Sanada Hyōbu—that is, the Shinano vanguard—alongside Obata Kazusa-no-kami and Matsumoto Hyōbu—the West Kōzuke vanguard—as well as Asahina Suruga-no-kami and Okabe Tanba-no-kami—the Suruga vanguard—and Mamiya Buhei, Itami Ōsumi-no-kami, along with the maritime officers, were positioned on the right side. Ema Hitachi-no-kami, Irisawa Goemon—that is, the Hida vanguard—along with Shiina Shihōsuke and his clansman Jinzaemon—the Etchū vanguard—as well as Nagai Bungo-no-kami and Obata Mikawa-no-kami—the Musashi vanguard—were seated facing them. Yokota Jūrōbei, Hara Yozaemon, Ichikawa Umein, Jō Iyami, Tada Jibuemon, Tōyama Uma no Suke, Imai Kyūbei, Ema Uma no Jō, Seki Jingobei, Obata Matabei, Ōkuma Bizen no Kami, Saegusa Shinzaburō, Nagasaka Chōkan, Sone Naishō, Sone Kihee, Saegusa Kageyuzaemon—that is, the ashigaru commanders—were sitting slightly apart. Kōdō Mikawa-no-kami and Sakurai Aki-no-kami—that is, the magistrates of internal affairs—alongside Aonuma Sukesuke and Ichikawa Miyauchi-no-suke—that is, the accounting supervisors—and Sakamoto Buhei and Tsukahara Rokuenon—that is, the castle inspectors—as well as Hagiwara Buzen-no-kami and Kubota Sukenojō—that is, the overseers—were seated a step further back.

The group known as the Young Lords—noble scions wearing forelock hairstyles—were also in attendance. In addition came the Spear Magistrates, Banner Magistrates, Storehouse Magistrates, Honorable Stewards, Young Attendants, Shrine Hall Attendants, Fellow Retainers, Messenger Guards, Scribes, Storytellers, and Tea Ceremony Attendants—their numbers nearing five hundred overwhelmed the seating area with their presence. Furthermore, thirty members of the Mukade Corps—masters of ninjutsu—stood ready in the adjoining chamber.

Six There were even those who had traveled day and night from their domains to hasten here. Shingen sat in the upper chamber, leaning against an armrest. Next to him sat Venerable Monk Kaikawa. Hakushu Hōin and Hyūga Hōgen, two court physicians, were in attendance. The paper candles illuminated the room brilliantly, making it as bright as midday.

The assembly remained utterly silent, not a sound to be heard. They were at their wits' end. From Shingen at the top to the lowliest tea attendant—even when gathered in one hall, setting aside all differences in status to deliberate—not a single viable plan emerged to contain the spreading epidemic.

And so, the hall remained utterly silent, not a sound to be heard. At that moment, a sudden war cry was heard from the direction of the rear gate. The clang of clashing weapons also rang out.

“It seems they’ve come surging again.”

Making a grimace, Shingen said.

“That does appear to be the situation.” Venerable Monk Kaikawa said. “When considered deeply, it is truly pitiful.” “Nevertheless, we must not open the castle gates.” “Precisely—doing so would prove futile.”

All four main gates of the mansion had been locked several days prior. This was done out of fear that leprosy patients might infiltrate—an unavoidable policy. Yet the townspeople raged at its cruelty. Thus they came surging en masse. Again a thunderous war cry rose. The mob now seemed to press against the main gate. "Well," Shingen said uneasily, "this council will drag on regardless. Fortifying our positions takes precedence. Return to your posts." He jutted his constricted double chin toward the ashigaru commanders.

Of the sixteen ashigaru commanders, eight slowly rose to their feet. Yokota Jūrōbei returned to the main gate, Ōkuma Bizen no Kami to the rear gate, Saegusa Kageyuzaemon to the western gate, Sone Jūrōbei to the eastern gate, Ichikawa Umein to the central bailey, Hara Yozaemon to the eastern bailey, Nagasaka Chōkan to the western bailey—each to their respective posts.

The rest once again fell into solemn silence.

A gust of wind blew in from somewhere, making all the paper candle flames stream sideways. Shingen's large shadow figure swayed gently across the tokonoma wall. A spring breeze must have been passing through outside. Suddenly Shingen spoke as if startled. "Dōki isn't here—what's happened to Dōki?" "Ah, Lord Yamamoto Dōki remains at his residence."

The page Sanada Gengorō said. “This is appalling! What is the meaning of this?” “For such an important council, Dōki would dare be absent?” “Gengorō! Go and bring Dōki here.”

"It was Baba Mino-no-kami Nobukatsu, chief among the hereditary retainers, who said, 'Nay.'"

“Lord Dōki will not be attending.”

“Why?!” Shingen’s eyes widened. “It’s always the same futile council; attending would be pointless. Lord Dōki stated as such.” “What? You call this a futile council? How utterly insolent!” Shingen's eyebrows shot up sharply. His normally drooping eight-shaped eyebrows suddenly lifted at their ends. “In truth, I too agree with Lord Dōki’s words.” Lord Mino-no-kami declared calmly. “Hmm. You agree too, do you? Do you think this is a futile council?” Shingen made a displeased face.

“To begin with, that is precisely the case,” declared Lord Mino-no-kami. “Galloping leprosy is an act of divine force—there exists no recourse but to apprehend the afflicted and quarantine them. More pressingly, we must crush the Uesugi and Hōjō armies massing at our borders. Lord Yamamoto Dōki Kansuke himself affirmed this view.” “What absurdity!” Shingen scoffed, his double chin quivering. “Kenshin merits consideration, but Ujiyasu? That upstart would scarcely delay my boot’s descent! Summon Dōki! I said summon Dōki!” The young page Sanada Gengorō bowed deeply. “Moreover, my lord, Lord Dōki remains wholly engrossed in devising war chariots.”

“Hmm, I know that too. “But they’re no use in an emergency. Gengorō, go and bring him here!” “Hai,” Gengorō said and trotted off. At that moment, a loud laugh rang out.

Shingen was startled and looked in that direction. Venerable Monk Kōmyō was laughing. “Lord,” said the Venerable Monk mockingly, “it seems ‘Gentle as the Forest’ has grown rather useless now, has it not?” “Why?” Shingen asked quizzically. The Venerable Monk grew increasingly derisive, “Observing your state, my lord—’tis as if an ember has nestled in your breast. Round and round you spin.” “Round and round.”

Shingen made a displeased face. But he seemed slightly embarrassed. "When the matter is this grave, it's only natural to be flustered." "What's the use of getting flustered?"

The Venerable Monk grew increasingly mocking.

Seven

Shingen puffed out his cheeks. The sagging fatty cheeks puffed out like a pufferfish. Suddenly he barked. “You hateful bastard! “Pillar of Fire bastard! “They sent out a hundred arquebusiers to shoot him down, but apparently couldn't even take aim. “They say he appears and vanishes like a phantom.”

“Ah! The apparitions reminded me. Summon the Mukade Corps! The Mukade Corps!” The Mukade Corps members stationed in the adjacent room—their leader Takuma Kojirō—wore black kosode undergarments, black hoods, straw sandals with black straps, black Iga hakama trousers, and black arm guards, only his eyes visible through the hood’s gap as he knee-walked to prostrate himself at the lowest seat. At that time, ninja operatives followed this principle: they never revealed their true appearances even to fellow household samurai. Those who knew their true faces were limited to fellow ninja operatives—not even their lord possessed this knowledge. They would only appear before their lord to receive a ceremonial sake cup when departing for spy missions in enemy lands.

Without such thorough caution, they could not have demonstrated their skills as spies. Takuma Kojirō was the founder of the Takuma-ryū; his appearance and age remained unclear, but his body was small and agile. “Kojirō,” Shingen called out. “Send out all your men at once and capture the Master of the Malady.” He wordlessly bowed with reverence. Then Kojirō spoke in a woman-like—of course, an affected—gentle voice.

“The secret of ninjutsu lies foremost in small numbers. With just myself and another—Gozaemon—we shall go forth to apprehend him.” “Ah, understood. Proceed as you deem fit.”

Kojirō exited as if gliding. Once again, an imposing silence fell over the aftermath. A battle cry arose and immediately vanished.

There was a sound of knocking at the door.

A voice scolded it. "Good timing. That Kojirō might actually manage to capture him." Shingen looked around his surroundings, but “Master Physician, Master Physician—Hakushin Hōin!”

The inner physician who had passed sixty, Hakushin Hōin, carried out the procedure. "Inspect this assembly—everyone present here." "Well? There are no lepers among us, I presume?" Hōin pulled a bewildered face. Nevertheless, he surveyed those gathered.

"No, there are none present." "Look at my face. Look at my face." "How about it? It’s not leprosy, is it?" Shingen thrust his face forward. "Yes, you are perfectly fine." Hōin offered a gentle wry smile. Indeed, Shingen appeared uneasy. He called again, “Master Physician! Master Physician!” "What are the symptoms? The initial symptom?" "Yes," Hōin responded, his wry smile softening further. “First comes formication—an unpleasant sensation as of ants crawling across one’s face and limbs.”

"Wait, wait. So this 'formication'—now that you mention it, I do feel an itch coming on." Kaiken Chōrō guffawed. "Well then, the eyebrows and eyelashes begin gradually thinning." "Let's see now," Shingen said, tugging at his brows. "No—they're holding fast. Won't be falling out." Kaiken Chōrō's laughter boomed again. "Next comes ill-defined erythema—reddening without clear borders—on the forehead and cheeks..." "And what of me?" "My lord's complexion shows a healthy flush... excellent circulation... Then... the facial structure starts deteriorating..."

“Enough already! That’s creepy.” Shingen waved his hands in panic. Kaiken Chōrō roared with laughter. At that moment, Gengorō returned. “The model of the war chariot has been completed. Lord Dōki conveyed that if you wish to view it, you should come this way.” “Oh, really?” said Shingen. Then he burst into uproarious laughter.

“Dōki! You’ve pulled off something tremendous.” “If that man’s war chariot gets built as planned, nothing in all the realm will stand against us.” “Kenshin and his lot’ll be crushed to dust.” “Come then—let’s go see it!”

He nimbly stood up and ran off.

Kaiken Chōrō laughed for the fifth time.

Well now, tonight was most entertaining. Never before tonight had the Lord's childlike nature been so fully revealed. He was like a child—a spoiled brat. That was precisely how it should be. Splendid, splendid... Until moments ago, leprosy had been his plaything. Now it had become a war chariot. Without some toy or another, the Lord seemed utterly bored.

But in this night’s castle town, a ferocious struggle was underway.

Part Sixteen

One

“...You see, I keep thinking—help will come. Help will come, I tell you.” A woman’s voice spoke these words. Her location could not be discerned. It was a young woman’s voice. The night’s darkness enveloped her. “They’re not coming. They won’t come.”

This was the old man's voice. It was impossible to tell where he was. He might be by the woman’s side. He seemed to be a bit away. The darkness of night enveloped him. “They have to come! They will come!” The woman’s voice repeated.

“Oh, a big star came out!” This was a child’s voice. The child’s form remained unseen. But the child seemed to be being held. On her mother’s lap. “Ah, it’s no good—it disappeared!” “...You know, I keep thinking—help will come. Help will come, I tell you.” The woman’s voice continued. “There’s no way they wouldn’t come—not when we’re suffering so very, very much!” “Be quiet.”

“Enough! Enough! Don’t think such things anymore,” said another voice. It sounded like a young man’s voice.

The young man's voice held despair. His form remained unseen. He appeared to face the woman. Likely her husband. A moonless, starless void enveloped them. From the distant Densō estate came war cries - thunderous roars drawing nearer. Then sudden diversion northward, turning right past Ōkuma Bizen's walls. Silence reclaimed the night. Knocking echoed at the door.

Tap, tap, tap... Tap, tap, tap...

It seemed to be Kurihara Hyōgo’s residence. A rustling sound of wind passing through could be heard. “I’m cold.” said the child. “Mother! Mother! I’m cold.” “You know, I keep thinking—help will come. Help will come, I tell you.” “Ah! I can see it clearly.” “A noble figure wearing purple priestly robes, adorned with a brocade kesa, holding prayer beads in one hand and a ritual basin in the other—a young, beautiful, divine being stepping forth in embroidered sandals, descending from some distant mountain into the castle town.” “Then he tilts the ritual basin.” “Then the sacred water trickles down.” “It falls upon your hand.” “Yes, that’s right—to your hand, you see.” “Then the seven fingers that fell off immediately grow back naturally.” “Then he tilts the ritual basin again.” “Then the sacred water trickles down.” “It falls upon Father’s head.” “Yes, now it’s Father’s turn.” “Then Father’s sightless eyes suddenly open.”

“He can see anything.” “Then he tilts the ritual basin again.” “Then the sacred water trickles down.” “This time it falls upon the child’s leg.” “The leg that had dropped from his groin grows back at once.” “Now he can go leaping about!” “Again he tilts the basin.” “Again the sacred water trickles down.” “Now it falls upon my chest.” “Ah! So cold—it pierces to the bone!” “Suddenly my heart grows pure.” “The two ruined breasts of this unworthy one heal round and full.” “Milk flows rich and abundant.” “Little one! Let me feed you now!” “Drink deep—drink your fill.” “……Every last soul shall be healed.” “The four of us shall find happiness.” “We’ll mingle with our neighbors.” “They’ll treat us with kindness.” “Nothing but joy shall come to pass.”

“Everything will return to how it was before… Oh, how wonderful that will be! It’s all thanks to that noble one. The one who came from the mountain, you see. Let’s believe, won’t you?! He will come—he will come for us. What are we to do if he doesn’t come? Even though we’re suffering so much, so much...”

No one responded. The darkness enveloped the four people.

A young man’s voice rang out. “Poor you—don’t dwell on it.” “I don’t believe in anything.” “In this transient world, there’s no salvation.” “Let alone such miracles…” The young man’s voice grew thick. A choked sob slipped out.

“I... I... this is what I think.” “If we’re to fall, let everyone fall together.” “Yes—let’s all get sick.” “No grudges. Every last one of us.” His voice suddenly sharpened with anger. “Why did they shut the castle gates?!” “Why are they the only ones left healthy?!” Again his voice dissolved into stifled sobs.

The crying went on and on.

Like a thin, pale rod piercing through night darkness taut as velvet, the crying sound stretched onward endlessly in a single streak.

“I’m cold.”

the child said.

It was the season of cherry blossoms. Yet Kōfu was cold. It was surrounded by mountains on all sides. It was the so-called Kōfu Basin. Snow still remained on the mountains. It was hot in summer and cold in winter. It was deep into the night, past the third watch. Moisture rose from the ground.

And then, footsteps approached.

The sound of sobbing suddenly stopped.

“Hey, who’s there?” “Who’s coming there?”

And then, the footsteps stopped immediately.

“Then who are you?” The owner of the footsteps asked in return. “I’m a patient! A patient!”

“Oh, right… I’m a patient too.” And so, the footsteps approached.

Two

“Let me join you. I’m lonely.” The new patient seemed to huddle down.

“Sure, let’s stay together.”

With this, the conversation ended completely. No one's form could be discerned.

Only sighs scattered into the darkness. Suddenly, a woman's scream rang out. It had come from the direction of the Nagasaka Estate. A young woman had likely been assaulted. But that too ceased after a single cry. Then came the report of an arquebus. It had come from the direction of Shinmei Shrine. It must have been arquebuses fired by foot soldiers dispatched from the mansion. The gunshots echoed. They echoed off houses, crossroads, stone walls, mountains—all such things. When those echoes faded, the silence grew deeper still, and the darkness thickened further. Five people were clustered together. A stench spread through the air. The five sources of that stench didn't seem to find it unpleasant. The entirety of Kōfu town had become a nest of miasma and contagion.

The five people were clustered in a mass. The stench spread through the surrounding areas. To those five who carried the stench, it didn’t seem to feel unpleasant at all. Kōfu Castle Town itself had become a nest of stench and germs.

At that moment, once again, the child spoke. “Mother, Mother, I’m cold.” It was a voice on the verge of fading away.

“Let me join you. I’m lonely,” said the new patient.

“Well then... why don’t we build a fire?” There was movement among them as they rose. Sounds of groping filled the air. “Ah... An earthen wall here... And a gate... Whose estate might this belong to?” A youth’s voice responded.

“It’s Lord Ichijō’s estate.”

“Ah, right. Lord Uemon’s.” There was the sound of a board being torn off. “Hey, young one, give me a hand.” “What are you doing? Huh? What?” “Yeah, I spotted some burnables.” “Is there deadwood? Deadwood?” "Deadwood?" "The earthen wall's roof. Who cares?" "Who cares?" “Yeah, exactly. Who cares?” There was a stirring as the young man rose. There was the sound of a roof being torn off. There was the sound of roof planks being thrown. For a while, it continued. “That should do it.”

“Yeah, that’ll do.” There was a stir as the two crouched down. The sound of roof planks being scraped together. “But,” said the young man. “I don’t have any flint.” “No, I have it.”

It was the voice of the new patient.

A click-clack sound of striking flint rang out. Sparks burst forth, scattering into the darkness. And then, it flared up with a dull glow.

A patch of darkness was torn apart. There, a wedge-shaped hole was pierced. The flame flared up in a wedge shape. The five people gathered around the fire. They surrounded it to keep the wind from extinguishing it. The color of the fire burning in the darkness was like a single peony bud placed upon velvet. The crackling sound came from the burning roof planks. The tongues of flame split into three, fluttering upward toward the sky in a manner reminiscent of a peony bud opening its petals and trembling at their tips. As the flames stretched longer, the domain of darkness was pushed back. But immediately, the darkness closed in from all directions, compressing the flame's domain.

Held up over the bonfire were the nine arms of five people. One of them had no fingers. The end of the palm where fingers should have been had become rounded like a ladle. From near the wrist, it curved downward, exactly like the wrist of that ceramic beckoning cat. Fat seeped into the bronze-colored skin, and illuminated by the flames, it glistened as if dew might drip. A thick vein crawled across the back of the hand like an earthworm. From the edge of the palm of the other arm lying beside it grew three fingernail-less fingers. The middle, index, and ring fingers—three in total—were swollen and translucent like a soft-shell turtle's. And the joints were indistinguishable. It was rounded like a cudgel. That was the young man's arm.

Alongside the ladle-like arm protruded something resembling dead wood. But that too was an arm. From elbow to fingertips, scabs clung densely scattered. They resembled moss shrouding deadwood. At the base of the middle finger's scab sprouted a tangled clump of hair. Its golden discoloration and trembling semblance evoked moss flowers. This was the new patient's right arm; his left remained unseen. Yet parallel to this right limb, where his left should have been, only a kimono sleeve flapped limply against the fire's gusts—what could have befallen it? The sleeve's interior lay dark. Why wouldn't he reveal his left arm? Had someone peered within that sleeve, they'd surely have discovered—near the upper arm's joint—a short stump wrapped in white cloth, its tip twitching feebly like a doll's severed limb torn from its socket. Put plainly: his left arm had dislocated at the second joint.

Three Protruding beside the new patient's sleeve—the one without a hand—on the left side was an arm twice as thick as that of an ordinary human. From elbow to fingertips, it was densely packed with tumors both large and small. It resembled a shin more than an arm. This was the old man's arm. It had swollen from nodules until its size doubled. The shin-like arm swayed up and down. When it lowered, the flame's tongue licked at it. The paralyzed arm seemed to feel neither pain nor itchiness and made no move to withdraw.

Beside the old man's arm was a small child's hand. This alone was a human hand. The hand would sometimes play pranks. It would poke at the old man’s hand and fan the rising flames. But at the base of one thumb, a yellow tumor had formed. Soon, the thumb would undoubtedly pop off from there. The hands of the mother holding the child were tightly wrapped with cloth.

The fire burned vigorously.

However, it did not burn high. And they also needed to prevent it from flaring up too high. They risked being mistaken for the Pillar of Fire and shot with matchlocks. It only flared up about two feet high. The five men and women surrounding the fire tried not to let its light leak elsewhere. They pressed their bodies tightly together. Only the half of their faces turned toward the fire were brightly, vividly illuminated. Their figures, surrounding the bonfire in a circle and clustered tightly together, looked like a furnace made of black soil. In the center of the human furnace, the fire was burning crimson.

No matter how desperately they tried to contain the fire's glow, absolute prevention proved impossible. The surroundings were faintly lit all around.

Slightly apart from their group stood a huge gate. The granite foundation and the lower half of its door were vaguely outlined in pale red. By some quirk, a single rivet was glinting sharply. The gate's left and right sides were earthen walls. The earthen walls were painted white. They were illuminated by the firelight. Was it not a giant reptile? An old pine tree—so thick it would take two arm spans around—towered before the earthen wall. The bonfire's light reached a spot on the trunk where it swelled in a gnarled mass. It looked as if it might begin writhing at any moment.

The five of them remained silent—all five of them. In the distance came sounds of destruction. They were likely demolishing a house with hammers. Then footsteps drew near. Startled, the people turned toward the noise. Only the old man kept still. This was because he was blind. The bonfire's glow illuminated his face. Both eyelids had curled backward, revealing crimson inner flesh. The eyeballs were completely white. The pupils had dissolved away. They shone like polished porcelain.

A voice came from the darkness.

"There seems to be a fire." "Let me near it." He entered the circle of firelight. It was a dog-like animal. But it was still human. It was crawling on all fours. Straw sandals were fastened to his kneecaps. Straw sandals were fastened to both hands. He walked on his knees and hands. He quickly raised his face. The firelight flared up and struck his face. The entire face was nothing but pure white teeth. The upper and lower lips were missing.

The young man by the fire said. "You're one of us, then. Come, warm yourself." As for the young man's face, it resembled nothing so much as a lion mask. His forehead jutted out sharply. Covered by this protrusion, the area around his eyes formed dark shadows. The young man leaned toward his wife. Thus a space opened there.

“Thank you, thank you.” The man on all fours crawled closer. Though he uttered words of gratitude, his voice formed no coherent speech. It was because he had no upper or lower lips. And so their number increased by one.

But everyone remained silent. With a crackle, sparks scattered in all directions. One of them flew off and entered the woman’s exposed bosom. The woman’s chest had no breasts. Around where her breasts should have been, a hole the size of a bowl had been bored. Like a peeled red-lacquered bowl, there were red spots here and there.

The bonfire’s intensity weakened. The one-armed man extended his arm, painstakingly grasped the roofing planks piled beside him, and added them to the fire.

The flames suddenly shot up high. For a moment, everyone shone.

A child was on the woman’s lap. The child pressed the back of their head against the mother's chest, closed their eyes, and began to fall asleep. It was a child of about five years old. Thick eyelashes cast shadows beneath them, as if ink had been smeared across the lower eyelids. There was a boil on their left cheek. The head of the boil swelled with pus. Illuminated by the firelight, it resembled a ripe fruit. The mother began singing a lullaby. Though her voice was faint, the profound stillness around them made it seem to carry endlessly into the distance. She must have been beautiful once—no, even now her face retained its beauty despite missing one ear. Her eyes especially remained exquisite. They were eyes that held faith. Eyes awaiting a miracle.

She was gazing up at the dark sky while singing a lullaby. O God, deign to come Please deign to grant us Your sacred water This was her lullaby.

IV They all seemed close. As oppressed people bound by shared suffering—oppressed people showing mutual pity and aid—they huddled together in an amicable mass. Again came footsteps from the darkness. A figure crowned with a straw-mat hood appeared, prodding a cane.

"There's a fire here. Let me warm myself."

He said this in a hoarse voice. And the people prepared an empty space. The man wedged himself into the space. His head had no hair. His head was glossy and shining like copper.

And again, footsteps sounded in the darkness. A monk appeared. He was wearing a torn Buddhist robe. In the middle of his face was a hole. It was a deep triangular hole. His nose had melted away. Thus, gradually, the lepers gathered around the bonfire. Their numbers had reached fourteen or fifteen. They began to speak sporadically.

“Seems they won’t come out tonight either.”

The hooded leper said.

“Seems they went out toward the Yamagata estate.” A one-eyed leper with white hair, despite being only eighteen or nineteen, said this. “Lord Dōki, Lord Dōki, Lord Yamamoto Kansuke Dōki... Can even someone so great as him do nothing about this?” Someone unknown said this. “They say he’s completely absorbed in his factory work.”

Someone unknown said this. "Is it for manufacturing new weaponry? ...But by the time they finish that thing, there'll be no people left in Kōfu." The sedge-hatted leper said. That leper was corpulent. He had swollen up like a four-to barrel. "If only I were healthy... I'd even go work in that hellish factory."

The yamabushi-dressed leper said. His fingers were curved like hooks. “I worked and worked, but still couldn’t eat. Back then… Oh, back then… Ah, now I can’t even work.”

From the shadows came a voice. "The woman I cared for got leprosy too." A dry chuckle followed—heh-heh-heh... he-he-he...

A dry laugh rasped through the darkness.

No one said anything.

The darkness grew ever thicker. The cold grew even more intense.

And suddenly, a battle cry rang out. They seemed to be heading toward the lord's mansion. A knocking sound came from the gate. A harsh rebuke rang out. The clatter of fleeing footsteps echoed. The commotion gradually subsided. Silence returned once more. But this was no ordinary silence. It was a transient silence—one brimming with boundless terror at its core. The bonfire continued dwindling.

And then, one person stood up. They walked toward the earthen wall. A sound of roof tiles being torn off came. Two or three people stood up. They walked toward the earthen wall. They helped with the work, and a gap formed in the circle. From there, the fire's light shot toward the earthen wall.

Before long, the people returned. The gap in the circle closed. Roof tiles were piled up like a mountain. Several hands grabbed them. Fed into the fire, the flames flared up. Dozens of hands were raised. How could these be called human hands! They were filthy gnarled deadwood and twisted ladles. The sound of someone weeping softly could be heard. No one looked that way.

“Goodbye.”

A voice spoke. "I shall take my leave now. Goodbye."

A leper stood up. She was an old woman wearing only a single underrobe. She was emaciated enough that each rib could be counted individually. White hair hung over her face, rendering it unrecognizable. She stepped out of the circle of light. Everyone said nothing.

Thus, some time passed. A leper turned to look. He stealthily glanced in the direction the old woman had gone. And he muttered, “...Over there, cherry blossoms are blooming.” “...A thick branch is sticking out.” “...White petals are falling.” “…Something is dangling from the branch.” “…It seems the old woman hanged herself.” No one said anything. They did not move a muscle. Of course, they showed no surprise. It was because this was no rare occurrence. For in time, each and every one of them would inevitably meet the same fate.

V

The night showed no sign of breaking. In the distance, a rooster crowed several times. It was the crow of a night-crowing rooster. It spoke to the depth of the night. The bonfire was about to go out again. They were all lost in thought. No one noticed it. Then, at that moment, a dim human figure appeared from behind the pine tree. It was undoubtedly a leper. They must have come drawn to the bonfire. Why didn't they call out? Why didn't they approach in a friendly manner? Why were they not making any sound of footsteps? Why were they walking as if stealing?

The bonfire was now about to go out.

The figure drew closer. No one noticed. The shadowy figure stood behind them. Before it stood a woman holding a child. She was a woman whose breasts had fallen off. The figure stared down at the woman’s neck from above. Then its body twisted at an angle. Then its right hand seemed to move. Something glinted faintly. Not a sound was made. But something heavy fell onto the roof planks. And then the pile of planks collapsed, cascading into the bonfire. The bonfire blazed up suddenly. The people noticed for the first time.

Beside the bonfire lay a woman’s head, face up. From the severed surface, a length of crimson kōketsu cloth was being drawn out with a wet, dragging sound. Her upper and lower teeth clattered. Then there was a thud. The headless corpse of a woman, still holding a child in both hands, rolled backward. The people stared vacantly. The child began crying loudly. Another head fell to the ground. It was the head of a noseless monk. The head fell to the opposite side of the bonfire. His eyelids twitched two or three times. And from the severed surface, a length of crimson kōketsu cloth—no, crimson kōketsu-like blood—gushed out in relentless waves. And then, the headless torso rolled forward.

All at once, the people stood up. And then they scattered and fled. A leper crawled away in flight. It was a leper whose legs had come off. A leper fled on one leg. It was a leper missing one leg. The bonfire blazed up vigorously. Two heads, two torsos, and the crushed child alone were illuminated by the bonfire’s light. And then, a handsome man stood dejectedly. He wore a master’s hood. He wore a Rikyū tea-colored jūtoku garment. And in his right hand hung an unsheathed blade that glowed dimly.

A face—exquisitely beautiful and polished, yet completely expressionless, like an elaborate mask—was depicted beneath the hood.

He did not move at all. He seemed to be listening intently. Yet gradually, vivid color began rushing into his pallid face. Suddenly his lips parted. He had truly smiled. "Adulteress!" He suddenly groaned out. "Adulteress!" He repeated with another groan. They couldn't comprehend its meaning. Yet this was the pottery master's customary utterance when cutting people down. O demon king! O bloodsucker! Yet how elegant! How refined - a bloodsucker like a tea master!

Kōfu, you are cursed! The Lord of the Malady had infiltrated. And thus he scattered the germs. The human race will likely perish. Not only that, but the bloodsucker had infiltrated. He will likely cut and cut and slash through wildly.

Suddenly, the pottery master pricked up his ears. He peered into the darkness. A soft sound of footsteps could be heard approaching. It seemed prey was approaching. The pottery master stepped back. He hid himself in the shadow of an old pine tree. The ownerless bonfire continued to burn. The flame stretched long like candy, its tip occasionally snapping off and flying away. It continued to burn thickly and steadily. Two old men emerged from the darkness. They appeared as if spat out. "Oh, there's a leper here too."

One old man said this. Long hair undulated at his shoulders. He wore a loose dōfuku robe. That was Naoe Kurando. “Oh, this one’s been cut.”

The other old man said this. That was Tsukahara Bokuden. He was carrying a medicine chest. "Exactly—it's been cut." Kurando stopped and narrowed his eyes. Bokuden, still carrying the medicine chest, knelt beside the corpse. "Well now, this is surprising."

Bokuden was deeply impressed. “It appears a master did the cutting.”

Six “Is the incision that impressive?”

Kurando called out while remaining standing. “Indeed, it’s truly splendid.” Bokuden fell into deep thought. “Hmm, whose handiwork could this be?” Kurando shielded his hands from the bonfire. “Come now, Bokuden—take a guess.” “Hmm,” Bokuden said, still lost in thought. “It’s inhuman.” “Now then, regarding that inhuman one—I would very much like to meet this Lord of the Pillar of Fire.”

Kurando began muttering to himself. "Rather than examining a hundred patients, investigating the one at the source would prove far more effective... Bokuden, precisely right—what a magnificent bonfire." "Warm... so warm."

Bokuden did not respond. "Well, I must say I'm quite astonished myself," Kurando began muttering under his breath. He'd heard reports of its severity but never imagined it would be this dire. This was leprosy hell incarnate. Every person they met—every single one—bore dissatisfaction etched into their features. Touch them just once, and the body crumbled. They called it the 'Don't Touch' disease for good reason. There was simply no way to manage this chaos. Even Yakushi Nyorai would have thrown down his healing spoon in defeat. As for himself? All he could do was stand by and watch idly from the sidelines. But if he could meet this Lord of the Pillar of Fire—if he could examine that creature thoroughly—perhaps some brilliant invention might take shape. How spiteful that tonight of all nights, the conspicuously efficacious Lord chose not to grace them with his presence. Where in blazes was he hiding? "...Hey now, Bokuden," Kurando called out, sardonic edge returning to his voice. "That's enough dilly-dallying. Shall we get moving?"

Bokuden did not respond.

Kurando smiled sardonically. He stamped out the bonfire with his foot. “Ah ha ha ha! This’ll do. Without fire, we cannot see. So let’s give the palanquin a good heave-ho and be on our way, shall we?” Bokuden’s whispering voice was heard. “Kurando, Kurando—don’t move!” It was a voice that sounded forced. Startled, Kurando froze stiff. From there, he asked back probingly. “Huh? Bokuden, what’s wrong?” “Yeah, it’s here—that one. The one from the Kajiya Kaidō incident.”

“Ugh,” Kurando groaned. The darkness was so complete that not a single pattern could be discerned. Not a single human figure was visible.

Then Bokuden’s voice rang out.

“Move back, one ken back. “Walk backward—don’t turn around.”

There, Kurando moved back.

Bokuden stood in the darkness. With one hand shouldering the medicine box and the other holding his wooden sword in middle stance, he fixed his gaze and glared into the pitch-black void.

The mind's eye knows no day or night!

In the pitch-black darkness, he saw the figure of his opponent. He stood with his back to an old pine tree. He held his unsheathed blade in a low stance. A single pale streak rose faintly. It must have been the killing intent rising from the blade. A pungent metallic stench hit the air. Then, the figure swayed to the right. It seemed he was trying to circle around to the right. Bokuden also slowly turned to the right. The distance between them was two ken. Nothing but darkness hung thick in the air.

A hushed stillness enveloped the surroundings.

At that moment, in the distant crossroads near Kobata Mansion, a pillar of fire erupted. “There it is—!”

Kurando cried out.

The pillar of fire hesitated for some time. But it swayed unsteadily from side to side. It began walking eastward. It seemed to turn at the crossroads and head toward the residence of Takeda Sa-tenmaya.

Kurando could no longer endure it. He no longer had any regard for danger. He plunged through the darkness and started running. "Floating clouds!" Bokuden barked.

For from out of the darkness, a shadowy figure had swooped down toward Kurando like a great hawk beating its wings.

The sound of something breaking rang out. Someone must have thrown something. It must have fallen to the ground and shattered.

But no scream arose. But the pillar of fire vanished in an instant. It seemed to turn east at the crossroads. Darkness! Desolation! An oppressive murderous aura!

Perhaps travelers crossing the mountain pass—the flames of pine torches stitched the darkness here and there across Mount Yumemi's flank. Travelers, go forth. Make haste and escape this hell, I pray.

But who could say a blazing hell didn’t await them there as well? They hid among the trees, emerged from between them—the pine torch flames squirmed onward. Likely because the pillar of fire had appeared, screams of anguish welled up from all over Kōfu Castle Town.

Chapter 17

1

The cave was dark. A single rush mat had been spread out. It was a new rush mat woven with igusa.

A graceful woman sat there. She wore a pilgrim’s robe. With a chisel, she carved a Noh mask. The blade’s edge glittered in the firelight. Then came a knock at the room’s door.

The woman quietly stood up. The tied-up hair hung down to the floor.

She unbarred and opened the door. Pearl-colored light poured in. An adorable-looking child stood there. “Oh my,” the woman exclaimed in surprise. “Oh?” the child likewise uttered in astonishment—wearing a red hood and sleeveless crimson garment, clad in Iga hakama trousers, gripping a birdlime pole: this was none other than Kōsaka Gentarō, the thirteen- or fourteen-year-old bird catcher.

It was none other than Kōsaka Gentarō.

And that woman was Tsukiko. “Hey there, sis,” said Gentarō. “Let me rest—I’m exhausted.” His voice did indeed sound thoroughly spent.

“Come inside now,” she said. “There we go.”

And so, Gentarō entered. “Where did you come from, boy?” Tsukiko sat back down on the rush mat. “I got lost.” Gentarō sat down on the rock. "Oh dear, you poor thing." But to Tsukiko, it was strange. How had such a tiny child managed to travel safely through the foothills of Mount Fuji—a place infested with demons and spirits, wild beasts, venomous snakes, and bandits?

But it was also strange to Gentarō. In the foothills of Mount Fuji—infested with demons, wild beasts, venomous snakes, and bandits—how could such a young woman live there safely? For Tsukiko, Gentarō’s visit brought her as much joy as reuniting with a younger brother. The fact that he had met Tsukiko was also a joy for Gentarō. It was a joy akin to reuniting with an older sister. And so, the two became close. “Did you catch any birds? Hmm, boy?” “If I wanted to catch them, I could catch as many as I like. But we don’t catch ’em.”

“Oh? Why ever not? You should just catch them then.” “‘Cause there’s other things we’re after.’” There, Gentarō smirked. His eyes with white showing all around were unsettling, but the dimples that formed on both cheeks compensated for that creepiness. “This boy’s a bit of an odd one.” It struck Tsukiko as amusing.

It was an age-old cave. Enclosed on all sides by rock walls. The walls were iron-gray. Countless wrinkles creased the rock surfaces. In one spot sat a niche. A niche hollowed from the stone. Deep within it burned an animal-fat lamp. The brass lamp dish had rusted. A single stream trickled down the rock. It pooled in a stone basin. Moss clung to the basin's edges. A brocade curtain hung across an opening; beyond lay a chamber. This was the face-crafting room.

The ceilings of both rooms were very low.

That cast gloom over people's hearts.

But the air was dry. And life there was extremely comfortable.

Life in the cave knew neither day nor night. Nor was there any change of seasons. It remained perpetually dim and cool. When her work wearied her, Tsukiko slept. Before sleeping, she always bathed. She bathed in the water from the stone basin.

That night as well, she bathed in water.

First, she deftly slipped out of her traveling robe.

Her naked body, clad in not a single thread, was as white as a wild goose. The lamp's flame cast shadows. They were purple-tinged shadows. She assumed a pose. She raised one knee and bent her back. She planted her elbow on her raised knee and rested her chin atop her palm. The lamp illuminated it squarely from the front. The outer side of the elbow glowed faintly. It was a pale agate-colored light. From raised knee down to shin and across instep—a faint glow spread. It was a pale agate-colored light. But the lamplight did not reach her nails and toes. and they were hazily obscured in shadow. The right leg was laid out on the ground. From the depths of her groin to the rounded curve of her bent knee, how taut and healthy the flesh swelled plumply. If one were to drop a small dagger there, it would undoubtedly bounce back sharply. The inner thighs were dark. But the kneecap was bright. With her one raised knee and raised elbow, her chest formed shadows. It was because they blocked the lamp’s flame.

But only the left breast appeared toweringly swollen. It was a breast untouched by men. It was round like an overturned bowl. Beneath it was a shadow. Because of this, it appeared even more voluptuous. A pink nipple like an infant's mouth! It was a nipple that had never been molested. Her abdomen was concealed by her raised knee. The light did not reach there either. Her left arm, hanging limply, bore mottled patches of light and shadow. It was thick but not muscular. It hung limply, utterly devoid of strength. But if that arm were to exert its strength and wrap around a member of the opposite sex's torso, it would surely suffocate them. Both shoulders were bathed in light. Thick and round shoulders they were. They were shoulders so fleshy that one could scarcely imagine the presence of shoulder blades—shoulders seemingly composed of nothing but meat.

II

Her face was upturned. Her eyes were closed. She was praying. Shadows rimmed her eyes. The shadows were deepened further by eyelashes spilling past her eyelids. Her lips were half-open. Between upper and lower teeth, the dark cavity of her mouth lay exposed. The play of shadows turned her lips pale as watered ink. Something glinted there. A single upper canine tooth. Against the iron-colored rock wall, her naked body stood stark.

Suddenly, she stood up. Her posture abruptly disintegrated. The balance of light and shadow collapsed. She walked straight toward the fire. Every inch of her became fully exposed. Her lower abdomen bulged roundly like a frog's belly. Her massive buttocks suddenly constricted, forming an S-curved waist. Thighs pressed flush together, flesh crowding against flesh. She spread both legs wide. Through the gap peered the iron-hued rock wall behind. She stretched out both arms. They appeared infinitely elongated. Then she bent forward. Her slackened abdomen formed wrinkles - Two thick undulating folds like caterpillar segments. At her arms' end stood a water tank. Beside it sat a small bucket. She gripped the bucket's rim. Lifted it smoothly skyward. A watery plunk sounded.

She submerged the small bucket into the water. She slowly lifted the small bucket. Drops trickled down. She smoothly raised it to her shoulders. Her entire frame arched like a bow. Her chest thrust forward to its fullest extent. Both breasts swelled roundly. All strength gathered at her waist. Then she overturned the bucket. Water streamed straight down from her left shoulder to chest. She had bathed herself. The water rebounded off her supple shoulders, sending up wisps of smoke-like foam. Her naked body hung a screen. A glass screen. Instantly her body gained luster. The lamp's flame was drawn toward her. Her entire form glistened and flashed. Water dripped from her fingertips. Water dripped from her nipple's tip. It resembled a waxen tear.

Streaks of water raced down her thighs! The big toes of both feet turned upward— proof she endured the cold. The water struck the ground with a splash. The masks opened their eyes in unison. Kantan-otoko, Yase-otoko, Doro-me, Fudō, Yowamushi—two hundred masks hung upon the rock wall where they had dreamed—watched her. This was no figure to shame under gazes. A radiant luminescent form! That was her manifestation. In the room's thickening darkness, her whole body elongated, growing whiter still. Then once more she bent forward.

She filled the small bucket with water. Splaaash—the sound of water rang out. Once again, a screen hung from her right shoulder over her naked body. Two hundred masks gazed wide-eyed. The sound of a sigh could be heard. It was the sigh of two hundred masks. Scattering foam glistened in the lamplight. Of course, it lasted only an instant. It vanished like smoke in an instant. She wiped her body with a white cloth. A faint reddish tinge welled up. An agate fairy statue had taken form. That fairy statue was translucent.

Truly, it was a fairy's water bath. It was not a sight that would stir wicked thoughts.

“Come here, boy,” she said. Then she opened the brocade curtain. The two entered the adjacent room. It was an operating room, but at the same time her bedroom. The two lived together for ten days. When they slept, they slept together. They slept as brother and sister. There were few visitors. Since spring had come to the foothills, it had become increasingly dangerous—crossing them to visit Tsukiko and have one’s face restored was no easy task.

This situation actually proved fortunate for Tsukiko. She desperately carved masks. She hung the completed masks on the wall. Fifty masks, a hundred masks, a hundred and fifty masks—nearly two hundred masks had been created. They were masks she had carved over a long, long time, from days of old until today. Not a single one had satisfied her. Every last one of them was worthless. She could not be satisfied. Why can’t I create something like the ‘divine works’ made by Prince Shōtoku, Ōmi no Kō, or Kōbō Daishi? Nikkō, Miroku Yasha, Fukuhara Bunzō, Ishikawa Ryūemon, Akatsuru Shigemasa, Hihyō Tadamune, Ochi Yoshifune, Koushi Kiyomitsu, Tokuwaka Tadamasa—why can’t I create something like the ‘Ten Works’ made by people such as these?

She would sometimes grow despairing. But she did not despair.

She could not despair. If she could have despaired, how happy she would have been. She simply could not defy her fate.

She was forbidden from "despair".

She had to carve. Today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow! Until she carved the "new mask of an arch-villain", she had to carve eternally.

But who was she? What was her station in life?

Why was she burdened with this fate? No one could know.

And so she too remained silent.

Three

It was unusual for Gentarō.

And then he stood before the Noh masks and gazed at them for a long time. Finally one day he asked Tsukiko.

“Sis, Sis, what about this mask?” He pointed at one of the masks. “Ah, that one’s Nasu Oni.” “Nasu Oni? What a nasty name.” Gentarō laughed merrily. “When performing Tamanoi or Taisha, you have to wear this mask.” “Sis, Sis, what about this mask?”

“Ah, that one’s Myōga Oni.” “What a weird-ass name—Myōga Oni? Seriously?” Gentarō burst into laughter once more. “When performing Chōryō or Shinakiri, you have to wear this mask.” “What’s this? This mask?” “Ah, that one’s Daiaku Oni.” “Oh ho, another Oni after all?” “A mask worn when performing Himuro.” “Sis, Sis, what’s this? This disgusting woman’s mask?” “A mask used in Tetsuwa and Hashihime.” “It’s called Seisei—the Seisei mask, you see?” Tsukiko’s explanation was earnest.

“Oh! There’s a Hannya here!” “They’re used for Aoi no Ue and Dōjōji—those sorts of plays.” “Sis, Sis, what about this mask?” “Hōjōgawa no Ishiōbei.” “What the hell kind of names are these? What’s this one? This mask?” “The Ōmi Woman used in Kurozuka.” “And this one? This mask?” “Ah, that’s Kumasaka’s mask.” “Ah, Kumasaka? I know that one.” Gentarō seemed to have it click into place. “There’s a fox mask here. A fox mask!”

"The Yakan mask used in Kokaji." "This is a hawk. A hawk mask!" "It's worn when performing the Nue dance." "Whoa! There's a tengu mask here!" "Yes, there's Ōbeshimi and Kobeshimi." "No matter how you look at it, that's a weird-ass name—whoa! What the hell is this one?" "That's Ikkaku Sennin's mask." "There's an awful lot of them. Just how many are there in total?"

Tsukiko did not respond.

She simply smiled gently. “Did Sis make all of these?” “Yes—over many years.” “They’re all carved well, aren’t they?” “No. Just worthless pieces.” Tsukiko’s voice sounded lonely.

“That’s not true. They’re masterpieces.” “They’re masterpieces.” Gentarō suddenly turned art critic. “Do you understand good and evil, boy?” “Now that’s ironic coming from you, Sis.”

Gentarō suddenly grew sullen.

To Tsukiko, that looked adorable.

Eventually, Gentarō asked with a puzzled look.

“But really—what kind of mask do you want to make?” “A new mask of the most heinous villain.” “What exactly is a ‘most heinous villain’?”

“It means the worst kind of person.”

“What exactly is ‘the worst kind of person’?”

Tsukiko could not respond. Then Gentarō said something like this: “There ain’t a single villain or good person in this world. When someone does bad things, they’re a villain, and when they do good things, they’re a good person.” “Then what exactly constitutes an evil deed?” “When you want to steal something and don’t, that’s the real evil. When you want to steal something and do steal it, that’s a good deed.” It was an extremely simple interpretation. But it was a terrifying statement.

And so it was terribly riddle-like.

Tsukiko felt an inexplicable chill. She couldn't help but think. "Could there really be such an interpretation? ...My own thinking was the opposite. Controlling my own heart had seemed like a good thing. …And yet he says such things." But this still didn’t matter yet. What frightened her was that there existed no fixed concept of an evil person in this world.

Four

Spring in the foothills was at its height.

One day, Gentarō shouldered his birdlime pole and walked through the spring foothills. There was a grove of oak trees in one place. They had just sprouted new buds. There, a thrush was singing. There was a small marsh in one place. There, ducks were swimming. They were ducks that had missed their migration. The ducks were terribly emaciated.

There was a thicket of wild roses in one place. When May came, flowers would bloom. At present, not even buds had appeared. It was merely a squalid, tangled mass. Blades of grass were peeking out. Gentarō walked aimlessly. Ahead lay a slope covered in silvergrass. Several horses were grazing on grass. They were emaciated horses, nothing but skin and bones. They seemed to be horses that had fled from some battlefield and were surviving on their own.

“Hey!” Gentarō called out. The horse looked at him with a sidelong glance. Then it dashed off in a panic. Gentarō’s voice stirred the tree spirits. “Hey!” came the echoing reply.

Gentarō crossed the silvergrass slope. And then there was a field of shrubs. In one place lay remnants of a campfire. A rusty sword lay there.

He continued walking.

Ahead lay the remnants of a wolf pit. The inside of the hole was dark. Scattered across the bottom were white objects. They were human bones. Gentarō continued walking.

There was a south-facing hill. A flower-covered carpet was spread out. It was a carpet of milk vetch and dandelions. Gentarō flopped down. The sky spread out like the sea. It appeared hazy and low, likely because it was laden with moisture. Patches lingered here and there. They drifted slowly away. A wispy cloud like silk thread. Something flew past the edge of his vision. If not a sparrow, then a crow. Sunlight drenched him like alcohol.

Something buzzed and droned near his ear. It was the wingbeats of a worker bee.

Five, then ten came flying in. One of them landed on the sticky rod. Then the birdlime seized it. The bee quivered its wings. It struggled to take off again and again. It could not take off. The tiny body became engulfed in birdlime. It could no longer even vibrate its wings. Only its antennae twitched. Those antennae too fell still. It turned into a single black lump. It meant nothing. A small "death".

Now, what was I to do?

Gentarō began to think.

“Tsukiko nee-san is a good person.” But there’s nothing that can be done about it. “Ain’t no way we could ever be husband and wife.” He started thinking such bad things. “She’s a celestial maiden. She ain’t human. She’s beautiful but cold. Ain’t got a drop of warmth in her. ……But well, none of that matters. Yeah, that don’t matter, but there’s one thing that ain’t good. It’s none other than my duty.” He began thinking about his duty.

"It ain't a welcome duty." "They're tellin' me to catch my own cousin and drag 'im back." "We'll get our reward sure enough, but in exchange Shōsaburō-san's gotta lose his head by the law." "This just don't sit right."

He made a sour face there. His three-white eyes twisted into a scowl. There was a strangely cloying smell. A gentle breeze swept across the flower field. It was the fragrance spilling from the flowers and grasses. "But once I've accepted this duty, I can't just say 'I haven't found him' and go home." "When I think about it, it's just surrender." He grew terribly depressed. "That bald-headed Lord Shingen had to go and order some outrageous task."

He felt an urge to curse. "We ain't so smart ourselves. Yessir, right away, sir! 'Cause I went and accepted it without a second thought." This time he began cursing himself. "I wish I could just go somewhere and drop dead. Drift drift drifting off to some country—" A wanderlust arose within him. "What's so interesting about Kōfu anyway? It's nothing but a bunch of folks I can't stand. Ah, I just wanna go somewhere—" He began thinking of a place to go.

The fantasies natural to a boy conjured beautiful realms one after another. He saw the Dragon Palace from picture books he had pored over. He envisioned the butterfly lands described in Zhuangzi. The Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss preached by Elder Kaisen materialized before him. Nothing but wondrous countries appeared. Mountains of confections, rivers flowing with honey, forests brimming with playthings came into view. Every destination seemed welcoming. Wherever he might go, he felt certain of being received with open arms. "Ah, to cross over those mountains..."

He murmured longingly. If I cross the mountains, there must be a good land! It was the sort of fantasy a boy raised in a mountainous region would commonly entertain.

Five

Two young men came up.

“Hey, let’s rest around here.”

The young man with the pale yellow hood spoke. The puppet box hanging from his shoulder clattered against his chest. "Yeah, let's wait here together." With matching hoods and puppet boxes, the slightly younger one immediately agreed. They were itinerant puppeteers journeying through the provinces. "I'm utterly shocked by Kōfu," said the older one while snapping off miscanthus stalks. "He nearly caught leprosy there!" "That's what they call escaping by the skin of your teeth." The younger man wiped his brow. "It's a miracle he got away at all."

“Poor Tōroku. Ended up wasting his whole damn life.” “He shouldn’t have gone playing nursemaid to those plague victims.” “We’re safe enough now we’ve come this far,” the senior puppeteer said, flinging away the miscanthus stalks. “Our duty ain’t much to speak of either.” “Ain’t,” the younger sighed. “Spy-handling’s cursed dangerous work.” They fell silent.

From the feet of the two sprawled out, a heat haze swayed upward. A bush warbler sang from the thicket beside them. The voice showed no sign of age. "I definitely saw smoke."

Abruptly, the senior puppeteer said.

"The rumors might not be entirely baseless after all." "I saw pine torch lights." The younger one whispered. "Definitely on Mount Yumemi's midslope... Right, those rumors seem true." "I saw them too—those pine torch flames." The senior puppeteer nodded. "I figured they belonged to those gangs kidnapping craftsmen from border regions, escorting them to armories."

“We can’t let our guard down for a second with that unscrupulous bastard Shingen.” “I caught wind of something in the castle town,” The senior puppeteer said anxiously, “They say a model of a war chariot has been completed.” “Hmm, that sounds serious.”

“After all, Kansuke’s involved.” “He’s more fearsome than Shingen himself, I tell you.” “They say it’s a formidable new weapon.” “If the castle town hadn’t been in such disarray, I’d have made my way up Mount Yumemi and thoroughly investigated Shingen’s arsenal.” The younger puppeteer said regretfully. “They say they won’t permit anyone up Mount Yumemi.” “They get abducted on purpose, you know.” “Once you’re in, there’s no getting out.”

“I suppose it’ll be strictly guarded eventually.” The two fell silent there.

Right before their eyes, from within the thicket, a pheasant accompanied by its chicks appeared. When they saw the two people, they withdrew.

said the senior puppeteer. "But this is confidential - I hear they've made preparations for our Lord too."

“Huh, really? That’s news to me.” “Under Lord Usami’s new design, they’re apparently making splendid Frankish cannons.” “Who’d you hear that from, eh, Kajii?” The young puppeteer widened his eyes. “From Matsuura—the one who arrived late.” “What sort of weapon is it? Tell me!”

“What’re you on about, eh Ishidō? How in blazes would I know that?” “Where’re they making ’em then?” “S’posed to be inside Kasugayama Castle itself.”

Several figures appeared. Among them were women. Komusō wandering monks, street performers, Shugendō practitioners, blind minstrels—their appearances were varied.

Following that, several more appeared. The number of people reached fifteen or sixteen. Of them, five were women.

The two puppeteers stood up. “Suzuno will be dangerous from now on. We can’t get separated—move together as one,” Kajii cautioned. “Alright, time to pull out! Hurry, hurry!”

The spies of the Uesugi clan of Echigo thus formed a tight group and crossed eastward through Suzuno.

The surroundings suddenly grew quiet. The bush warbler that had ceased singing resumed its song.

At this moment, the one who abruptly sat up was Gentarō, who had been hiding and listening. His sanpaku eyes glinted. He swiftly seized the birdlime pole. “To Echigo! To Echigo!”

He chased after the group.

In Suzuno, human figures vanished.

A flying squirrel came running. A chestnut-colored weasel darted out. The two creatures fought violently. The weasel's neck was bitten through. Dark red blood flowed out. It gleamed azure in the spring sunlight. The flying squirrel devoured its prey. The thick tail, raised stiffly, shone silver-gray. There was a sound of bones being crushed.

Six

Tsukiko was carving a mask.

Gentarō did not return. Crisp, crisp went the sound of the chisel. Wood chips scattered in all directions like moths.

“I hear the boy won’t be coming back.”

She stopped her hands and muttered. She furrowed her brows with a lonely expression. "Could he have gotten lost?" This worried her.

She began carving the mask again.

"He’s a spoiled brat, but such a dear child. Maybe it’s precisely because he’s spoiled that he’s endearing." She felt like smiling. "But," she began thinking, "as that child once said—do true evil people with fixed natures really not exist in this world? If they truly don’t, what should this humble one do?" This contemplation filled her with unease. "Applying the Face-Making Technique was never this humble one’s desire. My true hope while practicing this art was to encounter a man or woman bearing the visage of ultimate evil—but if no such evil exists in this world, then perhaps I shall never meet such a countenance for all eternity."

She felt a dull heaviness like a blunted chisel. There was the sound of clear water dripping. Only the dripping water and chisel sounds remained—no others. No—occasionally, one might catch the sound of her escaping sighs.

Outside might have been daytime now. Inside the cave remained night. Sunlight may have flooded the world beyond its mouth while dimness permeated the cavern. Grass sprouts might push through soil outside; tree buds perhaps swelled; insect eggs could hatch—but within these depths lived only Tsukiko, her age unmarked by seasons. The chisel advanced without yielding. I must not think. I must not think. She commanded herself. Yet thoughts rose unbidden. Through each fleeting pulse of the heart, one becomes villain or saint. This truth stands immutable.

She contemplated her own heart.

"Even this humble one’s own heart could not be said to be otherwise. Not even for a single moment or half a moment had it remained in the same state. It was always moving and shifting." The chisel had stopped moving entirely. "I must not think, I must not think." And so she began carving.

But she ended up thinking anyway. "The phrase 'extreme evil person' is just an empty adjective—such humans don't exist in this world, so naturally there may be no owners of such physiognomy either." "Then I must say that waiting until today has been a trivial matter." "If there's no physiognomy of an extreme evil person, it seems impossible to create a new mask of one." "If I can't make this, this humble one cannot go out into the world of men."

Once more, the hand holding the chisel had come to a stop.

She lowered her eyes and sank into thought.

The past was dark and merciless. It had been a life of meaningless abstinence. There was not a single happy memory. It had been a life of single-minded devotion to the chisel—pure, ascetic, and disciplined. And there was no light in the future. What am I to do? What should I do?

"No good, no good—this way of thinking."

She steeled herself. "I'll just carve, as I always have. I'm bound to grasp something." She wielded her chisel. And then, at that moment, there came a steady knocking at the entrance door.

"I hear the young master has returned."

She stood up and unlatched the bolt. Two people—a man and a woman—were standing there. One was a young samurai. The other seemed to be the wife of a samurai. "What business brings you here?" asked Tsukiko. “Please… fix this face.” The young samurai said in a low voice. It was a voice tinged with fear. That voice was terribly hoarse. “First, please come in.” Tsukiko stepped aside. She then observed the two without letting down her guard. The two slid in as if gliding. As if pursued by something malevolent, they kept glancing furtively toward the entrance. There were vivid expressions of terror on their faces. Tsukiko closed the entrance door.

She observed them next. Their haggard appearances likely resulted from a grueling journey. Yet despite this, both the samurai and his wife were beautiful. They were beautiful—so beautiful it verged on indecency. For a brief moment, the three remained silent. "If I may inquire your names?" Tsukiko asked with solemn dignity.

“I am Ban Gennojō.” “I am Sonnyo.” They declared their names as if concealing themselves.

Chapter Eighteen

I Though all things grow and thrive, there alone, no life takes root. Though spring comes and brings brightness, here alone wears the visage of Yomi. In a rocky hollow, water pools, the shrine's lantern casts its radiant glow. In a rock cave where no people dwell, the sound of a chisel could also be heard. Never have wild birds come to visit. Never have wild beasts come to visit. A mask-making woman alone in humble seclusion she dwells. “Lord Ban Gennojō and Lady Sonnyo?” “Ah, so you are Lord Ban Gennojō and Lady Sonnyo?” Tsukiko nodded faintly. “If I may ask, where were you born?” “Yes,” Gennojō hesitated, “I was born in Odawara.”

“And what is your purpose in seeking face reconstruction?” “Yes,” he hesitated again but continued, “the truth is, I have had enemies for a long time.” “They are terrifying enemies.” “It may seem cowardly of me, but once we meet and cross blades, I stand no chance of victory.” “I will surely be cut down.” “They are terrifying enemies.” “Therefore, I earnestly wish to alter my appearance so that even if I encounter my enemies, they will not recognize me as such.”

“I see,” Tsukiko smiled. “The floating world is full of variety, isn’t it? I would not presume to call your request pitiable or absurd were I to accept it. Now, a samurai who once came to me for face reconstruction had said this: even if he sought to confront his sworn enemies, they would likely flee upon encountering his former countenance—thus he requested the procedure. Yet even if I were to reconstruct your faces, I cannot proceed without reference. There are many masks. Please select whichever one you prefer.”

Tsukiko turned around and pointed at the Noh masks hanging on the rock wall. “No,” Gennojō said, shaking his head. “I have a request. “Please craft me a face of terror.” “And for me… a face of sorrow.” Then Sonnyo spoke thus. Tsukiko narrowed her eyes slightly and looked at the two of them anew. They seemed like truly tragic people, she thought to herself. Truly, it seemed every human being carried some kind of sorrow.

And she nodded. “A face of terror and a face of sorrow—I shall craft them for you. Which of you shall I attend to first?” “Yes, please—begin with me.” Sonnyo took a step forward.

"Then over here," Tsukiko said. Then she opened the brocade curtain.

“Sonnyo!”

Ban Gennojō called out to stop her. “Show me your face one more time. Once you’ve had the surgery, I’ll never be able to see it again. This is my last chance to look upon your face.”

“And for me too...”

The two faced each other intently. The altar lamp flickered unsteadily. The halves of their faces were illuminated.

“The sorrow in your heart shows on your face—even now, you look sad. “May your sorrow deepen. “But you are beautiful. “Sorrow clings to your beautiful face, making it doubly beautiful. “That is what stirs earthly desires within me.” “I feel the same way.” Sonnyo’s voice choked with emotion. “When I look upon your face, worries well up within me. “The regret in your heart must be showing on your face. “You are truly beautiful. “The regret etched into your face makes you appear even more beautiful.”

“Please come this way.” A voice called out from the adjacent room—Tsukiko’s.

“Yes,” Sonnyo said, lifting the curtain. And then she entered the adjacent room. Gennojō leaned his back against the rock wall.

“Ah, I’ve suffered for so long.” He closed his eyes and thought. “And yet the suffering continues. Either he dies or we die—as long as one side remains alive, this suffering will continue forever. Ah, I’ve suffered for so long.” The sound of clear water dripping came. The sound of oil boiling came. The oil in the altar must have been boiling. A voice came from the adjacent room—Tsukiko’s.

“Please lie down on the bed.” “Lift your face up… Keep it straight.” Sonnyo’s voice could not be heard. The bed creaked. Gennojō opened his eyes blankly. He looked around the room.

"There are people who live in places like this." "Silence, darkness, heartlessness!" "But perhaps this isn't so bad." "They likely have no worries." He gazed transfixed at the masks. "It's as though severed heads were displayed here."

From the adjacent room, Tsukiko’s voice came. “The heart manifests in the face. If you wish to craft a sorrowful face, you must strive to hold a sorrowful state of mind. ……I shall tell you. A sad, sad story.……”

There, Tsukiko’s voice ceased. Gennojō looked at the fingers of both hands. The altar lamp faintly illuminated his nails. "My nails have lines." "Here lies the proof of ill health in a man weakened by terror." He turned his hand over and looked at the back. "A lustreless hand, a dry hand, with blue veins crawling all over."

The brocade curtain rippled. The light from the altar lamp that had been shining there darkened only the folds.

Then Tsukiko’s voice came.

“Once upon a time in Ōmi Province, on the shores of Lake Biwa in Asazuma, there lived a shirabyōshi dancer. “‘Uncertain—will the Asazuma boat meet its fate before the Ibuki wind blows?’ she composed a pitiful song.” “She sent that to the noble lord.” “To the heartless, heartless noble lord who met her once and never came again—”

II

Gennojō listened intently to the adjacent room. "So it's the tale of the Asazuma boat." Hmm—a tragic love story indeed. There are all kinds of love. Love unrequited, love fulfilled, love parted, love unseen. "And so our love—this terrifying love of ours—is being threatened."

Tsukiko’s voice came through.

“Tragically, from the noble lord there came no response.” “So the shirabyōshi dancer boarded a small boat and set out upon Lake Biwa.” “It was a spring evening.” “The full moon hung in the sky.” “A veiled full moon.” “A gentle breeze, waterfowl, flowering water plants—the lake lay calm.” “In eboshi hat and silk robe, vermilion fan in hand, the pitiful lovelorn dancer swayed as she drifted.” “Blow winds! Rise waves! Bury this humble one’s body with the boat in the watery depths!” “……And so the shirabyōshi wept.” “The tears she shed filled the jar to brimming—so it is told.”

"This is a terrifying love—our love is one that cannot be wept over even when we try." "Even if I told it, no one would sympathize." Gennojō hung his head. "How many years has it been now?" It felt like something that happened a full century ago. At other times, it felt like a recent event from just two or three days prior...... Late spring turning to early summer, wisteria in full bloom—it had been a certain day in April. He left the mansion on Yoroi Bridge-dōri and walked toward the coast.

Tsukiko’s voice could be heard.

"The boat arrived at Karasaki. 'Who planted this solitary pine!' 'The pine of Karasaki moaned in the night wind.' But the shirabyōshi dancer did not disembark from the boat or attempt to go ashore. 'Having crossed mountains and forded rivers, how could she possibly reach Kyoto?' 'She discarded the jar filled with tears into the lake water.' 'And it is said Lake Biwa's waters swelled suddenly.' 'And then the small boat swayed gently as it headed out to the open sea.' 'There were many people on the beach. Shells were scattered across the tidal flat. There, I met a woman! The eyes of the woman I saw then!' Gennojō crouched."

“...This humble one is empty!” “This humble one remains unfulfilled!” “Please, fill this humble one!” They were eyes that seemed to be saying this. ……They were eyes starved for love. They were eyes lying in wait. ......Those eyes were staring at me! ...the eyes of Hōjō Naiki’s wife—a woman renowned for her ugliness and martial prowess! ...In that instant, I was vanquished....and soon after, an evil fate was forged! Then came flight! Then came wandering!

Tsukiko’s voice could be heard.

“The small boat drifted away. Parting through the flock of waterfowl, trailing a single white wake...... There, the shirabyōshi dancer recited: ‘Parting through waterfowl as even Asazuma boats pass by—thus returning again to the same watery path.’ And so they reached Katata. Tears accumulated in the jar. And then she spilled it again into the lake water. ‘And it is said the waters swelled.’”

Gennojō remained perfectly still. He pressed his forehead against his raised knee, curved his back, and froze. "Then came flight, then came wandering…" I fled and fled and fled about. I was weak-willed and uneducated—my only asset being my beauty—and could not secure an official post. But eventually, my travel funds ran out. I had no choice but to seek an official post. In the ways of the Warring States period, wherever one went, there were shouts of arrow volleys and the clamor of warriors—capable individuals were recruited. But I alone was no good. Because I had never taken up archery, horsemanship, swordsmanship, or military strategy—not a single one of them. I had to starve to death. But I didn't want to die. There, I thought. I would use my assets and my wife would use hers to secure stipends and sustain our lives...... My wife became concubine to various daimyō, while I decided to offer my body to their wives and concubines. And this succeeded. We went to Suruga and visited the Imagawa family—I received the favor of the wife, and Sonnyo received Yoshimoto’s favor. But in the third month, we escaped. We seized the money at hand and secretly joined hands...... When entering Ōmi, we served the Sasaki family; when reaching Kyoto, the Miyoshi family; when going to Harima, the Bessho family; when arriving in Izumo, the Amago family; when proceeding to Bizen, the Ukita family; and when entering Aki, the Mōri family. In each case, it was two or three months. Whenever we fled, we always stole.

As we defiled our bodies, my wife grew ever more beautiful, and I too became beautiful. The two of us simply could not part ways. Ah, the magnetic pull of beauty born from evil! ...we served the Chōsokabe in Shikoku, crossed to Kyushu for the Ōtomo clan, attended the Ryūzōji in Hizen, and entered Satsuma under the Shimazu. ...until at last, homesickness overcame us and we stole back to our homeland. "And there we learned that Hōjō Naiki had fled the province to begin his woman's vendetta!"

Tsukiko's voice could be heard.

“Forever and ever, the small boat drifted away. ‘Of the Asazuma boat seen in my dream that turns back—leaving only tears upon my sleeves.’ Thus did the shirabyōshi dancer recite.” “Tears filled the jar.” “And then she had to spill it again.”

III

"It was from then that our true flight of terror began." "We decided to flee toward Tōhoku." "Our carnal service continued as before—my wife as a concubine, myself as a male concubine—our shamelessly immoral life carried out again and again." "When we went to Echigo we served the Uesugi; when we went to Aizu we served the Ashina; when we went to Ōshū we served the Date; when we went to Morioka we served the Nanbu; when we went to Hitachi we served the Satake; when we went to Yūki we served the Yūki; when we went to Awa we served the Satomi." "Anxiety never left me." "Hōjō Naiki’s terrifying face kept flickering before my eyes." "Might it not be easier to step forward and let myself be struck down? How much more comforting that would be." "An ugly floating world—this suffocating existence—better to die! Better to die!" "How many times had I thought this?" "But I resolved:" "Run! Run! Escape completely!" "That is what victory means." "Be thorough in your weakness—that is what victory means." "And so I convinced myself." "I hold no attachments to this world." "If I wish to die, I could die at any time." "And Sonnyo seemed no different." "She would die with me." "For us two, death would bring ease." "Never—never pain."

So let us stop trying to die. Let us live and savor the pain. So let us torment our terrifying rival in love to the bitter end. Having heard there was a nunnery in the valley between Yatsugatake and Mount Tateshina in Shinano Province, that was precisely why I went to visit. "It was to complete our concealment."

Tsukiko's voice could be heard.

“The boat reached Stone Mountain,” “but they did not go ashore.” “For the shirabyōshi dancer who had resolved to die, the shore held no longing.” “She poured the jar brimming with tears into the lake once more.” “Is this not profoundly sorrowful?” “Three cupfuls of tears!” “Three jarfuls!” “A drifting shirabyōshi of rootless existence—these were the tears she shed yearning for one man.” “And again the boat drifted upon the waves, making for the open sea.” “‘Who would renew such shallow vows made at dawn on this Asazuma boat?’ No—the dancer never again sought to share her pillow.” “At the heart of the lake, a single boat—a lone leaf—there she meant to starve and waste away to death.”

Gennojō remained crouched. The baleful light faintly illuminated his back. Drip-drip-drip-drip went the trickling sound. It was water cascading into the stone trough.

"Life in the monastery was also fraught with anxiety. And so it was not suited to us. At that time, I heard rumors of the face-maker. How overjoyed I was! And so, I decided to take the mountain paths. And so now I came here. 'If we just changed our appearances, Hōjō Naiki bastard wouldn’t be able to find us for all eternity.'" Gennojō suddenly raised his face. A sarcastic sneer appeared.

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“Oooooh—at last—the color of sorrow has risen to your face! Now then—let us begin with—” It seemed she had taken up some object. A sound came—like soft plaster being kneaded—the scrape of a spatula.

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“It’s done. A mask of living flesh.” After that, there was silence for a time.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. "What splendid hair you have. "We must now change your hair." "For the hair of one steeped in sorrow to be this black, this long, and this abundant cannot but be called unnatural." "It is said that hair turns white from the sorrow of a single morning." It seemed she had taken up something else. There was a sound of a metal implement striking against a shelf. And Tsukiko’s voice sounded. "Sweet almond oil, bitter almond oil, elderflower water, precipitated sulfur, and blood squeezed from a prostitute’s liver under cover of night—this cold compress made by combining them all shall now be applied." "......Ah, it has turned white." "It has turned snow-white, like deutzia blossoms."

The sound of combing hair could be heard. A faint hissing sound! But that too soon ceased.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“What a lovely forehead you have.” “A prominent brow crown and orderly hairline—these too must be altered.” “I shall create three horizontal creases to fashion a tear-strewn countenance.”

A sound like leather being tanned could be heard. And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “What expressive eyes you have.” “These are what we call courtesan eyes.” “This too must be altered.” “I will carve wrinkles at the corners of your eyes.” “I will create a beauty mark on your eyelids.” “A tear-inducing beauty mark.” There was the sound of something being picked up.

There was silence for a brief moment. Drip-drip-drip-drip, drip-drip-drip-drip... The sound of water dripping from the rock walls. The cavern grew even more silent.

Four

"If I just change my appearance, I’ll be safe. "I have nothing to fear at all." Gennojō remained crouching. "I’ll go and deliberately seek out an encounter. "That’s right—Hōjō Naiki, that bastard. "And then I’ll laugh as loud as I please right before that bastard’s eyes. "Collapsing into raucous guffaws."

Again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “What an honest nose you have. A well-rounded nose, we call it. This too must be altered. Having parted from parents and spouse, with no fixed abode throughout your life—to match this existence of hardship and misfortune—I shall transform it into a hawk-like nose.”

Gennojō listened intently toward the neighboring room.

“Yeah, that’s good. Go ahead and transform me completely.” “Make sure there’s no trace left of my former self.” “So that Sonnyo won’t recognize me as Sonnyo.”

For a time, there was a desolate stillness. The lamp in the altar niche swayed and flickered. It seemed a faint breeze had entered from somewhere. The masks all blinked at once. But it stopped almost immediately. It must have been because the lamp in the altar niche had stilled. Drip-drip-drip-drip—the sound of water!

"What a deep philtrum you have." Tsukiko’s voice could be heard. "Narrow at the top and broad at the bottom—it is of an ideal shape." "This too must be altered." "I shall make it thin and short." "And then I shall apply mottling." "The burdened fate line!" "The ill-fated countenance!" A pattering, tapping sound could be heard. A sound like scissors snipping could be heard. "Search! Search for Hōjō Naiki!" Gennojō muttered. "Search all of Japan if you wish." "But you’ll never lay eyes on me again."

Again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“What adorable lips you have.” “Thin, crimson, and small—like flower petals.” “This too must be altered.” “I shall make it a downturned mouth.” “The gods have withered, the spirit grown turbid; the house destroyed and clan scattered—to lips of ill fortune with nowhere to turn.”

Gennojō remained crouching.

The half-carved camphor wood mask material lay upon the coarse straw matting. Wood chips were scattered all around.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “The teeth alignment must also be altered.” “What neatly aligned teeth you have.” “We call these the paired front teeth.” “I shall make your teeth uneven.” A tapping sound could be heard. It seemed they were smashing the front teeth with a metal hammer.

“The plumpness of your ear’s shape.” “This is what we call a water ear.” “It must be made into a wood ear.” “A wood ear—one who has lost all kin, lacks wealth, and drifts through life alone and unsupported.” A squelch-squelch—an eerie sound could be heard. Flesh was being carved, it seemed.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. "Now for Dobokukyū—the chin must be altered. "What an excellent chin you have. "A square, moist, and full form it is. "...I shall shape this into a wedge. "And then create disordered patterns and slanted lines, making them dark, turbid, and dim. "...With all four walls unsteady—[transforming you] into the ill-omened visage of kin slaughtered."

A smooth sound came, as if being rubbed with an ivory spatula. For a time, the rock cave lay still. The curtain swayed occasionally—likely from Tsukiko moving about the adjacent room. Gennojō never stirred. He sat bathed in the niche's light, shoulders and back illuminated as he crouched at the base of the stone wall.

Again, Tsukiko's voice sounded.

“The voice must also be altered.” “...The wooden tone rings high and clear; the fiery tone crackles dry without moisture; the earthen tone sits heavy and sunken; the metallic tone resounds like temple bells; the watery tone flows smooth and unhindered—these are called the five tones.” “...A voice that exists yet lacks resonance holds neither fortune nor misfortune; when a voice emerges from the tanden, we call this the upper-phase tone.” “And when it emerges from the tip of the tongue, we call it lowly ruin.” “The most inauspicious is the Rakō voice!” “Then we shall proceed with this voice.” “...Please drink the medicine.”

It seemed someone was pouring liquid medicine into a vessel—a tock-tock sound could be heard.

"What exactly is fear? What exactly is courage?"

Gennojō muttered. Is there truly no distinction between fear and courage? To wield valor and display merit，gain high status，and make one’s way through the world— Truly，this must be a man’s true purpose. But isn’t it perfectly human to flee cowardly and live out one’s brief life with a beloved woman as a flower in the shade? …Displaying courage is merely a means to live ostentatiously. But become too conspicuous，and that way of living grows constricting. That’s because you’ll be made into an idol.

Tsukiko's voice could be heard. “It’s completely finished now. “There remains no trace of your former visage. “You may meet anyone without concern. “None shall detect anything. “Ah...! How sorrowful and destitute your countenance has become! “A visage of tearful solitude and poverty.”

There was a clink as something was picked up. “Please do look in the mirror.”

V I am without a doubt a coward. I am always assailed by fear. Gennojō stood up unsteadily. However, he did not move away from the rock wall. But I have the right. The right to live in this world— And when I state it so openly—feeling constrained, fearing exposure, living like a mole—I even find myself intrigued. ……There are many paths to live on. There are paths that stride boldly through bustling daytime avenues, and paths that furtively squirm through back alleys in the dark of night. Neither can be called better than the other. ……Those who walk back alleys in the dark of night find profound joy even in the faintest glimmer—a single sliver of lamplight leaking through the gaps in storm shutters. ……Rotted nerves, senses honed to a razor’s edge, decadent sentiments, willpower worn to nothing—the world’s castoffs! Such people must have their own world of pleasure—one that exists solely for them.

At that moment, Sonnyo’s weeping could be heard faintly from the next room. It was a pleading cry. Then, Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“Please do cry, Lady Sonnyo—your sorrowful face will become twice as sorrowful with these tears. "You must have been startled." “That must be why you weep. …The face reflected in the mirror—your face!” “Where could there remain a single trace of your once-beautiful features?” “Your former face was a blooming crabapple; your current face a rotten gardenia—not the slightest resemblance remains.” “...But in exchange, you are safe.” “No matter whom you meet now, there will be no need to fear recognition.” “The old you has vanished without trace—a new you has been abruptly born…” "But in return, while you live, none shall ever love you." “So long as that face remains thus…”

Sonnyo’s weeping continued. It was a voice that even the pitiless Noh masks hung on the cavern wall seemed to strain their ears and heed. It was a lonely, despairing voice. “Ah… Sonnyo is crying.” Gennojō kept his ears intently strained. “The face-making surgery must have ended. A transformed visage with strange features—it must have become defiled. ...What’s wrong with that—even if it’s defiled? In this fleeting world, nothing holds dual goodness. “……Now it’s my turn.”

Tsukiko's voice could be heard. “Please do get some sleep.” “Please do cry while you sleep.” “The tears will add luster.” “Please do drink the sedative. …Let us apply a mask to your face.”

After that, everything fell into hushed silence.

Gradually, the weeping grew faint, and before long, the sound of breathing could be heard.

A voice called out, "Lord Gennojō." "Please come this way."

With that, Gennojō lifted the curtain and slid into the adjacent room.

The curtain twisted into a serpentine shape, and the lamp in the altar niche dimmed in that spot alone.

Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“Please lie down upon the bed. “Now lie beside your wife.” “...Face upward... Keep it straight...”

The bed creaked.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “The heart manifests upon the face. If you wish to craft a visage of terror, you must nurture terror within your heart. ……I shall tell you. A tale most horrifying……” There her voice ceased for a time. She appeared lost in contemplation—weaving her narrative thread.

What kind of story would she tell? Could there truly exist in this world a story that would plunge someone like Ban Gennojō—already hounded and driven by terror—even deeper into the abyss of fear?

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “At the third station of Mount Fuji’s foothills, there is a bandit.” “His local name is Tōkishi.” “He built a large pottery kiln and makes pottery every day.” “No, no—it’s not pottery.” “He puts travelers passing through the foothills into the kiln and steams them.” “…He loves murder.” “He has one particular catchphrase.” “When he kills a man, he shouts ‘Adulterer!’, and when he kills a woman, he shouts ‘Adulteress!’.” “This is his catchphrase.” “As for his real name… whatever it might be called, I have not the slightest idea.” “As for what his original status might have been—that too, this humble one does not know.” “…But they say that man’s purpose is revenge against a woman.”

A groan escaped Gennojō. “Oooooh... It seems terror has welled up in your heart.” “It has manifested upon your face.” “Do maintain that state... Now then, let us begin with the mask—” A sound emerged—the scrape of a spatula kneading what might have been soft plaster. “There—completed, the mask of living flesh... Should you ever wish to behold it, please do visit anytime.”

VI

After that, everything was quiet for a time.

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “You must never go to the third station of Mount Fuji’s foothills. For he lurks there. That murderous fiend of a potter— ...But from one perspective, he is a pitiable man. Due to his unfaithful wife’s conduct, he cast aside bushido and became a demon—living damnation incarnate. A Rikyū-tea-colored jūtoku master’s hood, a refined handsome man—you must be wary of him. That indeed is the potter. ...They say he severs necks with a single stroke. With a straight blade, in a frenzy of madness, they say he cuts them down using Shintōgorō Kunishige’s sword. ...At times, they say he severs heads with a single left-handed strike, never once making a mistake. My master Tsuchi Totonosuke spoke of him thus.”

A groan escaped Gennojō. It was a voice like stifled breath.

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “They say that even when he cuts, the blood’s viscosity doesn’t cling to the blade—it just drips down from the spearhead’s tip.” “With his sword dangling limply, parting his lips slightly to reveal his beautiful front teeth in a stark white, they say he laughs joyfully.” “……And then—‘Adulterer! Adulteress!’”

"Please fix my face!" Gennojō's hoarse voice! “We shall commence with the hair.” “What fine hair you have.”

It seemed she had taken up a jar—or something of the sort. There was a clunk.

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “For men’s hair and women’s hair—even when altering the color—the medicinal agents differ somewhat.” “…Powdered iris root, zinc oxide, thyme, mutton tallow, fish glue, thunderball oil, brain matter of infants who died of smallpox—blended into an ointment… We shall apply it now.” The sound of hair being combed arose. A deep sigh could be heard. It seemed to be Gennojō’s sigh.

And Tsukiko’s voice sounded. “Next comes the three divisions.” “…The forehead is the heaven division, the nose the human division, and then the chin is called the earth division.” “…We shall now alter these.” The sound of tanning skin, the sound of scraping meat, the sound of shaving bone could be heard. The sound of metal instruments clinking could be heard. The sound of pacing footsteps and ragged breaths could also be heard. A single brocade curtain separated them from the face-making technique underway!

And again, Tsukiko’s voice sounded. "Next comes the five features. …The eyebrows are the Longevity Guardian, the eyes the Oversight Guardian, the bridge of the nose the Judgment Guardian, the mouth the Provision Guardian, and the ears the Listening Guardian. “…We shall now alter these." Something like a blade clattered to the ground. A metallic clang reverberated. Time passed in hushed stillness. The masks hung upon the rock wall opened and closed their eyes, opened and closed their mouths, their expressions shifting in time with the flickering flames of the niches.

The waterfall cascading down the rock wall was like a single silver rod. The stone trough was overflowing with water. With a spattering sound, bubbles occasionally scattered. And Tsukiko’s voice sounded.

“There, it’s done now. “…Your voice must also be altered.” “……Please drink this.”

A sound like that of liquid medicine being poured could be heard.

And again, Tsukiko's voice sounded. "Please look in the mirror."

For a time, there was no sound. Then came a voice like dry leaves rustling against each other—the voice of an old man.

"Who... who is this man?!" "It is Lord Ban Gennojō." “Uh—uh—uh—this... this is my face?!” “This is your face.” “The face of a man over a hundred years old!” “This is the face of terror.” "A face full of wrinkles! White hair!" "The burden of the Noh mask—Evil Magistrate..." “Protruding cheekbones! Gouged-out temples!” "Your face has completely transformed." "A flattened nose! Swollen lips!" "Eternal longing has been sealed away."

“Jagged, bared teeth!” “Moreover, three are missing.” “Dull yellow eyes clouded with filth!” “Oh dear, the pus looks ready to drip.” “The left sideburn’s torn clean off!” “Yes, like a wolf’s bite.” “This spider-mark on the forehead!” “The despised vertical sword pattern.” A guffawing laugh erupted.

“Hōjō Naiki, you bastard! Mark me well!” “Mark me well!”

Chapter 19

I

At the foothills of Mount Fuji, deep within Hitokuchi Cave, in Tsukiko the face-maker's room—it was at dawn the following day that the faint creak of its door opening could be heard. “Farewell, Lady Tsukiko.” “Lord Gennojō, Lady Sonnyo, may you journey safely.”

Voices exchanging farewells could be heard. After that, there was quiet for a time. And again, a creaking sound could be heard. Tsukiko seemed to close her room’s door. The chatty little birds did not sing, the eastern sky showed no pale blue hue, the foothills lay dark and desolate, only the wind passed through the shrubs, and a moaning sound could be heard.

What appeared as dark, speckled stains at the base of the rocky mountain was likely the entrance to Hitokuchi Cave. And then, as if spat out from there, two human figures appeared.

They were likely Ban Gennojō and Sonnyo. However, because the surroundings were dark, their forms couldn't be clearly discerned. They seemed to hesitate, standing there with the mouth of Hitokuchi Cave behind them. Then a man's voice sounded.

"I've grown to miss inhabited places. ...There's nothing left to fear. ...Even if seen, we won't be recognized. ...Until now, we've been fleeing in terror. From now on, we'll boldly approach them......" But was this truly Gennojō's voice? Yet it issued from a hundred-year-old throat - cracked and withered.

“Shall we go to Kōfu? To the bustling castle town of the Takeda clan…… I too have somehow come to yearn for human settlements.” It must have been Sonnyo who spoke. Yet that voice could only belong to an old woman over a hundred years of age.

The two figures began to move. The rustling sound accompanying their footsteps came from the dry grass parting to either side.

From around the time their figures vanished, the morning at the foothills began to dawn.

It was midday on that day.

On the Kajiya Highway, two cripples were walking together. One was a man, the other a woman; the man wore youthful samurai garb, the woman youthful wife's attire—yet both had heads buried in white hair and wrinkles, an ugly old man and crone. The Noh mask's burdensome evil elder was the spitting image of an old man's face. A large toad-shaped birthmark on his forehead made his visage appear even more fearsome. The Noh mask's weeping crone perfectly mirrored an old woman's face. A tear-shaped mole the size of a little finger beneath her left lower eyelid made her countenance seem all the more sorrowful.

When they arrived at Shingyōji Temple's lodging, the sound of a bell came from ahead. Next came Buddhist hymns chanted in unison. Then a procession rounded the crossroads and appeared—lepers with white cotton cloths draped over their faces, holes pierced only for their eyes. When the two cripples and lepers met on the road, it was the lepers who moved aside. So repulsively fearsome did these maimed figures appear. The Kajiya Highway connected scattered post towns and villages as it wound toward Kōfu. Though rapeseed blossoms had already fallen, wheat leaves in fields flanking the road trembled against gentle breezes. Where cultivated land ended rose hills; beyond those hills lay woods; through those woods stretched forests; then came mountain passes; finally, a river demanded crossing.

There, the two walked on. When they entered Shirai Riverbed, even the famously long spring day had ended and night had fallen; by the time they passed through Shimo-Kajiya Post Town, Kami-Kajiya Post Town, Sumiyoshi, Aze, and Kōdaiji to reach Kōfu’s castle town, it had become the deep night of the hour when the first rooster crows. Kōfu was still a den of the Master of the Pillar of Fire, lepers, and bloodsucking demons.

Towering into the dark night sky stood the great mansion of Baba Mino-no-kami, Governor of Mino, a solitary large star hanging low over its roof ridge. On that roof ridge, someone appeared to be lying prone—a human presence.

And then came a voice from there. "Hey Uemon, you holding up?" Yet no reply came from anywhere. For some time, there was only deep stillness.

After a short while, a response came. "Yeah, I'm fine over here. How about you? Huh, Kojirō?" Facing Baba Mino-no-kami's mansion stood Naitō Shūri-no-suke's mansion. From one part of that roof ridge, the responding voice could be heard. Sure enough, there too, a single figure seemed to be lying prone. However, its form was indiscernible. The darkness enveloped everything. Once again, profound silence fell. A star traced a great arc across the sky, streaming azure, and the wind whooshed through.

Boom boom boom! Boom boom boom! The sound of a hammer smashing through a gate.

A resounding "Waaah!" of a battle cry.

The frantic sound of fleeing footsteps. Then came a piercing "Hiii!"—a woman’s scream.

"Agh!"—the sound of someone crying out and collapsing. It seems someone was cut down.

The residence of Takeda Shingen at Tsutsujigasaki stood towering directly to the north. The reason a soul-chilling noise had briefly echoed from that direction was likely lepers swarming in. But this too soon ceased, plunging everything back into silence. Then from Baba Mino-no-kami's roof ridge came a voice once more: "You're late. What's keeping you?" A voice answered, "Yeah." "Even the Pillar of Fire must be worn out by now."

“That’s impossible. Let’s go now.” “Tonight I’ll capture it no matter what.” Their conversation ended abruptly. Who were these two? Ninjutsu practitioners of the Mukade Corps—one was Takuma Kojirō, the other likely Goza Uemon.

II

Though called darkness, it was a starry sky. Against this dim glow, suddenly, a black figure stood upon the roof ridge of the Naitō residence. In an attempt to survey the town below, Takuma Kojirō appeared to have risen. From the roof overlooking Kōfu’s castle town, peach-colored flames piercing through the darkness here and there were likely lepers' bonfires. The noise rising from there was undoubtedly their murmurs. Aligned with the Naitō residence stood Itakura Suruga-no-kami’s mansion. Next lay Kadenkōji Lane; across it rose Shinmei Shrine, its spacious courtyard too ablaze with crimson fire. Shadowy figures—standing, sitting, crawling—visible in the firelight likely meant lepers gathered there as well. After watching awhile, Kojirō turned westward. Before him loomed a grand mansion. This was Saezuka Kaden’s estate encircled by high earthen walls—as light flared at the wall’s southeastern corner, a single pillar of fire swayed northward along its length, writhing as it advanced.

“Uemon! It’s appeared! The Pillar of Fire!” “It’s appeared!” “The Pillar of Fire!” As he shouted, Kojirō pressed himself flat against the roof ridge. “Right. …Here it comes! “Understood!”

From the roof ridge of Baba’s mansion, Goza Uemon’s voice sounded immediately. After that, not even the sound of breathing could be heard.

The Pillar of Fire drew steadily closer. As it moved, the earthen wall's surface reflected its light in sudden flares before being swallowed again by darkness when it passed. Having moved beyond the Saezuka residence, the Pillar halted momentarily where a north-south path intersected its course, appearing to deliberate its direction. Yet it turned neither way, resuming its straight path toward the Naitō residence with slow deliberation. To the south lay the Naitō family's earthen wall; to the north stretched a low embankment lined with pines. Each ancient trunk along this row flared into brief radiance as the Pillar glided past.

When the earthen wall of the Naitō residence ended, at the crossroads of Yanagimachi Street running north-south, the Pillar of Fire paused again for a time. The wind blew from the crossroads. The Master of the Pillar of Fire—the Masked Castle Lord! The sleeves and hem of the Castle Lord's Kōketsu-dyed robe, whipped by the wind into ceaseless swirling vortices, made the Pillar of Fire seem to unfurl flames in all directions. Protruding sharply from the hem were two legs swathed in white cloth; dangling limply from the sleeves hung arms likewise bandaged—as though candles floated suspended on all sides within the conflagration.

Then, the Pillar of Fire began to move.

Through the middle between the Naitō residence and Baba residence, it came writhing toward the south.

III

When the main gates of the two mansions were dimly illuminated by the firelight, a battle cry of "A!" burst from the roof ridge of the Naitō residence as if hurling a stone. Simultaneously, a single capture rope sliced through the air and was cast downward. Almost without pause, a resonant "Un!" erupted from the roof ridge of the Baba residence. Then through the darkness traced a parabola as another capture rope flew.

First, the Pillar of Fire swayed to the right, then staggered to the left. Then, it suddenly came to a halt. A single long capture rope stretched taut at an angle from the neck area of the Master of the Pillar of Fire in a straight line all the way to the roof ridge of the Naitō residence. And yet another capture rope stretched tautly in a straight line from the torso of the Master of the Pillar of Fire all the way to the roof ridge of the Baba residence. The Master of the Pillar of Fire was tightly bound by two capture ropes. Above hung the dark sky; to the left and right stood rows of samurai residences; in their midst, a pillar of fire blazed fiercely, its apex crowned by an expressionless, motionless Noh mask! ……What words could possibly describe this?

At that moment, black figures rose onto the roof ridges of the Naitō and Baba residences. Takuma Kojirō and Goza Uemon—they were undoubtedly the two figures. Then, suddenly, the two figures—as if in perfect unison—crouched toward the Pillar of Fire. But in the very next instant, they jerked backward. It seemed they had tightened the capture ropes. The unexpected event occurred in the very next instant.

The Master of the Pillar of Fire slowly raised his white cloth-wrapped right hand upward, inch by inch. It came to rest against the mask's jawline. The instant the Castle Lord's unmasked face turned toward the Naitō residence, a choked "Unn!" sounded. Simultaneously, Kojirō disappeared. A heavy thud echoed as the black-clad figure rolled down the roof's slope and crashed into the street below.

When the Castle Lord’s unmasked face turned toward the Baba residence, the same thing occurred. A stifled gasp, a thud—a black-clad figure tumbled down from the roof into the street below. Those who gaze upon Medusa’s face must plummet into the abyss of death. Leaving behind the corpses of the Mukade Corps ninjutsu practitioners Takuma Kojirō and Goza Uemon—with capture ropes still dangling from their necks and torsos—the Master of the Pillar of Fire began trudging southward not long thereafter.

Sandwiched between the mansions of Kobata Owari no Kami and Shimojō Minbu lay a moderately wide alleyway. A figure moved stealthily eastward through it toward Ichijō Avenue. Beyond the alley's exit stood Lord Hara Kaga's mansion, where the remnants of an abandoned bonfire still smoldered with dying embers. Bathed in this flickering light stood the dejected figure of none other than Sangōme Tōkishi, the Potter. There was nothing unusual about his appearance. He wore a Rikyū-brown jūtoku robe with a matching hood - refined yet austere, his face as expressionless as a Noh mask, precisely as he always appeared. Only the spattered stains on his robe's hem and sleeves hinted at recent bloodshed.

He took Masuyama Street north and eventually began walking unsteadily toward Ashida Mansion's back gate. When his figure vanished from the circle of bonfire light, the darkness swallowed him whole. However, before long, his figure appeared at the Hachiman shrine grounds. There were two bonfires there, around which lepers had gathered, writhing like animals. Yet the Potter did not draw his sword; passing between the two bonfires, he walked along the alley toward Atobe Ōi's mansion. It was when he had passed Hatsushika Gengorō's mansion and arrived at Mimaya Alley. Ahead, he saw two human figures.

The bonfire emitted no flames, but in its fierce glow the Potter made out an old man and woman. On the old man's forehead lay a toad-shaped bruise; the old woman's eyelids bore moles as large as fingertips. Their traveling garb marked them as outsiders to the castle town. The Potter gave them a sidelong glance but kept walking. He'd grown tired of killing. Merely drawing his sword now felt burdensome.

IV

When they had passed each other by a little over one ken, suddenly the Potter looked back.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “What an uncanny resemblance! Their backs!” He gripped his sword’s hilt. Muffling his footsteps, he slithered toward the two from behind. Perhaps sensing the murderous aura closing in, the couple turned around. Vaguely lit by the bonfire’s glow, their faces emerging from darkness belonged not to Gennojō or Sonnyo, but to a hideous old man and crone who might have passed a hundred winters. “What’s this? They look nothing alike!”

Releasing his hand from the sword’s hilt, the Potter stood blankly. Watching the elderly couple’s retreating figures fade into the darkness, the Potter tilted his head once more, unable to suppress his doubts. “There’s no mistake! It’s them!” "Follow the elderly couple’s trail," the Potter told himself, and walked unsteadily after them. A wide vacant lot lay between them, and to the north of the Densō residence, Takeda Sa-tenma’s grand mansion towered into the night sky.

From a section of the earthen wall, voices could be heard. "I simply can't get a grip on this." It seemed to be Naoe Kurando's voice. "It appears and vanishes like a specter. No sooner does it emerge than it disappears. No sooner does it disappear than it materializes again." "That's right," answered a voice. It seemed to be Tsukahara Bokuden's voice. "A truly bizarre creature indeed. Despite its sluggish movements, we still can't manage to catch it." "I've completely given up."

“That’s rather irresponsible for a healer.” Bokuden chuckled darkly. “It can’t be helped. To put it plainly—it was beyond my hands from the start.” “No—beyond mine too. But don’t mistake it for the pillar of fire’s master.” “That formless creature we faced... back then, it was fleeting as drifting clouds.” “Yeah—that bastard got me good.” Kurando’s voice dripped with sardonic edge.

“It seems I’ve had my life saved by you twice now.” “You should’ve thanked me properly by now.” Bokuden laughed. “Still, you’re too carefree. Even if a pillar of fire appears, rushing out like that hardly seems like the act of someone in their right mind.” “Even so, that was my first time seeing the pillar of fire. It’s only natural I got carried away.” “In that split second when I threw the medicine chest to divert its momentum, you were spared from being cut down—but without that, you’d be standing before Enma’s court by now.”

“But thanks to that, the medicine chest was completely destroyed.” “Well, perhaps you’ll compensate me for it?”

“Oh you impossible old man! To lodge complaints after having your life saved!” Bokuden seemed thoroughly exasperated as another soft chuckle escaped him.

In the direction of Yanagimachi-dōri, screams surged up.

“Ah, it seems to have emerged again tonight.” “Hey Kurando, let’s go investigate.” “Right—we’ll proceed step by step.”

Along the earthen wall of Sa-tenma's mansion, threading through the darkness toward the east, the two figures hurried off.

From the direction of Lord Sone Shimotsuke’s residence, a densely packed, perfectly circular mass pushed toward Yanagimachi-dōri. It was a group of matchlock ashigaru. Powdery sparks crackled intermittently, flickering in the dark space—likely from embers scattering off the matchcords’ fuses. The matchlock ashigaru of the disciplined Takeda clan marched unlike any firearm-bearing unit—their footsteps unaligned, their squads unformed, bodies pressed together as they shuffled timidly along—for terror had eroded their discipline.

The master of the pillar of fire—who, upon appearing in the castle town just once, had scattered pestilence, slain people, and compelled Lord Shingen to shut the gates—seemed to even these lowly ashigaru a thing of profound mystery. If they were to carelessly shoot at such a thing, there would surely be a curse. This was their true intent. When they emerged from the alley onto Yanagimachi-dōri, screams could be heard from far to the north. “It’s here!” “It seems to have appeared.” “Oh Great Pillar of Fire Deity!” The ashigaru whispered among themselves and slowed their steps even further.

V It was when the group had reached the front of Shinmei Shrine. Ahead of them, a pillar of fire blazed up brilliantly.

“Waaah!” they cried out. Scattered, some fled backward while others darted sideways. But twelve or thirteen ashigaru lined up and knelt in formation. Rat-tat-tat... boom—the matchlocks fired. Immediately, boom-boom-boom-boom—an echo rang out, and when it ceased, the castle town fell silent all at once. Nothing had changed. The pillar of fire still stood. Bullets fired wide of their mark could not possibly hit the master of the pillar of fire.

“It seems someone is following us,” came a tremulous whisper. “…A dreadful man… behind us…” “I’ve grown terrified,” Ban Gennojō muttered to himself. “…Must walk faster… must keep moving.” Passing Abe Ōi’s estate, moving before Imazawa Iwami’s residence, and hastening southward past the gates of Obata, Shimojō, Kurihara, Nagasaka—estate after estate—the old man and crone pressed onward. Each time they glanced back, a black figure would materialize from two ken behind, footsteps muffled yet pursuing without relent.

In front of Ōkuma Bizen’s estate, south of the Densō Estate, ran a narrow path.

Abruptly, the two dashed in.

But even that was futile. The figure was still following them. When they emerged from the alley onto Yanagimachi-dōri, a broad north-south thoroughfare stretched straight and deserted before them. The disoriented pair hurried northward along that road. Sure enough, from a few yards behind, the same figure continued to pursue them. From this figure that neither called out nor attacked, always maintaining the same distance as it crept closer with relentless pursuit, an indescribable thread of murderous intent pressed oppressively upon them—what in the world was happening?

They reached the front of Shinmei Shrine. A narrow path stretched westward. The two fugitives who had rushed in sprinted straight through that path. They immediately came upon a crossroads. The instant they turned northward, a searing light stabbed at their eyes.

A blazing pillar of fire stood swaying gently just a few feet before their eyes. Then, within the crimson light, two white candle-like objects slowly rose upward. “Receive my blessing...” A hoarse voice reached them. “Travelers, let me touch you!”

The old man and old woman, covering their faces with both hands as they were blinded by the light, involuntarily stumbled backward. The murderer closing in from behind! Approaching from the front—the Lord of Pestilence! The old man and old woman, caught between them, plopped down onto the road with heavy thuds. Two old men in Taoist robes came running from the western crossroads at that critical moment.

“Ah! The pillar of fire!” “That’s him!” “That bastard!” The old man who had shouted drew the wooden sword from his waist in one smooth motion.

Bokuden headed toward the potter. “Run! Run! Hurry and run!” “Hurry! Run!” The other old man—Kurando—called out to the old man and woman, swiftly leapt between them, and stood facing the pillar of fire. The swaying master of the pillar of fire advanced; Naoe Kurando edged backward while scrutinizing him closely; and Miyakōji Road—flanked by the Left Stables Mansion and Shinmei Shrine on either side—continued stretching southward. The sudden disappearance of the light likely occurred because the pillar of fire had turned the corner. In the alleyway plunged back into darkness, the sound of controlled breathing could be heard—undeniable proof that someone was there.

Sangōme Tōkishi and Bokuden stood facing each other in combat stance. From the tip of his raised wooden sword, Bokuden assessed for openings. In the darkness two ken away, the reason a figure could be seen was likely because the potter had taken his stance. Neither advancing nor retreating, they stood perfectly still. The moment when sword and wooden sword met and emitted a dull clang came some considerable time later, lasting but an instant. And what followed was a stifled groan—"Ugh!"—and the sound of a body collapsing to the ground.

Six

Looking south toward the Yamagata Estate, the old man and woman ran east along Kaji Alley in the direction of Mt. Yumemi. Having lost their senses from terror, they seemed to be fleeing in blind panic. The road disappeared, turning into bear bamboo and shrubs crawling along a mountain path, with forests towering ahead—the two of them seemed not to notice any of this. The mountains gradually grew steeper until they formed a shallow valley. Still, the two continued to flee. Beyond the valley lay a hill, and the hill continued into a forest. Even if they looked back now, Kōfu Castle town would likely be hidden from view by the mountains. They had come over a ri already.

Yet the two kept fleeing.

Then, ahead, something pale white came hazily into view. It was a series of huge rocks. Passing through between the rocks, the old man and woman emerged on the other side. What in the world was this? A flat man-made thoroughfare stretched out before them in a single straight line! But that was still manageable. Along that thoroughfare marched a troop in solemn procession. Armored warriors holding pine torches stood at the head. The dozens who followed were all youths in their prime, yet every single one stood bound. Flanking them as guards, armored warriors bearing unsheathed spears, unsheathed naginata, and half-bows stood positioned on either side.

In a winding double column formation, they marched ever eastward. The old man and woman, having regained their senses, could not help but stare wide-eyed at this new astonishment. It was when they reached the pair that the armored warrior at the head, “Who goes there!” shouted and came to a halt.

Then four or five armored warriors circled around and surrounded the two.

“What are you bastards?! What business brings you here?” “You appear to be from another province.” “Hmm—you’re spies, aren’t you?” One warrior declared with fierce authority. “No—we’re travelers! We merely took a wrong path by mistake.” “We merely took a wrong path by mistake.” The old man hurriedly explained.

“No—you’re spies without doubt. This here is Mt. Yumemi’s forbidden mountain path. Entry and exit are prohibited. You knew that and still came in... Bind these wretches tight!”

A brief skirmish occurred, but it proved inconsequential. The bound old man and woman were made to take their place at the procession's rear.

The procession, having once halted, soon solemnly resumed advancing. The side facing Kōfu was lined with artificial rocks and groves, while the opposite side dropped into a steep valley. Along the one-ken-wide path running between them, armored warriors bearing weapons and countless bound youths marched in complete silence—a scene resembling a hellish picture scroll. Some sighed, some sobbed, some staggered from the line—the youths appeared completely drained by terror and exhaustion.

They had walked a little over two chō when a young man—likely attempting to escape—broke from the line and plunged into the valley. Then, a warrior carrying a bow stopped and peered into the valley. No sooner had the bowstring twanged than a scream rose from the valley floor. There was no disruption. The troop advanced solemnly.

As the path rounded a bend, the scenery suddenly transformed. The rock formations and valleys had hidden their shadows, and through the middle of steep mountain slopes that towered on either side, a path wound its way. From both sides of the mountains toward the path, towering trees reached out, their branches and leaves so densely intertwined that one could not see the sky. It could be called a tunnel.

They proceeded through the tunnel.

After they had walked several chō through the tunnel, a speck of torchlight appeared far ahead. Then, from there came the sharp, single note of a flute.

Chapter Twenty

1

The time had finally come for the evil disease that had ravaged Kōfu to end. Because a saint had appeared and taken self-sacrificial action. Yet this saint was never one who "wore purple priestly robes, draped golden brocade stoles, held a rosary in one hand and a ritual basin in the other, or donned embroidered shoes." He was no such grand figure, but rather a filthy, wretched beggar. He kept his face perpetually lowered, making his features impossible to discern. Where he had come from—this too remained unknown to all. In a hoarse voice, with an air of profound anguish yet unfailingly courteous tones, he would speak.

“Please allow me to touch you. It would be my honor.” He would touch the afflicted areas. Then remarkably, the evil disease gradually healed. “The Saint has come.” “Will even hell’s torments cease?” “But what manner of person is he?”

“They say he came from the Tateshina area.” “No—they say he came from the foothills.” “Still, why does he keep his face lowered like that all the time?”

“How sorrowful he looks.” “And he doesn’t put on airs at all.” “It seems like he’s bearing everyone’s sins.” “It’s just being touched at the fingertips.” “That alone cures the disease.”

From town to town, from person to person, rumors of the saint spread.

Behind the saint, hundreds of people always trailed along in a straggling mass. Those who had been healed followed out of gratitude; those who were ill followed in hopes of being healed.

Perhaps because he detested being made into an idol, the saint would often say this: “I have no need for those whose illnesses have been cured. Please do not surround me. Go over there. Then carry on with your work.” But no sooner had he said this than even more people came flocking. The saint had to flee. No matter how much he fled, he could not escape. The more he fled, the more people searched for the saint’s whereabouts.

Those who asked about how to conduct themselves, those who inquired about future fortunes, physiognomists seeking readings—even such people began to appear.

However, the saint did not offer a single word in response to such matters. When someone tried to entertain him, he would say, “I am but a beggar. “One meal is sufficient.” With these words, he declined them. Even if they went to great lengths to offer him gold, the saint would never accept it. Because of this, the saint came to be worshipped by even more people. He was neither a keeper of truth, nor by any means a prophet, nor of course a renowned physician—he was merely a wretched beggar, as he himself had said. But how could he completely cure the evil disease merely by touching it with his fingertips? That was undoubtedly a miracle! A human who can perform miracles? He must be the child of God, mustn't he?!

Then was he the child of God?

No—no, he was but a beggar.

Kōfu’s town began to recover. Laughter began to rise from all around. In the voices of the boys singing, in the barks of dogs and the crows of chickens, there was an uncontested joy.

The era of terror was drawing to a close. Spring passed and summer arrived. The scattered people of Kōfu vied with one another to return to their homeland. People began laboring with vitality. Commerce started flourishing anew. They threw open the castle gates of Shingen's residence, and samurai once more walked through the town. The windows of warrior mansions were unshuttered, and night after night lamplight spilled forth. The very magnitude of past sufferings made this joy all the more striking.

It was a certain day. Having apparently escaped from the crowd of worshippers, the saint was walking alone. It was a wild path leading to Nirasaki. He still hung his head; he still wore tattered rags. In one hand he held a rice bucket; on his feet he had not even straw sandals. Uncombed hair covered his face; filth coated his legs and arms; his body held no dignity.

The wild path wound its way sinuously. Farmhouses stood scattered here and there. He walked while avoiding them. The sunlight suggested an evening shower was coming. Small birds chattered in the shade of leaves, their innate sensitivity having detected the approaching rain. The calm before the storm! Not a breeze stirred the blades of grass. How swelteringly hot it was. Not a single traveler passed by. The saint kept walking onward. He appeared lost in a daze. Something murmured beneath his breath.

“Please grant me strength.”

The saint was Kōmyō Ubasoku. But now he was but a beggar. Raindrops began to fall. And then, thunder began to roar.

A cord-like downpour began to fall. The storm intensified, lashing sideways to assail the solitary Ubasoku. Yet he kept walking. "Please save me," he muttered under his breath.

The road forked into two paths. He mindlessly took the path to the right. It was a narrow, narrow path. It appeared to lead to the Wilderness Shrine.

Within the Fox Lattice of the dilapidated Wilderness Shrine, a single creature squirmed. Kōketsu Castle Lord, the Lord of the Pillar of Fire—that is, the bearer of the evil disease.

Chapter 21

1 The inside of the Fox Lattice was dark. Through the lattice, external light—so faint it could scarcely be called light—filtered in with a leaden hue. The Castle Lord's form—pillowing his head, drawing up his legs, and lying curled like a shrimp—was faintly glowing reddish, likely because the kōketsu-dyed robe he wore emitted a dim radiance. He lay motionless as a corpse. But he had not died. However, he was on the verge of death. The evil disease that had been held at bay now grew in power and began to invade his brain. Half of his consciousness was lost.

“Where on earth am I?” He thought about it but couldn’t understand. He was in such a daze. "I left the castle long ago... The water castle of Lake Motosu, my castle... Was it five years ago? Or even longer?" No—he had left the castle merely a few months prior. It had been cherry blossom season then, and now it was summer when wood hibiscus flowers bloomed white. "Why did I leave the castle? Ah, right—I remember now. I must have left the castle on that dark night intending to visit my hometown of Kōfu. ...Hmm, now that I think of it—the sound of the brass door opening when I went out to the lake still lingers in my ears. Ah, and then the sound of flapping sails... Did I go to Kōfu after that?"

There, his consciousness was severed completely. He felt sick. Something like squirming worms was crawling around inside his head. And then, it seemed as though sharp insect teeth were clack-clacking away, gnawing through his skull. And then, a hoarse voice was constantly whispering at his ear. "Finally, I remembered—indeed, I had come to Kōfu. Tsutsujigasaki Yakata—I feel like I saw it with these very eyes. But what on earth happened? When I walked slowly along, everyone ran away screaming..."

A hoarse voice whispered. He couldn't discern what it said. Yet he felt ill. He tried to raise his hand to swat it away. But the hand wouldn't move. "I came to bring blessings. Why did they all flee?... Damn this noise—why must you whisper?!" The rasping, scraping, grating voice persisted at his ear.

Someone drive this thing away! This chatterbox old man! Though he had meant to shout, all that escaped his mouth was a groan—and just a single one at that. I seem terribly weakened—could it be I've fallen ill?

Even that it was Galloping Leprosy was something he could no longer comprehend in his current state. “Who on earth am I?” An astonishing doubt welled up within him. Then suddenly, he saw snow. It was snowing heavily. Next, something red came into view. It fluttered ceaselessly as it moved. It was indeed a bonfire. Beside it stood a single samurai. He was a young armored warrior muttering discontentedly. It was a face he recognized.

“Ah, my lord! It’s you—Harunobu!” He remembered clearly. A snow-covered castle appeared before him, and he saw figures approaching it. Then came into view a single fleshy, shaved head. He glimpsed the hand gripping it. “Lord of Takatō Castle—Hiraga Genshin! “That’s his severed head! That’s his severed head!” The memory crystallized. “The hand clutching Genshin’s head— “Ah—that’s my hand!” This was truly from that distant past—when he was merely nineteen—when he had led Harunobu’s forces against Takatō Castle and been first to breach its defenses. The recollection flashed through his consciousness.

But it vanished instantly. And then everything vanished from view. Then came a woman's weeping. A woman materialized. He recognized her too. Beside her sat a young samurai wearing a sorrowful expression. Taeko! My wife! Mondon! My brother! As this thought formed, their figures gradually faded into nothingness.

Then, this time, a gigantic axe emerged from the darkness. The sharp blade glinted menacingly, looking as though it might come crashing down at any moment. "That's Manbei's axe!" "Hey! Don't cut me!" But the axe vanished too. Grooan! Grooan! A groaning sound! "Underground, the leather mechanisms are turning."

Then, a clear chanting voice reached his ears.

Behold, the birdcatcher humbly comes!

……………………… That too was but a single utterance.

He could no longer see anything. In his brain, something melted slowly, thickly—a sensation of dissolution. Something was resting on my face. And he tried to remove it. With great effort, he slowly raised his hand. It was not his right hand pillowing his head. It was the left hand, sprawled on the floor. Enveloped in the pale crimson of the kōketsu-dyed robe and the shrine hall's darkness, an arm wrapped in white cloth rose higher and higher. Then it curved, fingertips swimming toward the mask that covered his face. He seemed to be trying to remove the mask. Five fingers trembling violently! The thumb and index finger barely caught on the mask's chin; after a moment's hesitation, the mask came away from his face with a pop.

(Unfinished)