Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part 1

**I**

Tsuchiya Shōsaburō left his residence and wandered aimlessly through the grid-like streets.

He passed before the Kōsaka, Baba, and Sanada residences, walking toward Kajikōji Alley. Though it was a hazy spring night already grown late, making the samurai residences quiet, there lingered "the allure of a spring night—its fragrance spilling imperceptibly, a bustling air felt despite the absence of people," leaving no trace of gloom.

“Which should I choose to view the flowers—the Densō Mansion or the Yamagata Residence?” When he reached Kajikōji Alley’s crossroads and paused—“Perhaps Shinmei Shrine would be better after all.”

After murmuring this, he turned south and circled around the base of the Sone residence.

However, in reality, no matter where one went—or didn’t go—flowers could be seen in abundance. The large, dreamlike white magnolias facing the moon bloomed over the Koyamada estate’s wall, sending their fragrance down to those passing below, while even in the dim light, the yellow forsythia and snow-white pear blossoms haloed the Morozumi estate’s earthen walls like a mist. As for cherry blossoms—precisely because Lord Shingen favored them—they bloomed in profusion throughout Kōfu, spreading around Tsutsujigasaki Palace to its left, right, front, and back; yet they were particularly abundant in the palace’s inner garden, the Densō Mansion, the Yamagata Residence, and the grounds of Shinmei Shrine.

"A youth’s spring—trampling flowers yet sparing each equally." The midnight moon, mirrored in lamplight, shares a mutual lament. "...Ah, night cherry blossoms truly are splendid." While softly reciting poetry, Shōsaburō arrived at the shrine precincts and quietly proceeded to the front of the hall, where he pressed his palms together and bowed deeply— “Prosperity for the lord’s domain, safety for my person, enduring martial fortune, enduring scholarly fortune.” After offering this prayer, he raised his face and looked—there sat an old man before the fox-patterned lattice at the edge of the shrine hall. The hazy moonlight, blocked by the roof, did not reach that far, and in the pitch-dark area, the old man seemed to hold something that faintly suggested a pale red hue.

He must be another worshipper.—Having thought this and paid it no mind, Shōsaburō turned to leave. Then something called out from behind. “If you please, young samurai sir—kindly wait a moment.”

—That voice was hoarse.

And Shōsaburō turned around. A tall old man stood before Shōsaburō’s eyes—wearing mountain hakama trousers and a sleeveless robe, a short sword at his waist, a folded eboshi hat resting on his forehead, and a dazzlingly beautiful crimson cloth draped over his shoulders.

“Old man, do you need something?” Shōsaburō asked. “Please buy this cloth.” The old man said hesitantly. “Oh, so you’re a cloth seller. That’s quite a crimson cloth you’ve got there.” “It is a fine cloth. Please kindly buy this.” “Whether it’s good cloth or bad cloth—such things I don’t understand.” Shōsaburō smiled. “I may not look it, but I’m a man.” “There is no need for you to concern yourself. The cloth is of fine quality.”

The old man persistently repeated.

“Very well, let’s settle it that way then—the cloth is indeed fine quality. However, I have no use for it.” Having said that, Shōsaburō started walking.

However, the old cloth seller did not give up so easily; he circled around to block Shōsaburō’s path and spoke once more. “Please kindly purchase this cloth.” “Show it!” With an air of defeated resolve, Shōsaburō finally said this and reached out his hand.

“I see.” “Hmm.” “What a beautiful color.”

Shōsaburō, gazing intently at the cloth that had been handed to him under the moonlight, could not help but exclaim in admiration.

“Yes, it is a beautiful color.” “That’s precisely where this cloth’s value lies…” As if to emphasize his point, the old man said. “It’s a color young women would likely find pleasing.” “Doesn’t this seem rather unbecoming for an old man?” “Indeed it is.”

“There are many residences in this area. “There are also many young women. “If you take it to the inner quarters of the residences and show it to the young ladies, they’ll joyfully leap at it.” “Today, yesterday, and the day before—indeed, for over ten days now—I have visited the residences and received their patronage in various ways, but this cloth alone remains unsold, with only one roll left.” “It seems this doesn’t suit anyone’s tastes.” “Everyone says it’s frightening.”

“What’s frightening?” he asked curiously. “What exactly inspires fear?” “Its allure,” came the reply. “Allure? It’s merely red.” “They say this blazing crimson—as though dyed in human blood—is what terrifies them.” “Ha ha ha! Preposterous!” “Truly women are timid creatures.” When handed the cloth again and held beneath moonlight, Shōsaburō found himself shuddering despite his bravado.

II

And the old cloth seller scoffed almost imperceptibly, “Sir Samurai, even you…”

“What!”

Shōsaburō turned around. “You’re trembling.” “Don’t talk nonsense!”

“How much for this?” he barked. “One full gold coin, it is.” “Take that!”

He flung it down. A metallic clink rang out. The figure of the old cloth seller, bent over to retrieve it, cast a shadow upon the ground like a giant spider crawling—but as a sudden night gust swept through, cherry blossoms scattered with a rustling whisper, threatening to bury even that shadow.

This incident occurred in the first year of Eiroku (1558), but through the curse of the crimson cloth purchased that night, numerous upheavals came to pile upon Tsuchiya Shōsaburō's fate.

However, before advancing the brush of description regarding that matter, the author wished to provide a brief explanation about Tsuchiya Shōsaburō himself.

In the Takeda clan, the name Tsuchiya signified a most distinguished lineage—unquestionably one of the Kōyō Twenty-Four Generals, they had produced generations of accomplished warriors, and notably among them, Sōzō Masatsune was renowned for his peerless loyalty. In later years, when Katsuyori suffered defeats on all fronts and was betrayed by Oyamada Nobushige, leading to his suicide at Tenmokuzan, Sōzō alone—amidst the near-total desertion of retainers—killed his own son to demonstrate unwavering loyalty, then served as final attendant to his lord. This righteous fervor so moved even his enemy Tokugawa Ieyasu that he painstakingly sought out Sōzō’s surviving kin and enfeoffed them with a 90,000-koku domain at Hitachi Tsuchiura. The Tsuchiya Viscount is his descendant. Ieyasu certainly had a refined touch. Though Ieyasu had once been defeated by Shingen at Mikatagahara, he still held considerable respect for the Kōshū-ryū military tactics and maintained reverence toward the Takeda clan itself—a prestigious branch of the Seiwa Genji lineage and leaders of the Kai Genji. When faced with Katsuyori’s severed head, unlike Nobunaga who would have kicked it, he reportedly cradled the head box and shed a single tear, lamenting: “My lord, though your martial prowess surpassed even your father’s, your youth led you to favor sycophants like Atebe and Nagasaka while spurning veteran generals. This reckless warfare has brought you to this tragic end—truly a pitiful outcome.” Hearing this, the surviving Takeda retainers—men of simple loyalty—were swiftly moved, clamoring to serve the Tokugawa house for meager stipends. Yet modern historians steeped in cynicism dismiss this as: “Bah—all part of that old fox Ieyasu’s act.” “Acquiring Katsuyori’s head cost him nothing, and shedding a single tear over it wouldn’t give him an eye disease either. If shedding a single tear could let him hire surviving Takeda retainers—men tempered through countless campaigns—what a splendid bargain!” they materialistically dismiss, but hearts differ between an age of orderly governance and the Warring States period. To dismiss this so blandly—isn’t that somewhat disrespectful to 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 branches, but during Lord Shingen’s era, Sōzō Masatsune stood as head of the Tsuchiya main house. And thus, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu—the protagonist of this tale titled *Shinshū Kōketsujō*—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 said, his parents had not died. They had gone missing. Shōsaburō’s father was called Shōhachirō and was Sōzō’s immediate younger brother, but when it came to martial prowess, he was a warrior without equal among their clan—one who achieved the first charge in the famed Battle of Kōguchi.

In November of Tenmon 5 (1536), Takeda Nobutora led eight thousand men to attack Shinano Kōguchi Castle, but the castle’s commander Hiraga Genshin defended resolutely, making it difficult to fall. By December, heavy snow had fallen, rendering military maneuvers nearly impossible. Even the fierce general Nobutora could not withstand nature’s might and had no choice but to withdraw his forces from the castle—though this outcome left him bitterly frustrated. At this time Harunobu (later Shingen), sixteen years old, had been accompanying his father in the campaign; upon returning to his own camp, he crossed his arms and sank into deep thought. Then Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masataka appeared. Shōhachirō was nineteen years old at this time—three years Harunobu’s senior—and served as an inseparable favored retainer.

“My lord, what troubles you?” he asked worriedly.

“What nonsense.” “I hear we’re withdrawing.” Harunobu grimaced indeed. “The snow lies deep, my lord,” Shōhachirō said while studying his lord’s face. “The snow’s deep? What of it! When winter comes, snow falls. If snow has fallen, of course it will pile up.” “What nonsense,” he growled, his displeasure mounting. “Because the cold is severe.” Shōhachirō spoke again. He said while peering into his face.

Three “What nonsense do you speak?” “Trivialities!”

Harunobu glared sharply at Shōhachirō.

“The enemy too are human.” “They too must be suffering from the cold.”

These words held meaning. And so, Harunobu fell silent. "When they saw the Kōshū forces retreating, the castle defenders immediately relaxed. Seeking to warm their frozen bodies, they removed their helmets, loosened their armor, discarded their bows and arrows, sheathed their swords and spears…" “Got it!”

Suddenly, Harunobu interrupted Shōhachirō’s words.

Then he appeared before his father.

“I request permission to lead the charge, my lord.” Thus Harunobu spoke indeed. Then Nobutora let out a dry, mocking laugh and sneered as he spoke. “Even castle soldiers wouldn’t open their gates to pursue in this blizzard. To seek glory as commander knowing no enemy gives chase—that’s cowardice, my lord.”

However, Harunobu showed no sign of wavering and merely repeated, “I request permission to lead the charge, my lord.”

When he was granted permission and returned to camp, Harunobu immediately summoned Shōhachirō. Here, a secret discussion was held.

The events that followed were recorded not in this author’s clumsy prose but in Rai San’yō’s masterful writing. With three hundred soldiers as rearguard. The main army followed several ri behind. Halt and encamp. He personally cautioned his troops: "Do not remove armor. Do not unsaddle horses. Feed steeds first, then men. At fifth watch, depart at once. Fix eyes solely on our advance." The soldiers all secretly scoffed: "Such wind and snow. Why keep watch?" Fifth watch. Harunobu departed immediately. Turned forces toward Haikou.

With three hundred cavalry, [he] galloped through the blizzard. At dawn, [he] reached the castle. Minamoto no Kokoro had already dispersed his troops. [He] alone remained behind with a hundred men. Harunobu divided his forces into three. Harunobu himself led one unit into the castle. Two units raised their banners outside the castle walls. They responded. The castle defenders could not gauge their numbers. Without fighting, they collapsed. They then beheaded Minamoto no Kokoro. They returned bearing his head as an offering. The entire army was thrown into great shock. ...

It was only natural for them to be shocked. And indeed, it was Tsuchiya Shōhachirō who both devised this strategy and slew the enemy commander Minamoto no Kokoro. Afterward, Harunobu expelled his father and became the governor of Kai himself, but it was from Shōhachirō’s counsel that he had been made to drive out his father.

True to his birth in the Year of the Tiger, Nobutora possessed a fiercely courageous disposition. This trait served him well in subjugating Kai Province's local lords—the Kōyamada of Tsuru District, Kurihara of Higashi District, Anayama of Kōchi, Itomi of Itomi, and Ōi of Nishi District—bringing them all under his authority as vassals. Moreover, in neighboring Shinano Province, he engaged in military confrontations with the Hiraga, Suwa, Ogasawara, Murakami, and Kiso clans, thereby enhancing the prestige of Kai warriors. However, after defeating a massive Ōshū army at Iidagahara in the seventeenth year of Eishō (1520), he grew utterly arrogant. His tyrannical behavior increased, and he began indiscriminately executing his retainers. The four vassals known as the Generational Four—Baba Torasada, Yamagata Torakiyo, Kudō Torutoyo, and Naitō Torasuke—were all executed by his own hand. In addition, fifty men of unyielding resolve met their end by the sword.

It was then that a succession dispute arose. Nobutora sought to install his second son Nobushige—whose dashing, lively demeanor better suited his own temperament—as heir over Harunobu, who carried himself with solemn gravity.

The ones who were surprised were the old retainers, and the one who was indignant was Harunobu. And it was Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masataka who presented this ingenious strategy.

“Lord, there’s no need for concern. I implore you to rely on Imagawa.” At that time, Imagawa Yoshimoto was the great governor of Suruga, Tōtōmi, and Mikawa—a military commander without peer. Having wed one of Nobutora’s daughters, he stood as Harunobu’s brother-in-law, and the two had always shared cordial relations.

“I see—this is an excellent stratagem.” Harunobu nodded cheerfully but continued, “I’ve now borrowed your crucial wisdom twice. “I won’t treat this carelessly—mark my words.” It is said he took Shōhachirō’s hand and pressed it to his forehead.

Nobutora was soon deceived and imprisoned by the Imagawa clan, and thus the province of Kai became Harunobu’s without a single ripple of turmoil.

Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masataka was such an outstanding figure, yet in his family life he remained an unfortunate man who could not trust his wife, O-Tae no Kata—the daughter of Kōsaka Danjō. O-Tae no Kata had carried a lover in her heart. From her maiden days she had cherished this man, having firmly believed she would become his wife and build a joyful household together. That lover was none other than Shōhachirō’s own younger brother, Tsuchiya Mondon Masasue.

Mondon was a man of refined culture, greatly differing in disposition from his elder brother Shōhachirō and eldest brother Sōzō, who were men devoted solely to martial prowess. His features were handsome, his bearing elegant; skilled in waka and Chinese poetry, many of the waka known today as Shingen’s works were in truth Mondon’s compositions. The waka poem submitted to Asama Shrine—Kai Province’s foremost sanctuary—on a tanzaku slip: *“Utsushi uuru Hatsuse no hana no shirayū o kakete zo inoru kami no mani mani”*—though the characters are Shingen’s authentic hand, the verse itself was Mondon’s work. In addition to these, his other masterpieces included:

I pray with sakaki leaves from deep-green Iwato Mountain for the longevity of your reign.

Praying for you at Kamo Shrine— How many generations shall I serve, bound by its sacred cord?

Fleeting sorrows—on my waking bed at dawn, tears I could not dry—the cry of birds!

Four

As one might imagine from these waka poems, Mondon was a gentle man of pious heart; even when his lover had been taken by his older brother, he harbored no persistent resentment, choosing instead to resign himself. As for his lover O-Tae no Kata, being a gentle and earnest woman herself, once her love had been shattered and she had become another man’s wife, she strove to devote herself faithfully to her husband and resolved to cleanly bury her romance with Mondon in the graveyard of her heart. However, Mondon and Shōhachirō were true brothers bound by blood. Because of this, the two had to meet face to face nearly every day. Naturally, they also met face to face with O-Tae. They were not wood or stone—they were man and woman. Their blood was bound to stir. That was unpleasant for Shōhachirō.

A suffocating love triangle! That state of affairs persisted for five years. And then, when Shōsaburō was four years old, Mondon suddenly vanished. After some time, O-Tae went missing, and then Shōhachirō went into hiding. From that day to this, the whereabouts of the three have remained shrouded in mystery.

Having become an orphan, Shōsaburō was gladly taken in and raised by his clansman Tsuchiya Uemon. Yet a child without parents grows lonesome and skewed in some way—though he excelled in letters and surpassed others in martial skill, with a beauty of form resembling his mother’s, becoming a splendidly elegant young warrior, one might call it a poetic disposition: melancholic yet vivacious, earnest yet absurd, ever contemplative and disinclined toward worldly matters.

Shōsaburō often said.

“Well… here’s what I think,” Shōsaburō said. “My parents are alive. But they likely don’t live together anymore—they’re probably living freely and separately now. Father lives as a father ought to live. Mother lives as a mother ought to live. And needless to say, Uncle Mondon is alive too.” Ah, how I must yearn for Uncle Mondon! After all, he was a poet—you see? Yet of course I long for Father and Mother even more than that. How I wish I could meet them just once! I firmly believe… I’m certain we’ll meet someday. Look at that beautiful cloud! See how it glows in the sunset? They’re inside that cloud—Father and Mother and Uncle.”

Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu awoke early the next morning and looked toward his pillow. The Crimson Cloth was properly placed there. "Hmm... So it wasn't a dream."

Muttering to himself, he rose and took the Crimson Cloth out to the veranda. The newly risen morning sun, streaming from Mumeyama’s peak, set the mansion’s roof glistening, slipped through gaps in the garden trees to dye the bamboo pipe’s water cascading into the pond molten gold—its blazing light reaching even the veranda—and into this pristine radiance he thrust forth the Crimson Cloth, snapped the stitching thread with a sharp *twang*, then unraveled it, flipped it inside out, and held it up to scrutinize beneath the sunlight—

“Hmm?”

He muttered and tilted his head.

Then, once again, he turned it over and over, scrutinizing it—

“It’s not there!” he muttered in puzzlement. And then fell into deep thought. At that moment, the old man’s servant approached from the direction of the main house, sweeping fallen flowers with a rustling sound,

“Good morning, Young Master,” he said, stopping his sweeping to bow. “Oh, Jinbee.” “You’re up early.” Shōsaburō returned the greeting and then sank into deep thought.

The servant trampled the flowers underfoot again and again as dozens of small birds sang in the garden grove. A hoary old bush warbler with a parched voice droned sutras among the white apricot blossoms in drawn-out tones. It seemed to be mid-spring in this mountain-bound land.

“Jinbee.”

Suddenly, Shōsaburō called out. “Come here for a moment.” “Yes, do you have need of something?”

“What a beautiful cloth this is!” he said while extending the Crimson Cloth. “Oh my, what a beautiful, beautiful cloth!” “It’s positively eye-opening, it is.” “Where did you acquire this, my lord?” “Well, there’s a bit of a story—I came by this Crimson Cloth unexpectedly. Here, Jinbee, take a good look.” “There aren’t any letters written around here, are there?”

“Huh?” Jinbee asked in return. “Um... you mean letters?”

“There should be letters written on this cloth.” “Heh heh, is that so?” “Very well, let me check once more.”

While saying this, Jinbee repeatedly examined the cloth, 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, huh?” “Yes, and what about you, Young Master?” “Actually, I can’t see it either.” “Ah, so you’ve been made a fool of, have you?” “But last night it was clearly visible.”

Five

“Is that truly so?” “I couldn’t help but tremble.”

“What was written upon it, may I ask?” “In the moonlight, jet-black—at the beginning, ‘Respectfully Made’ was written.”

“Respectfully Made?” “Ah, so it says ‘Respectfully Made,’ you mean?” “And what else was there?” “It had ‘Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masataka’ written so vividly!” Though it had enough width and length to suffice whether cut into an upper garment or a lower garment, the Crimson Cloth—mysteriously thin as a cicada’s wing—could also shrink small enough to be clenched within a palm. Yet what was most astonishing was its beautiful luster—a crimson so blazingly red it seemed aflame, yet not merely a surface redness. It held an unsettling vermilion hue tinged with a streak of blackness at its core, much like how human blood appears blue under certain sunlight, yellow at other times, or even black. In the same way, this Crimson Cloth shifted into myriad colors depending on the light’s angle.

"Hmm, just like a jewel beetle’s wing." As he thought this, Shōsaburō gradually grew attached to that ominous Crimson Cloth.

"This is the cloth that once showed Father’s name before my eyes. There must be some connection here."

Having thought this, he resolved to keep the Crimson Cloth close to his person.

Before long, the cherry blossoms scattered, and the kerria scattered. The pampas grass sprouts stretched forth. Spring vanished in the blink of an eye.

Early summer rains, the darkness beneath trees, the whine of mosquitoes—and thus summer came.

In the Kai Basin, the summer scenery was indescribably cool and refreshing; at Kamunogahara Riverbed, everlasting summer flowers bloomed, at Yumemiyama Mountain, rhododendrons bloomed, and in the deep-wooded garden of the mansion, fireflies began to flicker and dart about.

One night, Shingen was secretly engrossed in a military council with over a dozen retainers in a hidden chamber of the inner bailey, gathered around a single map. Unquestionably present were foremost vassal Kōsaka Danjō; Yamamoto Dōki, master of military strategy; peerlessly valiant warriors Baba and Yamagata; younger brother Nobushige; son Yoshinobu; Ina District Magistrate Shirō Katsuyori; and Tsuchiya Sōzō—yet by special privilege, Shōsaburō too was included in the council. Furthermore, Morozumi Bungo, Anayama Baisetsu, Takeda Shōyōken, Itagaki Suruga, Nagasaka Chōkan, and Sanada Danjō Masayuki formed a solemn circle, their gathering radiating grave dignity. The First Year of Eiroku (1558)—renowned in name—marked for the Takeda clan an era of unparalleled prosperity and peak morale, coming as it did the year after their second clash with Uesugi Kenshin at Kawanakajima in Shinano’s Sarashina District during their tripartite battles.

Speaking of the renowned First Year of Eiroku (1558)—a time when they faced Uesugi Kenshin in three clashes at Kawanakajima in Shinano Province’s Sarashina—this was the year following their second battle, marking for the Takeda clan an era of unparalleled prosperity and peak morale.

“Shōsaburō.”

Then, Shingen called out in a resonant voice. He snapped to attention with a sharp “Hah!” “Your father comes to mind.” He moved his thick eyebrows. “Shōhachirō was a brave warrior. He was also rich in strategic insight. In times when I’m at a loss, I always recall him.” “I am deeply grateful for your gracious words.” “You must not fall short of your father.” “I am endeavoring to do so, but…” “Do not let yourself be called an unworthy child.” “I am most obliged.”

“In this world, everything comes down to strength! You must cultivate strength!” “I am deeply grateful for your words.”

“Good, good.” With that, Shingen spread his white silk sleeves to either side and thudded his war fan against his knee.

Thus, the military council resumed. Having been so openly praised before everyone for his father’s deeds, Shōsaburō felt both joy and a sense of honor—his face flushed crimson as he gazed absently at the map’s surface with dazed eyes. And then, plop, plop, plop, plop—blood began dripping from above onto the very center of the map. When he looked up at the ceiling in shock, fresh blood was seeping out in a square shape, staining the hinoki boards a deep crimson.

As he gasped "Ah!" under his breath and looked again at the map, it was now dyed crimson by the still-falling droplets of blood—yet mysteriously, not a single person present noticed.

“Mph.” He involuntarily held his breath, and the moment he looked up at the ceiling again, the blood that had seeped into a square on the boards peeled away and fluttered down. No sooner had it spun swiftly through the air than it hovered weightlessly in space, then began swaying gently side to side. It was not blood—that was the Crimson Cloth. Shōsaburō’s face paled as he swiftly reached into his pocket—but the Crimson Cloth that should have been there was gone. Shōsaburō, forgetting the propriety of the setting, involuntarily straightened up abruptly. All at once, the gazes of those seated turned toward him. As he jolted to awareness and tried to sit back down, the Crimson Cloth—floating midair as though beckoning Shōsaburō—danced its way toward the doorway.

The heavily secured doorway’s door abruptly swung open from within at that moment, revealing a long corridor. Down this corridor, the Crimson Cloth fluttered like a flame and a scarlet bird, drifting weightlessly onward. Forgetting himself entirely, Shōsaburō pursued after the Crimson Cloth.

Six

People are castles, people are stone walls, people are moats; loyalty is an ally, adversaries are enemies.

This was Shingen’s poem, and it did not appear to be ghostwritten. Its clumsiness was the proof. When viewed as art, it was a featureless thing, but Shingen’s sentiments were well expressed in this poem.

Shingen’s mansion at Tsutsujigasaki was literally a mansion, not a castle. The area measured 156 ken east to west. And north to south, 106 ken. A roughly 1-jō-high embankment encircled the area, with a single moat dug around it. As for fortifications, within this area alone there were three baileys: the East Bailey, West Bailey, and Central Bailey. The East Bailey measured 24 ken by 60 ken, making it the smallest of the three. The Central Bailey housed Shingen’s residence and featured modestly landscaped elements—a hill garden, pond, and Bishamondo Hall. The West Bailey was the residence for consorts and was also called the Hostage Bailey.

Surrounding the mansion and slightly to its south, Kōfu's grid-like districts had been built. The total area of the grid-like districts measured 530 ken east-west and 902 ken north-south, and here too were the residences of the various generals. In Jōyamachi were Sanada Danjō, Amari Bizen-no-kami, Yamagata Saburōbei, and Jō Oribe. In Yanagimachi-dōri resided Kōsaka Danjō, Aneyama Baigetsu, Baba Minō-no-kami, Sone Shimotsuke-no-kami, Oyamada Bitchū-no-kami, and Morozumi Bungo-no-kami. In Masuyama-dōri were also Naitō Shuri-no-suke, Itagaki Suruga-no-kami, Saegusa Kageyu, Tada Awaji-no-kami, and Denkō Takeda Nobushige. In Ichijō Alley were Kōyamada 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 Yokota Bitchū-no-kami’s residence, while on the northern side of the mansion was Takeda Shōkōken’s estate.

Dashing through the bailey and leaping over the moat, a young lone samurai streaked like a meteor through towns grown solemn in the late hour. One can only imagine how startled those who chanced upon his path must have been. That samurai was none other than Shōsaburō, who—lured by the flying Crimson Cloth—ran on without knowing where he was headed. Despite the pitch-black night, from a space of about one ken in front of Shōsaburō’s nose—just like a blazing flame—the Crimson Cloth fluttered away weightlessly. Trying to catch it, trying to catch it—he stretched out his hands countless times to grasp it, but each time, the Crimson Cloth slipped from his hands and flew onward.

Yet even so, he finally managed to seize the Crimson Cloth.

“Got it!” he cried joyfully—but the moment he laughed like a madman, his vision began to swim violently. With that, Shōsaburō lost consciousness and collapsed into the darkness.

"Oh! Young honorable samurai!"

Hearing such a call, Shōsaburō opened his eyes. The sun was blazing down.

A lush green plateau stretched as far as the eye could see. And there, standing fully revealed in indigo hues, Mount Fuji towered before Shōsaburō’s eyes.

As he gasped in surprise and sat up,

"What has happened, honorable samurai?" came a gentle voice. When he looked, an old man was standing there. "Old man," Shōsaburō first said. "What in the world is this place called?"

“It is the foothills of Fuji.” The old man’s answer was ordinary. He appeared to be a woodcutter, carrying wood on his back. “I know it’s the foothills of Fuji. Does it have any other name?” “It is called the Crossroads of Three Paths.” “Crossroads of Three Paths? What a strange name for a place.” “Here lies the crossroads. The road splits into three paths.” “Indeed, there are three paths.” “If you go east, there lies Mount Fuji; if you head west, you will reach Lake Motosu; and if you return north, you will reenter the human world.” “Well, ‘human world’—what an amusing term. Then are the others the demon world?”

Shōsaburō said with a laugh.

“Yes, indeed it is the demon world.”

The old man’s words were earnest.

The moment Shōsaburō, startled, involuntarily widened his eyes, the sound of people and horses reached his ears. It steadily drew closer.

Part Two

1

Clip-clip-clip-clip... The sound of hooves.

Clang-clang-clang-clang—resounding with metal fittings，twenty or thirty mounted warriors seemed to be heading this way. Suddenly，the old man became flustered. “This is bad! “We must hide! “This way! This way!”

As he spoke, the old man pulled Shōsaburō by the sleeve and dragged him into the hawthorn thicket. Shōsaburō's nerve broke,

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

“Hush!”

The old man scolded him with a glare and whispered urgently through clenched teeth: “The death robes are passing by—blood-stained death robes! If we make any sound and get discovered...” His voice dropped lower still as he repeated frantically: “Quiet! Quiet!”

he whispered. Clang-clang-clang-clang—the sound of armor and stirrups clashing against each other continued drawing nearer all the while. Was it a distant ambush or warriors charging? Who could they be, and where were they headed? While harboring doubts, Shōsaburō crouched beside the old man and peered intently through a gap in the hawthorn thicket. As far as his eyes could see stretched a vast summer foothills plain, extending in a gentle, rounded slope from the tip of Shōsaburō’s nose as he peered out.

At the edge of the plain, clouds floated. Perhaps filtered through the midday sunlight, they shone like silk. The plain lay desolate and uninhabited, and the mixed forest of larch trees and mountain hazels stood scattered here and there like an old man’s missing teeth. The pale blooms of poison dogwood, the wild grapevines that sprawled in every direction, and the avalanche scars forming fissures that exposed reddish-brown earth—all combined to double the desolation of the scene. The old man was trembling beside him. And then he pointed with his right hand. From that way—the mounted warriors seemed to be coming. A cloud of sand and dust billowed thickly. And the sand cloud came thundering this way, swirling like a tornado through the void, yet as it drew near—upon closer inspection—only the sandy wall remained standing like a barrier over a hundred meters high, with no human figures to be seen anywhere.

Before he could even think "Huh?"—the sound of hooves tried to rush past, but suddenly through the wall of sand, a horse's face poked out. Then a horse's tail appeared and a single armored sleeve became visible through the haze, when suddenly—clearly—a lone samurai emerged from the sand cloud, revealing half his body. There was nothing strange about his bearing—wearing a helmet and armor, with a naginata tucked under his arm—but the blood-red death robe draped over his armor blazed resplendently under the sunlight as it cast a surreal iridescence akin to a rainbow across the surroundings—this was an astonishment to Shōsaburō.

And in just an instant, the samurai’s figure was enveloped in the sand cloud and seemed to gallop away into the distance. The wall of sand and dust soon vanished. Soon, the sound of hooves also ceased. All that remained was a solemn silence. The old bush warbler suddenly began to sing. *Twit-twit-twit-twit!* *Coo-coo-coo-coo*—the cuckoo too began to sing in the thicket. A tranquil world became.

Mount Fuji stood with crystalline clarity, towering to their left. Its surface resembled hydrangeas in first bloom—shifting from deep navy to crimson-purple, lapis lazuli to birch-brown—colors transforming patchily across differing geological layers. Even the starkly exposed rocky skeleton, with its towering crags and twisted ridges that revealed unsightly aspects unseen from afar, remained peerlessly beautiful. The sleek conical form demarcating the boundary with the sky caused the sharply defined ridgeline—taut with elastic fullness—to rise plump and high, evoking the curvaceous arc of a well-fleshed young maiden’s hips, compelling one to acknowledge that Fuji was indeed not male but female.

Near the peak once poetically described as "where white clouds themselves hesitate to pass," what appeared white and cold to the eye—a single spot—was likely perennial snow lingering in the valley. On the slightly lowered left shoulder, the daytime moon floated. However, neither the old man nor Shōsaburō allowed themselves to be drawn to Fuji; instead, they focused their eyes and ears on the direction where the now-silent hoofbeats had faded into the distance. For a long time, the two remained silent.

And then, Shōsaburō muttered. “Blood-red death robe!”

Then he reached into his sleeve and took out that crimson cloth. “The same color! Not a speck of difference!”

“They were sent out on a slave raid! “It’s a slave raid!”

In a groaning voice, the old man said. “Who on earth are they?”

Shōsaburō called out.

“They are people from Mizuki.” “What’s Mizuki?” “Where is it?” “They say it lies within Lake Motosu.” “I see. And these slave raids—what of them?” “A slave raid is a slave raid, sir...” “Ah, dreadful! Dreadful!” “If I speak carelessly of such matters, my very life will be forfeit!” “Now take your leave.” “Forgive me... You must flee quickly too.”

After abruptly saying this, the old woodcutter hoisted the load of firewood on his back and ran down toward the foothills.

The manner in which he did so was so hurried and utterly filled with terror that even Shōsaburō felt a creeping unease.

“In any case, I’ll head back to Kōfu.”

And so, Shōsaburō began to walk.

II Shōsaburō quickened his pace and descended toward the foothills.

Ascending was arduous; descending was easy. While this held true for mountain climbing in general, Fuji intensified that sensation—particularly in this war-torn era when proper paths were nonexistent. The hardships of ascent defied imagination; only those with unyielding resolve—ascetics akin to yamabushi—occasionally made pilgrimages through its remote valleys. Yet once one began descending—should they venture into its sandy slopes—they would be swept down to the foothills in moments alongside cascading sand. —This was the origin of Subashiri. However, that phenomenon was limited to a specific area at the eastern entrance facing Suruga Province; in the northern Yoshida direction where Shōsaburō descended, no such place existed. And so, to reach the foothills, he had no choice but 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 fiercely to the ground like lions biting into prey. As for the tree varieties, they were rhododendrons and moss phlox. The mountain's slope proved steep enough to demand constant vigilance with each step. ......Abruptly, a ptarmigan and its chicks poked their heads out from the bushes.

Shōsaburō descended as if running.

Then, beneath his eyes stretched a long, single line of forest as if to block his path—for it was precisely there that the fourth station’s forest belt began. The surroundings had been swept clear, allowing an unobstructed view of the sky’s azure and even the distant cloud formations. Unlike the shrub belt, the forest interior was dark. For countless massive trees—oaks, larches, and cypresses that had never known the bite of an axe—stood densely packed, blocking out the light. As Shōsaburō entered the forest, his sweat-drenched skin began to dry refreshingly all at once. He was thoroughly exhausted,

"Well, a short rest," he muttered as he sat down on a rotten tree stump. Then he surveyed his surroundings. From between lush green ferns, white arrowwheel flowers appeared here and there like foam floating on the tide; hundreds of mountain sparrows darted through the trees; the piercing fragrance of tall trees stung his nose; where the forest abruptly ended, water pooled in a pond shone terrifyingly azure as though melted sky—and yet with neither visible form nor audible sound, an eerie presence stealthily closed in! All of this struck Shōsaburō as both rare and precious.

Having rested as much as he needed, Shōsaburō regained his vigor. And so, he ran down with thudding steps.

He arrived at Kōfu’s castle town on the evening of the following day, but when he gazed upon the white stone walls of Tsutsujigasaki mansion, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. Though it was called his own house—or rather, the residence of his clansman Tsuchiya Uemon—when Shōsaburō returned there, he was looked upon with astonishment by the people. That he had reached around Mount Fuji’s fifth station in a single night was unthinkable in this era; their astonishment was only natural.

“He must have been spirited away.” “No, he must have been taken by a tengu”—the people exchanged such words, and this too was a reasonable thing to say. The more he explained, the more suspicion would only grow—realizing this, Shōsaburō did not attempt to tell anyone about his strange experience, no matter who asked. For a time, he stopped attending duties at the mansion and secluded himself at home. And so, from time to time, he would secretly take out that Crimson Cloth and gaze upon it, finding a small measure of solace for his heart.

From the day after the end of the Doyō period onward, the Takeda household would always air out their heirlooms.

This year, the eighth day of the seventh month happened to coincide exactly with that day. The Takeda family had continued unbroken since Shinra Saburō Yoshimitsu. That span covered roughly five hundred years. It’s only natural that such rare artifacts would accumulate. One-third of the middle bailey was allocated as the airing-out area.

Shieldless Armor. Hinomaru flag. Flag of the Suwa Deity's Divine Title. *Sun Tzu* Banner. Tōtō Tenjin Statue. Fudō Myōō statue (carved to depict Shingen himself). The headquarters’ banner with three Takeda diamond crests dyed in black on a crimson ground. Ancestral classical texts and ancient writings. A 2-shaku 6-sun (approx. 31.5 inches) Kuninaga blade. A 2-shaku 5-sun (approx. 29.8 inches) Kagemitsu blade. A 5-sun 5-bu (approx. 16.7 cm) Norimitsu tanto. Crescent Moon Masamune. Gō Yoshihiro. Kunitsugu’s blade. Samōji’s blade. Nobutora’s vermilion seal of the tiger. …Shingen’s battlefield banners bearing guardian deities Bishamonten and Shōgun Jizō had also been added to the treasures. A hand-polished tea bowl; likewise, a tea kettle. Takeda Family Genealogy. Various Prayer Documents.

A navy-blue-ground *Lotus Sutra* with gold pigment and a carrying case. The bit from Minamoto no Yoshiie's Divine Steed. Armor dedicated by Nitta Yoshisada. Suwa Hōshō's helmet and similar items were especially treasured artifacts.

The ten-day airing-out period concluded auspiciously on the eighteenth, and the entire household received wine and delicacies from Shingen within the mansion.

Three “Hesitation is forbidden. Drink to your heart’s content—then drink yourself into a stupor!”

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

Here was the mansion’s great hall. Silver candles twinkled gorgeously. In the raised alcove was displayed the Shieldless Armor.—Moon Count. Day Count. Genta's Birth Garment. Hachiryū. Sawaōgi. Usugane. Hizamaru. To these they added one suit of Shieldless Armor, collectively called the Genji Eight Armors, and those of the warrior class had grown accustomed to revering them as though they were divine treasures imbued with sacred power—inviolable. Yet only the Shieldless Armor had been held by the Takeda of Kai since the time of Shinra Saburō. “Venerable Monk Kaizen, what troubles you? You’ve not touched your wine at all…… Attendant! Pour for him.”

At Lord Shingen’s words, it was Shōsaburō who responded with a sharp “Hah!” and shuffled forward on his knees. Unusually, he had attended duties today and mediated among the guests alongside his usually close colleagues—Sanada Gengorō, Saegusa Sōji, Sone Magojirō, and the like. “Come on now, fill it up mountain-high! It spills, it spills! Whoa, that’s enough!” The always-jovial Venerable Monk Kaizen gulped down his filled cup while making such jokes, but—

“By the way, Lord Tsuchiya Shōsaburō—I hear something most intriguing has occurred. They say you reached Mount Fuji’s fifth station in a single night…” “Yes. I have been there.”

“Mount Fuji stands as Fusō’s foremost sacred peak. Yet its steepness too claims Japan’s highest measure. You scaled it admirably well. Divine guidance must have lit your path.” “Divine guidance, you say? Might it not rather have been demonic temptation?” Shōsaburō murmured gloomily,

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

“I have heard that rumor.” The venerable monk smiled gently and asked, “Do you have that Crimson Cloth?”

“I have kept it close to my person at all times.” “Would you perhaps show it to me for a moment?”

“That is a most simple matter.” Shōsaburō smoothly pulled out the Crimson Cloth from his pocket.

Kaizen Shōki, abbot of Erin-ji Temple on Mount Kantoku and National Teacher Daitsū Chishō, was a renowned monk under Shingen’s patronage. Shingen studied Zen Buddhism under him and trained in military strategy through his guidance. It was Venerable Monk Kaizen who had inscribed in bold characters upon his famous Sun Tzu banner the words “Swift as the Wind, Silent as the Forest, Fierce as Fire, Immovable as the Mountain,” and who had selected for Shingen the intriguing posthumous name “Kizan.” In later years, when Oda’s forces marched into Kōfu’s castle town, he stood atop the tower gate, solemnly chanting the verses “For tranquil meditation, mountains and waters are unnecessary; extinguish the mind’s flames, and coolness arises naturally,” then perished by fire—fulfilling his duty and securing his reputation as a heroic figure.

He was what one might call a Warring States-style Rinzai monk. The Venerable Monk, having received the Crimson Cloth and placed it on his lap to gaze at it intently, suddenly furrowed his eyes. He tilted his head and fell into deep thought.

From the moment the Crimson Cloth appeared in the gathering, the eyes of those attending the banquet had unwittingly focused on it, but now that the Venerable Monk had tilted his head, they too tilted their heads in unison. With the Shieldless Armor at his back, Lord Shingen sat as immovable as a mountain, yet even he seemed to have stirred no small curiosity as he watched the Venerable Monk’s demeanor.

Abruptly, the Venerable Monk raised his face,

“Lord.”

he called out to Lord Shingen. “Since you have a fondness for scholarship and have perused many texts, you must already be well acquainted with works such as *Tales from Uji*, I presume?”

“Indeed…”

Shingen solemnly inquired, "Did that... accomplish its purpose?"

“In Section 167 of *Tales from Uji*, there is an entry titled ‘The Venerable Jikaku Daishi Enters Kōketsu Castle.’”

“The tale of Kōketsu Castle?” “Ah, I do recall that one!” “Was it not a dreadful story?” “Indeed—it was a merciless tale.”

“In the mountain valleys stands an iron castle.” “Countless people are captured there.” “They are hung from the ceiling and have their fresh blood squeezed out with tourniquets.” “That blood dyes the cloth…… The name of that castle is Kōketsu Castle.” “The name of that cloth is Kōketsu.” “Lord!” “Was it not thus?” “Now, this Crimson Cloth here—this very cloth is Kōketsu!”

As Venerable Monk Kaizen spoke these words, he took up the Crimson Cloth from his lap and raised it high above his head. At that moment, as if all the lamps in the room had suddenly lost their light, the surroundings grew dim and hazy, while only the crimson Kōketsu cloth, now held aloft, shone as radiantly as a rainbow.

Here, the story changed drastically.

We must move to the foothills of Mount Fuji.

IV

Since ancient times, many artists and poets had vied to depict Mount Fuji’s beauty in paintings and verse, yet not a single soul had spoken of its perilous aspects. Mount Fuji during the Sengoku period was quite a perilous place. Wild beasts, venomous snakes, and all manner of supernatural fiends ran rampant everywhere, while rogue samurai, heretical cultists, and bandits of every stripe built their nests and dwelled there. Moreover, at this time, Mount Fuji could not be called a dormant volcano at all. At times, it spewed forth flames. It constantly emitted smoke.

Ten'ō 1st Year, July 6th. Mount Fuji rained ash; where the ash reached, tree leaves withered and fell.

Enryaku 19th Year, June 6th. The summit of Mount Fuji burst into flames. Enryaku 21st Year, First Month, 8th Day. Day and night, torches blazed; gravel fell like sleet.

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

Kanpyō 7th Year, November. Divine fire submerged Lake Suwa;

Chōhō 1st Year, Third Month, 7th Day. Mount Fuji burned. Chōgen 5th Year, Twelfth Month, 16th Day. Mount Fuji burned.

Eihō 3rd Year, Second Month, 28th Day. Mount Fuji burned and blazed.

Eishō 8th Year. Mount Fuji's Kamaiwa burned. Hōei 4th Year, Eleventh Month, 23rd Day (1707). Mount Fuji's eastern flank erupted in flames, spewed sand and ash, and buried all the farmlands of the Kanto provinces. The ten eruptions recorded above were Mount Fuji’s most famous since the dawn of history, yet *Seikyōshi* furthermore documents an eruption in the 12th Year of Keichō, while *Kōshinfu* clearly states that from the Kyōroku era through Genki and Tenshō eras, Fuji ceaselessly emitted smoke. The period from Kyōroku through Tenshō was what is known as the height of the Sengoku period and marked Takeda Shingen's golden age.

In the foothills of Mount Fuji, within the dense forests of Kajitagahara Plain, stood a solitary mansion.

Though it was once a splendid Shoin-style mansion, now eroded by wind, rain, and years, it lay in utter ruin without a trace of its former appearance.

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

Now, standing in the desolate garden, a young man and woman were talking. Kurando's daughter Matsumushi and Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu, who was Matsumushi's cousin. “How long I have waited... “You have graced us with your presence.” “…But would you not grow quickly weary of us and depart?” “If that were to come to pass, I would find myself lonely once more.” “Please, please do stay here for as long as you wish.” “But there is nothing of interest here whatsoever.” “Forests and woods and mountains and wilderness—that is all there is here… And I hear your head troubles are quite severe? Are they truly so terrible?” “Does that cause you pain?” “Does it feel like being pricked by needles?” “For such patients, these foothills may instead prove beneficial.” “May you stay forever… Oh, how long this humble one has thought of you, my lord.” “And so I had thought of you—please do not laugh—as a far more dreadful person.” “Is it unreasonable… to think so?” “Not at all unreasonable.” “Have you not deigned to visit us even once in our lonely existence until now?” “So this humble one was certain you were a terrifying, ill-natured person utterly lacking in human kindness.” “But now that I have had the honor of meeting you and speaking with you so earnestly, I can clearly see that what I had thought was mistaken.” “This humble one is happy.”

Matsumushi’s voice was beautiful, yet desolately forlorn, seeming to match the bleak scenery of these foothills.

“...Where is Uncle? Is he not present here? I wish to meet him and pay my respects,” Mondon said quietly. He had not even removed his traveling attire yet. “Yes—are you inquiring about Father? Father left earlier for the woods but should return shortly. Please wait a little while... Please come inside. Though it is a wretched ruin, it would be preferable to remaining in the garden.” Yet even when urged thus, Mondon made no move to enter the tatami room. Even if she was his cousin, he must have found it improper to enter a dwelling where a young woman stayed alone.

“In that case, shall this humble one guide you to where Father is?”

“Please, I humbly ask this of you.” “Please come this way.” Matsumushi took the lead ahead of Mondon and pushed into the mixed grove. The light of the setting sun—as if someone had scattered gold dust—slanted through gaps in the trees into the grove, casting tiger-striped shadows upon the shoulders and backs of the two walking figures. On the branches above their heads, squirrels played while chirping. And then, from the grass ahead, something pure white flew out. It was none other than a wild hare.

At that moment, suddenly, the sound of sutra chanting could be heard from far ahead. Dozens of men and women seemed to be chanting in unison.

“Oh,” Mondon said involuntarily. And then he stopped in his tracks. From the depths of the forest in Fuji's foothills, a chorus of sutra chanting could be heard! It was only natural to be startled by this.

However, the voice soon ceased. After that, everything was profoundly silent.

“There is nothing to fear.” “They are unfortunate people.” “...My father is the only friend those people have.” “...Come now, shall we not proceed?”

Five

And so, the two of them started walking. Before long, they came to the depths of the forest. On all sides, walls of shrubs and thorns surrounded them without a single gap.

“...We cannot go beyond here.” “This is the boundary... Father should arrive shortly.” “Please wait here.”

As she spoke, Matsumushi spread grass and sat down right there. Mondon also sat down beside her. The long summer day appeared to have ended at last, and the setting sun vanished without a trace. The forest was enveloped in darkness. The two sat motionless.

At that moment, lamplight shone forth from the thicket before their eyes. Gradually, it drew closer. And then, an old man appeared, parting the thicket. White hair, white robe, bare feet, flushed face. ...holding a lamp reverently with both hands, he passed before the man and woman and quietly made his way into the thicket on the opposite side. After only a brief interval, a procession of men and women lined up in a row—as if following the old man’s lead—began walking slowly and steadily toward the thicket where the old man had vanished. Not only were their faces completely wrapped in white cloth without any gaps, but their hands and feet were similarly wrapped in white cloth.

Their procession vanished into the thicket without making a sound. Before long, a chorus of sutra chanting 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 strange place this is!” “Who in the world are they?” Mondon muttered involuntarily. “They are unfortunate people.” “Leprosy, gangrene, consumption, stomach cancer—they are people with absolutely 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?”

Mondon asked with a look of wonder. "They cling to the divine Konohanasakuya-hime of Mount Fuji, praying that her radiant power might bring even slight improvement to their bodies through the hundredfold pilgrimage." "...And the white-robed, white-haired old man who walked at the front, holding a lamp reverently with both hands—he was the divine apostle." "And that very person is none other than my father, Naoe Kurando."

Here lived a strange bandit commonly known as the potter. The so-called womb-crawling ritual of today—he had been lurking in that area for it, and ostensibly, true to his name’s nature, he fired pottery. He was thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old—pale of complexion, with well-proportioned features. At first glance he appeared a splendidly handsome man, but when it came to cruelty, they say there was nothing to compare.

Today as well, the potter was sitting on a straw mat in front of the kiln. The mountain stood clear after prolonged obscurity, and the blazing summer sun cast the broad foothills in a golden radiance.

The potter let out a big yawn. Then he began to hum a tune. Though called a hummed tune, it was in fact a Chinese poem. 春去夏来新樹辺、緑陰深処此留連、尋常性癖耽閑談、不愛黄鶯聞杜鵑

At that moment, a traveler—a young samurai on a warrior’s pilgrimage—came from the direction of the foothills. “Excuse me, Potter,” he said with a passing traveler’s courtesy, offering a brief greeting as he attempted to pass by.

And then, abruptly raising his sickle-shaped head, the potter called out to stop him.

“A rib—leave one behind!”

“What?” The samurai turned around. With a thud, the potter lifted the kiln’s lid without saying a word. The moment he did so, what abruptly appeared was none other than a steamed human—one that might have been mistaken for unglazed pottery. “A rib—leave one behind!” The potter repeated. The cryptic demand was “Leave money.” “Ah, so it’s you.” The young samurai showed no surprise; he abruptly tossed off his sedge hat and boldly approached the kiln.

“I had heard there was a bandit called the potter in Fuji’s foothills. Ah—so it’s you.”

“Oh, I’m the potter.” “And you—who might you be?” “As you can see, I’m a wandering warrior.” “Seems you’ve got some spine.” “Ah hah hah hah! Does it appear so?”

“You won’t be leaving any money easily, will you?” “That’s your play. So what comes next?” “After all that trouble, will you end up dying in the kiln?”

“So it’s you? “Or is it me?” “Well now, this is amusing—quite the nerve you’ve got. …I’d like to hear one proper declaration from you.” “It’s an exceedingly simple matter. “I’ll declare it for you.” “I am Takeda’s retainer, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.”

Part Three

1 “Are you Tsuchiya Shōsaburō of Takeda’s house?” “I see.” The potter said this without showing any particular surprise. “Then I too shall make my declaration anew.” “The Third Station Potter—that would be me.” “A rib—leave one behind!” —Again with the rib. This was of course a coded demand. “Hmm—so you’re the potter.” “I’ve heard your name before, at least.”

Shōsaburō showed no surprise either. "Not a rib—not even a single finger or sliver of a nail will I surrender."

And then, he sharply changed direction and started walking straight through the foothills. “Wait!” Just when one thought he would shout “Wait!”—for some reason, he did not call out. A laugh suddenly rang out. It was neither “Haha” nor “Heehee.” It was a laugh that fell between the two.

“Damn it! You laughed!” “That laugh of yours.” Shōsaburō spread his knees and firmly knelt down on the ground. The moment he did, something went whizzing over his head, struck a distant tree ahead, and sent sparks flying. It was a bright red, heated iron hammer. “Are you Tsuchiya Shōsaburō of the Takeda clan?” “Wait now.”

When he said this, the potter suddenly sank into 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 potter both as a vicious highwayman and as a master of extraordinary skill. In the past, this man had been a samurai of noble lineage. He had also heard how—driven by some inexplicable motive—the potter had abruptly transformed into a bandit; how he had studied swordsmanship under Tsuchi Toronosuke and was deemed peerless in the Tenshinshō Jigen-ryū style; how with his serene appearance—clad in Rikyū-inspired tea robes, a master’s headcloth of matching hue, white leather tabi, and auspicious straw sandals—he plied his trade firing ceramics near Fuji’s Third Station foothills... among other tales. But most fearsome of all was that laugh—Shōsaburō had heard how once that eerie, ambiguous chuckle escaped the man’s lips, his target—be they man or woman—would inevitably be struck down.

One day, he had heard Lord Shingen sigh: “Though they say Hōjō Naiki lives in these foothills under the alias Third Station Potter—truly a waste of both human potential and resources—yet that man remains a blood-drinking demon, a madman obsessed with steelcraft madness, impossible to retain.” A peerless master true to his reputation—how should one describe that iron hammer’s savagery? It was precisely because I’d heard tales of his laugh’s dread that I narrowly dodged—had I not known them, this body would’ve been rent asunder at midriff.

A heart gripped by terror! Shōsaburō observed his opponent’s movements without letting his guard down, thoroughly.

The potter kept his eyes closed and waited in silence. A stray beam of sunlight cast a single golden speckle upon his shoulder; a white butterfly had alighted there moments before and now remained motionless, its thin wings quivering now and then as a faint white powder scattered imperceptibly in all directions. The occasional crackling sound was likely that of firewood being split in the hearth. Thick, pearl-colored smoke rose from its mouth. In the far distance beyond the green tunnel stretched a great slope—the very skeletal frame of Mount Fuji—extending endlessly into the sky as it cradled vast forests, great ravines, mountain streams, and cascading waterfalls. Around its midsection hung clouds, and piercing through them, eight peaks soared in a lapis lazuli hue.

Quietly, the potter opened his eyes.

“Pardon my abruptness, but I must inquire.” The tone of his speech changed. “Might you perhaps be related to Lord Tsuchiya Sōzō Yoshitsune—a retainer of the Takeda house bearing the Tsuchiya surname?” “Indeed,” Shōsaburō nodded. “I am the nephew of that Sōzō.” “Ah,” said the potter upon hearing this, further altering his speech. “Then, your father would be Lord Shōhachirō, would he not?”

“Indeed,” Shōsaburō said, though he hesitated to elaborate. What’s this bastard going to say next? he thought—because he’d resolved: Can’t afford carelessness now.

“Ah, so that was the case.” The potter gave a light bow. “Being unaware of this fact, I have committed grave discourtesy. Kindly pardon my impertinence. “In truth, this unworthy one received numerous kindnesses from Lord Shōhachirō. “To learn you are his son brings nostalgic warmth. “Might I presume to ask your full name?” “I am Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu.” “Now then—pray take your seat here.”

Having said this, he himself brushed off the rush grass zabuton cushion he had laid out and pushed it toward him. Deeming refusal cowardly, Shōsaburō took his seat. The two remained silent for a while. Insects were chirping nearby. With a rapid clattering, a flock of rock swallows swooshed past overhead. Even that only accentuated the desolate nature of the place.

Once again, the potter closed his eyes. He remained deep in contemplation. Shōsaburō gazed directly at him, but he couldn’t help thinking, "What in the world...?" For upon the face of this heinous and merciless killer—the potter—there lingered an indescribable loneliness, a trace of sorrow akin to that of a stray dog who had lost its beloved master. It was the wretched anguish often manifested by those who, unable to endure conscience’s torment, had lost their soul’s bearings—the shadow of desolation so bleak it defied worldly comparison, wrung from that very anguish… To put it plainly, it was the countenance of a villain’s repentant heart made visible.

II

Upon seeing that, Shōsaburō’s heart softened. He even began to feel a sense of closeness. Even if called a villain, he was no demon. It seemed that eroding one’s conscience completely was no easy task……Moreover, whether one spoke of good or evil, they were ultimately not absolute. In the end, they were but fluctuations of the mind. Killing people and taking their things— This act poisoned the world. Namely, it was one evil deed, but what followed was repentance as precious as a god’s. Good and evil are one. Truly, it was so.

At this moment, the potter opened his eyes. “Given these perilous foothills of Fuji—and observing you travel alone—where might your destination be?” “Indeed, to Lake Motosu...”

“What? To Lake Motosu? “Hmm—and for what purpose might this be?” “I go to seek someone there.”

“To seek someone? I see... And who might you be seeking?”

“My parents and uncle,” Shōsaburō confessed without hesitation.

“You would do well to abandon that endeavor.” “And why might that be, pray tell?” “Lake Motosu is the demon realm.” “I have long been aware of that.” “There lies a dreadful 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 he exists or not, I will go to confirm it.” “There’s only the masked castle lord there,” the potter declared, then abruptly asked, “Do you have martial training?” “Some,” Shōsaburō replied. The instant he spoke, the potter sprang up—already gripping a gleaming blade as he rose. A strange laugh burst forth! Shōsaburō leapt back. With no time to draw fully, he intercepted the strike perfectly with his hilt. Tea-colored cord wrappings scattered wildly. Without discarding his grip, he crossed blades. Settling into Seigan stance, he held firm.

The potter assumed the Daijōdan stance. With a low, insidious chuckle resonating ceaselessly, he stole distance and seized space, edging closer on tiptoe. The sword technique learned from Tsuchido Toronosuke—direct disciple of Morooka Ippa, who was himself a direct disciple of Iizasa Chōi Naoyasu. The blade’s tip, thick with oppressive killing intent, seemed to exude a pungent metallic stench of blood.

However, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō too possessed skills learned from Matsuoka Hyōgonosuke, the sole disciple of Tsukahara Bokuden. He inched backward while seeking an opening to thrust.

No sooner had the potter’s eyebrows twitched spasmodically than his body swayed diagonally as he unleashed a sweeping one-handed kesagake strike! Unable to either flee or counter, Shōsaburō lunged forward with a thrust.

Their positions had barely shifted; neither thrust nor cut having landed as they stood locked in perfect stance. Withering leaves rustled down through autumn air. Slipping between crossed blades, they piled weightless upon bloodless ground. "Hold!" barked Tōkishi, the potter's command cracking through frozen tension. Maintaining his stance, he retreated step by step until hearth-smoke licked his heels. There at last he lowered steel, sheathing it with a decisive snap before resuming formal posture. At that precise moment— A scarlet log erupted from flames, roaring through air with violent spark-shower.

“Careful, careful!”

Muttering this, the potter picked up the fire tongs. “What you should fear isn’t limited to swords. “It is precisely this kind of surprise attack that you should fear.” He picked up firewood and placed it into the hearth; only then did he turn around.

“A splendid display of swordsmanship.” “First, you may rest assured…” The potter smiled faintly yet meaningfully, but— “Not a single soul besides you has ever crossed blades with this unworthy one.” “I typically dispatch them with one strike. …But first, come here.” Until that moment, Shōsaburō had maintained his combat stance, but sensing no murderous intent from his opponent, he quietly sheathed his sword. Then he knocked briskly on both arms. The stiffness had permeated his entire body.

As instructed, Shōsaburō sat back down on the original round cushion, but for a short while, he did not speak. “With swordsmanship of that caliber, you’ll be safe wherever you go.” “You will encounter many hardships on your journey to Lake Motosu.” “However, even so, you will be safe.” “…And yet, might I ask you to share the reasoning by which you concluded your father Lord Shōhachirō’s whereabouts must lie in Lake Motosu’s water castle?”

In the potter’s voice as he spoke these words, there was a humane resonance. It held a blend of goodwill and apprehension.

However, Shōsaburō remained silent. He likely saw no need to speak. Even so, he had sufficient reason for leaving Kōfu’s castle town and coming to these foothills. The two men were silently exchanging glances.

A cool wind blew in. Flames fluttered from the hearth, and the butterfly from earlier—its wings perhaps singed—tumbled across the withered grass.

“So you deem this unworthy one suspicious and thus refuse to share your reasoning, it seems.” “It cannot be helped.” While saying this, the potter closed his eyes again, but— "You seek your parents and would venture into the demon realm. “In contrast, this unworthy one—unable to obtain what he seeks, driven mad by obsession, having discarded his heart—has become a wretch who cannot live even a single day without seeing human blood, agonizing in torment… Ah, these arms itch with craving!” "I long to hear even one cry from a human writhing in agony." “Heh heh... heh heh heh.”

Suddenly drawing his sword to his left hand and stamping his right foot forward, he said, “Nay, I shall not strike you down. I have long been indebted to your father, Lord Shōhachirō.”

Having said that, he slumped down into a sitting position and stared fixedly at the hearth’s fire mouth. “What is it that you seek?”

Shōsaburō asked quietly. “It is precisely ‘unfaithfulness’ and ‘betrayal’—these two—that this unworthy one seeks.” “And what will you do when you capture them?” “Cut them down in a single stroke! A blade’s rust demands it!” “In this floating world, is there not an abundance of both unfaithfulness and betrayal?” Shōsaburō asked coldly. “Unfaithfulness that directly concerns this very self.”

The potter’s words were equally cold. Then he quietly waved his hand. “There is no need.” “You may proceed.”

Today too, the sun set. Fuji grew cloudy. “Well then, I’ll take a rest.” No sooner had he spoken than he plopped down to sleep before the hearth. And what surfaced on his face was a visage of anguished torment and desolate, desolate contrition.

Shōsaburō muttered.

“My lord’s words hold no falsehood.” “Bloodsucking demon!” “Murderous lunatic!”

Shōsaburō stood up. Then he crossed the foothills. Before long, his figure was hidden by the pampas grass, and afterward, all was solemnly quiet.

The setting sun splendidly illuminated the plains. Fuji began to glow with an agate hue. The shadows of things turned purple, and the shadows cast by the woods and groves rapidly lengthened before one’s eyes. At that moment came a sound like rushing wind. Yet it was not wind. It was the noise of two mounted warriors galloping up from the foothills through tall pampas grass. Crimson cloths draped over their stomach armor blazed blood-deep under slanting sunlight - their hue clashing with desolate wilderness to summon an eerie presence between worlds.

“He—ey!”

One warrior called out.

“Lord Hōjō Naiki! Lord Potter!” The other warrior called out in turn. “He—ey!” answered the potter, but grabbing his sword, he leapt to his feet and whirled around. “Now, please receive today’s prey!” Along with the voice, one warrior swung the small man bound to the saddle horn with a single motion and threw him down.

“Much obliged!” he shouted back, twisting his waist into a true iai draw. By the time he had drawn the blade, he had already struck—splitting from the left ear’s root through the jaw, tearing open the throat, cutting three ribs at the flank while leaving the skin intact as he cleaved the man cleanly in two... “Adulterer! Do you see it now? Divine retribution made manifest!” Then came his signature hollow chuckle—that mid-toned, sinister sound that lingered like a curse.

Three The warrior nimbly dismounted from his horse. He unspooled several yards of white silk in a continuous flow. He pressed it firmly against the wound's edge. Instantly dyed crimson. As he reeled it in, yard after yard of crimson silk stretched out. “Now, next!” shouted the other warrior as he wrenched the woman bound to the saddle horn from under his arm and flung her down. The woman was half-dead. She had curled up her limbs and made no attempt to move. “Adulteress!” And the potter called out. Then he gave a blood-curdling shudder. He burst into a wild, cackling laugh. With a thud, he kicked back and thrust with both hands to stab below the breast with a single sword stroke. A piercing shriek. Trembling fingertips. The color of her nails rapidly turned ashen gray, and what had been plucked in her clenched fingertips was a single bellflower.

The potter wheeled around. He returned toward the hearth. With his bloodied sword hanging at his side, unsteady on his feet, he shambled along. A pallid complexion, unblinking eyes, lips growing ever redder—a spectral figure.

He kneeled before the hearth and collapsed limply onto his side. Clutching the long and short swords beneath his left arm, he kept his eyes tightly shut and remained motionless. He must have been attempting to sleep. Then a penitent expression surfaced across his face. The reason he periodically opened his eyes to glare at the sky was likely because sleep eluded him.

Before long, evening dusk crept in. Stars glittered in the sky, and the cries of crows could be heard from the thickets, wilderness, and woods. At the mouth of the hearth, a blue flame burned like will-o'-the-wisps.

Four

Around this time, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō was making his way through the foothills.

There were circumstances as follows that led him to slip out of Kōfu and return once more to the foothills. It was the night of the Insect-Expelling Ritual.

When Venerable Monk Kaizen saw the crimson cloth, “This is Kōketsu,” he declared. “When I was young, I went to China.” “Indeed, I believe I went three times.” “At that time, I saw Kōketsu in that land.” “This must be the crimson cloth... Wait, no—it’s slightly different.”

Having said this, the Venerable Monk gazed at it again and again,

“The color and luster closely resemble it. However, there’s something different about the weaving method.” “What? When you mention the weaving method…” “This crimson cloth is of Japanese weave. It is by no means Chinese fabric.”

At that moment, Lord Shingen—

“Venerable Monk, Venerable Monk,” he called out. “If that Kōketsu is of Japanese weave, what interpretation would be appropriate?” “If I may be permitted such presumptuous speculation, this humble monk would consider it thus.” “Might it not be that those who resent and rage against this world have hidden themselves in some remote mountain valley, constructed Kōketsu Castle exactly as in the ancient Chinese tales, there indulged in wicked deeds, and produced this dreadful kōketsu?”

“Hmm,” Shingen nodded. “In this fleeting world where Matsunami Shōkurō the oil seller has after all pacified Mino and proclaimed himself Saitō Dōsan—one cannot dismiss such wonders outright.” “Venerable Monk,” Shōsaburō implored earnestly, “I beg you to tell me in detail about Kōketsu Castle that existed in China.”

“No, no—there’s no need for me to explain. Please consult *Tales from Uji*.” So Shōsaburō returned to his residence and took out *Tales from Uji*.

“The Account of Great Master Jikaku Entering Kōketsu Castle”

“Hmm, this must be it,” Shōsaburō murmured with a nod as he continued reading. “Long ago, when Great Master Jikaku had crossed over to Tang China to study and transmit the Buddhist Law, he encountered the Huichang Persecution—during which Emperor Wuzong of Tang destroyed the Buddhist Law, razed temples and pagodas, seized monks and nuns to eliminate them, or forced their return to secular life.” When they sought to capture even the Great Master, he fled and took refuge within a certain hall. As the envoys entered the hall and searched, the Great Master—finding no means of escape—took refuge within a Buddha statue while chanting Fudō Myōō’s name. When the envoys sought him out, he was within the newly enshrined Fudō Myōō statue. Finding this strange, they lowered him down to look, and the Great Master had returned to his original form. The envoy, astonished, reported this matter to the Emperor. The Emperor declared, “He is a holy man from another land; he must be swiftly expelled,” and so they released him. As the Great Master, rejoicing, fled to another land, beyond distant mountains there stood a house with high earthen walls encircling it and a single gate where a person stood. Rejoicing, he inquired, and they answered that this was the house of a wealthy man. “What manner of monk are you?” asked the person standing there. He answered: “I am a monk who has come from Japan to study and transmit the Buddhist Law, but having encountered this Huichang Persecution, I wish to hide here for a time.” To this they said: “This is no ordinary place where people come. Stay here awhile, and after the world has calmed, you may go forth and study the Buddhist Law.” When the Great Master rejoiced and entered within, they locked the gate firmly and proceeded deeper inside. When he later stood and went to look, he saw numerous buildings constructed in succession, with many people bustling about. They seated him nearby. Now then, as he proceeded to look around to see if there might be a place to study Buddhist Law, he could find no Buddhas, sutras, or monks anywhere. Behind, near the mountain, there was a house; when he approached and listened, he heard many people moaning within. When he peered suspiciously through a gap in the fence, they had bound people and hung them from above, with jars placed below to catch the blood being drained into them. Appalled, he demanded an explanation, but received no reply. Finding this deeply suspicious, he listened elsewhere and again heard moaning voices. When he peered in, there lay numerous emaciated figures with ghastly blue-tinged complexions. When he summoned one of them and demanded, “What manner of place is this? How can you endure such cruelty?” they held out a piece of wood with their emaciated arm and wrote: “This is Kōketsu Castle. Those who come here are first fed a drug to silence them, then a drug to fatten them.” Then afterward, they hang them from a high place, stab and cut various parts to draw blood, and use that blood to dye kōketsu cloth, which they then sell. Thus it is that they meet such a fate without knowing this.

Within the food lay something black like sesame seeds—the speech-inhibiting drug. If they served him this, he was to pretend to eat it and discard it. Should they address him afterward, he must only moan. They had explained in detail that after this, he must prepare to escape by any means necessary—though with the gates firmly locked and no ordinary way out—before he returned to his quarters. In time, someone brought food. As instructed, he found the sesame-like substance within it. He pretended to eat while slipping it into his robe to discard later. When they came to question him, he moaned wordlessly. Believing their task complete, they then gave him various fattening drugs. These too he feigned eating without consumption. Seizing the moment when his captors departed, he faced northeast and rubbed his hands in prayer: "O Three Treasures of my mountain, grant me aid!" A large dog appeared, seized his sleeve in its teeth, and pulled. Understanding this sign, he followed where it led—through an unexpected sluice gate. Once outside, the dog vanished. Resolved now, he ran wherever his feet carried him. Beyond distant mountains lay a village. When a villager asked, "From where do you come running so?" he replied that he had fled that accursed place. "How reckless!" they cried. "That was Kōketsu Castle—none return from there." "Only through extraordinary divine aid could you escape! How noble you must be!" they exclaimed, bowing reverently before leaving. He retreated completely thereafter, slipping back into the capital—only for Emperor Wuzong to die in Huichang's sixth year. The following year—Dazhong's first—Emperor Xuanzong ascended. With Buddhism's persecution ended, he studied the Law as intended. After ten years, he returned to Japan and spread Shingon teachings."

V

When he finished reading, Shōsaburō sank into profound doubt.

"The history of Kōketsu Castle can largely be imagined from this." "...If the Crimson Cloth I possess is truly Japanese-made kōketsu, then the Kōketsu Castle that produces it must exist somewhere in Japan." "Then where could it be?" "I saw a group of mysterious mounted samurai on Mount Fuji's mid-slopes." "They were draped in crimson cloth." "A crimson cloth no different from the one I carry..." "If this Crimson Cloth of mine is indeed Japanese kōketsu, then their cloth must also be recognized as the same kōketsu." "They who wore such rare kōketsu so carelessly! Could they not be soldiers of Kōketsu Castle? And their stronghold is said to be the water fortress in Lake Motosu." "Then might that very water fortress in Lake Motosu be Kōketsu Castle?... Moreover, my father's name has manifestly appeared on this Crimson Cloth—'Respectfully Made' boldly inscribed above, with 'Tsuchiya Shōhachirō Masataka' written slightly apart. Oh gods—could this mean Father has been taken captive by that abominable Kōketsu Castle?"

Having thought this through, Shōsaburō could no longer remain sitting or standing still.

“Let’s go! To Lake Motosu!”

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

Shōsaburō walked on.

When had he lost his way? No matter how far he walked, he couldn't reach Lake Motosu. Dragging his exhausted legs as he sought the path by starlight, he trudged onward and onward.

At that moment, far ahead, the light of a lantern came into view.

Ah, so there must be a dwelling here. "I hope this isn't the dwelling of some villain like Tōkishi." As he approached and looked closely, there stood a Shoin-style mansion surrounded by a dense forest. Through an unshuttered window, firelight streamed into the darkness. Shōsaburō drew near and casually peered through the window.

A young samurai had seated a beautiful girl before him and seemed to be talking about something. Shōsaburō was relieved. That they were not villains could be discerned from the demeanor of the man and woman. Shōsaburō, deciding anew to request lodging for tonight, circled around toward the entrance.

It was the following morning. Accompanied by Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu and his daughter Matsumushi, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu departed from Kurando’s residence.

At the foothills of Mount Fuji after the Dog Days, Katedategahara lay enveloped in morning mist, its balloon flowers, patrinia, and burnet thoroughly drenched in dew. "No matter how long I bid you farewell, our lingering sentiments will not easily come to an end." “Please do not trouble yourselves any further.”

After saying this, Shōsaburō came to a stop when they had traveled about one ri. "So it seems our parting has finally come." Mondon also spoke and came to a halt. “Please go safely.”

Matsumushi also spoke and came to a halt. “I scarcely know how to express gratitude for your gracious hospitality since last night.” Shōsaburō once again expressed his gratitude. “The shade of a single tree, the flow of a river—even brushing sleeves in passing is a bond from past lives. What need is there for formal thanks?”

Having said this, Matsumushi smiled—but that smile appeared lonely. This girl raised in the wilderness must feel affection for anyone. “You are of Takeda; this unworthy one is of Uesugi.” “Though we stand on opposing sides, now we are both wanderers.” “Having spent the night together in the same mansion and shared various stories, this will surely become a fond memory.” Mondon smiled as he said this, but it remained a lonely smile. “This unworthy one is weak. “My martial skills are unrefined. “Moreover, given my ailing condition, there’s no telling when death may come. “I cannot help but feel apprehensive about when we might meet again after parting today... Though our conversation lasted but a single night, this unworthy one finds himself feeling as dearly toward you—who excels in both martial and literary arts—as toward an elder brother.”

“This unworthy one feels the same.” Shōsaburō also said solemnly, “I shall never forget both of your profound generosity. “Yesterday around noon, I encountered a fearsome bandit called Tōkishi and was quite shaken, but with nightfall, I have deeply felt the warmth of human kindness.” Gradually, the mist began to clear. The foothills came clearly into view.

At last, the time for parting had come.

“Farewell.” “Farewell,” Shōsaburō called out, pointed toward the foothills, and the two returned to the mansion, parting the dew as they went.

Shōsaburō energetically descended the foothills with brisk steps.

Six "Those two are too lonely." "I hope they don't meet with some ill fate." As he walked, Shōsaburō couldn't help but be concerned for Mondon and Matsumushi's circumstances.

Though he was a scholar with astonishing expertise in Japanese literary classics—unbecoming of his youth—when it came to martial arts, he fell short even of a farmer and proved useless with both spear and longsword. In this turbulent Sengoku era, he was utterly ill-suited. "In the Uesugi household, when one speaks of Naoe, it should signify an illustrious lineage—yet given Lord Mondon’s current state, one cannot help but call it exasperating."

He found himself thinking such things.

The sun gradually rose higher until noon arrived and gave way to afternoon. At that moment, Shōsaburō realized he had lost his way yet again and ended up in an unexpected area. "This is troublesome," he muttered, finding himself rooted in place on the open field. But even as he stood there blankly, no clever ideas came to mind—so he resumed walking briskly. There stood 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 ending abruptly before his eyes. At its edge rose a massive rock wall. Even if described as stretching continuously for several ri, it would hardly seem an exaggeration—a long, towering cliff face extending endlessly to both sides. Perhaps it resembled a castle wall more than a natural formation. Having endured years of wind and rain, this castle-like rock wall had darkened to a dusky brown hue, with shrubs clinging here and there.

This must be what they mean by a natural fortress. Shōsaburō, overcome by the impression, approached the rock wall, but when he stood at its base and looked up, it seemed even higher. Could the inside be a field? Or was it a mountain of unbroken rock? While pondering this, he remained gazing upward for some time, but as his legs had grown quite fatigued,

Alright, time for a break.

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

The moment he did so, the rock spun around, and Shōsaburō was sent tumbling head over heels into its interior. By the time he gasped and scrambled to his feet, all directions were plunged into true darkness. "I mustn't panic," Shōsaburō told himself mentally as he sat cross-legged. And stilled his heart.

"It appears there was a sliding door in the rock." "It appears I carelessly touched it." "When the door opened and then closed, I was trapped inside." "……Then where is this place?" He stretched both hands out to either side and tested. A cold rock touched his fingers. "It seems I am inside a cave made within the rock."

At any rate, he figured this much out. "Well, let me check the entrance." Shōsaburō stood up and, feeling his way along the rock with both hands, cautiously made his way toward what seemed to be the entrance. Soon he collided with the rock, so he groped around by touch. He pushed and tried, but it showed no sign of moving. "It's no use," he said and pondered. Then he cautiously made his way to the opposite side. It appeared to be an extremely deep cave; no matter how far he went, there was no end.

"This does not seem to be a cave." "This seems to be a path."

This thought occurred to him after he had traveled a distance of over ten ken. Shōsaburō felt encouraged. Walking resolutely onward while minding each step with care, he continued another ten ken or so. ……Then from far ahead along the path came a pale, ghostly glimmer shining forth. “Thank goodness. This must lead to open country!” Shōsaburō ran as if flying toward the direction of the light.

Gradually, the light grew more distinct.

And so, at last, Shōsaburō emerged into a beautiful valley where the evening light flowed over the grass. Overwhelmed with joy, Shōsaburō found himself unable to utter a single word. He simply looked around at his surroundings.

Peach Spring, Shaman Mountain, Penglai Isle—could this be what they call the otherworldly paradises of the world? The surrounding scenery was so noble and exquisite that one might indeed think this. Mount Fuji! Yes—the peak of Mount Fuji loomed so close it seemed to press against his eyebrows, floating there as if suspended within arm’s reach. Gentle shoulders, smooth slopes—they spilled down to his very feet. In short, that gentle slope had been temporarily blocked by a rock wall, and because of this, a single valley had formed between the rock wall and the slope—at a single point within which Shōsaburō now stood in a daze. Such was the scene that now lay spread before his eyes.

And so, on one side, the valley was bordered by winding, serpentine rock walls that separated it from other foothills, while on the other side, Mount Fuji severed all connection with the outside world, thereby establishing an entirely separate new realm here. The valley country of this new world appeared to be extraordinarily vast. Should one say it is long rather than wide? In any case, it seemed to stretch endlessly—long and longer still—along one side with the rock wall and along the other with Mount Fuji, broadening as it extended.

“I’m sleepy.”

Shōsaburō muttered. For the air was sweet, the fragrance of flowers rich, and even in the songs of small birds singing as they flew—from trees to thickets, thickets to rocks—there dwelled a mysterious charm that invited peace into the hearts of those who heard.

“I’m sleepy,” Shōsaburō muttered again. He flopped down onto the grass. From afar, a temple bell resounded—a single deep toll— “There must be a temple nearby...” ……Then came an ethereal chorus—as though countless men and women sang in unison. “So many people... singing together...” Shōsaburō murmured in his dreaming sleep.

"Where on earth am I?" Go-o-on—once more, the sound of a bell came ringing through the void. Following that, a chorus of voices came sounding solemnly and reverently, like the surging of the sea tide.

Where on earth am I?

Fuji Sect’s Mystic Realm!

Part IV

**1**

Tsuchiya Uemon timidly came forward and addressed his lord.

"Concerning Tsuchiya Shōsaburō: he has absconded from his residence on the night before last."

“What?”

Shingen puffed out his cheeks. It was a habit of his when surprised. However, he was rarely surprised. “Shōsaburō ran away?” “Hmm, so it is.” “He’s a troublesome one.” “He is a troublesome fool.” “What’s the reason? The reason he ran away?” “I have absolutely no knowledge of that.” “Did he have some grievance?” “Absolutely, absolutely no such thing!”

“So, do you have any leads?” “Huh? Leads, you say?” “The lead on where he ran off to!” “No, as for that, we’ve yet to…” “You still haven’t found any leads? You’re being rather obtuse.” “I am deeply ashamed.”

Uemon wiped the sweat from his forehead. Shingen glared sharply at it but furrowed his brow and fell silent.

Shingen’s face was large. And it was extremely heavy-jowled. His jaw formed a distinct double layer. His eyebrows were thick and long, sharply swept upwards at the ends. His eyes were what one might call ordinary, but with terrible wrinkles at their corners and both above and below them, he appeared aged. Beneath his nose was a thick mustache, but its ends drooped limply, giving it a rather unimpressive appearance. His lips were thick and dusky black. When the beard was removed, his face came to resemble Ieyasu quite a bit. Not only were their faces most alike, but they also closely resembled each other in their cunning.

Just as his face was large and plump, Shingen’s body was also plump. His neck was literally that of a boar’s. Ears drooping like those of Daikokuten. Even when shaving his head, he left only his cheek beard intact and maintained great dignity. His chest had thick chest hair. His overall appearance was bilious in temperament, greasy, and slow-moving. He was not a jewel that women would fall for. He did not look like such a refined gentleman as to have impregnated the Suwa family’s princess and sired a lord as handsome as the one depicted in paintings—Lord Katsuyori.

Indeed, the dignity befitting a distinguished family was evident. It was a brooding sort of dignity—when he remained silent in thought like this, it took on an eerie, fearsome intensity. “Uemon, you’ve dispatched pursuers, right?”

After a moment, Shingen posed this question. “We have spread out in all directions and dispatched pursuers.” “I too shall immediately dispatch pursuers.” “As you wish.” “It cannot be helped—it’s the province’s laws.” “As you wish.” “I’m not one to complain.” Darkly, Shingen said.

“But even so—why did Shōsaburō leave the province without a word? As per Kai Province’s laws—that those who depart the domain without permission must be tracked through every blade of grass and hanged—even he should know this. Yet he left without permission?” “He is an utter fool.”

“The problem is that being an utter fool won’t settle this.” “…I am indebted 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 unbearable to my heart—but this Shingen cannot break the laws that this Shingen himself created.” “But would that not be the case?” “As Your Lordship commands.” “If we were to permit this, those who leave the province would surely increase.” “Those who have left will undoubtedly seek connections and pledge allegiance to the Uesugi, Hōjō, Oda, or other clans.” “The secrets of Kai Province must inevitably leak to the enemy through their mouths.” “This is truly a dreadful matter.”

“It is a dreadful matter.” “Therefore I shall steel myself and resolve to capture Shōsaburō.” “Your Lordship must act in strict accordance with the laws.”

“But I am sorrowful.”

Once more, Shingen grew despondent.

“Gentarō!”

Shingen called out. “Yes.” The one who slid forth with this response was a page wearing a forelock. “You shall join the pursuit.” Shingen solemnly commanded. “Understood.”

A fourteen-year-old boy samurai—the son of Kōsaka Danjō’s concubine—Kōsaka Gentarō accepted the command.

“You are to set out immediately.” “As you command.” “Use that same brilliant wit you showed last May during the Boys’ Festival when you stole the shieldless armor to capture Shōsaburō and bring him back.” “As you command.”

After bowing, Gentarō smoothly slid out from the lord’s presence.

Two

That evening, a single bird catcher departed from the Kōsaka residence. It was Kōsaka Gentarō in disguise.

That was a charming bird catcher. On his head, he wore a hood. The color of the hood was pure scarlet. On his feet he wore mountain hakama, but they were of birch-colored tanned leather. He wore a sleeveless yellow-green garment over cylindrical sleeves of tortoiseshell-patterned arrowroot fabric. Attached to his waist was a game bag, and beside it was a birdlime tube. The long birdlime pole measured two and a half ken, could be freely extended by joining sections, and a spare pole was carried on his back.

He was fair-skinned with a round face, a high nose, and thin lips that were crimson as if painted with rouge. Those eyes were almond-shaped but unsettlingly sanpaku, their pupils perpetually half-hidden beneath the upper eyelids.

They were rather small for those of a Sengoku-era warrior yet plump and round—appearing capable of deflecting any blade that touched them. They were rich in elasticity.

He circled around the western side of the mansion to Abe Ōi’s residence, then headed steadily north until reaching the Oyamada residence at the edge of the Jōbō district. “Now, which way did he go?” Gentarō pondered for a moment, then declared, “For times like these, pole divination—that’s just the thing.” He planted his birdlime pole firmly on the street with a resonant thud.

"Oh, damn—it tipped southeast. "...Southeast—that's the direction of Fuji. Alright, alright—I'll head to Fuji then." It was an exceedingly simple method. He shouldered the long birdlime pole,

Now the bird catcher arrives! Where have the birds gone? Where are the great birds? Hey ho, heigh-ho The bird catcher’s song that was popular at the time. Singing it heartily, he set out along Kajiya Highway toward Fuji at a leisurely pace.

"Huh, what a predicament I’ve landed myself in. Disguised as a pursuer, tasked with capturing my own cousin—this feels like something straight out of an old tale. Even so, Lord Shingen—our boss has quite the ironic sense of humor, doesn’t he? Because he says to capture him using that same brilliant wit I showed last May during the Boys’ Festival when I stole the shieldless armor. Lord Shingen’s bald head must have been quite shaken at that time. ……Chirp chirp—somewhere, a bird was singing its annoying tune. Oh, damn—a mountain dove!"

When he looked, a gray mountain dove was perched on the great camphor tree before his eyes.

"Heh, tough luck for this bastard. The pole's a tad too short. Alright then—let's give this throwin' pole a shot."

He threw it with a whoosh, not even taking aim. The pole skillfully wove through the dense foliage, stretching toward the distant treetop like a conquering arrow, yet when it fell back down, its tip had ensnared the mountain dove with birdlime. He wrenched it off and twisted its neck. He wiped the blood trickling from its mouth on his armored sleeve and smirked,

“Killing living things feels so good, doesn’t it? The twitching of soft flesh, the warm tang of fresh blood—this is why the killing can’t be stopped.” He forcefully stuffed it into his game bag, “...Now the bird catcher comes forth! Where are the birds? Where are the great birds? ...Lord Shingen’s bald head—it must have been quite shocked that time.” Last year—that is, the third year of Kōji—on the night of the Boys’ Festival, the Shieldless armor was displayed according to family custom, and Shingen hosted a banquet. At that time, Shingen narrated a tale about the Shieldless.

“It was in the sixth year of Kanshō (1465). Our third-generation ancestor Lord Nobumasa commanded Itagaki Saburō and Shimoyama Gorō to lead the vanguard and subjugate the traitor Atobe Kageie at Yūgarizawa. At this time, Kageie had been entrusted with our house’s treasured Shieldless armor. But when he donned it, mounted his horse, and led thousands of horsemen charging forth, Lord Nobumasa lay in ambush alone beneath a tree’s shadow. Timing his moment, he loosed an arrow that struck true to the traitor’s chest, finally slaying him. Yet the arrow’s mark remained clearly upon the armor, damaging the Shieldless’s divine power. Lord Nobumasa lamented that an arrow piercing this heirloom treasure might portend the decline of our house’s fortunes. Resolving to test it himself, after returning from battle he donned the Shieldless and ordered three skilled archer retainers—Mutō Goroshichirō, Oyamada Jūrō, and Saegusa Shikibu—to shoot at him. It is said their arrows were all deflected. How wondrous this is!... In other words, the Shieldless is the Takeda clan’s guardian deity. Its divine power manifests clearly only when held by the Takeda head—no others may even lay hands upon it. If anyone else dares touch it, they will incur divine punishment.”

“Truly, it is a divine armor.” The retainers all replied reverently.

Yet someone among them laughed. When he glared sharply toward the source of the voice, Kōsaka Gentarō was laughing. Then Shingen looked puzzled, “Gentarō. What’s so amusing?” “I have touched it. “…I touched it many times over. Yet divine punishment has not struck me—as you see, I remain unharmed.” “For a child, you’re outrageously bold! Divine punishment will befall you soon enough.”

Then Gentarō snickered, "If you would but grant me permission, I shall steal the Shieldless and present it to you." “Steal the Shieldless? This is amusing. Very well—I permit it. Try to steal it then.” “I humbly accept your order.”

Three With that, Gentarō slipped past His Lordship and vanished on the spot. "What could that Gentarō possibly accomplish?" Shingen glanced at his retainers and let out a wry smirk, but soon both the promise he had made and even Gentarō were forgotten from his heart. However, according to Takeda family custom, the Shieldless armor had to be enshrined in the treasure house that very night—and what’s more, Shingen himself had to personally accompany it during the late-night Hour of the Ox.

When the appointed time arrived, Shingen rose to his feet. The Shieldless armor was placed into a box and carefully loaded onto a palanquin. Four warriors carried it. And they were not mere Kai-nade warriors. Hyūga Yamato, Katsunuma Nyūdō, Imagawa Ise, and Hemmi Sakyo—each was a formidable commander rather than merely peerless warriors. After Shingen came Nobushige, Yoshinobu, Katsuyori, and members of the Shōyōken clan. Baba Minō no Kami led as vanguard while Oyamada and Amari flanked the palanquin. It was indeed a grand procession that snaked through long corridors toward the treasure house. The treasure house stood between the First and Second Baileys where the procession halted solemnly. Shingen himself took the key and opened the treasure house with a creak. The procession began moving again as Shingen led them inside. Once they had enshrined [the armor], the group quietly exited. Throughout this time, none could speak a word. They dared not even cough. As lord, Shingen exited last and took up the key to close the doors. Then he suddenly grew uneasy.

“Something feels off,” he muttered. “I have a feeling someone’s inside the treasure house.” He peered intently through the gap, but inside the unlit treasure house lay what could be called a pitch-black darkness, making it impossible to distinguish any colors or patterns. Shingen looked back over his shoulder. None were missing from the prescribed number. He muttered, “A trick of the mind,” and closed the treasure house door with a creak. Then he clicked the lock shut with a clang, and at that moment—though it was but a single sound—a faint laugh seemed to reach his ears from within the treasure house. Or so it seemed to him.

Though it weighed on his mind, Shingen dismissed it as a phantom sound and briskly turned back down the corridor.

Now，on the next morning，Sanada Gengorō，a close attendant，sat formally before Shingen． “I humbly wish to convey Kōsaka Gentarō’s message．” “What is it?” Shingen inquired sharply． “Last night，Gentarō said the following to me： ‘―Please open the treasure house tomorrow morning．’ ‘The Shieldless armor―that brat Gentarō has stolen it，he says…’”

“Ah!” Shingen let out a cry of surprise before hearing the full message. It was at this moment that he remembered last night’s promise with lightning-like clarity. Shingen kicked the cushion as though his feet were burned and leapt up, then ran toward the treasure house as though forgetting his usual composure.

He impatiently flung open the door and stomped inside to find Kōsaka Gentarō sitting in a dimly lit corner of the storehouse—illuminated by faint outside light—leaning against the chest containing the Shieldless armor, gripping a lit matchlock pistol boldly aimed at Shingen, his unsettling sanpaku-eyed gaze gleaming with perverse triumph.

“Lord!” Gentarō called. “Were I to discharge Tanegashima’s potent charge into this armor chest, the Shieldless would shatter to dust.” “Were I to fire it at you, Lord, your noble life would surely end.” “Had I but the strength, I would have borne away the Shieldless myself.” “To think—to think such audacity exists!” “How did you enter?” “By what means did you infiltrate?” “From my humble perspective, your stronghold teems with vulnerabilities.” “Keh, keh, keh, keh.”

He began to laugh—but this was no ordinary laugh. Rather, it was the cruel laughter that a sexual deviant or innate criminal might occasionally let slip, and even the valiant Shingen was said to have frozen in terror.

“Lord Shingen’s bald head—looks like he was really startled back then.”

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

"What's truly amusing in this world? Nothing surpasses thievery." "This is splendid work indeed." "Because it means taking what belongs to others." "In other words—no, let me rephrase—it's someone else's property!" "I'll make it mine!" "No distinction between self and others." "Equality and non-duality... When it comes to koban coins, ōban coins, and official seals—they're all desperately scrambling to profit and hoard." "Once they profit, they hide it away." "And thus they alone enjoy good fortune while making fools of others." "That's what I call a hoarder's mentality." "I slip in from the side with a 'Much obliged' and take it... The exhilaration of stealing." "The thrill before the theft." "Ah, there's just no describing it." "...First and foremost, it's refined work." "A job for the mind and hands... Alright, I'll steal that thing!" "So I ponder deeply." "Ah, but no..." "This isn't right." "Then I'll try this approach." "Ah, this way... It's all about using one's head."

"What a refined job this is!"

IV

The sun had long since sunk below the horizon without notice, and dew settled damply upon the roadside grass. But still—what fools they were, not noticing at all that I was the one doing the stealing...... Now that I thought of it, my late old lady had been truly sharp about these things. She had marked her targets with precision. ...Hoi! How pointless—what was the use in thinking about such things? Now then, the bird catcher had arrived. Heave-ho, ho! ...Where should I stay tonight, I wonder?

Gentarō walked briskly away. Especially since he carried the Takeda clan’s tally granted by Shingen, he could pass through and stay in the land of Kai Province as he pleased. That night, Gentarō stayed at the Shimomukaiyama post station along the banks of the Fuefukigawa River, and the next day he departed early, proceeding along the Takkawa Highway toward Furuse in his usual manner. That night he stayed in Furuse, departing before dawn the next day, but beyond this point there was no proper road—only a deep valley where the Shakadake mountains and Ōdake Mountain Range’s ridges seemed temporarily folded together, a path if one could even call it such. Though beautiful with its mix of verdant trees and autumn foliage across the mountainous landscape, it proved treacherous terrain for travelers. Gentarō proceeded along the treacherous valley floor path. As he proceeded, the valley floor path grew increasingly steeper by degrees, with pines and maples growing densely, layers of lava becoming more frequent, and obstructions blocking the way at every turn.

"Ah, I've grown tired of walking."

Even Gentarō let out a sigh and unwittingly halted at the valley bottom, but since he couldn't remain standing there indefinitely, he steeled his courage and pressed onward. Soon the valley ended, giving way to a dense primeval forest. That was what we now call Aokigahara. "Well now, this is welcome," Gentarō muttered as he wiped his streaming sweat and settled onto a tree root—just as a figure approached, crushing through the tall susuki grass.

"That’s what they call a Buddha in hell. …I’ll ask him for directions."

He was about to call out cheerfully, but then, startled by something, said “Oh?” and hid himself in the shade of a maple tree. From within the overlapping leafy shade, peering out with only his eyes visible, he watched as the figure gradually drew nearer. As it approached and he observed closely, there stood a man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight—wearing a master’s headscarf and jittoku robe, with a long sword thrust through his sash in the otoshi-zashi style—who seemed both tea master and samurai. Whether from illness or drunkenness, his steps were unsteady, and he staggered this way and that as he approached—an old-fashioned description, but apt.

"What a terrifying face! Hmm, just like a ghost," Gentarō inadvertently muttered under the maple shade, but truly, there was something uncanny about the man's features. With a high nose, elongated eyes, thin lips of vivid red, and eyebrows elegantly straight and finely drawn, he was undoubtedly handsome—yet his beauty belonged not to the human realm. It resembled either a specter from the netherworld or a masked figure, devoid of vitality and any flush of life. From his translucent blue forehead to his gaunt, sunken cheeks, faint desolate shadows lingered, evoking sorrow in those who beheld them. His fixed eyes stared vacantly ahead with no particular focus as he muttered something to himself.

“Today… I cut them down again.” “Three of them.” “Ha, ha, ha, ha—three of them… No matter how many I cut down, it’s never enough.” “What in the world am I supposed to do?” “No matter how many I cut down, it’s never enough.” “…Wait.”

As he said this, he came to a halt. He then surveyed his surroundings but fixed his gaze intently on the maple tree. "Ah, a human's hiding here."

As he said this, blood color surged up to his face. His countenance—previously pale as crystal—transformed into an agate-like peach hue while his posture snapped taut and his staggering feet planted themselves firmly. "Come out, brat!" he shouted. This isn't good. He's spotted me.

Gentarō tightened his grip on the birdlime pole but abruptly revealed himself. “Good day, Sir Samurai.” He grinned with three-white eyes. “Hmm. A bird catcher... Where are you headed?” he said, taking a deliberate step forward. Gentarō retreated a pace. “I’m bound for Mount Fuji.” “These are already its foothills.” “What brings you here?” He advanced another step. Gentarō stepped back again, “I’ve come to snare birds.” “Birds are scarce on Fuji’s slopes. You there—you’re new to this trade.”

“As you say, I’m new at this… Don’t go scarin’ me. You’ve got a frightenin’ face there.” “Is my face that frightening to you?” “You don’t look like a living person. Whoa there! Don’t come any closer!”

"Bird Catcher!" The samurai advanced again. "Where do you think this place is?" "It’s the foothills of Mount Fuji, I suppose?"

“It’s the shore of Lake Motosu. “It’s Aokigahara.” “Heh heh… Oh, is that so?”

Five

“Hmph,” the samurai sneered. “You know nothing at all. You haven’t heard the rumors, have you?” “Nope, ain’t heard a thing.” “There’s a water fortress in Lake Motosu.”

“Hmm… Is that so?” “The people of the water fortress desire a young man like you.”

“Hmm… Is that so?” “Young men have a lot of blood, you see.” “Oh, absolutely so!” “If squeezed, three shō could be extracted.” “Huh?” Gentarō asked back. “The color would likely be vivid as well.” “Huh?” Gentarō asked again. “You there—aren’t you afraid of dying?” “I’d really rather not die.”

"But ultimately, there's no escaping it." "Why would I die so easily?" "No, no—ultimately, you must be killed."

“Who’s going to kill me?” “The people of Mizuki will likely kill you.” “Oh, is that so? The people of Mizuki, you say?”

“Otherwise, I’ll kill you.”

He placed his hand on the sword's hilt.

“Not gonna happen.”

Even as he spoke, Gentarō jumped back and firmly readied his birdlime pole.

“Hmm.” The samurai stared wide-eyed. “Oh! You’re skilled with a spear.” “You bet I am!” Gentarō retorted, his unsettling sanpaku eyes glinting fiercely in the dappled sunlight. “Oh, you samurai can’t be joking around. "You’re no ordinary bird catcher. "You may look like this, but you're a samurai. “And what’s more—you’re a Takeda retainer!” “You’ve taken the form of a bird catcher because there’s someone you need to question.” “How could you stand having your life taken before you’ve even achieved your hopes?” "But even so, that face of yours is quite a creepy one." “What’s there to be surprised about?” “Don’t come closer! Don’t come closer—stay back!” “Hey! Can’t you see this pole?” “It’s a fifteen-foot birdlime pole, but when I wield it, it becomes a spear.” “Watch those two eyes of yours!” “I always go for the eyes.” “Though sometimes I go for the legs as well.” “So watch your legs too. …Hey hey, draw it! Draw it!” “Hurry up and draw!”

“And then you aren’t charging in with gusto.” “I’ll get a good look at the grain of that sword of yours… Well well, you really won’t draw it, will you.” “You’re one weirdly impatient bastard, aren’t ya?” “Ah… He let go of the hilt!” “So you’re a Takeda retainer here to question someone?” “Who exactly are you seeking?” The eerie samurai calmly asked. “The one I’m seeking is my cousin.” “I have an idea.” “What’s his name?” “The name? It’s Tsuchiya Shōsaburō.”

“Ah, I see. That man.” “So you know about him?”

Gentarō widened his eyes.

“Yeah, I know. “I’ve encountered him before.”

“When?” Gentarō pressed forward a step. “A few days ago. At a certain place.” “So which way did he go?” “He said he was going to Lake Motosu.” “Thanks!” Gentarō slung the birdlime pole he’d been holding at the ready over his shoulder—but in that split-second opening, the samurai launched a surprise slash. There was no time to parry nor space to dodge. Gentarō rolled away in a flash. The blade stopped five bu short—perhaps divine mercy for him—and as it withdrew, he sprang up to evade the second strike before leaping sideways.

He planted himself on the lava.

“Floating Cloud! You idiot!” For the first time now, Gentarō cursed venomously, though his breathing was visibly labored. However, he still gripped the birdlime pole. It was proof that he still had composure. Behind the lava lay a sheer cliff. From the front, the samurai was closing in. Though he had poised his birdlime pole like a spear, he found himself cornered with no room to advance or retreat. The samurai bared his white teeth in a brief grin, but he couldn’t advance left or right because the tip of the birdlime pole whirled and swirled, disrupting his vision between both eyes, leaving him secretly astonished.

This wasn't a learned spear technique. It was undoubtedly self-taught—but even so—he was terrifying. The spear tip wouldn't leave [my] eyes... The Takeda retainers had some strange ones among them. "Tsuchiya and this one—strangely enough—both martial arts masters." Hah!

With a fierce shout, he knocked up the spear tip in one swift motion, then closed in with rapid steps. "Come get some!" Gentarō snarled as he jerked his birdlime pole forward. The weapon shot toward the samurai's right eye like an arrow. A sharp snap rang out as the blade was batted upward, only for the pole to jerk downward toward the left eye. Staggering back with quick footwork, the samurai had no choice but to assume a defensive stance.

"Hey, samurai! What're you aiming to do? Hurry up and finish this! I gotta get to Lake Motosu." From atop the rock, Gentarō called out impatiently. "Take your time," the samurai said with a laugh as he sat down on a rock.

“Behind me’s a sheer cliff—can’t climb down.” “But Lake Motosu’s thataway.” “I’m right here blockin’ your front.” “C’mon—try scramblin’ down from wherever ya can!” “Ah! So the lake’s past the cliff?” “Hmph—alright then! I’ll jump down an’ show ya.”

Gentarō shouldered the birdlime pole and ran toward the valley’s lower entrance.

Six

“Brat! You planning to jump from there?” The samurai shouted in alarm.

“Below lies jagged rocks—if you jump down, your body will shatter!”

“Now arrives the bird catcher...” Gentarō began humming a tune, but—

“Samurai, see you again!” “Ah, Floating Cloud!”

By the time he shouted, Gentarō's figure had vanished. "Reckless fool!" Cursing, the samurai scrambled onto the rock and peered sharply down into the ravine. The early autumn sunset blazed crimson upon the valley's trees. Jagged lava rocks thrust their angular peaks skyward, piled in towering heaps. A gray mist that had begun rising now enveloped those rocks and trees, gradually advancing this way. He must have died pitifully.

The moment he muttered this, a singing voice came from the ravine's depths. "...Have the birds flown? Oh, great birds are..."

“Huh?” The samurai widened his eyes. “It seems that guy didn’t even get injured.” “...Ha-hoi, ho-hoi!...”

The singing voice gradually grew distant.

“Hmm… That guy’s just like a monkey.” “Now the bird catcher comes…”

Gentarō seemed to have already gone far away. The samurai could no longer make out the singing clearly.

The samurai stood dumbfounded on the lava rock for a while, but suddenly coming to his senses, he tried to sheathe the sword he was gripping into the scabbard at his waist. As he did so, his face was reflected on the blade. He stared intently at it. "This face is truly fearsome," the samurai groaned. "No wonder people shrink from it. Ugh... How wretched I am." With mechanical precision, he sheathed his sword and stood motionless in dismay. To Human Cave! To Human Cave! And there... I'll tend to this face.

He started walking down the rock. All his former vigor vanished without a trace, the color completely drained from his face, and even his footsteps grew listless. With his fixed gaze aimlessly cast before him, he staggered to the right, staggered to the left, and walked westward.

By today's travel measures, the distance from Motosu Village to Hitokuchi Village would have been approximately three ri and ten chō. The village had over thirty households, with a path for climbing Mount Fuji passing through. In summer it seemed to bustle considerably, as two inns stood there. Turning left at the village entrance and walking a little over one chō, one found the famous Human Cave there. Now merely a rock cave several dozen ken deep with nothing remarkable about it—only the grave of Kakugyō, founder of the Fuji Sect; a small Asama Shrine; and stone monuments standing about—one might have wondered what made it a notable site. Yet in ancient times, this cave appeared to have been exceedingly deep, as recorded in the Azuma Kagami:

"The Shogun Minamoto no Yoriie proceeded to Fuji no Kariura in Suruga Province. At its foothills lay another great valley named Human Cave; to thoroughly investigate its depths, Nitta Shiro Tadatsune and his six retainers were sent in. Tadatsune was granted the imperial sword and entered Human Cave, but did not return to his lord's camp that day. [Omission] At the hour of the Snake, Nitta Shiro Tadatsune emerged from Human Cave and returned. The journey there and back took one day and one night. The cave proved so narrow they could not turn around, so dark it tormented their minds, and so constricted they could not advance freely. Master and retainers each took torches. From start to finish of their path, flowing water soaked their feet while bats flew about obscuring their faces - countless myriads beyond number. Their destination was a great river: its raging currents swelled against the flow, and when they sought to cross, all means were lost. Nothing remained but calamity. Here, a firelight struck across the river, and while witnessing this marvel, four retainers suddenly perished. Yet Tadatsune - following that spirit's instruction - cast the imperial sword into that river, thus preserving his life to return, it is said. The elders declared: 'This is the sacred abode of Asama Daibosatsu. Since ancient times, none have been able to behold that place, and they say its present state is most fearsome indeed.'"

The above describes events from the third year of Ken'inn (1203) during the Genji clan's decline, but even in the Sengoku period, Human Cave remained largely unchanged—still seemingly a deep hole.

By the way, near a single lateral cave passage close to the entrance that still exists today—in the vicinity of the Fuji Sect's cage huts—a female mask-maker had been living in secret seclusion at that time.

At first glance, she appeared to be twenty-eight or twenty-nine—a woman of striking beauty. Clad in pure white monastic robes, she remained secluded within Shikidō Cave under the faint glow of animal oil lamps, tirelessly wielding her chisel with a clack-clack-clack to craft masks. However, these masks being crafted were no ordinary masks, but rather things of utmost strangeness; and Tsukiko the mask-maker herself was one of the demons that infested the foothills of Mount Fuji. But that will be explained in due course. Now, it was on a certain day that... Tsukiko the mask-maker sat on her usual stone seat, concentrating divine focus into each stroke of her chisel.

And then, there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

And Tsukiko called out. “It’s me! It’s me!” “You should know my voice.”

Tsukiko thought for a moment,

“I understand,” she said quietly, and went to the door to remove the latch. “It’s been a while,” he said as he staggered in—none other than the bandit-potter.

Part Five

I

“Lady Tsukiko remains as beautiful as ever.”

While saying this, the potter sat down on a nearby round cushion. "What are you saying, so soon after arriving…" Tsukiko did not even laugh. She also sat on a round cushion and stared intently at his face. The potter squinted and said, “You mustn’t look. You mustn’t look. When you look at me, my body shrivels up... That’s not how one should look upon another’s face.” “You’ve made quite an unpleasant face... With this, I can hardly refrain from reacting.”

“…And so I came today.” “When I look upon your face, the scent of blood wafts strongly.” “I’ve surely cut down at least one person every day.” The potter smiled. That was the smile of a blood-sucking demon.

“How’s business? Thriving, I suppose?” “Thanks to you, it’s moderately thriving.” Tsukiko’s voice remained calm. “Your main trade? Or your side venture?” “The side venture.”

“It seems the world is full of fools.”

"Yes, even someone like you." "Me?" The potter's face clouded over. "For me it's unavoidable necessity." "It is indeed unavoidable necessity." The mask-maker laughed for the first time, "How pitiful." "I don't need your pity!" The potter grew sullen.

"Have you still not been able to meet them?" "I have no idea! No idea at all!" "They probably aren't in the foothills." "No, they're definitely in the foothills. At least that much I've figured out." The potter said firmly.

“What pitiful people they are.…”

She said with sudden melancholy. "What?" the potter demanded. "You call them pitiful? Those vermin?" "The two being hunted by someone as dreadful as you..." "Ban Gennojō and Sonjo? Hee hee hee hee! What pity do they deserve?!" "What's pitiable about adulterous filth?!" "The one deserving pity is me!" "Were such creatures allowed, even samurai would rot!" His voice came strangled. "You too are pitiable."

“I don’t need your pity! Though...” he said, shuffling closer on his knees, “If you would pity me...” He suddenly grabbed Tsukiko’s hand. “Oh, pity me then—pity this heart! A burning heart! A searing heart!”

However, Tsukiko did not so much as twitch. Coldly composed and still. "My love has been sealed away." Her voice carried an icy chill.

“Please release me. Shall I glare at you?” “Stop!” With that, the potter released the woman’s hand he had been holding.

“It’s too soon to be stared down like this. I want to keep my sanity a while longer.” The potter slumped his head dejectedly. “How weak you are.” “Weak?” He jerked his face upward. “In all this world, only you could reduce this potter to weakness.”

"What a weak one you are." "Yeah, I'm weak. I'm a weakling!" He slumped dejectedly again. She carved the shoulders with delicate precision.

The potter let out a sob.

The potter was crying...... Tsukiko quietly reached out her hand, took up the chisel and mallet, and with practiced skill—chip, chip, chip—carved into the half-finished mask. The pungent scent of camphor wood permeated the air; the mask material came from aged camphor. Wood chips trickling down scattered about the carving stand like snowflakes, some fluttering up like moths. The mask followed the design of the Jūni Akujō Noh mask—narrow forehead, round eyes, flattened nose, gaping mouth, white beard dangling from the chin, intricate wrinkles folded beneath the cheeks—all forming the sinister countenance of a villain who, crushed under love's burden until death, came to haunt an imperial consort; it was crafted in the image of this legendary 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 carved into the rock, the faint glow of animal oil lamps cast a dreamlike carnation-colored light that hazed the twenty-tatami-mat expanse of the cave interior in朦胧 obscurity, causing all manner of implements within—round mirrors hung on stone walls, Noh masks like Sankōjō, Ōtobide, Ko-omote, Shunkan, Ōbeshimi, Chūjō, Hannya, and Shaka strung along the same walls, and brocade curtains draped with extravagant flair over three doorways leading to adjacent chambers—to emerge dimly visible as if from a fairy tale in a land of fantasy.

The drip-drip, drip-drip sound was that of clear water flowing down from the rocks, but in a corner of the cave, stones had been stacked to contain it like a well. The lamplight reflected there was especially mystical. Chip, chip, chip—the sound of the chisel wove through the sobs, all the while continuing to emit a modest, small sound.

II The sound of choked sobs grew louder but abruptly snapped off. Then, the potter raised his face,

“Lady Tsukiko,” he pleaded, “please show me my face.” “Please show me my face.” “It’s an easy matter; I’ll show you.” Tsukiko stopped her chiseling, rose to her knees, and stood up.

“Come along, if you would.”

She swiftly turned her back, lifted the hanging cloth of an entrance upward, then tilted her body and slipped inside as though vanishing. The potter slowly stood up,

"How terrifying," he muttered, leaning against the rock wall. "...What a terrifying thing it is to see his true self."

From within came Tsukiko's calling voice.

“Come along, if you would.… What troubles you?”

"I have no choice but to go. I’ll go and see. To face my own ugly destiny head-on might indeed be necessary at times for one cursed like myself. Yes - to sharpen revenge’s edge when it threatens to dull, and quell any pity that might rise unbidden…"

“What troubles you? Come along, if you would.” “I’m coming now.”

With that, the potter swiftly opened the brocade curtain.

The cave revealed before their eyes held nothing particularly strange or mysterious. There was only an extremely narrow horizontal tunnel stretching endlessly forward—so cramped that two people could hardly walk side by side. What might be considered mysterious, however, were the two rock shelves running parallel along both stone walls, bearing countless white wooden boxes neatly arranged in rows, each measuring about one shaku square. The flame of a single candlestick cast a carnation-colored light in all directions, casting the shadows of two standing figures onto the rock wall's surface. These shadows swayed gently, likely from wind seeping in somewhere. From the far depths beyond the long tunnel—depths locked in darkness—came the faint yet distinct roar of what sounded like a great river's flow. Though distant, this murmuring sound might well have been that very river recorded in Azuma Kagami—the river said to flow through Fuji's subterranean roots that Nita Shirō once sought to chart but failed to fully explore.

“Behold.”

With that, Tsukiko took down a box from the shelf. “…………” The potter, having received it in silence, began to hesitate there again. “Let me adjust the lamp.” “There’s no need for that.”

Just as he said this, there was a flap-flap, flap-flap of wings. "They are bats."

“I see.” With that, he removed the lid. “This is your face.” “Yes.” “Yes. This was my face!” In the box he had been peering into floated a single mask. A bulging forehead, flattened nose, asymmetrical upturned eyes, lips swollen like robe hems exposing front teeth, a purple birthmark plastered across half the left cheek—a hideous human visage glared up from the box’s depths. The potter stared. He stared with devouring intensity. Sweat trickled down his forehead. A short, sharp groan escaped through his clenched teeth.

Flap-flap, flap-flap went the bats flying around the two of them. The lamp flame swayed in the wind from their wings, causing the shadows on the wall to stretch and shrink. And then came the sound of a great river. “Lady Tsukiko,” the potter said. “What a terrifying face this is!” “That is indeed a terrifying visage.” “What a repulsive face this is!” “That is indeed a repulsive visage.” “With this face, even my wife would betray me.” “Then do you consider it inevitable?”

“Of course I do. Of course I do!” “Then you mustn’t resent it.” “I will resent you to the bitter end. I won’t let you live!” “Then that would be unjustifiable.” “This hatred born of frozen years cannot be erased in a single day and night!”

The potter’s voice choked as if stifled. Tsukiko spoke with instructive clarity, “Then enlightenment shall forever elude you.” “Enlightenment? Enlightenment? Kgh, kgh, kgh!” He laughed—a sound like flesh tearing deep in his throat. “What is enlightenment?! “What meaning has enlightenment?! “Eternal samsara! “Endless cycles! “Life after life and death after death—I’ll slaughter them all!”

“What will you do at the end of all this?” “At the end of it all? “At the end of all this?” “After all, I’ll still be slaughtering people!” “You are beyond salvation. “You are beyond salvation.” “But there are people in this world far more cruel and brutal than I am!”

“Who might that be?” “The Lord of Kōketsu Castle!” “Masked Demon!” “Possessor of foul disease!” “That cannot be called human.” “...In the end, I too shall go there.” “And have my poisonous blood drained there.”

“No,” Tsukiko said solemnly. “Deign to join the Fuji Sect! “It is there that you will be saved.”

Three

However, the potter did not respond. With trembling fingertips, he lifted the lid of the box and passed it to Tsukiko. He kept staring downward, then slowly raised his head and abruptly declared: "I want to cut people down again!"

He lifted the brocade curtain and staggered into the adjacent room. "Lady Tsukiko!" he called from the next room. "Grant me the sacred water. Mend this face of mine."

Tsukiko stood before the shelf. She hung her head.

“Ah, my mask-making art is never put to proper use.”

Rumbling and roaring, the sound of the great river came from deep within the side tunnel. If you follow that great river upstream, they say you can reach the Fuji Sect. To the Fuji Sect of Universal Illumination. "Lady Tsukiko!" he called from the adjacent room. "Please give me the sacred water. "Please fix my face."

"That man was pitiable too," she thought. "A man deserving of pity. He was not a true villain. He could not yet be called a true villain." “Please fix my face,” he pleaded from beyond the brocade curtain. “Give me the sacred water. Let me sleep.” His voice grew weaker still. “Perhaps there are no true villains in this world after all...” Tsukiko reflected, her chisel hovering over unfinished camphor wood. “This humble one has secluded herself here and carved dozens—nay hundreds—of faces through every technique known, yet never has she glimpsed what might truly be called a villain’s countenance.” Her blade bit into the grain as she murmured, “A mask unlike any Bugaku grimace or Noh demon—to carve such would fulfill this humble one’s deepest wish... Yet might that wish forever elude her hands?”

Feeble sobbing sounds could be heard coming from the adjacent room.

"I wish I could see the face of Kōketsu Castle's lord just once..."

The roar of the great river, the sound of stifled sobs, and the fluttering of bats' wings intermingled as they reached her ears.

"...This wish... this obsession... this may already be karma. One cannot speak of others' affairs. This humble one too is a pitiable karmic artisan!"

The candle flame on the candlestick flickered violently, and the shadows on the wall momentarily formed the shape of a giant spider—it is said this reflected Tsukiko’s avaricious wish.

The origin of face-making art in Japan—it is said to date back to the Age of the Gods.

“...Hereupon, wishing to meet his younger sister Izanami no Mikoto, he went forth to Yomi, the Land of the Dead.” When she came forth from the Tendō Gate to greet him, Izanagi no Mikoto spoke thus: “My beloved Izanami no Mikoto, the land we created together remains unfinished. Therefore, you must return.” Izanami no Mikoto replied and said: “How regrettable! Had you not come so late, I would not have partaken of the food of Yomi.” “However, as my beloved Izanagi no Mikoto’s coming here brings dread, first I must fully consult with the gods of Yomi. Do not look upon me!” Having thus spoken, she withdrew into her palace. After waiting an interminably long time, he grew impatient. Breaking off one male pillar tooth from the Yutsutsuma comb stuck in his left temple, he lit it as a torch and entered. There he saw her body putrefied with squirming maggots: Great Thunder resided 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 the Eight Thunder Gods had come to dwell within her. Thereupon, Izanagi no Mikoto beheld this in terror and fled back. “[The rest is omitted.]”

This is a passage from the Age of the Gods chronicles, but of those eight thunder deities, it was Ōikazuchi—the one enshrined in the head—who became the originator of face-making art in Japan. Thus Kuroikazuchi, who resided in the belly, was the deity governing all abdominal matters (what we would today call an internist); Sakikazuchi, dwelling in the genitals, was none other than the deity of reproduction; and the deities inhabiting the left and right limbs were, needless to say, the deities of the hands and feet.

Four

Restoring Izanami no Mikoto—dead and decayed—to her living flesh was an exceedingly difficult task, but the Eight Thunder Gods accomplished it. Above all, the face was the most vital part of the body, yet Ōikazuchi magnificently restored that deathly visage—a face putrefied with festering flesh, swarming maggots, and dried blood—to vibrant life. Thus could he be called the originator of face-making art.

The descendants of Ōikazuchi 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 imperial court. They blended it with face-making arts that had come over from China and Korea. “From the Kingdom of Korea: sixty-eight jade pieces; one gold-and-silver-decorated tachi sword; one mirror; two bolts of Japanese brocade; one white-eyed, variegated-feather horse; two white swans; one face-making artisan; fifty bearers of ritual offerings—were presented.”

This entry conveyed the information from that time.

This was during the reign of Emperor Kinmei. Afterward, the Izumo clan served the Soga clan and received much favor, but when the Soga fell and direct imperial rule began, they were promptly stripped of their official positions as part of abolishing redundant offices. Since then, they had practiced their craft among the people as a local faction, but when the times changed and the Fujiwara clan rose to power, they abruptly became vassals of the Fujiwara, and the indecisive court nobles took pleasure in having their faces tended to. During the Genpei War between the Minamoto and Taira clans, they served the Taira and received stipends, but from this period onward they gradually declined, and even the lineage of the main Izumo clan became completely disordered and unrecognizable. When Sanetomo of the Minamoto clan—who had grown increasingly weakened after their rise—sought to adopt Kyoto's customs out of curiosity, he summoned face-making artisans as well. But when this Sanetomo met an untimely death, the artisans lost all direction, wandering through cities for the first time before turning to rural livelihoods. When it passed through the Hōjō clan and came to the Ashikaga clan, Yoshimasa alone took pleasure in this art. As recorded in Ichijō Kaneyoshi’s memoirs, he summoned the scattered face-making artisans to Kyoto and had them further beautify the lovely countenance of his beloved wife Tomiko. However, when the Ōnin War soon broke out—reducing Kyoto to such ruin that even Iio Hikoemon lamented, “How could we know our capital would become fields? Seeing skylarks rise through evening clouds here brings only falling tears”—the face-making artisans could no longer remain comfortably in Kyoto. Once again they wandered out in all directions, until finally their traces vanished entirely.

Thus began the Sengoku period.

That a face-making artisan was secretly practicing their craft alone within the caverns of Fuji’s Human Cave—who could have anticipated such a thing?

Tsukiko quietly hung the curtain and appeared in the front room.

Tōkishi clutched his head, pressed it against the ground, and wept with shoulders heaving. For a man as fierce and brutal as he was, this spectacle of him weeping appeared all the more pitiable—yet Tsukiko gave only a fleeting glance before parting the curtain hung across the far side and briskly entering the room.

This was the face-making surgery room. Dimly illuminated by animal oil candles was a surgical bed. On the rocky shelf beside the surgical bed were placed countless instruments. The so-called modern 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—along with large and small boxes filled to the brim with powdered medicines and liquid drugs, were all arranged in perfect order.

“Please come in, Master Potter.” Tsukiko called out gently.

Tōkishi would soon enter. And thus the surgery would soon be performed. That very surgery would become the most intriguing scene in this entire story.

However, the author decided to temporarily divert the story’s thread and provide a brief account of Kōsaka Gentarō—who had parted ways with the potter in Aokigahara—and his circumstances.

“Now the bird catcher has arrived!” “Are there no birds? The great birds—”

A carefree, almost foolish-sounding singing voice could be heard from the shore of Lake Motosu.

Looking around, there was Gentarō. That place was the lakeshore, where the vast waters of the lake stretched endlessly into the distance. “Haa hoi, hoi…” It was a voice that seemed to melt into the calm early autumn air. Having finished his song, Gentarō—appearing utterly carefree—fixed his darting eyes and stared intently at the lake surface, “Come to think of it, this lake’s strange through and through. There’s always haze hanging thick—can’t see t’other shore no matter what. And though there’s not a soul in sight wherever I look… sometimes you hear weepin’ or screamin’ comin’ from nowhere.” He clicked his tongue. “Eerie damn lake… Three days now since I came here. Clear skies yesterday, clear skies today—nothin’ but fine weather stretchin’ on. Yet this cursed lake alone won’t clear up. Makes no sense however you slice it.” Seeing how dense the haze rose made him reckon this whole area might be damp through. ……What’s that? “Ah—a hawk! Flyin’ off all pleased with itself.”

Five

High in the deep blue clear sky, a single hawk spread its wings and soared across Lake Motosu. A mountain rose ahead. Mount Ōgaku stood 1,600 shaku tall, cradling Lake Shōji at its base and towering into the northeastern sky. To the west, Shakagadake embraced Yasaka Pass as it continued to the peaks of Gagadake. At the border of Suruga Province stood Amegadake and Ryūgadake, but beyond the ranges of Ōmuroyama, Nagaoyama, and Tenjintōge, the sacred peak of Mount Fuji towered—a truly majestic sight.

The foothills of these mountains gathered from all directions, converging at a single point where Lake Motosu lay. East-west one ri, north-south one ri and two chō—this was Lake Motosu's expanse. A circumference of three ri and five chō marked its total span. These measurements applied to the Meiji, Taishō, and modern eras—during the Sengoku period, Lake Motosu had been far larger. Its circumference must have reached six ri. Originally, until the Jōgan era, Lake Motosu remained connected to Lake Sai and Lake Shōji as one continuous body of water. Even now, the three lakes stay linked at their depths. The proof lay in their shared water volume—identical across all three.

As a certain travelogue states—"Mount Fuji's lake district stands high and dry, with Lake Motosu reaching the loftiest elevation; its surface ceaselessly emits light as if filled with quicksilver"—the waters of Lake Motosu shimmered morning and evening with a subtle silver hue.

But even more mysterious than that was—as Gentarō had earlier suspected—the vast haze rising from what seemed to be the lake's very center. This was no ordinary haze; it resembled an infinitely long white cloth stretched across the lake's surface and hoisted high into the sky, obscuring all objects on the far shore while veiling half the heavens themselves. Then, parting through that haze, a single sailing vessel emerged.

It was an extremely antiquated vessel of unfamiliar design. Countless sails were hoisted yet all aligned horizontally. And its color was as red as blood. Three people were aboard, all wearing crimson robes. As the ship advanced, waterfowl that had been flying in flocks swarmed toward the prow all at once only to scatter like snowflakes—a sight that could be called the sole moving presence within the otherwise utterly tranquil landscape. About twenty meters from shore, the ship quietly lowered its sails. Then one person stood at the prow,

“Child, child—what are you doing?” A voice called out to Gentarō. “Huh?! You bastards! Mocking me?!”

Gentarō was indignant. “Calling me a child... “I ain’t associating with the likes of you!” And 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 if you want.” “I ain’t responding—that’s all there is to it.”

Gentarō flopped down. He lay prone 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 began whispering among themselves, but then one of them came out to the prow instead, “Lord Bird Catcher, Lord Bird Catcher.”

They rephrased their address.

Then, abruptly, Gentarō reared up like a snake and stretched upward—but “I’m the Bird Catcher. What do you want?” “Ahahahaha! How mercenary! Well, aren’t you an amusing Lord Bird Catcher... How many birds have you caught, pray tell?” “If I wanted to catch them, I could catch as many as I like. The birds around here are stupid.” “So, did you catch many birds, pray tell?” “But I didn’t catch a single one. I’d let them go right after catching them.” “Then that can’t be good for business, pray tell?”

“My business lies elsewhere.”

“Ahaha! Oh, is that so?!”

“My real job is finding people.” “Who might you be discovering, pray tell?” “He’s what you’d call my cousin…” “So your true occupation remains as Lord Bird Catcher?” “Wrong!” Gentarō turned away. “Even if I look like this, I ain’t no born-and-bred bird catcher, y’know.”

“Why, I’m sure that must be the case!” “My cousin’s a samurai.” “And might this cousin be a noble samurai lord, pray tell?” “He’s twenty years old—a fine-looking man.” “Why, I’m sure he must be a fine gentleman indeed!” “He was supposed to come to this Lake Motosu.” “Ahaha! To Lake Motosu? To Lake Motosu?” “So? Have you lot seen him by any chance?” The three boatmen gathered their heads together and started whispering among themselves. The surroundings were utterly silent.

“Ah, what nice weather. No mistake—it’s autumn.” Narrowing his eyes and lowering his brows, Gentarō gazed vacantly at the lake surface, free from thought or resentment. Diving into the water and floating upon it, suddenly taking flight and swooping back down—save for the white-winged waterfowl, nothing stirred upon the lake’s surface. Near the shore bloomed yellow waterweed flowers. The lake’s surface lay flat and thick like oil, yet was neither clear nor limpid. Its depths held infinite mysteries, its surface exuded unease, spread out in a dreary expanse.

Then, the boatman called out: — “Lord Bird Catcher, Lord Bird Catcher.”

"Hey," Gentarō looked up.

“Why, yes, we have indeed met him!”

“Oh! You met him? That samurai?” “Yes, we have indeed met him.” “So where did you spot him?” “Precisely there. Near that shore, pray tell.” “And where did he go?” “He crossed Lake Motosu to the opposite shore.” “Then I’ve no choice but to go.” “Do board the vessel.”

“Oh! You’ll let me board that vessel?” “It would be our humble pleasure.” With a creak, the ship drew near. Gentarō sat up abruptly and nimbly leapt from the shore onto the ship. The vessel rocked heavily once, then promptly raised its sails, swung its bow toward open water, and glided away as if sliding across the surface.

In the blink of an eye, their figures shrank, leaving behind a single water trail, as both ship and man melted faintly into the haze.

Part Six

1

The small boat with red sails sailed onward, carrying Kōsaka Gentarō. A gentle breeze blew across the lake. The red sails swayed and snapped loudly. Gentarō sang cheerfully. “Here comes the bird catcher…”: it was his favorite bird-catching song. The three sailors remained silent. They did not speak, like wooden statues. They only smiled from time to time. It was an unsettling smile.

When he looked back, Mount Fuji stood like a giant, its vast foothills reaching high into the sky—majestic but not imposing. It had the bearing of a noble figure, watching Gentarō intently.

“Don’t go, don’t go—come back. Danger awaits you there!” It seemed to be saying just this.

The foothill flowers swaying in the gentle breeze seemed to have brought down a rainbow from the heavens. As the ship advanced, the rainbow's colors grew faint and indistinct. When the red-sailed ship had pressed onward and vanished completely into the thick wall of water vapor, those floral rainbow hues had already faded entirely from view. The waterfowl that had been circling about the ship and following it endlessly now took the water vapor wall as their boundary, abandoned the vessel, and flew away.

The ship plowed onward relentlessly. Through the thick wall of water vapor. ...Gentarō’s body became thoroughly damp. It was the water vapor that had made him damp. No matter where one looked, thick white water vapor hung heavily in the air, making it literally impossible to see even an inch ahead. Even the figures of sailors within the same boat appeared as though they lay beyond layers of gauzy silk. Even if one tried to peer at the hazy, indistinct water, instead of the lake’s blue depths, all that could be seen was a milky opacity.

The thickness of this wall of water vapor was impossible to determine. It was a pure white expanse. It was a labyrinth where east and west were indiscernible. A ship that carelessly strayed here would likely never return. As a defensive stronghold, Kōketsu Castle was truly unparalleled. This water vapor appeared artificial. As evidence of this, the water vapor neither flowed sideways nor fell downward, but instead rose ceaselessly upward like an inverted waterfall.

The red-sailed ship sailed steadfastly onward. Veering right and left, at times wheeling completely around, it advanced briskly onward. Though invisible to the eye, its manner suggested that a fixed course had been established, and that it was advancing along that route. Suddenly, the sound of a drum came from ahead. Thud, thud-thud, thud—four beats in total—then after a pause, another four beats. It appeared to be a signal drum. In the boundless mist enveloping all directions, the resonant tones of the drum echoing through were truly mystical, but responding to them, the conch shell's call resounding from the red-sailed ship was even more so.

The thick white wall of water vapor gradually began to thin. Faintly, blue water could be glimpsed beneath the mist. The ship's speed eased, its taut red sails slackening. At that moment, a grey object emerged from the mist before their eyes—the stone walls of Kōketsu Castle. The ship proceeded slowly eastward along the stone walls. Then, from deep within the distant mist, a golden light glimmered forth. Drawing closer, they saw it was a massive brass sluice gate with an elliptical shape. As the ship approached, the gate expanded left and right. When the groan of creaking metal finally ceased, the ship had passed through. Beyond lay a wide waterway—better called a bay—likely concealing defensive structures. The bay's interior was darkness. The ship crept forward through the darkened bay. As they advanced, the bay appeared to narrow gradually. The ship proceeded slowly for a time. Then two points of firelight flared up ahead. The ship approached the flames. The bay grew ever narrower. And at its narrowest point stood a wide granite staircase.

There were people on both sides of the staircase. They held pine torches in their hands. The inlet water lapped rhythmically at the lowest stone step of the staircase, but illuminated by the pine torches' light, one could see that the entire area was adorned with moss. The staircase extended high upward with a gentle slope.

The ship pulled up alongside the staircase.

One sailor twisted his body and leapt from the ship onto the staircase. Two sailors also leapt across. Following that, Gentarō also leapt across. The two men holding pine torches proceeded to lead the way. The sound of six people’s footsteps echoed off the walls and ceiling. The walls and ceiling were constructed of stone. Bonfires burned here and there.

In this way, they had finally infiltrated the grounds of Kōketsu Castle.

It was the twentieth day of the seventh month in the first year of Eiroku, at the hour of noon.

II

At Kōketsu Castle, they referred to their prisoners as "important guests." The rooms of those important guests were lined up almost inexhaustibly on both sides of a wide, endlessly long, immaculately cleaned corridor.

One day—a brilliantly radiant afternoon about ten days after Gentarō had infiltrated Kōketsu Castle—a piercing woman’s scream came from the far end of the grand corridor, resounding through every corner of the vast fortress. The terrified guests scurried like katydids toward the horizontal rectangular windows—armored with brass lattices and opened toward the corridor—to see the source of the voice. However, they could not see the figure. It was because the corridor was far too long, and the source of the screaming voice remained at its distant end. Yet gradually, the voice drew nearer along the corridor. Eventually, the figure came into view. A nun had been placed on a wheeled cart and was being pulled toward them. She appeared to be around twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with cropped straight hair, wearing a black-dyed priest's robe and a tattered brocade kesa, clutching a crystal rosary in her hand, her feet bare. Her body was bound crosswise with leather straps and tethered to a copper pillar. A single warrior—clad in dark blue armor and wrapped in a blood-red battle surcoat, gripping a whip—accompanied the cart at its side. The ones pulling the shafts were servants. The cart advanced slowly and steadily.

The nun let out a howling scream. It was a voice like thunder.

“...Venerating and honoring one’s ancestors is by no means wrong.” “Respecting both the gentle and wild spirits is also by no means wrong.” “But that alone leaves us wanting!” “For there exists in this universe something far greater that demands reverence!” “It is none other than the Buddha! ...They divine the gods’ will through tortoise shells, build shrines for grand ceremonial vestments, shun impurity, and cherish purity.” “This is by no means wrong.” “But there remains something far greater we must do!” “It is to place our faith in the Buddha!”

With a whirring, grinding sound, the potter's wheel rotated.

“Ah, so that’s it. “Oh, that nun. “It seems that person will finally be killed.” The young man who had been peering through a window at the corridor said this and let out a small sigh.

“Oh, how pitiful—she’s half-naked.” “Her beautiful skin shows through the tattered Buddhist robe.” “How pitiful for one so young.” The voice belonged to a woman, its owner peering through another window with tear-filled eyes.

“Serves you right! It’s divine punishment! Let her be beaten all the more soundly!” A voice suddenly cursed out. The curses could be heard from the window of another room aligned with the young man’s under the eaves. “What’s a Buddha? What’s Buddhism? In short—it’s nothing but a barbarian religion! Japan has its own religion! It is the Way of the Gods dwelling within us! It is Ancient Shinto that I uphold!”—it was an old man with a white beard. Apparently, he was a Shinto priest.

“Exactly so, exactly so—you’re absolutely right.” “Let that wretch be thoroughly beaten!” “That woman slanders not just Shinto but even the teachings of Confucius and Mencius!” The one who voiced this agreement was the occupant of the neighboring room—a beardless old man.

In a harsh, intimidating voice, the nun shouted out again. “……Oh! Shinto is not a religion. It is but pitiable rites of purification. The teachings of Confucius and Mencius are mere statecraft. Together they prove insufficient to guide human hearts! Sutra of Cause and Effect! Nirvana Sutra! Buddhism alone deserves praise! ……Shameful is this world of men. Behold the depravity of this warring age—polygamy rampant, uncles wedding nieces, fathers and sons locked in strife, flesh-and-blood kin pecking at each other like birds. ……Foolishness itself becomes superstition! These foolish superstitions must be cast aside. That sacred deity enshrined at Mimuroyama—is it not said to be a horned serpent? That Yasha Daijin of Hitachi—is it not called a phallus? In Hōki and Mimasaka they worship a giant ape; in Kawachi they bow to river spirits—so it is told. These superstitions must be cast aside!”

With a whirring grind, the potter's wheel creaked along the corridor all the while. From windows here and there peered countless eyes through lattice bars—some mocking, some pitying, some raging, some scorning—whispering to one another in hushed tones.

“Poor nun...” —“They say she’ll be burned alive...” —“Having your blood drained is still better—you die peacefully, like drifting into a dream...” —“But burning alive... that’s terrifying.” “Why must she suffer such a fate?” —“It’s punishment for her preaching.—They say that nun came to this castle of her own will.” —“She schemed to use the Buddha’s power to save us here from sin.” “We don’t need saving.” —“We’re actually quite happy, I tell you.”

“Exactly, we’re happy.” “No worries about living expenses.” — “Splendid rooms, soft clothes, delicious, plentiful food... Though of course, there’s that monthly lottery where those selected get their blood drained—but with over a thousand people here and only fifty chosen each time, it’s not like you’ll get picked easily.” “It’s been five years since I came to this castle.” “This year makes four years for me.”

“I’ve been here seven years this year.” “Then again, that monk with his convictions got killed the very day he arrived, didn’t he?” —“That’s ’cause his karma was rotten.” —“Just an unlucky soul, that’s all.” “I want to tell those suckers out in the mundane world—I tell you—” “Better to come to Kōketsu Castle than live in poverty out there in the mundane world, I tell you.” “If they let us live this luxuriously for four or five years, what’s a little blood draining? I tell you.” “Exactly, exactly, that’s right.”

Three “O you who dwell in comfort, arise from your beds. O overfed women, wash your mouths. Cling to the Buddha’s mercy!”

The nun shouted out once more.

“She’s started yelling again about something.”—“But she’s quite a looker for a nun—skin like ivory.”—“Yeah, downright beautiful.”

“Escape Kōketsu Castle! Flee the demon’s den! You demon, Lord of Kōketsu Castle!” A sharp crack of the whip rang out in that instant. The attendant samurai wearing a blood-red battle surcoat struck the nun’s back with a leather whip. Creak-creak-creak-creak went the cart, and the nun continued shouting without flinching. “The teachings of Buddha are indeed worthy of praise! That is not a teaching of seclusion. It is a teaching of bold advancement and construction. It is the teaching of asceticism! The teaching of self-mastery! …I will soon be killed. I will soon be burned alive! But what I have said will linger in your ears. Please, please let them stay. I say to you all once more! Form an ascetic alliance! You all must become much thinner! You are all far too fat. You all have far too much blood. You all must become much thinner! Do not feast luxuriously.”

“Do not eat in excess.” “Become thin and expose the demon’s schemes!” “Expose the schemes of the Lord of Kōketsu Castle!”

The leather whip whirled through the dimly lit corridor. A sharp crack rang out. The whip struck the nun's bared shoulder. "Strike me down. Beat me. Beating is cultivation—yes, cultivation! Let the Pearl of Truth shine brighter! Rend my flesh! Let blood drip! May this body burn and fester in raging flames. The Buddha's mercy never ceases. Cling to Buddha! Cling to his mercy! Form an ascetic alliance! Form a hunger alliance! Through self-mastery! Through self-mastery! Reduce your blood!"

The leather whip whirled again and again through the gray space. Each time, a sharp sound rang out. Crack, crack, crack, crack. Creak—creak—creak—creak went the potter’s wheel as it rotated.

“Oh, how pitiful! “Oh, how terrifying! “There’s so much blood coming from her shoulder! “It’s swollen purple—”

From one window came the sound of a woman’s voice shouting like this. “How beautiful she is—despite being beaten and injured so much!”

“How beautiful that nun is! Truly, that nun is beautiful.” “Even though she’s being whipped so severely”—from another window came a young man’s voice saying this— “Blood flows like cords. “The color of that blood is so beautiful. “Whether her thighs, her shoulders, her chest, arms, even her face—all so terribly wounded—how can she remain so beautiful?”

“It’s because she’s crying out the truth!”—someone shouted from nowhere in particular. “It’s because she’s telling the truth!” Another voice cried out like this. There was no telling who had shouted. Yet undoubtedly it came from one of the guests in some chamber. “It’s because she’s sacrificing herself!” A voice shouting these words could also be heard. “Filthy nun. Strike her down!” There were those who shouted opposition too. “Beat her! Beat her! Beat her down!”

“Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Beautiful!” “Filthy woman!” “Filthy woman!” “Beat her! Beat her! “Beat her down!”

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

The cacophony of voices bursting from the windows reverberated off the high ceilings, floorboards, and walls of each room, forming a dreadful roar, yet piercing through that din, the nun’s cries and the creaking of the cart gradually faded into the distance. They retreated down the corridor toward the north. The end of the corridor formed a T-shape with two branches extending, but the potter’s wheel cart carrying the nun turned east at the intersection. The screams abruptly grew faint, but they did not vanish entirely.

“...Escape from Kōketsu Castle.” “...Oh, at least in spirit!” The sound of whips could be heard. And the creaking of the cart as well. “...Transcend material desires. “...Hunger Alliance... Chastity Alliance.” “Cling to compassion... To the Buddha’s compassion...” But soon that voice too grew distant and faded away, and once again, silence returned to the long, wide corridor. The faces at the windows also pulled back inside, and even their murmuring voices became inaudible.

Four

The room was very 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 incense smoke rising from the burner swayed left and right. A sharp, stinging odor! It was the smell of incense, yet it filled the room completely. The smell was that which the lord of Kōketsu Castle—afflicted with a dreadful disease—used to block the foul odor emanating from his own body, an odor that induced vomiting.

The room was the castle lord’s sitting room.

In the center of the room, facing the sea, the Lord of Kōketsu Castle sat. He wore an armor robe made of Kōketsu cloth but was not wearing his armor.

His face was turned toward the sea. However, it was not his true face. It was a lead-colored mask.

The moon hung in the sky. It was a pale midnight moon. From the half-opened balcony door, moonlight streamed into the room with the wind. The room held not a single candlestick. As for light, there was only moonlight.

From behind the lead-colored mask came the Lord of Kōketsu Castle's voice. It was an expressionless voice. It was expressionless like a mask. The cruelty of that expressionless voice! But there was little need for further explanation. "It must be about the time when the late-night temple bell tolls. "It's when happy people sleep soundly... What about you—aren't you sleepy?"

He seemed to be speaking to someone. A reply came immediately. “No, I am not sleepy at all. Not at all—I am not sleepy in the slightest. Strangely enough, tonight my eyes seem to be growing keener by the moment.”

The owner of the voice was a woman. She was a young, beautiful woman. She had deliberately settled herself into a corner where the moonlight did not reach, which was why her figure had remained unseen until now. “Aren’t you sleepy? “Oh, I see.” “But you’ll grow sleepy soon enough. …Yet tonight your demeanor is terribly excited and restless.” “It’s as if you’re waiting for a lover.” “There’s no need to turn your face away.” “Please show me that beautiful face of yours. …Hmm, your eyes look well-formed.” “You have the exact gaze of an adulteress.” “Hmm, your lips are also well-formed.” “Your lips are the very image of an adulteress’s.”

“Please forgive me.” “Oh please—I implore you not to utter such terrible words.” “It pains me even to hear them.” “…This humble one begs leave to withdraw to her bedchamber.”

The woman rose gracefully. From her neck down to the area around her shoulders was bathed in moonlight. The slender shape of her neck was delicately beautiful. Her disheveled hair formed swirling locks that cascaded over her left shoulder, trembling as the faint breeze toyed with them. “You must not leave. “You must not leave.” “Didn’t you say you weren’t sleepy?” “That’s right—standing like that, the way you’re looking at me is the very model of an adulteress.” “Your chest is heaving violently now.” “Your legs are trembling now.” “Your breathing seems labored too.” “You find me terrifying. …Wait!” “Where do you think you’re going⁉”

“I beg your pardon.” “There is something strange about tonight.” “I cannot calmly endure hearing such a contemptuous term as ‘you’.” “One does not use such words with those they love.”

“Forgive me.” “I was wrong.” “Using such rough language was indeed my mistake.” “Then I’ll take it back.” “You mustn’t be angry.” “You mustn’t be angry... Come now, sit here.” “So let’s have an amusing conversation.”

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 trembled all over. And then she tried to say something.

“Now, now—don’t say anything. If I’ve offended you, forgive me. I sometimes say strange things. This is probably because I lack common sense. No, no—this is because of illness. …What do you think of me?” “What do you mean by that?” “Do you think I’m cute? Or do you think I’m hateful?” “There is no need for me to say it. You are my dear one.” “Me? Cute? Really? What part of me is cute?” he said mockingly.

Suddenly, the castle lord extended his hand. He thrust both hands forward. They resembled two poles of untreated wood—from wrists to fingertips swathed in white cloth without a single gap. Bandages meant to hide skin putrefied by disease. “Ah, are these hands cute too?” “The Chūjō mask I always wear—this wooden Noh mask that neither weeps nor laughs—and my face beneath it!” “Is this face cute too?”

As he spoke, he thrust his face forward. The mask was leaden in color. This came from its aged white now tinged with a faint yellow. Faint, indistinct splayed eyebrows resembling the character for "eight"; desolate wrinkles beneath the brows; slightly drooping fish-shaped eyes; at each eye's center sat a pupil with a bored-through hole. Through those holes peered a crimson glow like burning charcoal—the ever-fevered eyes of Kōketsu Castle’s lord, afflicted by his dreadful disease. The Chūjō mask—with its slightly flared yet still shapely straight nose, a mouth revealing half-parted teeth, a thin mustache beneath the nose, and gaunt, desolate cheeks—maintained serenity and even elegance, yet this only rendered it all the more terrifying. And profoundly unnatural.

“To me, my lord has always appeared dear,” the castle lord’s beloved concubine managed to say, trembling all the while. “Suihō,” the castle lord sneered, “and do I still appear cute tonight?”

“Yes, that is so.” “No, no—I should be hateful tonight. “Well now, Suihō—isn’t that so?” The castle lord laughed from his shoulders.

Five

“If you say so, then tonight of all nights, you seem hateful to me. It’s because you’re speaking in such an unusually rough manner.” “I think not. That cannot be. You should hate me for another reason. Ah—there are times when you seem to me far more lovely than gold or jewels, and times when I find you so detestable that even cutting you down would leave me unsatisfied. When you act so feigning ignorance, trying to deceive me as you are now—I want to kill you…… Enough. Don’t say anything. There’s no need for excuses. Even if you did make them, I wouldn’t listen. ……You sometimes play the koto late at night in your room—I wouldn’t call that a good habit. ……Suihō—you tried to play that koto again tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yes… No… Ah, my lord!” “‘No,’ you say? ‘My Lord,’ you say?” “No, no—you must have been trying to sneakily play the koto with that man behind my back.” However, despite it being so late at night, I suddenly summoned you to this room. “So, you should hate me.” “Who is this man you speak of?” “The page commander Shikibu—the one you’re always so close with, and who therefore displeases me.”

“Oh, Lord Shikibu! “Lord Kinugawa Shikibu!”

“That man is beautiful.” “As beautiful as an adulterer.” “His silk-like eyes gaze through every woman’s garments, fixated solely on what lies beneath their breasts.” “His mouth—like a ripe pomegranate, crimson and glutinous—speaks nothing but obscenities.” “And that, it seems, is precisely what women find appealing.” “No, no—that’s not true.” “I detest him!” “Kinugawa Shikibu!” “Ugh, I can’t stand this!” “I detest him!”

“Oh, you detest him?” “Heh, heh, heh, heh. Is that so?” “Yet women are creatures prone to spouting lies.” “They go so far as to declare hatred for what they love most.” “Then sneak off to toy with those very things they claim to despise.” “……But hate him if you will.” “The time will come when all becomes clear—naturally.”

The masked castle lord stood up. Then he began walking sluggishly. It was a thoroughly laborious gait. “Suihō, follow me. Then we’ll go to your room.”

When he opened the door, there lay a corridor. The corridor stretched straight ahead. No matter where one looked, there was no sign of life. Bonfires burned on both sides. Only when passing before the fires did the tall gaunt castle lord's shadow cast upon the opposite wall. Then his mask turned blood-red, glimmering like flame. Yet once they moved beyond, the lieutenant general's mask grew leaden again, and the shadow figure disappeared from view.

Suihō followed behind the castle lord. Her body froze in terror. She looked about to collapse forward at any moment. Her wide-open eyes stared at the floor, not attempting a single blink. She seemed to have forgotten to blink. She clasped both hands over her chest, gripping them desperately. She was screaming inwardly. Ah, I will be punished! Just like the people before were punished! I won't live to see tomorrow's dawn. I will be punished as the twentieth, the thirtieth, the thirty-seventh! Ah, no—it might be the hundredth. No, no—the two hundredth, the three hundredth! 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. The door opened inward without a sound, revealing an opulent women's chamber.

A koto was propped up in the tokonoma. “Suihō, play the koto. Let me hear it too. Play that song—the one that man likes.” The castle lord issued the command while standing. “Now play the koto quickly!”

The woman was silently trembling. She suddenly collapsed onto the floor.

“There’s no need to tremble. You’ll just play a little.”—The castle lord took out the koto. He pushed it before her. “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, she touched her finger to the strings. A low hum—a lonely sound—resonated.

“It’s around the hour when the midnight bell tolls.” “It’s always when that man comes… Now play.” “Keep playing without pause.”

"This place is hell! There is no God. Call out or scream—there’s no salvation."

The woman muttered under her breath. She emitted one lonely sound after another, playing the koto piece with crystalline clarity. “...Ah, that is the prelude, isn’t it?” said the masked castle lord coldly. “By the time you play this prelude, that man should always be outside the room, near the garden. And so, he must have come again tonight...”

The koto's melody transformed abruptly. It produced a sound akin to lamentation. “...By the time you play this melody, that man would always be standing under the window in the next room.” “Therefore, that man must be standing under the window tonight too.”

Six The melody transformed once more into a sound akin to sobbing.

“...Suihō, you must be seeing the man’s figure vividly now. "In pale green hunting attire with a tall eboshi hat, wearing a slender tachi slung at his back, he must always have a single poppy flower pinned near his chest." "And then, that flower must be transferred from the man’s chest to the woman’s hair." "And by dawn, that flower must have listlessly withered and fallen between the pillows they shared."

The koto's melody grew gradually lower, as though about to fade away.

“Now, that is the final melody. By now, the man must have crossed through the window and entered that adjacent room. Exactly—to your bedroom!”

At that moment, from the bedroom directly ahead, a death scream was heard.

Suihō stopped playing the koto. The partitioning sliding door opened from the other side, and a large man appeared. In his hand was a large hatchet. Fresh blood dripped from the blade’s edge. On the blood-dripping floor lay a man. He was dead, his chest gouged out.

“Oh!” Suihō cried out. She tried to stand up, but her legs apparently would not obey. As soon as she crawled closer on her knees and hands, she tightly embraced the corpse. “He should be wearing pale green hunting attire.” The castle lord said coldly and expressionlessly, “He should have a poppy flower pinned to his chest. That is your lover.” “Lord Shikibu! Lord Shikibu! Lord Shikibu!” Suihō called out frantically. “The pitiful man came here lured by the sound you played. The one who struck the blow was Manbee. I was the one who ordered the killing. However, you too bear guilt. Your sin is the heaviest. Because you drew the man to his death.”

Suihō abruptly leapt up. She lunged at the castle lord. The instant her hand touched him, she swiftly lifted with one hand the lieutenant general's mask covering his face. Suihō's face and the castle lord's visage came directly face to face.

A scream suddenly rang out. It was a shrill scream. It had come from Suihō’s mouth. Suihō covered her eyes with both hands. But it was too late. Those who saw Medusa’s face had to die immediately as they were. “Manbee,” the castle lord said in an expressionless voice, “transport these two corpses.” “Take them to the underground factory.” “Make me a jacket with cloth dyed in these guys’ blood.”

Bong, the bell began to toll. It was none other than the midnight bell.

That night, in a section of the castle, a nun was burned at the stake. It is said she continued screaming until life itself departed—choked by smoke, scorched by flames. “...Burn me with fire, lash me with whips—compared to the Lotus-Colored Bhikkhuni whom Devadatta despised, whose skull was split and filled with lead, my martyrdom scarcely bears mentioning. “Measured against the Venerable Maudgalyayana, assailed by Dharma’s foes on Ishigiri Mountain and slain through stoning, my martyrdom counts as nothing. “I thank you all. “The whips you wield to strike me—they are the Other-Power guiding me to nirvana! “I thank you all. “The pine-torch flames that scorch this humble form—they are the very fuse igniting passage to Ultimate Reality! “O people, cast off desire! “For desire births the wheel of reincarnation. “Behold truth! “Contemplate rightly! “Shatter and escape samsara’s cycle! “Then—only then—shall salvation find you. “...O Buddha! As an arhat, I have now completed my task! “Henceforth I come to Your embrace—as woman, as tender fragile female. “Ah—my eyes see no more. “These orbs are burned to ruin—yet Your form I see clear: compassion perfected, mercy made whole.”

When the flames roared up and completely engulfed her, her screams were said to have ceased. And when the flames had died away, her charred body stood stark against the black night sky, or so it was told.

Kōketsu Castle lay silent in the deep of night; if one listened closely, from underground came a sound like something groaning. The sound of a blood-wringing machine endlessly devouring human blood. To produce exquisitely beautiful cloth—Kōketsu cloth—the machines are kept turning without pause, day and night.

Part Seven

One

“Quit screwin’ around! Quit screwin’ around!” With his trademark sanpaku eyes glinting, Kōsaka Gentarō shouted. “This ain’t what we agreed on! Yeah, this ain’t the deal! What the hell are you gonna do about this?! What the hell are you gonna do about this?!” “Hmm, I don’t believe our agreement has changed. However, as for myself, I’m afraid I cannot offer any greeting whatsoever.” In a soft, silken tone, the young man deflected.

It was a room in Kōketsu Castle.

“No way—it’s completely different! This is a huge pain for me!” “Now now, please be patient.” “Nuh-uh! I can’t do it! Not a step further! Hey, hurry up and do somethin’ about this!”

“So, what would you have me do?” “Let me meet my cousin.” “What manner of person might that be?” “Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu.” “Ah, Lord Tsuchiya? Lord Shōsaburō, you say?” “Yeah, that’s right. Hurry up and let me meet him!” “Hmm, I wonder if he’s within the castle?”

"He should be here. He should be here—that's what they said when bringing me here!" "So who told you that?" "The boatmen. Three of them. Boatmen wearing red robes." "And when was this about?" "Ten days back. No—twelve days now. Right, right. Twelve days prior."

“Where did you meet him?” “You sure ask a lot of questions... It was on the shore of Lake Motosu.” “Lake Motosu, I tell you—” “And which shore of Lake Motosu was that?” “Damn annoying! “Damn you!” “Quit yappin’ and let me see him!”

However, the young man continued to grin slyly, his tone as soft and silken as ever. “Now now, please be patient.” “Patience is paramount here.” “Especially here in this castle.” “What kinda damn castle is this?!” “You damn fool! What kinda castle is this?!” “Everyone in this castle’s a kidnapper!”

Gentarō unleashed his venomous tongue. “If you ain’t gonna let me meet him, then get me outta this castle!” “I’m afraid that simply isn’t possible.” “What d’ya mean you can’t? Why can’t you?!”

“You see, this is Kōketsu Castle.” “What’s that got to do with Kōketsu Castle?”

“You see, this is Kōketsu Castle.” “So what? What’s your damn point?” “Once captured, we never release anyone.”

"But I'll get out and show you!" "That would be reckless." "I'll definitely break out and prove it!" "The castle's exterior is a lake." "There must be boats. There should be boats." "You couldn't possibly steal a boat." "But I'll steal one and show you! When it comes to stealing, I'm a damn genius!" "Even if you stole a boat, the lake's defenses would remain unbreached."

“What defenses?” “What the hell are ‘defenses’?” “It is the mist that soars to the heavens.” “What do you mean it ‘soars to the heavens’?” “What’s with these damn fancy words?” “I’ll break through that worthless mist and show you!” “Because that’s impossible for you.” “No, it is possible.” “I’ll prove it’s possible!” “Yes, many before you have claimed it was possible—some even tried, but—” “What’s the matter? They all succeeded, didn’t they?” “However, you see, the opposite is the case.”

“Hmph, every last one of those fools must’ve been idiots.” “They were quite intelligent individuals.”

“If they’d been smart, they should’ve succeeded.” “They were rather too clever for their own good, you see.” “Too much is as bad as too little, they say. After all, those fools were idiots through and through.” “They rather overdid that courage business, you see.”

“How’d they end up cowering like that?” “One gentleman stole a boat and successfully rowed out onto the lake. However, on the eighth day, the boat alone returned. He was blown back by the mist, you see.” “So, wasn’t the man there?” “No, he was there, but reduced to nothing but skin and bones and quite cold, I must say.” “Hmm, why’d he die?”

“He starved to death, I suppose.”

“Starving to death seems a bit strange, don’t you think?” “There’s nothing strange about it. Unable to escape the mist, they went eight days without food or water, leaving them utterly disoriented.” “What happened to the rest of them?” “They met with much the same fate, you see.” “So they all starved to death?” “One gentleman passed away from shock.”

Two “What do you mean ‘died of shock’? What the hell is ‘death from shock’?” Gentarō frowned slightly. His sanpaku eyes clouded over, wrinkles forming between his brows. "In other words, he died while unconscious—so it would seem." "He must have seen something truly dreadful, I should think." “So it happened within the mist after all?” “Whether by fortune or misfortune, that gentleman failed to steal a boat.” “He apparently wandered through the castle in confusion before slipping into a basement room.” “There, he must have encountered something truly dreadful indeed.”

“What exactly is in the basement?” “Well now, what could possibly be there?”

The young man let out another silken-soft laugh, but— "I truly haven't the faintest idea—" "You lie!" "That's impossible!" "A castle dweller ignorant of its layout—such absurdity cannot exist." "You must know." "Rambling on and on..."

“No, that area falls under a different jurisdiction, so I couldn’t possibly know about it.” “In other words, my duty is to serve as an attendant to our guests—particularly to ensure new arrivals are treated properly. That is my role here.” “Well now, quite the attendant you are.” “A real panic-inducing attendant bastard.” “So you really ain’t gonna talk?!” “Oh dear, no no.” “You really are quite violent, aren’t you?” “Even though you’re still just a child, you resort to brute force at every turn.” “And that brute strength of yours is formidable indeed.” “It truly poses quite a challenge for Companion Head Anamizu Koshirō.”

“Course it is.” “Goes without sayin’.” “Ain’t built like no ordinary kid.” “Don’t go misjudgin’ me now.” “…Hey—’bout that—what’s that look like to your eyes?”

While speaking, Gentarō raised his hand and pointed at the room's wall. A treasured birdlime pole stood propped there. "Why, yes—it appears to be a birdlime pole." "Does it just look like a birdlime pole to you?" "There's no other way to see it." "When I wield it, it becomes a spear." Gentarō began boasting. "If you think it's a lie, then see for yourself!" He strode briskly toward the wall and snatched up the birdlime pole. Stepping sharply to the room's center, he squared himself before Koshirō and delivered swift thrusts—swish—swish—. The needle-sharp tip whirled violently before Koshirō's eyes, expanding and contracting at will—when the spirals grew large, Koshirō's chest heaved in tandem, his breath quickening in ragged gasps. Like a man gazing into an abyss from some precipice—lured by its depths yet knowing it meant destruction—he felt compelled to hurl himself into those whirling spear-tip vortices.

Step by step, Koshirō walked forward. The spiral gradually grew larger. It reached the ceiling, reached the walls; through Koshirō’s eyes, the spiral now filled the entire room—and there, deep within its vortex, a face materialized. Gaping mouth, bulging eyes, puffed cheeks, flared nostrils—a prankster’s visage with gleaming sanpaku eyes that could only belong to Gentarō. Soon, the spirals at the spear’s tip began shrinking steadily. With each contraction, Koshirō found himself driven backward. His chest constricted sharply; he gasped—hah...hah...hah...hah—but these were not breaths of exertion—they were the panicked rasps of a cornered animal.

“Hey bastard, had enough?!” Gentarō’s impish face abruptly turned menacing at that moment— “A bird! A bird! A great big bird!” “Assuming you’re a big bird, let me pierce through those wings with my Kōsaka-style birdlime spear!” “Here I come—your chest!” “This time it’s your gut—that potbelly of yours!” “La-la-la-la! Big bird! Big bird!” He pressed forward, shouting. Koshirō was drenched in sweat from head to toe, droplets steadily falling from his forehead, upturned eyes fixed in a rigid stare, arms hanging limp at his sides as he retreated step by step.

“Well? Will you talk? Or do you refuse?!” “What exactly’s in the basement?” “Hey! Hey, Boss! Why ain’t you sayin’ anything?!” “If you don’t wanna talk, I’ll stab you dead!” “Hmph—I’ll skewer you with one thrust.” “Think this is a joke? You’re wrong.” “We don’t do jokes.” “If I say kill, I kill.” “So steel your guts—talk or refuse? Say it clear!” “…Hah! Damn—so you won’t talk!” “Sittin’ quiet like some golden Buddha!” “Like muteness makes you special!” “Fine! If that’s your game—here’s another scare!” “Hyah!”

With a sharp battle cry, he thrust forward the pole he’d been gripping in a pulling motion, swift as the wind. A chill wind struck Koshirō’s cheek as he stood entranced, but at the same moment, a thud resounded.

“Keh keh keh keh! How’s that, bastard?! You call this an impregnable fortress?! Behold the spear technique that proves otherwise! Hey! Take a look behind you!”

Three When Koshirō turned to look as instructed, there it was—the heavily fortified oak wall, five inches thick, pierced clean through by the tip of that supple bamboo birdlime pole. “Well now, my good sir! When this humble one wields it, this pole becomes a proper spear indeed! Keh keh keh keh! Feast your eyes on this!” “If you still won’t talk even after this, then this time it’s your gut.” “A skewering thrust? An eight-point stab? Or perhaps a diamond-spear gouge? Shall I demonstrate whichever you prefer?” “Well, Boss? Yes or no?!”

He pulled the pole close, twisted it around, and thumped the butt end against the floor. Then he thrust his face forward, opened his sanpaku eyes wide, and stuck out his long tongue between his teeth—an expression blending intimidation and mockery. Koshirō let out ragged breaths—haah... haah...—and crumpled to his knees on the floor. Even had someone walked ten ri, they might not have reached such exhaustion—or so it appeared. “I will tell you,” he finally managed to say. “I will tell you.”

“So you’ll talk, huh? That’s the spirit.” “Well... what would you have me begin with?”

“The basement’s secret. What else would there be?” “Now, regarding that basement… It is a dreadful place.” “First—how large is this basement?” “Yes, it is quite large.” “What exactly is inside there?” “There are factories.” “What factories? What sort of factories?!” “You see—it’s no simple matter.” “Hmph—you think threats would startle me? …Tell me what kind of factories they are.”

“There are several factories.”

“Then start from the beginning and tell me.” “First is the waterwheel factory.” “What’s this? Some damn waterwheel hut?” Gentarō was somewhat disappointed, but

“What’s so damn important about that?!” “But you see, sir—this is by no means an ordinary waterwheel.” “Hmph, like I’d understand any of that.” “It serves as the power source for everything within Kōketsu Castle.” “Who would actually do such a thing?” “Whether you believe it or not is beside the point. I have merely stated things exactly as they are.” “The power source for everything in the castle? You’re making some grand claims there. But we still can’t quite grasp the meaning clearly.”

“It concerns the Mist you’re familiar with—it is that waterwheel which maintains it in such a manner.” “Hmm, so that Mist is artificially created?” “It is the work of the waterwheel.” “So, is the waterwheel big?” “Approximately ten ken in diameter.”

“Ten ken in diameter? “Hmm, I see.” “Right, that’s pretty damn big.” “Of course there’s only one waterwheel, isn’t there?”

“No, there are approximately twenty.” “What, twenty?! Really?” “The castle is square-shaped.” “It is said that five are installed on each side.” “How does the waterwheel turn, anyway?” “The lake water is channeled down.” “So you’re channeling the lake water down?” “Where on earth are these waterwheels located?” “Deep, deep beneath the lake’s depths—in the very depths beneath the depths, so I have heard.”

“That’s how it has to be.”

“It is said that the force of the falling water causes the Mist to rise.” “It’s plunging down with tremendous force, then?” “Because it plunges down with tremendous force.”

“What else is there in the basement?”

“There is a pitch-dark factory.” “What’s there?” “Countless pulleys that are always groaning, countless gears that are always meshing, and hundreds of leather straps that are always ceaselessly moving.” “What the hell is that room anyway?” “It is a pitch-dark factory. ...However, they say blue sparks sometimes fly about—crackle crackle crackle crackle.” “...Darkness and groans and blue sparks!” “It is precisely such a factory.” “...In other words, it’s a factory that distributes power.”

“So, what else is there then?”

"There is a weaving factory."

“Oh, I see. This one’s interesting.” “Clack-clack, clack-clack—morning, evening, day and night, a great many young women are weaving at their looms, you see.” “I’ve really taken a liking to this one!” Gentarō grinned wryly, “There must be some real beauties among them, eh?” “Why, you—there certainly are!” “Damn, I’ve really taken a shine to this! ...By the way, what are they weaving?” “It is white plain silk.”

IV

“So there’s still more?”

“Yes, you—there certainly are!”

“Go on, tell me—what kind of factory is it?” “There is a dyeing factory.” “Ah, so you’re dyeing the white silk then.” “Yes, that is correct.” “Pretty little things these dyehouses are.” “Beautiful indeed they are.” “Don’t you dye them different colors?” “No sir—that we do not.” “Not that? Then what’s it for?” “We dye them only one color.” “No imagination at all—just one color!” “Imagination there certainly isn’t.”

“What color do you dye it?” “Into a blazing crimson color.” “So it’s dyed the color of blood, then.” “Yes yes, that is correct.” “So you’re using suō dye or something like that?”

Then Koshirō laughed, but "Yes, that is indeed correct."

"Well now, that's an odd way to laugh, isn't it?" Gentarō readjusted his birdlime pole.

“What’s so damn funny?” “There’s nothing amusing. I haven’t laughed at all.” “No, you laughed. You definitely laughed. Quit messing around, quit messing around! You trying to make me blind? Look here—both these eyes of mine see just fine. You’re dead wrong if you think they’re hollow. Now spit it out—what were you laughing at?” He thumped the floor with his spear’s butt. “Or if you keep standing there clammed up, I’ll give you another taste of the Kōsaka-style birdlime pole spear. And this time it’ll be proper. I’ll skewer your gut and spin you round like a windmill.”

He snapped into a mid-level stance.

Koshirō abruptly jumped up but then plopped back down onto the floor, “Yes, I laughed. I did laugh... You... are rather difficult to handle. Please spare me the spear. ...No—it’s simply too horrible to look at... Yes, I did laugh.”

“What was so funny that you laughed?” “...Well, yes—because you mentioned suō.” “You said suō—why is that funny?” “The dye is not suō.” “Is that really so funny?” “Because you know nothing about it.”

“Then what the hell do you dye it with?” “It is the blood of living creatures.”

“Hmm,” said Gentarō, though he shuddered involuntarily. “Dog’s blood? Horse’s blood?” “Human blood, sir.” “Shut up! Idiot! Stop spouting nonsense!” “Human blood, sir.”

“So where do you bring it from?”

“We keep them within the castle.” “What?! You’re ‘keeping’ humans?” “They are our guests.” “‘Guests,’ you say?! “Then I’m a ‘guest’ too.” “Yes, precisely.” “Then will you drain my blood too?” Gentarō shuddered involuntarily. “Hey! Are you gonna drain my blood too?!” “Yes, in time, that will come to pass.”

“Hmph, so you’re gonna drain my blood too, huh?” “If such a fate should arrive, then.” “Are you out of your damn mind?” “I beg your forgiveness.” “Then this place is hell.” “Kōketsu Castle, sir.” “Hell! Hell! This place is hell!” “However, one might also call it paradise.” “It’s the Blood Pool Hell! You’re a jailer of hell!”

“Sweet foods, beautiful garments, a life free from hardship—here lies paradise.” “Help me! Help me!”

“I cannot save you, sir. “There have been no cases of anyone being saved.”

“Help me! Help me! Lord Koshirō! Please help me!”

Gentarō suddenly knelt in formal seiza.

“I am a jailer.”

Unhurriedly, Koshirō stood up. “Jailers do not have tears.” “When am I going to be killed?”

“At the moment you’re chosen by the lottery.” “When’s that? When’s the lottery drawn?” “Precisely tonight, sir.” “Tonight?”

As he shouted this, Gentarō fixed his eyes as if in a trance.

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

“Only two *koku*. Only two *koku*. Only two *koku*.” “I cannot say it will certainly be drawn.” “No, it will be drawn. I feel like it’s going to be me.” “You should pray. To the gods and Buddhas.” “What’s the proof it was drawn? What’s the mark?” “A skull is drawn on the paper.” “And if it wasn’t chosen?”

“There’s nothing written.”

Five “So if I draw a blank paper, I get to live?” “It extends further, sir.”

“So if you draw a skull, you get killed?” “For you shall enter eternal silence.” “Only two koku. Only two koku.” “There is no escaping it.” “Lord Koshirō! Please help me!” “I must bid you farewell.” “You idiot!”

At these words, Gentarō leapt up like a swallow. Gripping the pole, he assumed a slanting stance and swept Koshirō’s legs sideways. Koshirō, caught off guard, fell onto the floor with a thud and was firmly pinned down using the butt end of the pole. “Heh, how about that? Surprised?” However, Koshirō did not struggle and grinned while being pinned down. “I must protest such rough treatment. And what do you intend to do with me?” “I’m sorry, but you’re being confined. You’re not leaving this room.”

“You confine me, and then what?” “Then I’ll torture you.” “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.” “So that means I’ll die, then?”

“Yeah, that’s right—before me.” “Then please kill me at once.” “There’s no need to rush. You have two *koku*.” “You have two *koku*.” “An interruption will come soon.” “An interruption?” “What sort of interruption?” “It appears I’ve overstayed my welcome in your room.” “So what?” “What’s that matter?” “What purpose could I possibly have had in coming here?” “Plain as day—same as always. You came to bring dinner, didn’t you?”

“That would be correct. Therefore, it’s not permitted.” “Hmph, say whatever you like.”

“As per Kōketsu Castle’s regulations, there are temporal restrictions.” “What restrictions?” “Eh? What’s that?” “The allotted time for conversing with our esteemed guests.” “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It seems I have stayed in your room a bit too long.” “So what? What does that matter?”

“My comrades will come searching.” “That’s a lie. Don’t lie.” “I would never lie. The reason I say this is that among our guests, there are those who—exactly like you—mistreat us good and kind attendants. They try to extract the castle’s secrets, force us to reveal escape routes outside the walls, and torment us for various other reasons. As one measure to prevent that, there are time restrictions. First—at most a quarter of an hour. This is the absolute limit. When that limit is exceeded, they will assume some abnormality has occurred and conduct a search. ...And while I’ve been explaining all this, my comrades may arrive. Now, when they come to this room and find me pitifully taken prisoner—oh, what a predicament this will be. In that case, there will be no lottery or formalities—you will be immediately taken underground and turned into dye.”

“Fine. Yeah, that’s fine too. If I’m going to be killed anyway, better to get it over quick. And there’s another amusing thing—when those bastards come crawling in, all tattered wrecks, I’ll skewer ’em one by one with my birdlime spear. Build a mountain of corpses. Take ’em all straight to hell with me.” “How remarkably spirited of you. Do you truly believe you can build a mountain of corpses?” “Don’t fret—I’ll build it.” “At best, you might manage two.”

“Not just two—whether twenty, thirty, or even a hundred come—I’ll slaughter them all.”

"What remarkable courage you possess. However, against such warriors, the castle has made corresponding preparations, I assure you." "You insufferable pest! Be silent awhile!"

Pressing the spearhead against Koshirō’s throat, Gentarō steadily applied force. “Ah… I can’t breathe.” “I can’t endure this… You’ll regret this soon enough.” “This is unbearable… Ah… I can’t breathe… Footsteps… I can hear them approaching.” “They’re my comrades… You’re tightening it… tightening it!” “Ah… I can’t breathe.” “I can’t endure this.” ……So you’re finally going to kill me. “You little brat!” “You damn brat!”

The room gradually grew dark. Night crept in. A groan sounded. Koshirō ceased breathing. However, he was not dead. He was temporarily deprived of breath.

Six

Just then, there was someone knocking on the room's door.

“Well now... They actually came.”

Gentarō strained his ears, pressed his body tightly against the wall, and listened for signs in the corridor.

The knocking sound finally ceased. An oppressive silence fell. Gentarō edged toward the doorway. He aligned himself parallel to the entrance and pressed flush against the wall. His eyes locked intently on the threshold, poised to meet whatever enemy emerged. A creak echoed. One panel of the double doors appeared to shift slightly. Silence reclaimed dominion. Time stretched taut. Then the faintly visible door before Gentarō's eyes began creeping open. From the gap emerged a shadowy half-figure. Gentarō's hands lashed forward like lightning - a swift pull - a shrill "Ah!" pierced the air as the shadowy form staggered inward and crumpled face-first to the floor.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” A voice called out, and another shadowy figure emerged. Gentarō’s hand lashed forward. When he yanked it back, the same scene repeated itself. The figure staggered into the room and pitched face-first onto the floor. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud. There came the clatter of a bar being dropped into place, then footsteps racing down the corridor. After that, only silence remained.

Even Gentarō froze for a moment. He bent down, stretched out his hand, and touched the two corpses. One had his throat pierced; the other had his chest pierced through.

Just took care of two jailer mutts. I've got nothing to feel guilty about. After muttering coldly thus, he wiped the spear shaft with the corpse's sleeve. Blood dripped from the tip of the spear, making a faint sound. A pungent, metallic stench stabbed at his nostrils. The air hung stagnant; the room felt feverish. Now, what should I do next? Gentarō hurriedly pondered. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing but waiting here. They'll undoubtedly come attacking in full force. I'll just stab every last one of them to death.

He strained his ears and kept watch on the corridor.

At that moment, footsteps could be heard approaching. However, it was not the sound of many footsteps. 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 are you dawdling for?" He drew his birdlime spear close, his eyes glinting in the darkness, and stood ready for the door to open. It was quiet outside the room. The whispering voices had ceased. Yet there was an undeniable sense of human presence. Suddenly, an odd crackling sound reached his ears. "Oh? What could that sound be?" For a moment, Gentarō was stunned into deliberation. Crackle, crackle—the sound kept coming from the corridor.

A mist-like substance began seeping into the room from nowhere. It was not mist but smoke. Along with it, Gentarō's chest gradually tightened. His limbs were steadily growing numb. "Ah, damn—poison fumes!"

Gentarō collapsed limply onto the floor. "Damn you! Damn you! Cowardly bastards! Trying to smoke me out like some raccoon or fox with poison gas. Ah—my head spins. Everything sways. Mom! Mom! Mom!"

In the darkness before his eyes, blue flames danced and flickered. Gradually, he weakened. 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 massive axe. After sweeping his gaze across the room, he turned toward the entrance,

“It worked… Come in.”

In response to the voice, three men appeared from the doorway. “Alright, time to dispose of the corpses. Two comrades, one guest, and three bundles of dye—that’s the tally.” “Is Koshirō going to be okay?” One of the men whispered.

“He’ll probably come back to life.”

There, the three men carried the corpses and headed out into the corridor. After that, Manbei followed. The four of them advanced in silence down the long corridor. Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor. There was a sturdy plank wall there. Manbei’s hand touched it. Then, a gaping jet-black mouth opened there. A staircase leading to the courtyard became visible from within the darkness. The four of them silently descended the staircase. When they reached the bottom, they paused to rest. Then they crossed the courtyard and walked toward the lakeshore. It was a starless, pitch-black night. A lantern’s light dimly lit the darkness ahead as it came into view.

There stood a single building. Constructed to guard the first descent of the grand staircase leading to the basement, this building now received four corpse-bearing figures who solemnly entered. A staircase three ken wide—constructed from massive stacked boulders—spiraled downward into the depths of the hell of incessant suffering. The four descended step by step into its coiled darkness. As they went deeper, sounds welled up from below— The clatter of pulleys, The grind of interlocking gears, The groaning chorus of leather straps whipping past each other. All these noises became enveloped by a thunderous roar beyond description—a sound both magnificent and oppressive—that could only be the great waterfall driving the waterwheel's endless rotation.

The four of them continued silently descending the grand staircase.

Part 8

I

Sixteen years had passed since that time.

That is, in the summer of Tenbun 11, a young samurai arrived at the ravines in the foothills of Mount Fuji.

He had beautiful features and a refined appearance; though considerably emaciated, he still bore a noble countenance that suggested he was a young lord raised in an upper-class household.

Unable to endure the torment of his forbidden love, he had come here 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, but in reality, it was not entirely so. The young samurai and the maiden had been in love since childhood, and both they themselves and everyone around them believed they would eventually marry. However, the young samurai’s biological elder brother had unjustly seized it—here lay the first step of the tragedy.

The maiden, being of gentle disposition, swiftly submitted to her fate. The young samurai too—with his mild temperament, religious inclinations, and literary sensibilities, possessing a spirit far too refined for a warrior of the Warring States period—likewise submitted to his fate. Thus did the maiden fulfill her wifely duties with chaste devotion to her husband, while the young samurai discharged his fraternal obligations with unwavering loyalty to his elder brother, both striving to pass their days in tranquility. Yet this amounted to nothing more than an utterly unnatural "fantasy."

This deformed triangular relationship could not possibly continue peacefully. The more he tried not to love her, the more his feelings redoubled in strength—the young samurai found himself in love with his sister-in-law. The sister-in-law felt the same. Their stifling affair was soon detected by the elder brother. That the elder brother abused his wife and obstructed his younger brother had to be acknowledged as inevitable.

Eventually, the woman gave birth to a child. Of course, the child was the husband’s seed.

However, from the husband’s perspective, the child seemed suspicious. It seemed to him like his younger brother’s seed. This was truly an incomparable agony for him—this was a pain all parents should share. From then on, he tormented his wife and younger brother in every matter. As the child gradually grew older—and the more adorable they became—this agony only intensified, forcing him to torment them ever more severely. ——This was the second step toward tragedy.

Thus, when the child reached six years of age—in the full bloom of their adorable years—the final tragedy arrived. The brothers attempted to duel. As a general rule in such cases, the one with stronger moral integrity is almost always fated to lose. It would be better to die than fight his brother... With this thought, the young samurai abruptly left home.

He was fond of Mount Fuji. A noble figure of perfect harmony and radiant clarity! That was the majestic form of Mount Fuji. Even dogs, even birds—when about to breathe their last—unfailingly seek a place to die. The distance from Kōfu to the foothills was not great. So when the young samurai left home, he wandered to the foothills of Mount Fuji. Now upon reaching the foothills, he searched all around for a place to die.

At that moment, a capricious summer rain came down with thunder. Even at the brink of death, getting drenched was hardly a pleasant experience. He tried to avoid the rain and hurriedly scanned his surroundings. And there, at one spot along the base of the rock, was a small crevice just large enough for a single person to barely fit into.

And so, without any particular thought, he hurriedly concealed himself there—a subtle act of divine providence that would redirect his fate onto an entirely different path. To his genuine surprise, the crevice was not as small as it appeared but extended remarkably deep within.

Driven by a sudden curiosity, he ventured steadily deeper inside. As he proceeded, the rock crevice gradually widened in a flaring manner, and neither the walls on either side nor the ceiling attempted to touch his body any longer. And what was truly strange was that light seemed to be streaming in from somewhere, filling the entire cavern with a faint twilight as pale as firefly light.

And so, 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 without visible bounds, illuminated only by a pale, boundless light that permeated everything.

In the distant reaches of this otherworldly realm, what shone like silver foil must have been the spread-out waters of the lake.

There were hills here and there, rivers, strange rocks and boulders lying fallen, and moss growing all over.

Silent and devoid of any human presence, with neither houses nor chickens nor dogs. —It was a vast and boundless land of death. However, when viewed dispassionately, it was nothing more than a single enormous cavern. In other words, it was a natural cavern of divine craftsmanship—one hewn through the bedrock at the base of Mount Fuji over several ri.

II

Yet where on earth did this pale azure light come from—this radiance that illuminated the vast cavern more brightly than a moonlit night yet more dimly than twilight? It does not come from any particular place. It was the light emitted by countless billions upon billions of bioluminescent creatures dwelling within the cavern. Struck with awe, the young samurai stood blankly for a time, but soon began wandering through the "cavern realm" as though sleepwalking. And then, he came before a massive boulder. When he looked casually, an iron door was embedded in one spot of the boulder.

He reached out and touched it. Over the long years, even the sturdy lock had corroded, and when he touched it, the door opened. Behind the door was a shrine niche. Inside the shrine niche was a person. Wearing a hood and traveling robes, shod in iron-soled clogs with a single tooth, and gripping a staff in one hand—that figure was a noble old man, but he was not alive. It was none other than a human mummy. Countless sutras were piled high around his knees. When the young samurai picked up the topmost sutra scroll placed there, he unconsciously opened it.

"Upon a dais sits a golden Peacock King, above which rests a white lotus"—so was recorded at the very beginning of the scroll, for it was the Mantra of the Peacock King Sutra.

"What a mysterious figure! Who could this be?" Muttering thus, the young samurai peered further into the shrine niche.

At that moment, what unexpectedly caught his eye were the characters carved into the rock wall.

I am the Upāsaka of This Duty, Though my physical body lies buried here, The soul shall pervade the cosmos, He who shall discover this a thousand years hence, shall be the apostle of our teachings, The characters were clearly read as follows.

"Ah! So this venerable one was En no Ozunu! It is recorded that he journeyed to the land of Han in the first year of Emperor Monmu's Taihō era—but it appears he later returned to this land and entered eternal meditation here." As he came to this realization, the young samurai was struck by astonishment while simultaneously feeling reverence welling up spontaneously within his heart. "'He who shall discover this a thousand years hence shall be the apostle of our teachings'—so it is carved here, but already a thousand years have passed." "And the one who discovered it is none other than I." "Could it be that I am the prophesied apostle of these teachings?"

As he continued to think in this way, he was utterly shocked.

And so he shouted. “I refuse to die! I will become an apostle!”

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

At that time, a great ascetic of divine radiance—one whom many in the world came to call Kōmyō Ubasoku—descended from the foothills of Mount Fuji into the secular realm. Holding aloft the three doctrines of “Repentance,” “Endurance,” and “Bodily Mortification,” he embarked on a missionary journey.

Thus, during those five years, Kōmyō Ubasoku made missionary circuits throughout every corner of Japan. And when the fifth autumn arrived and he returned to the foothills of Mount Fuji, the Fuji Sect—recorded as having one thousand followers—was established.

And then, when six more years had swiftly passed, Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu infiltrated this sect.

The Fuji Sect’s sacred realm was divided into two parts: “Inside the Cave” and “Outside the Cave.” “Inside the Cave” was a divine realm, and “Outside the Cave” was the human world.

The center of the human world was "the Hill."

“The Hill” had been annotated as sixty ken in height and half a ri in circumference, though in truth it measured smaller. “The Hill” was also known as the “Sacred Altar,” adorned with multiple shrine structures. The “Sacred Altar” had originally been a rocky mountain. Through immense labor, they had flattened its summit to erect a shrine there—even now its periphery remained paved with stones. A fusion of nature and artifice—this defined the “Sacred Altar.” At its heart stood an edifice of supreme grandeur housing the principal icon of the Peacock King. Yet the inner sanctum lay dimly lit, perpetually veiled by incense smoke that rendered worship impossible. Only faintly discernible were brass-hued ritual implements, an altar-draped brocade cloth, and several shrine maidens moving ceaselessly about. To this building’s left rose a stone statue. Its pedestal exceeded one jō in height; the figure atop it towered over four jō. This depicted En no Ozunu— hooded and robed in ascetic garb, wearing tall wooden clogs, leaning on his khakkhara staff, with Zenki and Goki—the twin mountain deities—kneeling at his feet. Yet multitudes of believers gazing upon this noble effigy would proclaim in chorus: “Though En no Ozunu he be, Kōmyō Ubasoku he also is.”

Three

This was because the statue’s face bore a striking resemblance to Kōmyō Ubasoku. To call it an ascetic seemed inappropriate—its face looked far too sorrowful. En no Ozunu, as the incarnation of will and a symbol of the superhuman, had to possess a countenance of fierce demon-subduing. Yet the face of this stone statue here showed not even a shadow of such qualities. All that could be seen was sorrow. And painful repentance. Many believers revered this stone statue as the embodiment of both En no Ozunu and Kōmyō Ubasoku.

The monks’ lodgings were located southwest of this stone statue. Fire ritual altars, purification grounds, confession chambers, countless small places of worship, and innumerable stone shrines were densely built throughout the vast precincts, leaving no space unfilled.

Surrounding this divine "Sacred Altar" and extending in all directions was the town where the believers lived. Five hundred houses stood in orderly rows, their roofs aligned and eaves connected—a sight no different from any ordinary town.

It was truly peaceful. Even if one tried to listen for voices arguing or shouting, such sounds could not be heard in this town. A main thoroughfare ran through the town, extending all the way to the base of the Sacred Altar, but even the cattle and horses walking there—dogs and chickens too—remained tranquil. A river flowed along the road, and summer grasses were in bloom along its banks. Houses selling Buddhist statues, shops dealing in incense and floral offerings, and various other shops lined the street, but no gaudy colors could be seen.

People were walking along the thoroughfare. The houses were teeming with people. And yet it was utterly silent and quiet. And yet over a thousand people lived and thrived here. Love, marriage, jealousy, competition—it could not be said these were entirely absent. Yet in this town, those things were conducted with refined grace. Every four hours, the temple bell could be heard coming from the bell tower of the "Sacred Altar". At that time, the people pressed their hands together in prayer.

On the fields and hills at the edge of town stood numerous tents. They were temporary dwellings where people who had recently arrived in this area and still had no homes were living.

In one of those tents lived Tsuchiya Shōsaburō. That Shōsaburō—who had slipped away from Kōfu to search for his parents and uncle—now appeared to have forgotten those very relatives while living here in this manner might at first glance seem contradictory, but in reality, it was not at all.

He was still searching for his parents and uncle.

However, this sect suited him profoundly. First, the believers were kind. Second, everything about the sect was mysterious and intriguing. Third, to him, the sect's leader—the upāsaka called Kōmyō—did not feel like a stranger.

He liked the sect.

While he thought this, he still did not try to leave the sect and passed his days one by one. However, when Shōsaburō learned that even this peaceful sect had a fearsome enemy constantly threatening its people, his heart was shaken.

That day he was inside the tent, lost in contemplation. Suddenly from the town's direction came the sound of people shouting. When he rushed out in surprise, he found the usually quiet thoroughfare now as chaotic as a fire scene, crowded with people running every which way.

“This is strange,” Shōsaburō muttered as he hurried forward. What astonished him upon reaching the town was the complete absence of women and children. The doors of every house were locked.

And so only sturdy young men—each grasping bows and arrows in their hands, armoring themselves with arm guards and shin guards—ran wildly through the streets while turning their faces skyward again and again, shouting in unison like this.

“They’re here! They’re here! The Blood-Sucking Demons!” “The Masked Castle Lord’s underlings!” “Guard the women and children!” “Quickly now—get inside and hide!” “They’ve come! They’ve come—the Blood-Sucking Demons!” “The Brass Castle’s lackeys!” As one they drew their bows, arrows hissing through the air like angry serpents.

IV Finally startled, Shōsaburō looked up at the sky. And then, for the first time, he understood the truth.

In the sky, Mount Fuji towered. On one part of the mountain's rocky ridges, innumerable mounted warriors were swarming. And from there, arrows came flying. That seemed to be an invading army from somewhere.

They gradually drew nearer. As they drew close enough to see clearly, each and every one of them was uniformly clad in blood-red surcoats. "Oh! Are those blood-stained death shrouds?" The instant Shōsaburō involuntarily shouted, a thunderous war cry erupted.

From the mountain toward the town, the invading army descended. From an exchange of arrows at a distance, it had turned into close combat. Shouts, curses, screams, groans, the clashing of swords, the clanging of blades, and roaring war cries—all enveloped the town in an instant.

The invading force was estimated at just over two hundred strong, but since every soldier wore full armor and rode swift horses, their ferocious momentum far surpassed that of the sect's people. Moreover, they always operated in pairs without exception. Two would attack a single foe. Their tactics appeared focused more on capturing opponents than killing them. Now, two invaders whipped their powerful steeds into a charge and swooped down with a whoosh. Cornering a panicked young believer between their horses, they reached out from their saddles and snatched him up in an instant. Though paralyzed by terror, the believer still writhed to break free—yet within mere moments, he went utterly limp. He had been completely taken captive.

Five, ten, twenty—before their very eyes, the believers fell prey to the invading army. And so, gradually, the believers were driven into alley after alley.

Now, twenty horsemen of the invading army charged into a narrow alleyway, their crimson cloths billowing like waves. Then shouts and screams erupted, followed by the ear-splitting clangor of fierce swordplay, but when the sound of hooves rang out again and the group of twenty crimson-clad horsemen emerged from the alley's mouth, they were holding ten prisoners. The midday sun blazed. A fierce wind blew mightily. Mount Fuji and the surrounding mountains stood serenely around the sect, and nature showed no change at all.

Yet in the world below, countless people were killing each other, taking from each other, jostling chaotically. Sand and dust rising like clouds; flowers along the riverbank trampled underfoot; horses and cattle on the brink of death—everything here, each and every thing, had been mercilessly destroyed. “This was no peaceful utopia.” “Here too was but the transient world.”

Jostled and tossed by the fleeing crowd, Shōsaburō found himself beneath the sacred altar before he knew it, but within his heart he muttered thus.

"In any era, in any land, as long as breathing humans dwell, conflict is something unavoidable. …Conflict! ...Bloodshed! And then death. That's right—humans never know when they'll die!"

Having come to think this way, Shōsaburō now could not help but realize his own obtuseness.

"Let me get out, I must get out of here. I should have had a purpose. I must search for my parents and uncle." However, he could not get out. The crowd engulfed him. The invading army attacked. It seemed a house was burning somewhere, for thick smoke came swirling in. Shōsaburō was pushed by the human wave and eventually came upon the sacred altar. Already here were hundreds of believers who had taken refuge. They were all crying out.

“Peacock King! Peacock King!” “Save us! Save us!” It was a gruesome prayer. It was a prayer unique to the believers—one that maintained faith in god even amidst such circumstances. The voices of prayer coalesced into a single mass and resounded from the hill toward the town. In that town, even now, human hunting was still being conducted. However, when eventually the sound of battle drums echoing from Mount Fuji’s ridges had completely ceased, the human hunting also came to an end.

The invading army had withdrawn. Peace had returned to the sect.

The believers joyfully repaired what had been destroyed. The demons' destruction was temporary, but God's restoration would be eternal. Thus comforting one another as they attended to their respective duties—Shōsaburō, who had resolved to leave the sect, found his determination wavering anew when he saw the believers' demeanor.

Five

The night had deepened solemnly. Stars were shining in the sky. However, the moon had not yet risen.

At that moment, a figure appeared before the stone statue. It was a monk with hair. He wore a traveling robe. He held a rosary in his hand. Yet his feet were bare.

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

At this moment, a young man came from the foot of the Sacred Altar. After lightly stepping on each of the long stone steps and eventually climbing them all, he approached the stone statue. When he saw the monk with hair praying, the young man abruptly stopped in his tracks. The young man seemed to have been drawn by the monk’s intensely fervent manner of prayer. "...I am a weak one. "I am a pitiful fool." “Please—by your great spiritual power—transform this humble me into a strong person.” “Make me into a wise person.” "...And cast away these ugly, lustful desires from my breast... Even now, I remain lost.” “Even now, I burn with torment.” "...Wicked love!” “Forbidden love!” “Yet still I wander lost.” “...I beg your salvation.”

From within the prayers of the monk with hair, such words could be discerned.

The young man was listening intently.

The night was dark, the surroundings silent, with no trace of human presence apart from the two of them. When he finished his long, fervent prayer, the monk with hair stood up. Only then did he seem to notice someone beside him. Yet without any show of surprise, he offered a courteous "Pardon me" and began walking toward the descent path.

Just then, the young man called out to stop him. “Please wait a moment.” “Yes, how may I be of service?” “Seeing that you are a member of this sect, I have a request to make.” “If it is within my power to do so, I shall be of service however I can.” The monk with hair turned back.

“It is nothing of consequence. If you would but show me kindness, it could be done immediately. ……Please, I humbly ask that you allow me to leave this land.” Then the monk fell silent and observed the young man’s demeanor, but— “It is an easy matter. Please depart at once.”

“But I cannot leave.” “There must be a way.” “But I cannot leave.” “There are no guards at the checkpoint.”

"But I cannot leave." “How curious.” The monk tilted his head slightly but,

“Then what exactly is keeping you here?” “Yes, it is the sect. How should I put this... The mysterious and sacred power possessed by this sect has taken hold of me and will not release me.”

“Ah,” said the monk upon hearing this, as if he had finally understood, “Then please remain.”

“I have a purpose.” “A purpose that must be fulfilled.” “…And to achieve that, I must leave this place.”

“Then please depart.” “What am I to do about this mysterious force that has seized me and won’t let go?”

The monk with hair did not respond. “It is a mystery to me. “I do not understand the reason. “This mystery, this solemnity—from what do they arise? “Could they be coming from those countless imposing halls? “Could they be coming from the fantastical scenery of ‘Inside the Cave’?” Yet the monk did not respond.

“I did not come here intentionally. I arrived purely by chance. I unintentionally wandered off the path and found myself here.”

“It is precisely because of fate that you have come here. “Please make your life here.”

The monk said solemnly for the first time.

However, the young man did not yield.

“I cannot live here. “I absolutely must leave. “……However, before I leave, there is something I wish to confirm.” “What is it you wish to ascertain?” “Yes, the source of the mystery.” “The source of the mystery? “That is repentance!” The monk once again declared solemnly. It was an admonishing voice.

Chapter Nine

One

Killing living beings is the greatest of sins. Fish and birds go without saying, but 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 made of cotton, its raw material must be cotton. Cotton is the flower of the cotton plant. Flowers have life. Thus, by killing that life, cotton cloth is made.

If the birth garment is silk cloth, then the raw material of the silk cloth is silk thread, and the foundation of the silk thread is the silkworm. That is to say, silk thread and silk cloth are made by killing silkworms.

When an infant grew into a child, they regularly consumed grains, fish, and birds. These things possessed life. Without cutting off these lives, one could not live even a single day. For humans to live was to take the lives of other things. When one became a boy and took walks, With each step they took, dozens of small insects and hundreds of thin blades of grass had their lives taken. They were trampled and killed. Moreover, they hunted in rivers and took the lives of many fish. When they played in the fields, they killed snakes; when they walked in the mountains, they killed cicadas. And thus they became adults. Then they fought and killed people. Then they quarreled and killed people. Humans killed one another.

From the moment of birth until death, whether unconsciously or consciously, the number of lives a single human being takes must be said to be immense. But what exactly is life?

That which flows and changes toward fulfillment—this is precisely life.

And thus, life took "the individual" as its foothold. It took one person, one beast, one fish, one tree, one blade of grass, one insect... these things as its foothold. Even mountains, rivers, stones, earth, the sun, moon, stars, wind, rain, frost, and snow that appeared inanimate in fact all possessed life. That was to say, all phenomena in the universe possessed life in its entirety. To rephrase this further, the universe was "the true form of life," and all phenomena were its manifestations. "The life of the individual was connected to the true form of life, and the true form of life was connected to the life of the individual." Therefore, they could be said to be two yet one and one yet two. Thus when a single human committed a sin, it not only defiled the life of the "individual" but also tainted the "true form of life" itself. It was thus a twofold sin.

Let us provisionally name the "true form of life" as the "great life," and conversely designate individual lives as the "small life." Now as this "great life" progresses through endless cycles of flux toward eternal fulfillment—ceaselessly evolving and developing—the "small life" too shall freely advance according to its own nature, influencing the "great life" and thereby hastening its fulfillment. When will this fulfillment be achieved? One might call it eternally unattainable, yet equally claim it achievable this very instant. "Should the 'small life' live righteously and escape all sin," fulfillment would indeed come immediately. But this proves impossible. For the 'small life' ceaselessly sins—humans take lives from their first breath. Does this mean humanity can never escape sin? No escape exists. Yet some measure of purification remains possible...

“It is none other than repentance.” The long-haired monk said this and stared intently at Shōsaburō. The belated moon had yet to rise, leaving the Sacred Altar faintly dark. A soft breeze swept through the surroundings. It was the gentle wind that comes before moonrise. The sweet fragrance of withered flowers and incense offered to Buddha mingled with the breeze and drifted over. Somewhere, a small bird cried out. Enveloped in dense groves, it must have been sleeping peacefully until startled awake by sudden human voices that shattered its dreams. When one listened carefully, sutra-chanting voices could be heard from indeterminate directions. They were likely the fervent invocations of ascetics practicing austerities in rocky crevices, beneath trees, among thorns, and within thickets. Looking around, fires glowed here and there, piercing through the midnight darkness. These were lamps offered to the various Buddhas enshrined throughout the Sacred Altar, their flames stretching and shrinking as they flickered in the gentle wind.

The autumn night sky was black and crystalline, stars sown across it without number. A solitary giant stood cleaving this firmament with stark definition. It was a statue of Yakushi's Ubasoku - though neither face nor form could be discerned, its majestic silhouette alone sufficed to guide beholders' hearts toward reverence and awaken within them bodhicitta's aspiration.

At the foot of the Sacred Altar, beneath their gaze, the houses of sect followers stood clustered in dark masses. No human voices could be heard, nor any light escaped; there remained only sleep and peace. The Sacred Altar and dwellings—towering protectively over them rose the 12,000-shaku Mount Fuji, though now even that colossus lay sleeping. Growing ever more august in slumber and increasingly beautiful enveloped in night's veil, its form loomed directly before the Sacred Altar. The mysterious realm within Mount Fuji's depths! Likely it too slept.

As if urging "Sleep, sleep," the gentle night wind still blew. But the small bird ceased its song. It must have returned to its nest and slept.

II

The long-haired monk's story was a marvel to Shōsaburō. "Humans are born sinners," "great life," "small life." Indeed, these explanations were entirely new to him. Of course, he could not fully comprehend all these meanings. About seventy percent remained beyond his grasp. Yet despite this, the monk's tale struck him as truth. An abyss of limitless great truth! That was precisely why it couldn't be understood immediately—he even found himself thinking in such terms.

Moreover, he found the long-haired monk's manner of storytelling quite agreeable. When dealing with laypeople, most monks tend to speak in an overbearing manner. Yet this monk was not so. He spoke with humility and quietness. It carried not the air of instruction, but rather of dialogue. He neither grew agitated nor intensified his tone, remaining placid as water. Yet despite this, the compelling force behind his words was inexpressibly potent. He uttered scarcely anything superfluous. He spoke only essentials. It was as though a single pure flute note rang through with perfect pitch amidst a cacophony of noise. Listening in silence, Shōsaburō even felt a pang of melancholy.

"This person does not seem to be an ordinary person."

As he listened, Shōsaburō found himself seized by reverence. Then he respectfully inquired. "And by 'repentance,' you mean...?"

Then the monk explained. “Repentance means acknowledging one’s own sins and offering apologies.”

“To whom should one apologize?” “For example, to something larger than oneself.” “And who would that be?” “For example, to something smaller than oneself.” “And who would that be?”

“For practical purposes here, we have established that one repents to Yakushi’s Ubasoku.” “If one repents in that way, is it that their sins will be cleansed?” “That’s correct—in any case, to some extent…” Then the monk began to speak. As long as humans live in this world—whether consciously or unconsciously—they must inevitably commit sins. This is unavoidable. However, through repentance, only conscious sins can be absolved. Even this alone is a blessing. Then what happens when you die? Death is by no means extinction. It is the temporary return of “small life” to “great life.” And thus, in truth, the “great life” transmigrates so that it may fulfill its purpose. And in the course of this transmigration, it gives birth to and nurtures “small life” twice, thrice—nay, infinitely. Death is merely a phenomenon. Death cannot atone for sins.

……

“Now I would ask you something,” the long-haired monk said to Shōsaburō. “Does it not strike you as strange—these distinctions between humans and beasts, mountains and rivers, plants and trees within our vast cosmos?”

“Yes, I do find it strange.” Shōsaburō replied frankly. “It is through the degree of life’s activity that such distinctions arise.” “By ‘the degree of activity,’ you mean…?” “Things in which life is highly active—those are what we call living beings.” “Things in which life is slightly active—those are what we call non-living beings.” “And thus, among living beings, humans are particularly those in which life’s activity is most pronounced.” “Therefore, they commit the most sins.”

The long-haired monk’s words were imbued with unassailable confidence. “Therefore, more than anything else, humans must repent—by carrying thorns upon one’s back, by walking on a single leg, by staring directly at the solar disc; by this arduous manner of walking—ten steps forward and eight back, twenty steps forward and nineteen back—and through various other austerities; by inflicting punishment upon their mortal flesh to awaken penitence within themselves… Even persecution by the Brass Castle’s followers may, when viewed through this lens, be endured as one such mortification of the flesh.”

Gradually, the long-haired monk’s voice began to take on a sorrowful tone. It was a voice that could be called choked, and could also be called imploring. Yet because of this, he did not appear weak. Rather, he seemed a brave figure who took upon himself all human sins and wept for everyone. “Who in the world is this person?” Once again, Shōsaburō repeated this question in his heart. The western edge of the sky began to tinge with orange. The moon was about to rise. When the gradually ascending moonlight cast a pale bluish-white glow upon the stone statue of Yakushi Ubasoku’s face, Shōsaburō looked up and gazed.

"Oh?" He blurted out involuntarily. It was because the countenance of this stone statue—said to closely resemble that of Kōmyō Ubasoku, the leader of this sect—and that of the long-haired monk were eerily alike.

"Ah—then isn't this person Kōmyō Ubasoku?" Startled, Shōsaburō tried to peer more intently at the long-haired monk standing before him.

III

With that, he lowered his head and began walking toward the stairs. Moonlight struck his shoulders, casting a long shadow upon the ground. The long-haired monk descended the stairs. His figure was a truly lonely sight. He looked like a criminal.

The moon cast a pale bluish-white light over the sect’s towns. Kōmyō Ubasoku wandered through those towns like a shadow. A soul-piercing infant’s wail drifted out from one of the houses. The Ubasoku who had stopped quietly knocked on the window with his finger. “Child, child—did you have a dream? The night is deep—hush now.” “The night is deep—hush now.” He whispered as if muttering. Then the infant stopped crying.

From one of the houses came the sounds of a man and woman arguing. Again the Ubasoku knocked on the window. "You who are wed—cease your quarreling." At once the dispute ended.

When he left the town, it was a wilderness.

Kōmyō Ubasoku began to run. It seemed less like running and more like dancing. Something like a white cloud, translucent in the moonlight, danced over thickets and shrubs at tremendous speed—it seemed more apt to describe it thus. However, this was certainly no sorcery. The long years of ascetic practices he had endured as a practitioner must have lightened his body and granted him mastery over swift-running techniques.

The rough fields at the base of Mount Fuji were drenched in heavy dew. Insects chirred among the grasses. And the autumn grasses were in bloom. Parting the grass and scattering dew, Kōmyō Ubasoku ran on. He ran past Kagatagahara where Naoe Kurando's manor stood. He ran past the Human Cave where Tsukiko, the beautiful mask-maker lived, swift as wind. Eventually he reached Lake Motosu's shore. The lake still slept in approaching dawn's deep slumber. Occasional wing-flaps among shore reeds must have been a drowsy water rail. Though wind roared fiercely, the lake's surface lay unrippled, cradling the moon in one spot where purple haze rose and hung thick. And there stood that familiar mist barrier towering high into sky.

It was within that mist barrier that Kōketsu Castle lay. And it was in a chamber of that castle that the masked lord of Kōketsu Castle dwelled. “Elder Brother!”

And suddenly, Kōmyō Ubasoku called out toward the lake. “Is it that you still harbor hatred for me? Unfortunate one, unfortunate one!” It was a strange voice. A jumble of hatred and compassion—a voice of wrath and grief. And that voice—loud and high-pitched—carried across the water, pierced through the mist barrier, and seemed poised to reach Kōketsu Castle. However, no reply came. Only the tree spirits had answered.

“Elder Brother, you are a coward. “You always time your raids for when I’m away. “There should be no grudge against the sect. “To hate believers is unjust. “Yet you kill believers and destroy our order. “Elder Brother—you are a coward!”

Kōmyō Ubasoku kept shouting.

“Elder Brother—no! No, you masked demon!” “Bearer of the Affliction, Lord of Kōketsu Castle!” “I will hate you!” “You alone I cannot forgive!” “Be cursed!” “Be punished!”

Gradually, that voice weakened. "But... but... Oh, Elder Brother!" "I most certainly understand!" "Your hatred toward me, your wrath toward that person—I most certainly understand them!" "On top of that, you have leprosy!" "The infinite resentment toward that—it has congealed, and you curse everything in this human world!" "I most certainly understand! However, that is in the past." "It can’t be undone anymore." "Please forget it." "And so I beseech you to join hands with us." "And so, shall we not achieve liberation while the three of us hold hands?" "We are all unfortunate." "We are all weak." "The weak must join hands with their fellow weak."

His shouts turned into pleas, then into supplications, and finally into sobs. “Just as you have your reasons, I too have mine. You were the one who took my lover first. However, even this is an irrevocable matter from the past. Repeating past events 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... To unify life through repentance! This is the urgent task... I long to see you. Please, do meet me. Ah, but you do not try to meet me. That is why I come here, kneel in the lakeshore grass, and call out toward the lake. You dwell far away. My voice will not reach you. Even so, my feelings 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 grass, his hands still pressed together in prayer. A star flew by, trailing a blue tail.

At that moment, someone rustled through the grass, their presence drawing near.

Hazily illuminated by the moonlight, a man appeared. He was a dazed-looking man wearing a hood and juttoku robe. The man stealthily—like a beast stalking its prey—approached Kōmyō Ubasoku. When he stared down at the white-robed ascetic lying collapsed below, even in the darkness of night, the fierce gleam in his eyes could be seen.

“Shall I slash, or should I stab?”

A hand gripped the sword's hilt. He shuddered violently, but vitality instantly suffused his entire body. The blade left its sheath - from tip to guard it gleamed white in the moonlight like an icy rod - but... "Ascetic!"

he called out once. As he was rising up, the man attempted to decapitate him with a single stroke.

Kōmyō Ubasoku did not move.

“Get up!”

he called out again. But the ubasoku did not get up. “Hah!” With his third shout—as the sword tip swung down in a swift arc toward the ubasoku’s shoulder—it was suddenly arrested midair. “How strange. “I can’t cut you down.”

At that moment, the Ubasoku stood up.

And so, the violent murderer and the saint faced each other.

On the deathly still plateau of night, insects sang mindlessly. The cool dawn wind blew through the space between them.

And then, the Ubasoku said slowly.

“Who are you? What business do you have?” “You should at least have heard the name—I am the Third Station Potter.”

“I have long heard the rumors.” “Ah… So you’re the potter.” “Who are you?” “State your name!”

“People in the world call me Kōmyō Ubasoku.”

Hearing this, the potter involuntarily took a step back. And then he looked intently at his opponent, but— “That cannot be. That’s impossible!” “Why?” Kōmyō Ubasoku smiled. “Because it differs so greatly from my expectations... A man of Kōmyō Ubasoku’s stature would never kneel weeping on the ground.” “Anyone would cry if they’re sad.” “If you are Kōmyō Ubasoku, you should be far more of a warrior than this.”

“Then am I not a warrior?” “If you are Kōmyō Ubasoku, you should be far more imposing in appearance and stature.” “Do I truly appear so wretched?” “You are like a stray dog. You look like a roadside beggar.” “You’re right—that rings true.” “There’s not a shred of a saint’s dignity in you.” “Why would I be a saint?” “You look like a jail prisoner.” “Indeed, I am a sinner.” “You’re like grass in the shadow of a great tree. You’re like a person who never sees the light of day.”

“In fact, that is exactly what I am. “I am always being pressed down by some vast, overwhelming force.” “Among all people I’ve ever met, there’s never been another as pitiful as you.”

“I am the most pitiful among all human beings.”

“How strange!”

And suddenly, the potter leaped up and let out a piercing scream.

“You’re so pitiful, yet I can’t bring myself to cut you down!” “I wonder why?” asked the Ubasoku. “Why is that? I can’t understand! I just can’t bring myself to cut you down!”

“Why is that?” he asked again.

The potter did not answer. Suddenly throwing down his sword, he collapsed to the ground in a sitting position.

“Now I understand! Venerable Kōmyō Ubasoku!” Those hands were clasped in prayer.

“Stand up,” the Ubasoku said gently. “When one comes to acknowledge the existence of a great life, a person becomes infinitely weak. “When that weakness reaches its utmost limit, true strength comes. “I am not a saint or 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 replied feebly, “it’s because I cannot bear it. “It is out of necessity.”

“So you assert this arises from ‘necessity in living on’?”

Five

“Yes, that is indeed the case. There is a demon in my heart that incites me and compels me to kill people.” “What if you resisted its incitement?”

“On the contrary, I would be killed. “Yes—it’s because that demon in my heart would devour me. “I would bring about my own destruction.”

“However, even if you kill people, your heart will find no rest.” “Only… in that instant when I see blood…” “There may be moments when your heart finds rest. But soon it will double, and anxiety should assail you.” “Then I’ll kill people again.”

“Then immediately it will quadruple, and anxiety should assail you.” “Then I’ll hunt for prey again.” “Blood exacts vengeance through eternal reincarnation!” “Then I’ll hunt for prey again! Then I’ll hunt for prey again! Then I’ll hunt for prey again! Then I’ll hunt… then I’ll hunt… Hell! Hell!” “The Blood Pool Hell!” “Avīci Hell! “Avīci Hell! You’ll never rise from it!” “Please save me! “Please save me!”

“Do you find it terrifying? Do you find it terrifying?”

“Dreadfully terrifying! Ah, how terrifying!” “Repentance!” the Ubasoku said pityingly. “There is no other path.”

“Repentance?”

“Repentance?” repeated the potter. And then he remained silent for what felt like an eternity.

The stars gradually lost their light, and the edge of the sky grew slightly pale. But the autumn night had not yet ended. Insects sang as though raining down. The fragrance of wildflowers blooming profusely filled the entire field. Mount Fuji towered behind. Lake Motosu spread out ahead. Both were pitch-black, enveloped in the veil of night.

A derisive chuckle suddenly escaped from the potter's mouth. He stood up. After sheathing his sword first, he began speaking mockingly. “Repentance! “Ah yes—what an exquisite phrase.” “First off, it rings splendidly in the ear.” “Zange!” “Hmph—excellent enunciation.” “True enough—there was a time I earnestly contemplated it myself.” “That magnificent word.” “But tell me—what did you actually gain from it?” “The very thought makes me laugh.” “In the end—you gained nothing.” “Repentance!” “What a marvelously fine word!” “Though its essence is hollow.” “That’s precisely what makes it so exquisitely dreadful.” “Well then—since you’ve taken such pains to treasure it, do parcel it out sparingly.” “But I’ve no use for it.” “Such things are naught but hindrances.”

“...Hmph. With this, I’ve mostly come to understand your worth.” “What kind of saint are you supposed to be?” “You preaching to others is laughable.” “Let alone someone like me!” “There was someone who recommended it to me.” “‘Do come to the Fuji Sect,’” “A mask-maker named Tsukiko.” “I was moved too, you know.” “If I went there, could even someone like me attain liberation and reach the Pure Land? I wondered.” “Ahahaha, what a ridiculous notion!” “Telling me to repent? You’re treating me like some damned hungry ghost!” “Listen well, you huckster monk!” “Repentance isn’t your exclusive domain.” “Every last evil person is a pitiful penitent.” “While repenting, they commit evil deeds.” “They commit evil deeds while repenting.” “The inseparable coexistence of repentance and evil deeds—this is their state of mind.” “At the same time, it is my state of mind.” “How could a hypocrite like you possibly comprehend this state of mind—writhing in agony under the unbearable weight of repentance?” “I am your opposite.”

"I wish to uproot this heavy sense of repentance nesting in my heart." "I want to be thorough." "Having stepped into evil, I wish to be thorough in my wickedness." "What hinders that is repentance." "It seems you’re trying to be thorough through repentance." "By all means, be thorough then." "Study! Act! And never preach to others!" "Ah—but when you think about it—what truly is evil? What truly is good?" No—no—evil and good don’t exist. The only thing faintly definable is that pain is evil and pleasure good. That which obstructs life’s flow—this is evil; its opposite, good. But even that’s vague... Then—then—what should I do?! By what measure should I proceed? What measure could there be?! Go! Go, Venerable Kōmyō Ubasoku! "Kuh... kuh... kuh... Venerable Saint!" I’m sleepy—must sleep. "Go!" "Feeble Venerable Ascetic!" "Now I can cut you down!"

“You’d better run before I cut you down! Venerable Ascetic—get moving! Ahahaha! Well then—a nap.”

He propped himself on his elbow and rolled over to sleep. Then the tall sedge grass immediately closed in from both sides to cover him. The accumulated white dew on the leaf tips all at once pattered down, and the moon and stars in the whitish sky gazed down at him from above.

His face, polished by Tsukiko the mask-making artisan, was one of extraordinary beauty. However, precisely because of that, his face was also one of utter eeriness. By looking at that face, one could understand both how beautiful artificial "beauty" could be and how ugly it could be.

He sank into a deep slumber.

VI

Venerable Kōmyō Ubasoku stood cowering. He vividly realized how feeble his own power was. Against such evil people, he had to admit he was utterly powerless. His face looked sorrowful. His body quivered like a beaten dog.

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

Now was such a time.

How large the sleeping Tōkishi appeared, and how small the trembling Kōmyō Ubasoku seemed!

Eventually, the lay disciple began walking.

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

"It's not enough."

he muttered.

"There is no error in my philosophy. My ideas will not crumble. However, my strength is insufficient. Unless my philosophy becomes power itself—power to subdue any adversary—it cannot be called true."

He wandered through the wilderness.

“I shall not return to the sect.”

He muttered sadly. "I must practice more austerities. For the time being, I will never preach to others." The white-robed lay disciple trudged onward with labored steps. He climbed hills, descended valleys, and pushed into the depths of forests.

On this 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 veranda door stood open as well. This was no different 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.

“Someone is definitely calling me.” “That’s right—no one was calling me.” Yet despite that，he seemed to hear something.

“Who’s there!”

he shouted. Of course, there was no reply from anywhere.

“That’s right—it’s not just tonight. There have been times before when a voice seemed to call me from the lakeshore. Strangely, whenever I hear it, my heart grows heavy with gloom. Why? I don’t understand! And this place lies far from the lake’s edge. There’s no way such a voice could reach me here. An illusion? That must be it... Ah, tonight again, my spirits sink. Someone is calling me.”

At that moment, there came a knock at the door. “Enter.” he said listlessly. The door of the room facing the corridor opened soundlessly from the outside with a swoosh, and a man appeared. “Hmm... You? Manbei?”

"Yes, it is I." Executioner Manbei bowed at the threshold. “What do you want? Hurry up and say it.” "We have taken three provisional bundles of dye down to the basement." “Hmph—that’s all?” “So with your permission, I wish to proceed with the dyeing.” “Tonight I am in a foul mood—though truth be told, I’m always foul-mooded, but tonight my spirits sink unbearably low. You heartless fool! You idiot! Bring more interesting news when you knock on my door!”

“Having received your permission…” “When did I say I wouldn’t permit it? Proceed with the dyeing as you see fit.” “Understood.” Manbei was about to leave the room. “Wait!” “Fool—where’s the registry?”

“Yes, here it is.” Manbei hesitantly stepped forward and respectfully presented the registry 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 subordinates!” “They have been slain.” “Hmph—who killed them?” “By one of our esteemed guests.” “Who on earth is that?”

“It is recorded there.” “Hmph. So it’s this one—Kōsaka Gentarō, fourteen years old. What? Still just a child!” “He is a terrifying child.” “A terrifying child? What’s his station?” “He is a bird catcher.” “You find a mere bird catcher terrifying?” “He is a master of the spear.”

7 Hearing this, the masked lord of the castle made a sudden gesture of rage, but— “It is our law that no weapons are permitted to guests within this castle. Who allowed him to carry a spear?!”

“No, it is a birdlime pole.” “What birdlime pole? Is that a spear?”

“Yes, that is correct.” “The Kōsaka-ryū style of the birdlime pole spear humbly states thus.”

“So he stabbed and killed both of them?”

“Both had their throats pierced and were killed.” “So it seems he possesses remarkable skill.” The masked lord of the castle narrowed his eyes. “So he’s a bird catcher through and through?” “No—originally he was a retainer of Takeda in Kai Province.” “Ah, I see—a samurai. …Hmm, a retainer of the Kōshū Takeda clan… And his family name is Kōsaka?”

The lord of the castle pondered deeply.

“So, with your permission, I wish to proceed with the execution.”

However, the lord of the castle did not respond. Manbei fell silent, looking puzzled.

“Why would such an esteemed 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. However, when speaking of the Kōsaka within the Takeda family, theirs is no ordinary lineage. And that name holds a connection for me... Kōsaka Gentarō, retainer of Takeda. ...Takeda... Kōsaka... Names with a connection... I recall things from long ago... As if a forgotten flute’s sound were suddenly reaching my ears. ...I also feel as if the old wound from a viper’s bite is throbbing. …There is both hatred and nostalgia. So… who did you say he was searching for?”

“Yes, he says he is searching for someone called Tsuchiya Shōsaburō—the cousin of that person.”

“What? Tsuchiya Shōsaburō⁉ Oh! You’re certain that’s what he said?”

The lord of the castle stood up from his camp stool. The hands braced against the table trembled minutely, again and again. The hands slowly rose, and no sooner had they reached high above his head than he swung them down as though swatting away some invisible, terrifying thing. “An ill-omened name!” “I’ve heard an ill-omened name!” That voice was terribly shrill, like a curse. “Oh! Oh! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! "My child!" “No, no! He’s that bastard’s child!”

He began to walk unsteadily.

“Manbei! “You’re certain that’s what you said?” "You said so, Lord “Did you say ‘Tsuchiya Shōsaburō’?” “Yes, Lord, that is what you said.”

“Is he searching for Tsuchiya Shōsaburō?” “Yes, that is correct.”

“Where is that Shōsaburō?!” “Why would I know... Lord!” “He isn’t in this castle, is he?” “It seems the bird catcher came here believing him to be present.” “So he’s here? In this castle?” “No—he is not here.” “He can’t possibly be here... right? Among the guests?” “Yes, I guarantee it.” “An ill-omened name! I’ve heard an ill-omened name! A name from the past! I’ve heard a name from the past! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! Shōsaburō! That woman’s child! Yes—this much is certain! But if only I could confirm this secret—whether he’s my child or that bastard’s... How I hate that woman! My wife! The hateful adulterer! My own blood brother!”

“To think I cannot even confirm that!” “Now then, having received your permission, I humbly wish to proceed with the strangulation.”

“Manbei!” And the lord of the castle strode briskly forward,

“Go and attend to him courteously! “That Kōsaka Gentarō!”

“Then regarding proceeding with the strangulation—?” “Should you permit even a single finger to touch him, I shall not suffer you to live!”

“Are you granting him your assistance?” “To me, he’s the child of my wife and brother! The child of my wife from long ago—”

The door closed without a sound. The harrowing footsteps of Manbei running down the corridor toward the basement echoed briefly into the room, but as they gradually faded and finally vanished altogether, only the heavy footfalls of the lord of the castle walking about remained within, creating a lonely reverberation. The pale light of the dawn-approaching moon was shining through the gap in the door. And then, from the distant shore of the lake, a voice calling out to him continued to sound faintly in the distance.

“Brother… Brother…” came the voice…. “Brother… Brother…” came the voice….

Part 10

1

“I have something to report.”

As he said this, Inumaru, the attendant, stopped his hand. “Hmm? What is it?! Do you have business?” “A guest has arrived.” “What guest? Who is it?” “He is a shabby old man.”

“I have no use for such a person.” “Drive him away! Drive him away!” “But he simply will not leave.” “What insolence.” “Cut him down and be done with it.”

“As you command.” “But wait—what manner of man appears before us?” “He presents as an elderly gentleman of unusual visage—a white beard cascading down his chest, draped in rough-spun robes, bearing a staff of twisted natural wood.” “And how does he name himself?” “He declares himself as ‘the aged one from Hitachi Tsukahara,’ my lord.” “Ah! Now this is remarkable—a most singular visitor indeed. Admit him at once, and mind you observe proper decorum.”

“Then, does your lordship know him?” “He is a man I have met more than once at the Muromachi Shogunate’s residence in Kyoto.” “Ah, who might he be?”

“Let whoever it is enter immediately.” “Your will be done.”

Inumaru, the attendant, slid from his seat.

After a short while, the sliding door opened, and an old man appeared. "Ah, Bokuden! You've come at last." "I am overjoyed to hear that Lord Kenshin is in good health."

“Proceed further. No need for restraint.” “This old fool loathes hesitation—yes yes, I’ll advance right along.” The two sat knee-to-knee.

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

For a time, the two said nothing at all. They merely laughed together through their eyes.

“Old man.” Kenshin suddenly said. “Yes, yes—and what might that be?” “I’ve acquired something splendid!” “Given it’s you, my lord, it must be some famous sword! Could it be the famed Azuki Nagamitsu?” “No, no—that’s not it. It’s nothing of the sort.” “Ah ha! So that’s it—my mistake!” Bokuden clapped his hands once,

“This time I’ve got it—there’s no missing now!” “This is amusing—take a guess!” “If I guess right, what’ll you give me?” “You! You greedy old man! I’ll give you anything. Have whatever you desire.” “Well now, that’s most generous of you.” “But what if I’m wrong?” “Well now... if you’re wrong... it’ll just stay wrong!” "You're a bad one. This is ridiculous. Then I’m the one getting shafted here!” “That’s just fine. A rich man like you can afford it.” “The wealthy can.” “Just make your guess already.”

“A head, perhaps? It should be a head.” “A head?”

Kenshin was taken aback.

“It’s a head, isn’t it? Shingen’s head! Ah ha ha! Or maybe not yet?” Even Kenshin could not help but wear a wry smile at this irony.

Abruptly, Kenshin extended his hand. He was gripping something firmly. “It’s not a head—nothing of that sort.” “Much, much smaller.” “It’s right here.” “It’s in my fist.”

Then Bokuden also extended his hand—but he too was gripping something.

“Oh! So you have one too?!” “Lord... you possess one as well? “Then... it was never meant to arrive.”

The two opened their fists simultaneously. And there, resting silently on the palms of both men, lay golden pills. “Bokuden, how did you get yours?”

“Lord, how did you obtain yours?” “A horse and two longswords—that’s what it took for him to finally acquire it, I hear.” “Ah ha! So it was your retainer, then.” “Yeah, Amakasu Bingo.”

“I obtained mine myself.” Bokuden fixed his eyes intently, but “I cut them down with a single stroke and disposed of them!” “You merciless man! You didn’t have to kill them.” “It was for the world’s sake. “It’s better to kill them.” “So it seems the medicine sellers were villains.” “They are the demon’s minions.”

“Who is the Demon King? Do you know?”

“Needless to say—the drug’s creator!” “Exactly. “Exactly so.” “Resuscitation from Death’s Door—divine and mysterious, with efficacy unmatched—such miracle medicine could not be crafted even by God’s own hand.” “Indeed, indeed.” “Only one Demon King could achieve its making.” “I think so too—this is a demon’s work.” “It is a demon’s work.”

II

“Do you have any idea? “Do you have any clue?” Kenshin shifted one knee forward. “Firstly, the Kōshū dialect…” “The Kōshū dialect?” “Are they medicine sellers?” “The medicine seller whose left arm was torn off at the shoulder from gangrene! “The medicine seller this old man disposed of! “He spoke the Kōshū dialect.” “The medicine seller that Amakasu encountered was missing a leg, it seems.” “It is gangrene. Without a doubt, gangrene.” “Without a doubt, gangrene.”

“So it seems these medicine sellers exist in great numbers.” “They must have reached every corner of Japan.” “I want it—no, I must have it. At least a hundred pills... no, a thousand...” “Likewise. This old man desires it as well.”

“I tried it at once! Poor Nagae Mimasaka was stricken with leprosy—his life hanging by a thread—so I gave him one pill. And what do you think? What do you think!” “Was it a resurrection from Death’s Door?” “Yes! Every last one made a full recovery!”

“This old man tested it on my son.” “My second son Tojirou was suffering from tuberculosis and appeared beyond help, so I immediately administered a single pill, and…”

“Hmm... So he’s fully recovered after all?” “It was as if peeling away thin paper.” “Miracle Medicine! Miracle Medicine! …I must have it!” “…I must have it!” "In truth, I presumed your lordship was unaware of such a Miracle Medicine, and thus have come today intending to present a single pill." "I’ll express my gratitude—your kindness is profound." "Though there are many military commanders in Japan, this old man's favor rests solely upon your lordship." "I am ever more grateful—it gladdens my heart." “Because your lordship abounds in chivalry.” "What chivalry? “It’s not really like that…”

“For Murakami Yoshikiyo’s sake, you fought several battles with Lord Shingen—is that not chivalry?” “Nonsense—that was just a passing whim.” “It is precisely such passing whims that are most desirable.” “But putting that aside—is there no way to acquire this Miracle Medicine?”

Then Bokuden slid smoothly forward on both knees, "My lord, please show me the records."

“What’s all this fuss? A simple matter.” “I humbly request to examine the records.” “What would you accomplish by reviewing records?” “What other purpose exists? Through these records, I shall identify the creator of this Miracle Medicine.”

“Oh!”

As he shouted, Kenshin struck his ceremonial fan against the floor with a thud.

“Bokuden! Can you discern that?” “Lord.”

Bokuden lowered his voice. “The manufacturing method of this pill is none other than Echigo-ryū!” Kenshin wordlessly fixed his gaze. “The gold leaf coating its surface—this can only be Sado gold.” “Ah,” Kenshin uttered involuntarily. “The slightly elliptical form matches Echigo’s distinctive military medicinal shape—could it be otherwise?” “…………” “Which means the medicine’s manufacturer dwells among your lordship’s retainers.”

Kenshin remained silent, staring.

A slightly oppressive silence fell.

Eventually, Kenshin said in a probing tone. "Who could it be? Do you have any leads?"

“Should I be permitted to examine the records, I would likely discern some clues.”

“Hmm, I see. Then I leave it to you.”

Even one as heroic as Kenshin had ultimately said, "I leave it to you."

Bokuden Tsukahara Yoshikatsu was born in Tsukahara, Hitachi Province; his biological father was Tosa no Kami and served as castle lord of Tsukahara Castle. He studied the Tenshin Shōden Shintō-ryū under Iizasa Chōi-sai of Shimōsa Province and earned the reputation of surpassing his master while still in his youth. Later he traveled through various provinces, studying military arts at Sano Tentokuji Temple under Yūki Masakatsu and Yūganji Temple among others; then apprenticed himself to Kamiizumi Isenokami to master the secrets of Kage-ryū, ultimately founding his own school called Bokuden-ryū. Among his disciples numbering over ten thousand, the most renowned were Shogun Ashikaga Yoshiteru and Ise Provincial Governor Kitabatake Tomonori; these two came to be celebrated under the title “Two Great Instructors of the Realm” alongside Yagyū Tajima no Kami, who later taught the Tokugawa shogunate.

When he traveled through various provinces, leading horses and carrying hawks with a retinue of roughly one hundred attendants, his presence was truly imposing, and in terms of ceremonial authority, he was equal to military lords and daimyos. At times he would dismiss his retinue, traverse mountains and valleys alone on horseback, and subdue demons and spirits—so it is said that his actions could never be measured by conventional standards. By nature open-hearted and swift, unswayed by wealth and unbowed before authority, viewing the realm’s heroes as beneath his notice—so records the founder’s chronicle of his school. Precisely because he was such a man that he could face Uesugi Kenshin as an equal and spin tall tales with impunity.

III

One day, as Bokuden was engrossed in reading military texts in his hermitage, a voice sounded outside. “Five Organs Pill! Five Organs Pill! Five Organs Pill for sale!”

“Hmm?”

When Bokuden heard this, he closed the book he had been holding in his hand. He then sent the servant boy running to purchase the Five Organs Pill. He had the teacup filled with water and threw the pill into it. Then, like an animal, the pill began circling the inside of the teacup—but in an instant, it leapt up with a pop and struck the high ceiling boards. "Oh! This is genuine!"

Bokuden groaned, but he stood up smoothly and ran out, carrying his tachi.

Unaware of this, the medicine peddler walked off toward the castle town. "Halt!" he shouted to stop him, then cut him down with a single stroke of his sword and seized ten Five Organs Pills. There was a sound reason for this.

When he was still in his prime, he got lost in the Hida mountains and nearly starved to death. At that time, there was an old hunter who would often cross paths with him; when this hunter carried him into a boar hut, took out a pill from his flint pouch, and threw it into some water, the pill swam across the water's surface like a living creature before dissolving into the brown liquid.

After drinking it，Bokuden felt an immediate divine refreshment of body and spirit. “What a wondrous elixir!” “What do you call this medicine?” Bokuden asked admiringly. “It is a counterfeit Five Organs Pill.”

“Hmm. What’s it made from?” “It’s made from a monkey’s five organs.” “Calling it a counterfeit seems strange, doesn’t it?”

“This is a counterfeit.” “Then what of the real Five Organs Pill?” “It’s made from the five human organs.”

“Hmm, that’s a terrifying medicine.” “It is indeed a terrifying medicine.” “Where is that manufactured?”

“Well, in a country they call the Southern Barbarians.” “Oh! So it’s not made in Japan?” “Indeed, they say it’s not from Japan.” “And what effects does it have?” “They claim it cures all ailments.” “And when you drop it in water, they say it pops right up to strike the ceiling.” It was precisely because of these past experiences that when Bokuden heard the medicine peddler’s cry of “Five Organs Pill” that day, he immediately obtained one. Yet when he discovered this was unexpectedly the genuine article, his astonishment defied all description.

"So it appears someone in Japan manufactures the Five Organs Pill as well. The Five Organs Pill—made by hollowing out the five organs of living humans! What manner of demon's work is this?" After that, he thoroughly researched the Five Organs Pill. The result of his investigation revealed that the pill's manufacturing method bore a striking resemblance to the military medicines used by the Echigo Uesugi clan.

And so, with certain thoughts in mind, he came nonchalantly to Kasugayama.

Four

About a month after these events, on a certain day, an old man and a servant boy were walking through the foothills of Mount Fuji. “Kikumaro! Kikumaro! Come now, let us sing! Let us sing!” “Right away, Master!”

Thereupon, the servant boy began to sing. Flowers scatter because of the wind The moon clouds over because of the clouds Sassa sassa Sassa sassa “Good, good, quite good! 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! Yo-ho! Yo-ho!

Yo-ho! Yo-ho!

This wasn't the least bit entertaining. It was a nonsensical song. The two plodded along. "Kikumaro! Kikumaro!" The old man started up again. "At your service, Master."

The servant boy knew exactly what to do. He replied in the style of a kyogen farce. “Shall we play a riddle game?” “Present your riddle! Present your riddle!” “Red and white and jet black—now then, what could this be?” “Hmm, this one’s got me stumped.” Kikumaro finally pouted. This seemed to amuse the old man, who smirked again and again. “I don’t know—I give up!” “Oh dear, this is quite a predicament. By the way, I haven’t the faintest idea either.”

With this, the riddle game ceased to exist, and the two walked on in silence.

It was truly a carefree journey. Today as well, the mountain stood under clear skies, its eight peaks vividly visible, their surfaces shining like lapis lazuli. And a wind swept across the foothills, making the autumn flowers sway.

Where in the world were they headed? In this era's foothills—a den of wild beasts, venomous serpents, demons and spirits, highwaymen, and murderers— ...Every direction held danger; no place offered peace. ...One was a doddering old man, the other a child of eleven or twelve... That they should walk about so carefree! To call it boldness would be bold indeed—or utter recklessness. ...Just who were these two? From where had they come, and to what end did they journey?

Before long, the autumn sun gradually began to sink toward the mountains. A flock of birds returning to their roost darted off toward the foothills while shielding themselves from the red evening sun. The days grew shorter as dusk fell swiftly like a bucket-drop sunset; they swiftly guided the foothills into night, leaving the surroundings shrouded in dim darkness.

“Master, Master, night has fallen.” Kikumaro spoke up anxiously.

“Indeed, indeed. Night has fallen.” “We must find lodging somewhere.” “Indeed, indeed. We must find lodging.”

But even if they were to seek lodging, there were neither houses nor wayside shrines.

And so the two had to keep walking.

Then, at that moment, a single point of firelight filtered through from far ahead.

“Oh, Master! I can see a fire!”

Kikumaro raised his voice. “Wait, wait!”

The old man restrained him with a low voice and fixed his gaze on the fire.

The fire remained fixed at a single point, neither moving nor swaying. "How fortunate—it seems there’s a dwelling." “Master, let us go. Why don’t we ask for lodging?” Kikumaro insisted. "But," the old man said uneasily, "dangerous, dangerous—we must be cautious." “What exactly are we being cautious about?” Kikumaro said with a slightly discontented tone. “First, you should listen well—there is an old poem: ‘Though night falls and you lie in the fields, do not lodge in the lone house of Adachigahara.’ For if we carelessly seek lodging at a house that happens to be a demon’s dwelling, it would be disastrous.”

"But this is the foothills of Fuji, not Adachigahara." "Hmm, now that you mention it, that’s true." "Why don’t we ask for lodging?"

“Very well, let us go there.”

So 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, but its structure was an imposing Shoin-zukuri style—it seemed to have some notable history. The old man who had approached the entrance called out, “I beseech you, I beseech you.” He called out a couple of times.

But there was no response from anywhere.

The old man tilted his head slightly but once again requested entry. Then from deep within came a responding voice—“O—” followed by rapid shuffling footsteps—until finally a small man appeared bearing a hand candle. He was an eerie hunchbacked figure. “Was it you lot asking to be let in?” The hunchback demanded brusquely. “Yes, precisely so.” The old man bowed with deference. “And your business here?” “We are wayfarers caught by nightfall—though dreadfully presumptuous—we humbly entreat shelter for this evening…”

“Ah, so that’s why you’ve come.” “But this is not an inn.” “Yes, yes, indeed it is, sir.”

“This is Kagi Tegahara’s Sanatorium.” “Ah, so that is how it is?” “That is to say, it is Lord Naoe Kurando’s sanatorium for the ill—a place he personally oversees.” “Ah, so that is how it is?” “If you are patients, we shall grant you lodging. Healthy individuals will be turned away.”

Then, the old man harbored a gleam of light in his eyes but suddenly made his voice quiver feebly, “That is most fortunate indeed, for I am a truly pitiable gangrene patient.” “What—gangrene? Oh, right. Then you may proceed.” With a swift motion—he pulled the hand candle closer and jerked his chin toward them.

Chapter Eleven

1

On the night when an elegant old man—clad in a garment of kudzu vines, leaning on a staff of natural wood, with a long white beard flowing down his chest—and his attendant Kikumaro sought a night’s lodging at Naoe Kurando’s ancient mansion in Kagi Tegahara at the foothills of Mount Fuji, a strange incident was unfolding in a remote room of the same mansion.

The room was divided into two parts. To begin with the front chamber: the floor was completely covered with soapstone, the most striking feature being its exceptionally high ceiling. A black curtain hung over the doorway leading to the back room, while a sturdy door had been installed at the entrance connecting to the courtyard. The four walls were wooden panels painted pure white, but another distinctive feature of the chamber was that one wall had several tiers of shelves installed, upon which countless jars were arrayed. All were jars containing medicinal substances, with papers inscribed with inscrutable characters affixed to their surfaces.

Slightly in front of those medicine shelves, on a section of the soapstone-covered floor, there lay a rectangular stone structure resembling a bed—which, in modern terms, was an ominous surgical dissection table. The white cloth had already been removed from it, suggesting that a victim would soon be brought there. The glinting scalpels and scissors, small saws and metal hammers, several large and small tweezers, and silver cases containing white cloth—all neatly arranged on the table beside it—made the scene all the more ghastly.

In the corner of the room facing the back chamber was a massive pitch-black furnace—likely iron—built into the wall. Within its gaping maw, which one might liken to a demon’s mouth, crimson flames burned ceaselessly, hungrily licking at the cylindrical cauldron suspended above. It was by no means a pleasant sight. The only sound in the room was the hissing and seething of boiling water within that cauldron. A single large hanging lamp meant to illuminate the entire room was suspended by a chain from the ceiling. Its light carried a whitish tinge, and judging from how aptly the adjective "brilliantly" applied to it, it seemed not to be fueled by fish oil or animal fat but by some chemical substance—though this could not be confirmed with certainty.

At that moment, the room held no human figures and lay hushed to the point of desolation.

And then—at that moment—came footsteps in the courtyard. It was a dignified old man who emerged from the back room holding up a black curtain; he approached the doorway in silence, drew back the bolt, and opened it. Through the opened doorway entered men bearing a stretcher. When they reached the dissection table’s side, they reverently set their burden upon the floor. The old man gave a signal. The four men who had nodded first stripped away the white cloth covering it, gently transferred the figure lying beneath onto the table, then—after bowing with utmost deference—slid back out through the doorway as soundlessly as they had come. What remained was sepulchral stillness. Only the cauldron’s seething water hissed its endless song.

Lying on the dissection table was indeed a living human being—but one with neither hands nor feet, a torso-only creature resembling a log chopped clean at both ends. One end tapered into a constriction where there was a single protuberance: needless to say, it was the head. Now, the left eye heavily opened its eyelid, but that dull white eye—its life’s flame on the verge of extinction—first crept slowly toward where a right hand should have been, then sluggishly shifted toward where a left hand might have been, only to suddenly close there. But when those eyelids once again quivered violently, the dull white eyes gaped open again; this time, they turned upward, then gradually drifted downward. He must have been surveying the room. His skin had taken on a coppery hue, pus oozing from various places. The clump of hair on his crown, which had turned white like paper, must have been the work of the malignant disease as well.

A nauseating stench had filled the room—the distinctive foulness of gangrene. Standing beside the dissection table and looking down at the patient’s condition was an old man clad in surgical attire; he picked up a scalpel and tapped it against the edge of the table. At that signal, the curtain to the back room was drawn aside, and a youthful man and a maiden entered; the maiden went straight to the table while the youth took down a silver basin from the shelf and stood before the furnace.

Cruel it was if one were to call it cruel, and bizarre it was if one were to call it bizarre—the human dissection truly began in the very next instant, “The anesthetic!”

the old man solemnly said. “……” The beautiful maiden, wordlessly taking up the incense box from the table in one swift motion, handed it to the old man. The old man who had received the incense box slowly removed its lid, pressed it against the patient’s nose, and observed him for some time.

2 “Good,” he said, replaced the lid, and pushed it toward the table. Before long, “Scalpel,” the old man said. The large blade—honed to lethal sharpness—was passed by the maiden’s hand. When its tip pierced beneath the Adam’s apple, a wave-like spasm coursed through the victim’s body—only to give way in the next instant to utter stillness and absolute peace. A crimson arc leapt fifteen centimeters skyward with that convulsion—but lasted merely a heartbeat before tawny powder scattered by the maiden thickened the streaming blood.

From the exposed throat of the deceased down to the chest, and from the chest to the abdomen in a straight line, the large scalpel’s blade had been drawn—evidence that the surgery had entered its second stage. Hot blood dripped from the incisions down both flanks but was immediately congealed with coagulant. “The saw!” said the old man. And the maiden’s hand passed it from the table to him. The eerie sound of ribs being cut echoed through the room for a time, until ten ribs from both sides—drenched in blood—were finally extracted. At that moment, the old man curved both hands into rounded shapes as if scooping something and plunged them deep into the thoracic cavity. From elbow joints to fingernails, they were dyed crimson with blood. When he withdrew them again, he held in his palms—filled to overflowing—a soft, sludgy mass of strange matter.

“The lung organ,” he said calmly. Then he looked at the young man and commanded, “The silver basin!” The young man stepped briskly forward, received the lung organ into the silver basin, then slowly pivoted and walked on tiptoe to the furnace. Directly above the cylindrical cauldron, he gradually tilted the basin. The hissing of boiling water intensified—for it had swallowed one morsel of 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 whirled around. And there before his eyes stood the old man, holding the second prey in his palms, calmly awaiting the young man.

“The silver basin!” “The heart organ!” Thus did the old man speak.

Twice the cauldron rang out loudly; twice the young man clutched the silver basin to his chest. When he changed direction, the old man stood in the same manner, holding the third prey in his palms. “Silver basin!” “Liver organ!”

Once again, the old man said coldly. And then, that liver organ too was dropped from the silver basin into the cauldron. When the young man turned back for the third time, the old man had placed a kidney organ on his palm and was waiting for the silver basin. When the young man turned back for the fourth time, [the old man] was still waiting for the silver basin, holding up the final spleen organ.

And when all five human organs had thus been placed into the cylindrical cauldron, the surgery completely concluded. The room was swelteringly hot, filled with the stench of pus, the metallic tang of blood, and medicinal odors. The light of the hanging lamp grew whiter, illuminating every nook and cranny of the room as brightly as daylight. From the moment the surgery began until its conclusion now, the actions taken by the three had been terrifyingly calm—so methodical in their practiced, organized execution that one could even sense a complete absence of emotion, as if they were simply following established protocols.

However, within that calmness lay not a single trace of the cruelty characteristic of a murderer; rather, it contained in abundance something akin to the academic coldness unique to scientists. The three of them—having removed the plug from the large hot water tub installed in the corner of the room and washed their hands one after another with the gushing warm water—casually draped a white cloth over the victim, then parted the black hanging curtain as if nothing unusual had occurred and filed into the back room in unison.

Separated by a single black curtain, this back room bore no resemblance to the ghastly front chamber—it was instead a cheerful and ornate splendor. However, while sharing the front room's high ceiling and talc-paved floor, it contained neither eerie furnace nor dissection table, nor any small stand lined with sharp instruments. At the center stood a round table of rosewood craftsmanship, encircled by two stools, a deeply cushioned armchair, and an equally plush long chaise lounge—though the leopard skins draped over the armchair and chaise seemed unlikely to be of Japanese origin.

Sitting in the armchair was that dignified old man who had wielded the scalpel for the dissection—none other than Naoe Kurando—and behind him stood an enormous, sturdy bookshelf that nearly reached the ceiling, though most of the stacked volumes were unfamiliar Southern Barbarian texts. Across the table from the old man, sitting side by side on the chaise longue were the aforementioned young man and maiden—and that young man was none other than Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu, while the maiden was Matsumushi.

From the pleasant fatigue after their work, the three appeared somewhat sluggish yet were conversing cheerfully. Among the various decorations in the room, the textiles hung on the walls stood out as particularly rare and splendid. Upon them were embroidered pagodas, halls, and figures in an extremely antique and exotic style with colored threads.

It was an Egyptian-patterned wall hanging.

The rich fragrance that softly enveloped the room came not from flowers arranged in vases but likely from some synthetic fragrance placed somewhere. The light of the hanging shrine lamp was not a piercing white, but rather a violet hue that invited soft slumber. Outside lay a desolate autumn night that seemed poised for storm, yet within this room lingered warmth—so tranquil it felt as though music might begin playing at any moment.

"Is Lord Kenshin greater than Lord Shingen? Oh ho? And why might that be?" The speaker was Kurando—his face ruddy, his frame tall and stout, clad in a surgical gown as pure white as snow, with long hair half-streaked with silver cascading over his shoulders. His bearing held a divine majesty, yet it could not be called Japanese. "I don't understand. Why might that be?" he repeated once again.

“Lord Shingen loves battle; he engages in obscure conflicts.” “In contrast, Lord Kenshin has always adhered to chivalry as his principle and conducts wars of significance.”

The one who answered thus was Mondon. Compared to when he had first arrived at this mansion from Echigo Province in late spring of this year, he had gained weight and developed a healthy complexion, appearing robust. It was likely that the climate and scenery of this land had suited both his body and mind. Even his once-pessimistic spirit seemed to have turned optimistic; vitality now animated both his words and movements. “I see,” said Kurando with a gentle smile upon hearing this, “but when I speak of it, both Lord Kenshin and Lord Shingen are equally barbarians.”

III "Oh, Father," exclaimed Matsumushi in surprise from the side—the beautiful maiden interjecting sharply—"Was Lord Kenshin not our benevolent former master? Surely there must be other ways to speak of him than calling him a barbarian..." "No no, that's not what I meant." Kurando waved his hand slightly. "I didn't use those words out of scorn or anything. According to my personal theory—whether we're speaking of the Imagawa, Hōjō, Asai or Asakura—all so-called warriors in this world are barbarians through and through."

"Why would that be?" Mondon asked quizzically this time. "Why, you ask? For no other reason than this—from the perspective of life's natural laws, [humankind] strays from the proper path... By nature, humans must not fight among themselves. That's the law of things, you see." "What a peculiar law that is." Matsumushi interjected with a laugh.

“Then what should humans fight against?” “Hmm,” Kurando replied solemnly, “floods, Mr. Thunder, fires, earthquakes, wicked beasts—we must battle such things first. Ah! There’s one more.” He tapped his temple. “I’d forgotten something crucial.” Leaning forward, he concluded: “None other than illness itself.” The young pair burst into laughter. Matsumushi tilted her head, mischief dancing in her eyes as she teased:

“That’s because you’re a physician, Father—that’s why you say such things.” “That’s right—it goes without saying.” Still in good spirits, Kurando continued, “But when I was young, I was never a healer like this.” “Yeees, we know that full well,” interjected Naoe Mondon Ujiyasu. “Uncle, your martial exploits remain legendary in Kasugayama even now.” “It was when I turned twenty,” Kurando began after a contemplative pause, as if dredging up half-forgotten memories. “The entire household went rabbit hunting at Dengaku-hara. Naturally, I attended as part of our lord’s retinue.” His voice grew taut. “Then... a bear appeared.” He leaned forward, hands shaping the air. “A massive creature—twice, no thrice my size! Startled by the sudden commotion of the hunt, it came charging straight for the hatamoto guards.” “We loosed arrows from all sides—‘The prey is ours!’ we cried—but not a single shaft found purchase.” His fingers mimicked arrows bouncing off hide. “Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! They all glanced away.” “Then our lord commanded—” Kurando’s voice dropped an octave in imitation—“‘Kurando! Finish that beast.’” He spread his hands ruefully. “I charged out... only to realize my predicament.” “My hunting arrows proved useless.” His right hand jerked sideways in abrupt decision. “So I drew my dagger—” he pantomimed reversing his grip—“and switched to an underhand hold.” “The crescent mark!” His blade-hand stabbed downward twice. “The crescent mark! That’s where I’d strike!”

As he spoke, Kurando took a writing brush from the inkstone box on the table and swiftly gripped it in reverse—a valiant pose indeed. “Oh, how like drifting clouds!” Matsumushi’s heart leapt, “And then what did you do?”

“Yeah, took it down without a hitch. The moment it came crashing down, I dodged and ran it through with a single slash—clean from chest to back.” “How very brave of you,” Matsumushi praised. Mondon spoke as if deeply moved.

“But things didn’t end well.” As he spoke these words, Kurando grew somber and began twisting strands of his long hair between his fingers.

IV "The reason is none other than this," Kurando continued after a moment. "I saw its face—the bear’s face!" Then I shuddered. "The bear was smiling!" “Yes, the bear was smiling.”

In the blink of an eye, a melancholy hue drifted into Kurando’s eyes, but— “A bear’s face is so inherently cute that you’d never think it a wild beast. But the bear is dead. It was killed even though it had committed no crime. And yet that face was smiling. In that instant when I thought ‘Ah!’, there appeared before my eyes the countless enemy heads I had beheaded on battlefields past, all lined up before me! And they were all laughing!”

Having said this, Kurando closed his eyes.

Then, Mondon and Matsumushi, as if suddenly assailed by a demonic aura, exchanged glances but sighed in unison.

Through the room that had once seemed resplendent, a streak of something black seemed to dart through. And then, in that very spot alone, a large hole seemed to gape open.

And Kurando continued. “Ever since that time, martial exploits have come to seem worthless to me. “And so I came to think this way. “Other than war, beyond martial exploits, there must be something of greater value in this world...” “Ah, so that’s why Father became a healer, then.” It was Matsumushi who had spoken.

“That’s part of it.” “But to reach that point still meant enduring many hardships and sorrows.” “...Yet now there is peace—at least for the time being.” “You might even call these favorable circumstances... If only you two would succeed me.”

At that moment, a knocking sound could be heard coming from the wooden door leading to the main house.

“Please come in.” Kurando said quietly.

With that, the door was immediately opened, and there appeared an ugly, hunchbacked little man who modestly stepped into view. “Kogenta? Is there something you need?” “We have a new patient.” “Well now, at such a late hour...” Kurando narrowed his eyes. “And what manner of person are they?”

“Yes, one was an old man, and the other appeared to be a page.” “You did ask their names, I trust?” “Yes, he simply stated, ‘the old man from Hitachi.’” “The old man from Hitachi? “And the diagnosis?” “It is said to be gangrene.”

“Gangrene... I see. That’s acceptable then.” “First, we have placed them in Ward Two for the time being.”

The hunchbacked Kogenta was about to leave. “Well then, I shall pay them a visit.” “Kogenta, light the lantern.” “Understood.”

Before long, the two descended to the courtyard, passed through the gate, and emerged outside. The night was dark and the storm violent, blowing directly at the two.

After walking a little over half a chō, they came upon a low hill. After ascending the hill and descending it, they found a wide clearing surrounded by woods lying sprawled before them, where over twenty small wooden-walled houses stood.

This was the Kagitegahara Sanatorium.

The light of Kogenta's lantern wavered momentarily before one of the small houses as he fumbled with the lock; then, with a dismal creak, the front door swung open. A narrow corridor stretched before them, lined with five small rooms in total—one directly ahead and two on either side—that served as the patients' living quarters. Kogenta led the way with Kurando following behind. When they entered the front room, both the self-styled old man from Hitachi—clad in kuzu robes—and his page Kikumaro remained awake, having not yet retired to sleep.

“This is the Sanatorium Master-sama’s visit.” Kogenta announced ceremoniously. The moment he did so, the old man from Hitachi raised his face and stared intently at Kurando, but—

“Just as I thought! So it was you!” “Oh!” At that same moment, Kurando cried out in surprise. “Lord Tsukahara Kotarō Yoshikatsu?!” “It’s me—Bokuden. Did I startle you?”

"Hmm," he said, then suddenly laughed. "This would startle anyone. What possessed you to come here?" "So be it," Bokuden glared at him. "I've come to claim your head."

“This head? Don’t you dare.”

“As a heinous and immoral fool, I’ll expose you at Sanjō Riverbed.” “Oh? How amusing.”

“Kurando!”

Bokuden rebuked.

“This is no joke! This is no laughing matter! Since when did you become a demon?” He had placed his hand precisely on the dagger tucked into his belt earlier.

Five However, Kurando stood as coldly still as water. Then he pulled a nearby camp stool closer and sat down leisurely, but—

“First, you sit down too. We can talk. After that, perhaps.” “Absolutely not!” Bokuden snapped coldly. “Harvesting organs from living humans to make medicine—even demons and rakshasas wouldn’t dare such atrocities! The Southern Barbarians might not know better, but in all Japan, you alone—! I’ll hear your excuse—if you have one, speak!” “Ah, so that’s why you came here. You’ve gone to such trouble. But Bokuden!” Kurando, as if pitying his opponent, “Before condemning me, why don’t you condemn yourself! No, no—it’s not just you! Why don’t you condemn Lord Uesugi, Lord Takeda, Mōri, Shimazu, Ryūzōji—all those bastards! They are the true murderous demons!”

“Sophistry!” Bokuden snapped back. “Those feudal lords are the flower of this turbulent age, and war is the path of self-defense—they fundamentally differ from self-interest and personal greed!” “What nonsense, you subhuman wretch!” “Bokuden,” Kurando spoke with increasing pity, “you are a peerless hero when wielding your sword—unrivaled in combat—but you appear surprisingly dim when it comes to reason.” “A general’s triumph withers ten thousand bones—can’t you grasp this world’s truth?” “……War is self-defense?” “I see.” “However, today’s wars have already surpassed that realm.” “Today’s wars are invasions.” “Today’s wars are greed.” “No, no—today’s wars have nearly sunk to mere amusement!” “The thrill of tyranny! The ecstasy of conquest! War for war’s own sake!” “Now, war ends in victory. “Those who receive the lion’s share are none but the lions and their retainers.” “The people have no share.” “Now, war ends in defeat. “Then they die in battle. “Though it may seem tragic, their glorious deaths in battle are composed into poems and sung as ballads.” “Some are even enshrined as gods. “But the people must toil under oppressive exactions and the new master’s whip… And you call feudal lords the flowers of a turbulent age!”

“That’s right, that’s exactly right. But those flowers bloomed in blood! Those flowers bloomed from the people’s lifeblood! How about it, Bokuden—wouldn’t you agree?”

Kurando continued speaking. “Now comes my work. One kill to save many! One kill to save many! I need not elaborate—this is the purpose!” “I see,” said Bokuden, leisurely withdrawing his right hand from the dagger, yet— “Even one killing remains killing—why dare perpetrate such cruelty?”

“Then I’ll ask you—why do you bear an autumn-water blade at your waist?” “For the descent of demons.”

“Where is that demon?” “Look within—it dwells in your own heart! Seek without—it suffuses all creation!” “By what means do demons descend?” “Through blades that slaughter... and blades that save!”

“My, my—you seem terribly busy,” [Kurando] said. “In the end, what’s the purpose of it all?” “The unity of sword and Zen—enlightenment! Enlightenment!” [Bokuden] declared. “But you will die in the end,” [Kurando] pressed. “All sentient beings die.” “Death isn’t all that welcome.”

“But for an enlightened one, that isn’t the case.”

“Well, I still want to keep on living after all.” “What are you trying to say?” “What do you think of death?”

“Death? Death is reincarnation.” “Don’t spout nonsense! There’s no such thing as living again through rebirth! Once you die, that’s it.”

“Kurando!”

“Ah! More of your sophistry,” Bokuden said skeptically.

“Bokuden!”

Kurando stood up. "Speak honestly—you don’t want to die." “Hmm,” Bokuden reluctantly said. “You said ‘Hmm,’ didn’t you? Well said. No one would want to die—that’s only natural. This is simply the instinct of all living beings. The single-minded desire not to die gave birth to religion, gave birth to swordsmanship, and thus gave birth to medicine. Now, religion is passive—and martial arts are ultimately nothing but weapons. Only medicine remains—striving to save human lives. The essence of life is matter... And what saves matter must itself be matter. Medicine! The Five Organs Pill!”

Kurando calmly left the room.

“First, take your time to think. First, take your time to sleep.”

Kurando returned to the residence.

Part Twelve

1

Religion, by its very origin, is inherently a great thing. It is at once a philosophy and an instrument of salvation.

Undoubtedly, all religions must have been simple at the beginning of their establishment.

The emanation of the founder's entire personality is nothing other than religion itself.

Like all new ideologies, all religions in their founding era rebel against their time.

That is why they are persecuted.

The law is a lifeless entity. Only through the excellent administration of judicial officers does it first come to possess vigorous life.

Even religion was no exception. It was through the superior efforts of priests in spreading the faith that it emitted a variegated radiance.

Even the Fuji Sect was no exception. It was Kōmyō Ubasoku's entire being that shaped that religion. And his tireless propagation elevated it to greatness. Without Kōmyō Ubasoku, the Fuji Sect could not endure. Were he gone, then too must the Fuji Sect perish.

Religion demands idols. That is a human weakness. If one does not grasp things with precision, most people cannot feel at ease. Buddha statues, holy paintings, hymns, prayers—all are idols in a sense.

And almost without exception, the founder themselves was an idol.

The believers' emotions toward their founder could almost be called romantic love.

And thus, romantic love is sexual desire.

Therefore, it was immensely powerful.

Therefore, they martyred themselves without hesitation. Martyrdom was a pleasure for them.

Kōmyō Ubasoku was their lover.

That lover had disappeared.

The believers had lost their lover.

The sect had lost its idol. Wasn’t it inevitable that they were thrown into turmoil? Rumors spread here and there. “It’s been one month today since we’ve seen his presence.”

“We’ve never experienced anything like this before.” “There were times when we didn’t see his presence for two or three days—five at most… But this is the first time anything like this has happened.” “Where on earth has he gone? Could he have abandoned us?” “What should we do? This is dire.” “I’m so terrified I can’t bear it. Surely something terrible will happen soon.”

“He must have been angered by something. “He must have been angered by something—someone among us.”

“Ah, please return quickly.”

“We must search.” “We must search.”

“But how should we search?” “We have no leads.” “It’s unimaginable.”

“Could it be that the Venerable Ubasoku has passed away somewhere?”

“He’s a saint, a saint—such a thing couldn’t be!” “But He has a mortal body.” “Yet He performs miracles.”

“Could He have ascended to heaven? He has left the mortal world for the heavenly realm…”

“I am on the verge of losing my faith.”

“I wonder if I should leave the sect.” “I’ve grown weary of performing austerities.” “I’ve grown tired of burning incense too.”

“There’s no doubt a rebellion will break out.”

“Who is it? Who is it? The traitor—!” “I somehow feel like I’m about to die.” “My past was darkness. Here I finally found light. But that light now fades away. Then we’ll drown in twice the darkness.” “The temple bells no longer ring true these days.” “The voices of prayer have fallen silent.” “Scuffling, grappling, endless quarrels... All traces of our former selves are gone.” “Venerable En no Gyōja! Venerable En no Gyōja! Please protect our Venerable Ubasoku!”

In their homes, in tents, on the streets, and even at the "altar," the believers whispered rumors to each other in hushed tones.

The season was now winter.

Both Mount Fuji and the "altar," along with the altar building and even the giant ascetic statue, were wrapped in the pure white of snow. From the eaves of the sect’s houses, icicles hung long; the stream flowing through the town was thickly covered with ice.

Winter was the season of quiet contemplation.

For the sect, it was the opposite. It was a season of doubt, anxiety, distrust, turmoil—and thus of debate.

Two

In the wilderness surrounding the sect, beasts starving for prey howled. Wolves formed packs, bears brought along their wives and children, and boars, always solitary, roamed about searching for prey.

One evening, a brave bear sneaked into the sect. And then it stole one horse. Next, a boar sneaked in and plundered the vegetables in the barn.

Then wolves formed a pack, suddenly appeared behind the "altar," and killed and devoured the chickens and dogs.

Moreover, the people of the sect made no effort to prepare against it. They argued, fought among themselves, and exchanged curses.

In one house, an elderly couple hurled vulgar insults at each other. Then the wife’s sharp nails gouged out her husband’s right eye. Meanwhile, in another house belonging to a young couple, while they wallowed in debauchery, their two-year-old only child fell into the river and died.

Just then, a family that had newly joined passed through the east gate, but upon seeing the disorderly state of the sect, they lost all goodwill and turned back. A shocking incident erupted.

The first theft since the founding of the Fuji Sect was committed. Next, a murder was committed.

And then another arson was committed. When sacred things revert to defilement, they become more corrupt than the secular world. That very thing was now descending upon the Fuji Sect. People doubted people. And then they doubted their faith. And then they awoke to greed.

And so another month passed.

Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return. "So he's truly abandoned us at last." "Us, these unfortunate ones." "You villain, be cursed!" "Ah... I'm penniless." "I gave away all my donations." "No matter where I try to go, I can't go." "That bastard's the reason I'm broke." "I never should have come to this place." Eventually, they even began to voice their hatred toward Kōmyō Ubasoku. The sun rose and set. And so early spring arrived.

Around the waterfall basin, narcissus bloomed. In the thicket, kumquats strung beads. 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. Ah, it was the spring breeze. Suddenly, a bush warbler sang. Looking, at the foot of the south-facing hill, white plum blossoms had broken through their buds. A deer cried out in the wilderness. And around the riverbank cliff, countless rock swallows were flying.

Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return. The believers grew murderous. "Destruction! Destruction!"

There was someone who shouted. Several Buddhist statues were destroyed. A skylark began singing in the sky. The snow gradually melted away. And then mist began to rise.

Mount Fuji began to laugh. But the snow mantle had not yet shed.

After all, Kōmyō Ubasoku did not return to the sect.

Where on earth had he gone? Why hadn't he returned? ——That was something no one knew. However, since that time—since his encounter with the Third Station Potter—he had hidden himself away somewhere.

III

Even Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu could not remain unshaken. He spent an entire winter living in a tent. For him as a scion of nobility, this was truly an extraordinary lifestyle. It was a life of extreme asceticism and hardship. There was also a shortage of food. There was also a shortage of clothing. The blizzard blew in relentlessly. Moreover, there was not even sufficient fuel.

But for him, it was not painful.

It was because he was burning with religious ecstasy. Though he had met Kōmyō Ubasoku, the sect leader, only once beneath En no Gyōja's stone statue, that alone had sufficed for him.

He was completely convinced.

He had fallen in love at first sight. Shōsaburō too had felt what that Brahmin must have felt—the one who, upon meeting the Buddha in Nirvana and being spiritually awakened by his entire being, had cried out, “If I hear the Way in the morning, I can die content in the evening,” then immediately hanged himself. Though their meeting had been brief, to Shōsaburō, Kōmyō Ubasoku was in one sense a “thunderbolt” and in another a “sun.”

And yet now，due to Sect Leader Kômyô Ubasoku’s disappearance，the sect had plunged into utter chaos.

And so, the current sect had ceased to be a peaceful utopia. It had become a defiled land—the basest of the secular world, where deceit, fraud, and wickedness ran rampant.

"It’s not mysterious at all—it’s entirely natural."

He could not help but think.

How truly great Kōmyō Ubasoku had been as a human being—this one fact alone made it possible to imagine. For them, doctrines and such had never truly mattered in the first place. They had loved and believed in none other than Kōmyō Ubasoku himself. When the minions of the Masked Castle Lord plotted to destroy the sect, it was precisely because Kōmyō Ubasoku had been present that they had been able to immediately begin rebuilding. ……But now, there was no Ubasoku. They had lost their shepherd. They became wandering sheep. It was only natural they would scatter.

And so, he said to himself.

“Now then, Shōsaburō—what will you do? Me? I should set out. I should return to my original purpose. I should search for my parents and uncle. I had truly been captivated by Kōmyō Ubasoku in the purest sense. To speak plainly—I had been beguiled. But now I regained my senses. The possessing spirit had departed. Ah—even so—this Kōketsu Cloth—what destiny it has wrought upon me!” Then one day Shōsaburō retrieved the crimson kerchief he had stored among his belongings and laid it across his lap to inspect.

From a gap in the tent, the spring sun cast golden arrows of conquest. The crimson kerchief shone brilliantly. It held a tinge of blackness in its depths, while its surface gleamed like a ruby. It was a dazzling red that made one’s eyes ache, and depending on the angle, it appeared blue or even purple. Even now, Shōsaburō could not help but marvel. He was gazing at it in a trance. This was his misfortune. A monk happened to pass by and casually peered into Shōsaburō’s tent. His complexion changed abruptly.

He hurried back to the "Sanctuary" just as he was.

In an instant, a rumor too terrible for this world began to be whispered from ear to ear.

“It’s said that minions of the Masked Castle Lord have infiltrated.” “They say he has the Kōketsu Cloth!” “They’re minions of the Brass Castle!” “Ah, so that’s why the Venerable Ubasoku hasn’t returned!”

“With this, the truth has finally come to light.”

“Kōketsu Cloth! “Kōketsu Cloth!”

The whispers gradually grew louder. They became mockery and terror, scorn and fury.

The entire sect erupted into turmoil. The people held deadly weapons in their hands. And then, shouting, they ran toward Shōsaburō’s tent.

They were not believers but a mob. They were now a blood-starved mob.

However, Shōsaburō did not know. He did not know what had so startled and angered the believers.

He was dragged out from the tent.

“To the ‘Sanctuary’!” “To the ‘Sanctuary’!”

The mob screamed. Shōsaburō was hoisted into the air and carried onto the "Sanctuary."

The large stone statue of Yakuno Gyōja stood imbued with sorrow. Beneath it, Shōsaburō was placed. “Kill him!”

“Kill him!” someone roared.

“Torture him to death!” someone immediately shot back. “Crucifixion! Crucifixion!” “Burn him alive! Burn him alive!”

The crowd began shouting in unison.

The most cruel thing in life was perhaps the psychology of the crowd. In it there was absolutely no reflection. Frenzy! Frenzy! Frenzy! Such was its nature. It felt no responsibility. It had no fear of being held accountable either. They say the mouths of the many can melt metal—such was the psychology of the crowd. The King of France was killed for it, and modern politicians fell for it. And now, Shōsaburō too was about to be killed for it.

However, there was something in the believers' hearts that deserved sympathy. To them, the Lord of Kōketsu Castle and his minions were enemies. Even had they devoured flesh and drunk blood, they would have remained insatiable foes. How their compatriots had been plundered for their sake, bled dry for their sake, made into dye for their sake, sacrificed for Kōketsu Cloth! And how their precious sect had been destroyed for their sake!

To the believers, Kōketsu 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 they had grown increasingly violent. The entire sect had gone mad.

Had Kōmyō Ubasoku still been reigning, they would not have become this violent.

Misfortune comes all at once! Tsuchiya Shōsaburō had seen something ill-omened at the worst possible time.

IV

"What in the world is happening?!" Shōsaburō's state of mind was entirely captured by this single phrase. He couldn't comprehend what was happening. He felt an impending danger close in on him. But gradually, he began to understand. The moment he understood, his heart could not help but feel terror.

He resolved to explain himself.

He leapt onto the pedestal of the stone statue like a ball.

“No!” He began by shouting. “I’m not one of the Lord of Kōketsu Castle’s subordinates! “I’m a retainer of the Takeda clan! I am Tsuchiya Shōsaburō Masaharu!”

Unfortunately, his defense went unheard.

It was only natural that he went unheard. Amid curses, jeers, and roars, his voice was buried. Then he was dragged down from the stone pedestal. "By the code! By the code!"

At last, the crowd cried out thus. Shōsaburō's fate was decided. He must be executed according to the code. The sky was serenely clear. There, a skylark was singing. And a lone cloud sailed by. Filtered through silk-thread-like water vapor and possessing an oil-fine texture, the sunlight around three in the afternoon illuminated the roofs and streets.

And then the children frolicked about, while the dogs, cats, and chickens sang in their own voices.

At the windows and doorways of houses, elderly people were conversing uneasily.

And so hundreds of young men and women filled the street like a wave and lay 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 "altar."

Shōsaburō, his hands bound, was walking down the middle of the street. Ahead of him walked a group of monks. Flanking him on both sides were believers armed with weapons. Bare-bladed spears, bare-bladed naginatas, and several matchlocks glittered as they reflected the sunlight.

Shōsaburō had given up. It was a miserable state of mind.

Though he could explain himself, he was not permitted to do so! But perhaps society at large was just such a thing. The opponents were an overwhelming multitude. Even if he had wielded his sword and resisted, it would not have seemed possible to defeat them. Moreover, both his swords had been taken.

A boy who had climbed a tree suddenly hurled a pebble. Then, two or three people imitated him. In an instant, pebbles came raining down. One of them must have struck true, for blood began trickling down one side of Shōsaburō’s cheek. There was a woman who had gone mad after her husband was taken by the retainers of the Brass Castle; she suddenly rushed over and stabbed Shōsaburō’s arm with the tip of the scissors she held in her hand. And then, blood spurted out from there. Immediately, two or three people followed suit. The clothes he was wearing were torn. Blood flowed from his arms and shins.

Various phantoms passed through Shōsaburō’s mind.

The mansion in Kōfu... Lord Shingen's figure... ...Friend Sanada Gengorou... ...Night cherry blossoms blooming riotously... ...The old crimson kerchief seller... And Kōmyō Ubasoku's face... "I'll never see Father or Mother again... Death! Execution! The Sect's Code! I shouldn't have come here... ...They'll kill me soon... ...It hurts! A small knife stabbed— ...Where are they taking me?! You bastards! You villains!"

The group eventually turned the corner. Then they turned left at the T-junction. And so they plodded onward.

No matter how far they went, there were crowds. The crowd's faces were nothing but mouths. Nothing but voices of curses assailed him.

Once again, the procession turned a corner.

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 became increasingly dazed. He could no longer see anything. Even the phantoms had vanished. But only the voices reached him.

“Return my husband!” “Return my child!” “Curse you! Curse you!”

A single sob resounded. Then came the sound of laughter.

He had to keep walking. He had to be made 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 soared into the heavens like a cloud.

He no longer wanted to die. And yet both his body and spirit were nearly on the verge of death. That must be why he had stopped wanting to die. “This is unjust! Too unjust! To be killed over a misunderstanding—!”

He resolved to explain himself. He stretched out his blood-covered body and waved his hand toward the crowd. “Listen to me! Listen! Listen quietly! I am Tsuchiya Shōsaburō! It was last spring—a night of cherry blossoms—when I went to worship at the shrine in Kōfu. At that time, there was an old cloth seller. It was that one who forced it upon me—the Kōketsu Cloth, the crimson kerchief! It had my father’s name written on it! The name of the father I was parted from in childhood! That’s why I deserted. I deserted Kōfu’s mansion—the Takeda household! Yes—to find my father. ……And that’s how I ended up wandering here. Into this pure sect’s realm! This is my whole story! That’s why I have the Crimson Kerchief! I have committed no crime! I have no connection to Koketsu Castle! I’m a devout believer! Let me out of this sect! I want to go search for my parents! And I want to go search for my uncle!”

“Ah, death is terrifying!” “I refuse! I refuse!” “You’re all wrong.” “They’ll regret this soon.” “Release me! Set me free!” “…My throat burns—water! Give me water!” “Agh! Agh! Agh! They cut him again!”

A roar of laughter welled up and buried his voice.

He had to keep walking.

Suddenly his vision went dark. Oh—it seemed night had come. No no—the sun was shining. The setting sun was dyeing the sacred mountain.

His eyesight was weakening.

He could no longer walk. Suddenly, he felt a terrible pain around his shoulder. And then, he broke into a trot. He was struck with a whip.

He tried to numb himself. He nearly collapsed. No matter how far he went, there were people’s faces. All those faces were laughing.

Eventually, he arrived before the gate.

At the mouth of a horizontal tunnel running straight toward Fuji's Womb—that mystical realm—stood an oval-shaped copper door guarded by several gatekeepers. With a creak, the door opened. Then three rows of bonfires stretched endlessly straight ahead. The crowd did not follow.

Only voices shouting abuse could be heard coming from behind.

Shōsaburō walked on. A group of monks and armed believers, numbering over fifty, followed. He walked on silently.

The path was narrow and low. And the rock walls on both sides had been carved with various sculptures.

The path gradually widened. And the ceiling also grew higher. But it did not easily come to an end. It seemed to stretch on for ten leagues. Staggering, tripping, falling again, Shōsaburō walked on. His entire body was soaked in blood. It reflected off the bonfires. How he struggled to walk! In the end, what awaited him were the law and death. Moreover, he was to be killed for the sake of the innocent.

He finally walked through to the end.

The first gate of the Womb swallowed him whole. At that gate stood guards. “Who goes there?” asked one of the guards. “A criminal,” said one of the monks.

At that moment, the gate swung inward. Thus did the mystical realm of Fuji’s Womb come to receive the procession. The Womb that Kōmyō Ubasoku had first discovered in his days as a layperson now bore no resemblance to what it had once been. At that time, the Womb had been nothing more than a cavernous realm of caves. Now, countless buildings stood closely packed together.

Eventually, the procession passed through Jusō Gate and emerged before a stone-built tower gate. It was called Shitoku Tower. There, four statues of evil deities had been placed, bound by curses. Passing through that, there was a bell tower. The temple bell, blue with verdigris, hung high in the sky. While keeping the Five Peaks Tower and Six Regions Tower to their left in view, they proceeded toward the Nine Luminaries Hall. In the black wood palace, all of the sect’s treasures were stored there.

They passed through an arched gate. To the right was the Secluded Hall, which had been carved out of the rock wall. To the left was the Ascetic Hall; this too had been carved from the rock wall. They emerged into a courtyard and climbed a slope.

At its summit stood a tower. It was a beautiful vermilion-lacquered three-story pagoda where sutras were enshrined. They descended the slope to the other side.

At this moment, Shōsaburō suddenly let out a scream that seemed to tear apart and shook his clenched fist overhead. And then he collapsed face-down onto the ground. And then, at last, he stopped moving.

VI

By the light of noctilucas, the land of the Womb was hazed in hydrangea hues. Every artificial and natural creation was illuminated by a shadowless faint light.

The surroundings were deathly still. The sky was dark and high. The farthest reaches of that sky ended at the inner rock formations of Mount Fuji. Therefore, there were no sun or moon there, and also no stars.

The corners where the noctilucas' light did not reach were nothing but profound darkness.

Shōsaburō had not died. ――How peaceful it would have been had he died.――But he was alive. He had merely lost consciousness.

Three believers ended up carrying him. One ended up carrying the head, another the torso, and the third the legs.

The group of monks stood at the lead, with the unconscious Shōsaburō following behind them, while armed believers flanked them and trailed at the rear. The procession did not utter a single word. Only footsteps echoed. A single stream flowed. A short stone bridge spanned it. They crossed that stone bridge.

A long corridor appeared. A confessional hall of unpainted wood appeared. Passing that, they came to a riverbed. A massive natural boulder emerged in the sea of phosphorescent fire. It bore not a single ornament. Of all the buildings they had encountered thus far, this was the most divine.

The solemn mummy of En no Gyōja—the guardian deity of the Fuji Sect—preserved its age-old form, ensconced there.

The procession passed before it. And there, in the distant twilight, a silvery streak of light appeared. That is, it was an inlet of a lake.

The procession advanced in that direction.

Eventually, they arrived at the lake shore. The water shone like foil. The phosphorescent fire of noctilucas blazed with radiance. The water did not so much as ripple. It lay vast and boundless.

The shore was covered with rocks. It formed a gentle curve and extended far to both sides. An old-fashioned dugout canoe was moored. The reason it was gently rocking up and down was likely due to some ripples forming.

The procession stopped for the first time.

Then the ritual was performed.

Shōsaburō was transferred into the dugout canoe by the believers' hands.

He had been cast into the lake of death. Two or three people pushed the boat off. Then, the boat convulsed and slid out toward the open water.

The lake water was in motion. Though extremely slow, it kept moving toward the open water, swirling into eddies as it went. And so, following those eddies, the boat was pulled out toward the open water.

The boat was pulled all the way to the lake's center.

There, it became still for a while. Then it gradually began to flow. The boat began flowing southeast.

The lake water continued into a great river. The great river deep within the Human Cave—the one that Nita Shirō Tadatsune had been unable to ascertain—was indeed the very river that originated from the lake. Inside the boat, Shōsaburō had still not regained consciousness. He lay with his bloodied face turned upward, unmoving like a wooden statue.

The boat emerged from the lake into the great river. The river flowed gently.

How far would it flow? Would it merge into another great river? Or would it flow into the sea? Or would it plunge into the earth's axis?

The nameless great river that pierced through Mount Fuji's rocky roots—true to its namelessness—kept its destination unknown even to this day. It was a river without end. Most likely, it would vanish suddenly beyond the earth's surface. The boat shuddered as it drifted onward.

The noctilucas were gone. The waterway was literal darkness. The sound of the water gradually grew louder. The path to salvation was severed.

The boat began to surge forward.

Part Thirteen

I

The boat flowed swiftly onward.

In the boat, Shōsaburō had not yet revived from unconsciousness. The waterway was literal darkness. Only the sound of water resounded. It was the womb of Mount Fuji. The areas above and to either side of the waterway were likely rock or soil. And there was probably not a single plant growing there either. And of course, not a single fish could possibly live in the waterway. There must be no aquatic plants either. There must not be a single living being. Water! It flowed! Therefore, it could be said that only the water was alive. Through the womb of death, a single great river was alive and flowing swiftly. Moreover, as for where that water was headed, there was no one who knew. It may flow on and on until it disappears. It may plunge into the earth's depths.

The boat flowed swiftly for a while. The water's force appeared to subside within it; gradually the boat reduced its speed, and soon began to flow gently.

From that time onward, the surroundings grew bright. At first, far ahead in the distance, a faint glimmer resembling fireflies appeared, and as the boat advanced, that faint glimmer grew more vivid in color. Darker than a moonlit night, less lustrous than the hues of dawn—a pale, otherworldly light—but it was none other than the glow of noctilucas. Countless billions of luminescent microorganisms clung thickly to the rocks of both banks, within the water, and across the high ceiling above. That the rocks themselves were luminous bodies, and that the water itself appeared to glimmer hazily as if it too were a luminous body—this was only natural to conclude.

And then, the boat entered into the light.

His pallid face, sunken eyes, and bloodied arms and legs—Shōsaburō lay supine in the boat's bottom, his form bearing no resemblance to a breathing human being. He might die as he was. Unable to meet his parents or uncle, he might be buried from one darkness to another.

The boat advanced slowly through the light.

The light continued endlessly. Then, the waterway curved gently to the left. The current remained calm. There was almost no sound of rapids. Not a single ripple seemed to form. A single long wake trailed from the boat's stern. Illuminated by the noctilucas' glow, it shone with particular vividness, like a streaking white serpent.

The waterway gradually widened.

The boat 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 moved 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, smooth as poured oil. Had Shōsaburō regained consciousness and scrutinized that island closely, he would surely have been astounded.

For carved into the rock walls encircling the island were Buddhist statues. Those holding iron alms bowls with both hands, those trampling fierce tigers beneath their feet, those sitting before incense burners, those with palms pressed together in lotus meditation, those riding cloud dragons... Countless arhat statues in myriad forms and postures were vividly carved into the rock, as if chiseled just yesterday or today. This was likely due to the noctilucas' movement—the inlet brimmed with blue light that flickered incessantly like blinking eyelids without pause. As the light shifted, the expressions of the thousand Buddha statues alternated between brightness and shadow. Now one arhat's eyes closed as if dreaming. At the same moment, a single white line emerged along the folds of the priest’s robe. However, in the next instant, the closed eyes opened faintly, and in their place, the folds of the priest's robe vanished. But in the very next instant, a line of smoke rising from the incense burner emerged fragrantly soft.

The boat slowly circled around. As the boat advanced, the multitude of thousand Buddha statues bade it farewell and greeted it. As long as Buddhas are carved, there must have been someone who carved them. So even in such an uninhabited realm, could there have been people who once lived here? Who had lived here? Hundreds of years ago in that ancient time, En no Gyōja had lived here, ceaselessly wielding his chisel day and night to carve Buddhas into the rock. In the dark world unknown to others, the traces of efforts made unnoticed by people had remained as a thousand Buddha statues.

It was a product of faith. At the same time, it was also a product of will. It was also a symbol of the seamless fusion between self-perfection and the salvation of all sentient beings. Nevertheless, there solemnly stood carved the thousand Buddha statues. And thus it was an uninhabited realm. It was the depths of a land unvisited by people.

Now, the small boat drifted ashore. In the bottom of the boat lay a person. However, he was not a rational human being. The boat would soon drift away. Then, it would never return again. No one would ever come to visit again.

The traces of the great saint's labors would thus remain forever unknown to humanity, destined to be buried in obscurity.

II

After circling the inlet once, the boat finally emerged into the waterway.

The current remained gentle. Parting the faint light and pulled by the water, the boat drifted slowly away. Both banks stretched hazily into view. The banks abruptly became cliffs, the cliffs immediately became a ceiling, and the ceiling gradually lowered. From there, drops began to drip down. The waterway wound several times. The waterway rapidly narrowed, the water’s surface swelled, and where cliffs pressed in from both sides, a solitary waterfall cascaded down.

From a high point on the right-hand cliff, the waterfall cascaded down precisely toward the middle of the waterway. The waterfall’s width was perhaps five ken; the roaring sound reverberated throughout the cavern. Stripes formed on the waterfall. This was because the light emitted by noctilucas cast shadows upon the rushing water. Foam veiled the waterway. It was tinted by the faint light, studding dull pearl-like jewels. The waterfall basin seethed like boiling water. The reason the surroundings appeared bright was likely because the waterfall reflected the faint light.

The boat was about to crash into the waterfall basin. It tilted sharply once. Propelled by that momentum, it surged forward. And thus, the boat survived. Foam fell upon Shōsaburō’s body lying in the bottom of the boat. Shōsaburō’s entire body was drenched by the foam, and droplets streamed down from his face. When the boat had escaped far from the swirling waves' domain, the waterfall's roar grew distant. The current quickened slightly.

The boat lurched forward and backward as it pressed onward. When the waterfall’s roar had completely faded and the water’s flow gentled, silence returned again. Parting the azure glow, the boat continued on its journey.

Thus the waterway gradually widened until eventually becoming a great river. The sound of rapids grew audible. As the river's breadth expanded, its bed seemed to grow shallower. Even when mantled in foam, Shōsaburō regained no awareness. He walked death's path. His pallor deepened further still, lips drained of all color. A single droplet lingered below the corner of his left eye - a phantom tear. The antiquated dugout canoe continued drifting onward in this manner.

Then, a solitary lamp appeared from the right bank. That it was an artificial lamp could be discerned from the red color of the flame. A peach-colored lamp burned, imprinting a single distinct spot upon the pale blue expanse of noctiluca light that spread out as if draped with a sky-blue veil. Centered on that lamp, a space of one ken square was tinged a pale red. And illuminated by that light, a young, beautiful woman was kneeling at the riverbank.

She seemed to be washing something.

Behind her was a steep cliff, and at its base was a hole. It appeared to be an entrance leading to the Human Cave. And the woman appeared to be Tsukiko. Her long, pale arm exposed up to the base of her elbow and immersed in the water, she was washing something. She washed one and set it aside, washed another and set it aside. She was washing more than ten Noh masks one after another.

The boat flowed down slowly and gently.

If she had raised her eyes, she might have seen the boat. Then she might have rescued Shōsaburō from the boat to land. However, she was intently gazing only at what was before her hands. And so she devoted herself to her work.

And so, the opportunity was lost.

The boat drifted down the river. Was it night? Was it day? How much time passed?

Shōsaburō was unconscious. There was neither time nor place. There was neither night nor day.

It flowed and flowed and flowed—that was all there was.

The river water suddenly swelled in volume. A tributary flowed in a single stream. Beyond that lay a deep pool. And from around that time, gradually, bit by bit, the pale blue glow began to fade. Soon, darkness descended.

In the darkness, a ship of darkness, carrying a youth of unknown fate—whether alive or dead—drifted to an unknowable place.

Where was it drifting now? Could it be toward Suruga Province? Or perhaps along Kai Province's borders? Which direction was it heading? East? Or west? Had it been midday, spring sunlight would have illuminated the foothills, small birds would have sung, flowers would have bloomed, and travelers with tilted sedge hats might have walked cheerfully. And in Kōfu's castle town, that indomitable Lord Shingen might have been hosting a cherry blossom viewing banquet. But here—there was no life.

Cold and darkness and death and fear—unbeknownst to anyone—had persistently taken root here.

Three

The boat drifted onward ceaselessly.

It was a voyage to death.

At that moment, a thunderous roar resounded from the darkness ahead. From the sound of it, a giant hole had opened in that area, and the great river seemed to be plunging headlong into it. The boat rocked violently and surged onward. If there had indeed been a large hole there, neither the boat nor Shōsaburō could have survived.

The thunderous roar drew nearer. Then, in the darkness, the glimmering crests of breaking waves appeared like specters. Around the large hole were rocks, and the water seemed to be colliding against them. The boat was pushed backward and spun round two or three times. And in the next instant, it shot forward like an arrow. Then it suddenly veered sideways.

And then—what a bizarre turn of events. Calmly, the boat drifted. Then it began to flow out calmly. A few ken before the large hole, there was a horizontal tunnel that had opened up. The surging water and rebounding waves pinned the small dugout boat between them, and instead of pulling it into the large hole, pushed the boat into the horizontal tunnel. The horizontal tunnel blazed brightly, likely due to the noctilucent worms infesting it. It was not ordinary brightness, but rather a brilliance akin to midday.

The horizontal tunnel was rather narrow. The horizontal tunnel was so narrow that had Shōsaburō awoken and spread both arms to either side, his fingertips would have reached the walls.

It was because the narrow horizontal tunnel was densely plastered with noctilucent worms that it shone so brightly.

The ceiling was exceedingly high. And the water was deep. And the air was pure. It was undoubtedly a horizontal tunnel, yet it remained a waterway. Or rather, it was indeed a tunnel.

The boat glided along the waterway. The waterway was in full bloom. There, a "festival" was being held. On both sides of the leisurely drifting boat, alpine plants and Fuji plants bloomed in profusion on the narrow, towering rock walls. A solitary rock jutted out. It was completely covered in moss. There—as if snow—pure white flowers bloomed; it was the Fuji plant’s Odoriko Utsugi, and the Utsugi flowers scattered. It must have been due to the breeze softly rustling. The purple Fuji thistle flowers hung their corollas low over the water, their forms mirrored on its surface. The flaming herbaceous peonies and golden willow dandelion flowers bloomed side by side. And then a small winged insect parted the pistil and flew out. The pollen danced into the air and scattered like gold dust.

With its slender antennae quivering, the winged insect danced through the air for a moment before flying onward along the waterway as though guiding the small boat. At the bend in the waterway, rhododendron flowers were in bloom. The pale purple flowers of kodamiranshou, the spotted blooms of wheel lilies, the pink blossoms of crab-bat grass, and the pale red hemlock cherry flowers intermingled with ferns and rock orchids, blooming like a rainbow. Beneath the water, families of fish were playing tag. Now, a single red-backed fish broke away from the school and darted forward. The moment it did, the waterweed flowers swayed. And from that shadow emerged a salamander the size of a thumb.

In the pure air, the scent of flowers hung so thickly it was suffocating.

A land of fantasy from a fairy tale! The boat continued to glide onward. If there were gods, this would be their rightful dwelling. Because of rocks protruding from the riverbed, the boat was sometimes halted. Because of flowering trees extending from the rock walls, the boat was often supported.

But still it proceeded. The waterway turned right and veered left. Each time, new scenery unfolded to welcome the boat. Where rock walls stood on both sides, they were red as vermilion lacquer. There were places where fissures in the stone wove patterns that seemed to depict demons, bodhisattvas, and a youth. But Shōsaburō did not awaken. He could neither see nor hear. Lying supine on the boat's bottom—entrusting himself to its movement when it advanced, to its stillness when it halted—he slept in that liminal space between life and death.

The boat once again changed course.

At that moment, an unexpected light came shining from the distant front. It was a light like new wine. It was unmistakably the light of the morning sun. The morning sun came shining in. Could it be that around there lay the mouth of a cave leading to the outside world? The boat advanced in that direction.

The flow of water grew rapid, and though small, the cave entrance came clearly into view.

IV

It was a certain morning.

The water gate of Kōketsu Castle was opened with a dull sound.

With that, a sailboat kicked up waves and surged forth. A cheerful song resounded. *Now comes the bird catcher!* *Where are the birds? Where are the great birds?* Hood, sleeveless garment, workman’s livery, birdlime pole—Gentarō was aboard the boat. All his garments were newly made—only the birdlime pole remained unchanged. On a certain day in autumn past, the very same red-sailed ship that had carried him to Kōketsu Castle was now carrying him from Kōketsu Castle to the lakeshore. Gentarō was plump and round. His complexion was healthy, and his skin had a luster. And he was full of energy.

“Hey, hey! What do you say to that, Boatman?” Straining in the middle of the boat, he hurled his vitriol. “Once you catch someone, you don’t let them go! For a place that calls itself Kōketsu Castle, letting me escape—what’s that about? …Nah, wrong—I ain’t escaping.” “Tch, why the hell would I run away?” “They’re sending me back with a grand send-off. …But hey, Kōketsu Castle was really a great place for me.” “They lavishly dressed me in fine clothes, lavishly fed me delicious food, and let me do as I pleased.” “…Hey now, I guess that’s what they call paradise in this world, huh?” “Everything went off without a hitch… But hey, there’s just one thing that’s been bugging me.” “It ain’t like there’s any other reason for sayin’ this.” “Just that I never got to meet the castle lord.” “…Even now, I’m still so damn disappointed.” “After all, I’m going back without even meeting the lord who welcomed me.” “Rumors say the lord wears a mask—must be a real pain.” “Hmm… Now that you mention it, we did catch a glimpse of the Masked Lord.” “…Anyway, ah, damn it!” “That damn mist barrier’s still hanging around!”

The artificial mist barrier rose from the lake surface like a single white cloth hoisted aloft, standing to veil the sky. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! From beyond the mist barrier, deep beneath the lake's surface, an indescribably eerie sound continuously reverberated—it was the noise of blood-squeezing machinery. The boat abruptly surged forward. Yet they could not discern even an inch ahead. For they were moving through the mist barrier. Then, from somewhere ahead, a drum's sound resounded. In response, a conch shell's blast echoed from the boat. Both were signals.

Even when looking back, there was no telling where Kōketsu Castle lay. Whether looking ahead or down, there was not a shadow of anything to block the way. Whether one called it cotton or silk crepe, only white substances rising ever upward met the eye. Just when it seemed to advance, it would retreat backward; when it appeared to go left, it would veer right—the boat’s course remained undetermined. It was to prevent revealing the location of the stronghold.

Even the boatman's figure could not be discerned.

Nevertheless, Gentarō spoke to the boatman. “Just rememberin’ gives me the creeps. “…Was walkin’ in the garden when I happened to look up—and there that thing was, right? “Red war coat and gray mask! “Starin’ down at me from the watchtower, I tell ya. “Went ‘Huh?’ and looked again—gone already. …Looked so damn lonely. “And so damn pitiful too. “Must’ve been worried. “Poor bastard must’ve been sufferin’. “Loneliest soul alive, I bet. …Yeah, then there was this other thing. “Happened over in Nobetsu! “One night wanderin’ the halls—felt someone starin’ at my back, clear as day. “Got all goosebumpy and spun around—nothin’ there! Dumbass move. “But he was there. “Had to be him. “Yeah—the Masked Lord. …When we were in our room? Someone peekin’ through the window. “Stared right back—pfft, nothin’ there either! Stupid. “But he was peekin’. “Definitely him. …Walkin’, sittin’, sleepin’, wakin’—always felt that lord watchin’ me. “…But now I’m done with all that.”

The boat plowed ahead. His body became thoroughly soaked. It was the work of the thick mist barrier.

The mist barrier thinned, the water's color became visible, and before long, directly ahead in the high sky, Mount Fuji's full form appeared.

“Whoa, it’s Fuji! “It’s Fuji-san!”

Gentarō jumped up inside the boat. “Good morning, Fuji-san! What lovely weather! Long time no see! That mist barrier bastard blocked the view—couldn’t see you from inside the castle, see? …I’m back, Fuji-san! That’s right—it was last autumn when we tried heading to the castle. You saw us off with such a sad face, you poor thing… Well, I’m back, Fuji-san!”

Five

Gentarō excitedly rattled off.

"But you know, Fuji-san, truth is, we're downright disappointed." "Shōsaburō-san ain't here, see?" "Yeah, exactly—not in that damn castle. So here I am crawlin' back out." "Which means another round of searchin'." "Gotta comb through your big ol' belly area—go this way, that way, scour every inch of your foothills... How grand!" "Same as always!" "Pretty as a picture!" "Spring's here!" "Goddammit!" "A bridal veil!" "You're wearin' that snowy bridal veil again!" "You're always playin' bride!" "So your foothills go bloom-crazy." "That's what they call 'hem patterns,' right?" "...Ooookay, got a question." "Somewhere 'round your waist—what's it called? Fuji Sect? Yeah! Where exactly's that Fuji Sect hideout⁉ Spill it, I'm beggin' ya!" "Castle rats told me—loiter 'round Fuji's skirts, you end up in Fuji Sect or Koketsu Castle. No in-between." "So cousin Shōsaburō must've stumbled into the Sect's mystic lair." "Lord's orders—no choice." "Gotta sneak into that Fuji Sect and dig him out."

“To seek someone, I must journey far, crossing seas and mountains! That’s straight from a folk song’s lyrics! So tell me—where should I go and how?”

Yet Fuji stood silent and imposing, its brow furrowed.

The resilient mountainside bathed directly in the refreshing morning sun, glowing with a hydrangea hue. The accumulated snow had half-melted, leaving everything below mid-slope bare. The verdure of the sea of trees remained as it was last year - rusted black like iron - but soon this year's fresh leaves would undoubtedly burst forth with new greenery. Patches of crimson haze lingered here and there. If not peach blossoms, then they must have been mountain cherries.

Now, a flock of mountain doves swirled up like a tornado. With that, they suddenly scattered in all directions. But they gathered once more, cut through the sunlight with their gray wings, and flew all the way to the lakeshore. And then, suddenly changing direction, they turned back toward the sea of trees. Apparently, they had been startled by something. Sure enough, a single hawk soared up from a pine treetop. And then it chased after the flock of doves. The lake surface shone like silver in one area and rippled with wind in another. The lake water, roused from its long, long hibernation, still lingered in a dazed, half-awake state. It had swollen sluggishly with drowsiness.

And its color remained dull. The only lively ones were the waterfowl, cawing raucously as they splashed water with their paddles. And now the Red-Sailed Ship glided smoothly forward.

There were boatmen at both the bow and the stern. They were young, robust boatmen wearing Kōketsu cloth robes—two of those very boatmen who had abducted Gentarō to Kōketsu Castle last early autumn.

“This feels amazing! The wind blows! A warm wind! A spring breeze!”

Gentarō continued to frolic with abandon. “Boatmen! Turn us around! Spin the ship sharply! Make a full circuit of the lake! Grab those halyards! Change course!”

And so the ship moved along the shore and proceeded forward in a circular path. “Look, a rabbit! “Off with its head!” Gentarō clapped his hands in delight. This was because a chestnut-colored rabbit had leapt out from the withered grass along the shore and disappeared into a thicket of shrubs. In the chestnut tree, a squirrel was chattering. In the hollow of a rotten tree, a wildcat was growling at something. “Oh, a strange ship is drifting this way!”

Having shouted this, he pointed. An aged and defiled dugout canoe, pulled by the water, was drifting sluggishly and listlessly toward the haze. The Red-Sailed Ship and the dugout canoe gradually drew closer to each other. And they tried to swiftly pass by each other. In the bottom of the dugout canoe, a young samurai lay collapsed. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken, his arms and legs covered in blood—he did not appear to be a breathing human being.

“Oh, how pitiful—he’s dead!”

Gentarō muttered. But by then, the Red-Sailed Ship was already several ken ahead. The distance gradually increased. And before long, the dugout canoe was enveloped by the haze and vanished from sight. A gentle breeze. Sunlight. Wildflowers. Waterfowl. The spring of Lake Yamanaka was tranquil. And thus, it was as if nothing had happened. Undoubtedly, the dugout canoe was being pulled by the water and would soon be moored sideways against Kōketsu Castle’s water gate. Then the water gate would open. Then a separate fate would carve itself out.

The Red-Sailed Ship arrived at the shore. Kōsaka Gentarō disembarked. He stepped on the spring morning dew and embarked on a new journey.

From the direction of the sea of trees came that familiar bird catcher's song.

Behold, the bird catcher arrives.

……………………… But that voice too soon faded away. The morning sun finally changed to the midday sun, and the dew on the plants and trees began to disappear.

Thus Lake Motosu fell into stillness, with nothing moving save the waterfowl.

VI

“I remembered the past. I want to go see Kōfu.”

The Masked Castle Lord muttered.

Though night had only just begun, Kōketsu Castle was utterly still, not a single sound to be heard. The guests also seemed to have gone to sleep.

A single lamp was lit in the room. A white moth that had fluttered in through the window had left a distinct spot in the dark area of the floor where the lamplight did not reach. Then, it fluttered about and suddenly stopped mid-air. It was neither strange nor anything of the sort. This was because there was a black desk there.

On the other side of the desk was the castle lord. He sat on a camp stool. The lamplight glinting on the lead-colored mask's profile and the crimson jinbaori's shoulder - woven from Kōketsu cloth - resembled some grotesque sculpture. "Sacred" was an unprecedented designation. The malignant disease he bore had no parallel in this world. And it was a sacred disease. As God remained ever lonely, so too was he perpetually lonely. What pierced his solitude was Kōsaka Gentarō's visit - through it, he could feel a kinship warmth long forgotten. Thus he permitted Gentarō to live unrestrainedly, even violating castle edicts. And from shadows, he ever watched those movements.

From Gentarō's unrestrained actions, he recalled the unrestrained life of his boyhood. From Gentarō's singing voice, he recalled the popular songs he had often sung in his boyhood. Into the heart of this misanthrope, the flavor of human kindness had begun to stealthily creep in, without him even noticing when.

And during those days, he had even been happy. But that Gentarō had left. He had left at today's dawn. And once again, desolate loneliness revived in the Castle Lord's heart. There was nothing nearby worthy of love. In all likelihood, even in the near future, nothing that could comfort him would come visiting. Loneliness. Desolation. Loneliness. Desolation. It would no doubt continue forever. Having found some semblance of comfort now tormented him.

"I remembered the past. "I want to go see Kōfu." It was heartfelt yearning.

The former him would never have even dreamed of such a thing. He, the possessor of the sacred evil disease—no matter where he might go, he would likely receive no welcome. A hometown was 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?

However, he was starving. He longed to be sated. He was not picky about what he ate. When he swayed upright, a knocking sounded at the room's door. "Enter," he said in a daze. The one who entered was Manbei. "A guest has come."

"I see," he continued vacantly. "Nothing unusual. Who is it?" "It is an unusual guest. He came aboard a dugout canoe distinctive to the Fuji Sect... A young samurai. He had lost consciousness. But through my ministrations, he was revived." Manbei bowed respectfully. "Very well," the Castle Lord said coldly. "Per protocol... To the guest chamber. Now, Manbei, prepare the ship!" "Now, Manbei, prepare the ship!"

“Where might you be going?”

“Prepare the ship!” “Open the water gate!”

The Masked Castle Lord repeated his command. Two shadows moved in succession down the long corridor. When those figures vanished, the sound of the water gate opening reverberated. Next followed the rasp of sails catching wind. No moon rose that night. The sky and lake's heart held only stars.

And then, the sound of a drum rang out. In response, the high-pitched sound of a conch shell horn rang out. Yet even in this darkness where all sound had ceased, the sail of the racing ship remained undimmed by the night’s ink-black hue, blazing crimson—for it was woven of Kōketsu cloth.

Chapter Fourteen

The Masked Castle Lord went ashore, and the ship turned back.

The Masked Castle Lord went ashore, and the ship turned back. The foothills of Mount Fuji were shrouded in darkness. Only the stars pierced holes into the sky. Through the gloom-shrouded, lacquer-black night, two flames receded into the distance. One was the robe wrapped around the Masked Castle Lord walking on land, and the other was the sail of the sailing ship. The sail and robe—crafted from Kōketsu cloth—parted ways across water and land while blazing like flames through the darkness. Longing for his homeland’s soil, yearning for his homeland’s people, he set his course toward Kōfu.

But would the people of his hometown truly welcome him? He suffered from galloping leprosy. He was the bearer of a "sacred disease."

Sacred meant "there are not two." It was the definition. It meant "without equal." If God were not "the only one," it would never be "sacred." It is precisely because God is "the only one," "all things," and "the universe" that He is called "sacred." The Masked Castle Lord’s leprosy was the only one of its kind in the world. It was the last remaining one. Leprosy must be numerous in this world. However, the Castle Lord’s leprosy was without parallel in its malignancy.

The Masked Castle Lord walked on. Night dew that had pooled on last year’s grass pattered down. His legs were tightly bound with white cloth, wound without a single gap. Therefore, they should not have been cold. Illuminated by the robe’s light, a space of one ken square shone with him at its center. Within the suddenly flared bright circle of light, the crimson robe blazed like 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 while advancing ever forward. The Shōshō mask he wore, illuminated by his crimson robe, shone with the same hue. The area around his forehead glistened wetly, so vividly that it seemed blood droplets might any moment drip-drip down to his feet. However, that face remained expressionless. Only when tall grass blades and branches jutting sideways blocked his path would a few streaks of shadow fall across him—shadows that seemed either oddly comical or strangely sorrowful.

Contrary to his staggering wander, his stride was swift. It was because his homeland's voice called from distant horizons ahead. He even ran like a battle arrow. For in those moments, his homeland's voice rang clearer still. Yet he would slacken his pace at once, releasing labored gasps as though in agony. The sounds of grass-parted footsteps and intermittent gasps stood alone as night's foothills deepened.

A single length of cloth blazed like flame, at its summit's twisted knot rested a Noh mask bearing thick, slanted eyebrows; long, fish-shaped eyes; a sharply carved high nose; and half-parted lips—and moreover, that this apparition moved through the desolate darkness—how could one possibly describe such a sight?

The Masked Castle Lord walked on.

The wilderness gave way to a deep forest, and when he pushed through into its depths, his figure vanished for a time. However, before long, a mass of flames wove its way through the spaces between the trees. When the white birches welcomed him, their powder-dusted trunks reflected upon his robe, briefly tinting them peach-pink. However, as soon as he departed, they were swallowed by darkness once more. Oleaster shrubs blocked his path, and when he detoured around them, a nesting mountain dove startled awake by the light. And then it did not cease crying for a long time.

In one place lay a stratum of lava. Clear water flowed along its base. As he passed its edge, the water momentarily became fire. Longing for warm human bonds, the Masked Castle Lord walked onward toward his birthplace of Kōfu.

The forest ended, becoming a bald mountain. He crossed that bald mountain to the other side. 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 keep walking.

Another mass of burning flame crept along the valley slope.

Kōfu, oh Kōfu! Beloved Kōfu!

And so he reached the summit.

A wolf lay sleeping. He was not hungry. It was no longer winter. His prey abounded everywhere. In the hollow of a fallen rotten tree, he lay stretched out with full belly, sleeping contentedly. Something roused him. It was a firelight without heat. He burst violently from the hollow. But immediately hunched his back, tail clamped between legs, ears pinned flat. Why don't you howl, wolf! For the first terror since birth had passed before him like a running shadow.

II

When he reached the shore of Lake Shōjin, the spring night still had not dawned. He walked north along the shore. When crossing Fujimaru Stream, he took pains to hike up his hem. From beneath the raised hem jutted out abruptly two legs wrapped in thick, pure white cloth—what an eerie sight it was. Bending those legs awkwardly, he had to cross from stone to stone. Mushōno was a forest of larch trees where poisonous snakes dwelled. He feared nothing at all. He entered the forest. With a hissing rustle, countless snakes raised their sickle-shaped heads and came rushing out from the dry grass. But of course, not a single one attempted to leap at him. All of them raised their backs like waves and writhed in place. To encounter the unexpected at an unexpected moment—the fact that they had witnessed a blazing crimson light where none should have been—must have startled even these insensitive creatures.

He passed by the edge of Otohisa's ancient pond and raced across Chinomori's age-old battlefield as if running. The current of Ashikawa River was swift. And when he finally arrived there, the eastern edges of the mountains took on color. "The night breaks," he muttered.

However, he pressed onward.

The summit of Mount Ōgaku, standing three hundred seventy meters high, gradually took on a pale blue hue. Yet the mountainside remained dark, the entire mountain still unawakened. Mount Shaka across from Ōgaku, however, was half-awake. Then the storm came. A tempest that blew at dawn. All at once the trees began rustling, then the weeds bent low. The mixed forest—not yet budding new leaves—stretched its branches skyward like broomsticks and swung them side to side. Meanwhile, the grove of evergreens shuddered their enduring dark green from years past, as if burdened by weariness.

Now, a squall blew down from the summit of Mount Ōgaku. The larch forest at the mountain’s foothills was first to be stirred into motion. The cedar forest that followed soon began emitting a moaning howl. Then there appeared a hill of withered grass. The storm crashed against this too. It mowed down the withered grass. But the storm did not lose momentum, plunging ever onward. Beech, hazel, red pine, black pine— anything substantial enough to lie in its path could not escape this baptism. It sent rocks tumbling from valleys. It drove out herds of wild hares.

And then it sent the Masked Castle Lord’s robes whirling around his body—left and right, front and back. Now the squall assaulted the Castle Lord. Until now, it had been nothing more than a single shaft of light that shone brilliantly and quietly. But now it was not. Now it was a raging inferno. Truly, it was a living juggernaut. It advanced onward and onward. There was only one thing that did not move. It was none other than the mask. At last, the storm abandoned him and raced off toward Mount Shaka. Suddenly, at his left hand, the same turbulence welled up. From groves to woods, woods to forest, forest to plain, plain to hill. And then it struck the mountain’s rocky core. In the rocky crevice where a young wild boar had been sleeping, it awoke, roused the tree spirit, and let out a bark—this was the storm's final vestige.

The surroundings fell deathly silent. There was not a single thing that moved.

Only the Castle Lord alone continued to advance onward and onward.

From around that time, the stars began to disappear. The smallest speck of a star was the first to lose its light. Then two more vanished, then three more—they disappeared in succession. The pale blue of the eastern sky began gradually changing its hue precisely from this moment. The breaking of night too followed its own sequence. First the dark aquamarine gradually turned transparent, soon becoming a pale birch shade. Then it deepened into indigo before slowly shifting to an egg-yellow tone. A touch of crimson was added next. As if flower petals were unfurling, the scarlet hue expanded.

The mountains' surfaces revealed their folds; the sunken areas remained dark while the protruding areas took on color. From around this time, sparrows began chirping in the treetops. The symphony of color and sound was now beginning to envelop the foothills.

When the majority of the sky had stained crimson and that red reached its zenith, a single golden arrow blazed brilliantly from Mount Ōgaku’s peak into the heavens. Then countless golden arrows raced across the sky in all directions. The Masked Castle Lord’s Kōketsu robe completely absorbed that light. It became an ordinary crimson garment.

Three

A single oak tree stood. It was very tall. At the moment when sunlight seemed to strike a single branch at the treetop, today’s sun first revealed its brow upon Mount Ōgaku’s summit.

The foothills were wet with dew.

The dew sparkled all at once.

However, in the next instant, the foothills were shrouded in mist and vanished from sight.

The Masked Castle Lord descended through the mist, downward and ever downward. Furuse, Iida, Hashigo, Shin'ya—scattered small villages dotted the area. He intentionally avoided the villages and pressed onward and onward.

Gradually, the mist thickened. His legs grew fatigued. He found being seen by others detestable.

Eventually, he came to the slope of Takidō Mountain.

A giant weeping cherry tree stood there, thickly covered with blossoms all the way down to its base.

In its shade, he decided to sleep. He directed his lead-colored Shōshō Noh mask through the cherry blossoms toward the sky, piled dried grass behind his head, stretched out both legs, folded his hands, and lay supine on the ground. Would he actually be able to sleep? Even he was human. He would need to sleep. However, his sleep would not be perfect. But he was fatigued. It seemed he had soon fallen asleep. It was a strange tableau.—The drooping branches of the Jindai Cherry Tree bore blossoms so profusely they seemed ready to burst. And those blossoms had aged. And they scattered incessantly in profusion. Some fell upon his mask, others upon his robe, and still others upon his limbs—the falling blossoms sought to bury him.

The spring midday sun was warm. It steamed the flowers, steamed the people, steamed the earth, steamed the grass. From the earth rose a heat haze, ascending toward the sky. Filtering through blossoms and branches, sunlight the color of new wine speckled both the Masked Castle Lord’s mask and his body.

He had fallen asleep. Yet the mask did not sleep. The expressionless fish-shaped eyes remained wide open and devoid of life. The equally lifeless lips stayed parted in frozen silence. All around blazed with brilliance—every living thing pulsed with raw vitality as they drew breath.

Butterbur sprouts pierced the earth, purple violets released their fragrance, dandelion flowers opened their hands, and primroses beckoned bees. A breeze that beckoned all varieties of spring flowers to fertilization traversed from blossom to blossom. Then came the cry of a pheasant.

Then came the call of a mountain dove. Then came the song of a skylark. A skylark's song—flowing through the ocean of the sky, singing a wanderer's hymn in full voice, not easily ceasing its call! The Masked Castle Lord did not awaken from his slumber. All things were striving and striving to grow. The solitary body of the Castle Lord alone was progressing toward destruction. A terrible thing had been done. A sparrow flew down to the ground and looked around, perhaps searching for food. Then it discovered the Castle Lord. There, he innocently flew and hopped onto the Castle Lord's hand. The cloth was wrapped up to the back of his hand. What protruded were only fingers. But could those even be called fingers? In any case, there were only three. They had neither nails nor flesh. They were nothing but decayed bones. Moreover, they were curved like hooks. And then, a thick, eerie liquid was oozing from the tips of the bones.

It was "sacred liquid." It was not called pus. When the sparrow touched it, a terrible thing was wrought. Convulsions! Flailing wings! Total paralysis! The sparrow stiffened like a ball. And then it plopped to the ground. It fell as a lifeless corpse. The blossoms fell without ceasing. A flood of light and music was drowning heaven and earth. The Castle Lord did not awaken from his slumber. From the thicket of a beech tree nearby came a clamorous chattering. When they finally came into view, they were a dozen or so Kōshū monkeys.

They were playing hide-and-seek. While moving from branch to branch, they frolicked boisterously.

A particularly large male monkey discovered the Masked Castle Lord.

Four

There, he called his companions. Since the Castle Lord's condition differed from that of humans they usually saw, at first they formed a circle around him and stared curiously. Amidst them, that large male monkey crept closer on stealthy feet. Then pulled at his robe's sleeve. But the Masked Castle Lord did not move. The emboldened monkey drew nearer still and tugged at the hook-like fingers. Still, the Masked Castle Lord did not move. All monkeys cheered in unison. They grew thoroughly pleased with themselves and began imitating the large monkey one after another.

Still, the Masked Castle Lord did not move. As their opponent remained so placid, they gradually grew bored. So 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 into the weeping cherry tree let out a scream. Then it rolled down from the branch. Convulsions! Shriveling! And rigor mortis! ...The large male monkey became a corpse in an instant. Following that, several Kōshū monkeys met death through the same course.

The world’s only galloping leprosy took the lives of those who touched it.

The Castle Lord did not awaken from his slumber. The beauty of nature remained unchanged. Across the distant mountainside, a line of large deer ran. The time came when the shrikes fell silent. The long spring day too drew to a close. The hour arrived when the crimson robe of Kōketsu cloth blazed like flame once more. One by one, stars were born.

At that moment, the Castle Lord opened his eyes. And then he deliberately rose to his feet. It was as though a single pillar of fire stretched upward unrestrained. At its summit was a face. "To Kōfu." And he groaned out.

The pillar of fire slowly began to move. It gradually picked up speed. The nostalgic call of his homeland sounded. He had to hurry. He had to hurry! While following the Kajiya Highway, the Castle Lord ran as if flying. Scattered villages stood: Sayuguchi, Shingyōji, Nakaoka, Takikawa, Rokudai, Terao, Shirai Riverbed. He naturally avoided passing through. However, the villagers probably saw his figure. “Oh, a luminous being is passing through!”

"Oh, a pillar of fire races past!" "There must be evil at work!" "O God, protect us!" Some among them might have prayed.

“To Kōfu!” the Castle Lord groaned out. And he ran onward single-mindedly.

People of Kōfu, beware! "The sacred disease" seeks to invade. Bar the gates at once! Close every window swiftly! Let none venture outdoors! Do not gaze upon it! Do not make contact! Take heed! Your very people!

Even with Shingen’s formidable might, this alone could not be prevented. Even with the wisdom of Baba, Yamagata, Sanada, and Kōsaka—these men—this alone proved beyond their capabilities. Kinsmen, hereditary elders, vanguard commanders, great generals, honorable young lords, magistrate officials—no matter how much courage they had possessed, they could not have prevented the malignant disease. More than Uesugi, Hōjō, Imagawa, or Oda—these foes’ valiant warriors—the Masked Castle Lord had to be feared.

The Masked Castle Lord ran onward. He passed through Hama, Ochiai, and Kominato. He finally crossed the Fuefuki River. He came to Yamashiro, Shimo-Kajiya, Kose, Shimo-Kawara, Sumiyoshi, Ogawara, and Kuro. And then, far ahead, the lights of Kōfu's castle town came into view. “Homeland!” The Castle Lord spoke longingly. “Homeland!” He said once again.

From the spring of Eiroku 2 onward, a great leprosy outbreak occurred in Kōfu. However, the Fudoki records it thus. However, very few would know what path it took or in what manner it spread.

A bridal procession was passing through. It was night in Kōfu's castle town. The lantern light shone. A large crowd of people surrounded the bride, walking along while chattering. The procession was about to turn at the crossroads. And suddenly, a pillar of fire rose. At the top of the pillar of fire was a face. The people scattered in all directions. The only one left was the bride. The bride stood trembling. At that moment, the master of the pillar of fire spoke. “People of my homeland… receive my blessing!”

And then he touched the bride. It was a caressing hand. There, the bride timidly said. "I humbly thank you, O God." The master of the pillar of fire turned at the crossroads, and the crimson light vanished rapidly.

The procession began to move forward once more. And the bride groaned out. “It feels like insects are crawling over my body.” And then the bride spoke again. “Ah, my whole body is burning hot… Ah, my elbows have started itching… Ah, my knees are itching… Everyone, what’s happening to me?… Now my eyebrows are itching.” “…They seem to be swelling.” “…Oh, my eyes have changed.” “…Something seems to be oozing from my body.” “…Oh, oh, what is happening!” “…My little finger and ring finger have curled up.” “…Even if I try to straighten them, they won’t extend.” “…It hurts! It hurts all over!” “Oh, oh, my legs won’t move.” “…My body is unbearably sluggish.” “…My legs are cramping unbearably.” “…My fingers!” “My fingers!” “My ten fingers!” “They’ve bent like hooks.” “…I can no longer close my eyes.”

"...Ah, something slimy and vile..." ...” But the people celebrated. “God has bestowed His blessing.” “What... a joyous wedding.” “What a joyous wedding.” “Did you see her face! “How divine it was!” “A halo was radiating from her body!” However, the bride continued to moan. When they had gone a little over two chō, she suddenly collapsed forward. Instantly, chaos erupted. An old man held the bride. Countless lanterns were held out.

At that moment, the bride’s bridal hood was removed.

There was no bride's face there—instead, the visage of some unknown monstrous creature, having slipped free from the wedding kimono's collar, was abruptly exposed to the lantern light.

The complexion was leaden. Countless purple spots, like bruises, marred her skin. Her forehead gleamed like polished copper, and her eyebrows and eyelashes had fallen out. Of course, her hair had also fallen out, and her forehead was completely bald all the way back.

Eyes! Exactly! Look at the eyes! Only the eyes remained wide open. They were eyes that would never close again. Her lower eyelids had turned inside out, swollen capillaries resembling red silk threads. Yet she still retained her vision. But her pupils stayed open. The whites of her eyes filled with blood, glowing like charcoal embers. Her mouth hooked up diagonally, swollen like a futon's hem. And its color was leaden. Drool streamed down. From her earlobes to neck, edema had densely formed. Not pus—"sacred fluid"! It flowed from the edema.

Her ten fingers bent like hooks, and her ten nails left not even a trace. They had all fallen out. Her hands and feet were swollen with edema.

Her eyebrows swelled rapidly. And thus, a lion-like face manifested. One of her little fingers came loose and fell off. But she was not dead. Her consciousness was extremely clear. However, her entire body was paralyzed. She let out a piercing scream. It was because neuralgia had struck her. The necrotic process that would gradually occur over three to five years, ten years, or even as long as twenty to thirty years had transpired in an instant. It was the nature of galloping leprosy.

She was no longer a bride. She had to abandon her groom. She had to abandon her home. She had to become a beggar.

The old man who had been holding her let out a scream and released his hands.

The lantern flames scattered wildly.

The wedding procession scattered in all directions. Voices calling to one another tangled into chaotic disorder.

The second victim was an old man. He had been possessed by the "Sacred Affliction" precisely because he had held the bride.

His eyebrows fell out, his eyelashes fell out, and purple spots, edema, and nodules made his appearance grotesque. The third to be offered as a sacrifice was the unfortunate old man’s wife. She had succumbed to the same fate precisely because she had nursed her husband.

At that moment illuminating the dark night brightly, a cluster of lanterns came rushing in. The groom who had learned of the calamity came running with his family. Though adorned in ceremonial attire, the groom embraced the bride who lay collapsed on the ground. But overcome by terror, he cast aside the bride he had embraced. Before their very eyes his manly form transformed into a horrifying visage. And thus he collapsed entwined with the bride, falling prostrate as a leper. It was an illness that must not be touched. It was the "do not touch" disease.

The parents of the bride and groom each nursed their children.

And so, the parents too touched what must not be touched. Thus they all met the same fate.

Five

It was a night of terror. Kōfu's town under Shingen's rule—which had never once suffered foreign invasion—was now tormented by an unforeseen evil disease. Within that single night alone, dozens upon dozens of people must have collapsed. The traveler who had been walking heedlessly was clung to by another traveler and tended to them. And so he too became a patient. Patients spawned patients. Voices of groans, voices of curses, voices of abuse, voices of grief—they could be heard at every crossroads.

The night had deepened considerably. And tonight, there was no moon. Even the stars were sparse in number.

Lord Shingen's mansion alone remained utterly still and silent. Yumemi Mountain towered to the southeast, and Tsutsuji-ga-saki was to the northeast. The mountains stood black and settled. But the towns were in frenzy. It was the "Crimson Terror." The sound of fleeing crowds arose. It echoed through the houses. They were fleeing in alarm at something. Then came the sound of gathering footsteps. Unless they clustered together en masse, they were terrified beyond terrified.

“Where did they go?” “Where are they?” “What’s this!?” “What happened!?”

The storm shutters clattered open. The window rattled open.

In contrast, the sound of storm shutters closing could be heard. The sound of latches being slid into place could also be heard. A great star peeking through the clouds cast its shadow upon the moat. A samurai ran along Kajikōji Street toward the mansion.

Then, from the shadow of the Sone estate’s earthen wall, a samurai came running out.

“Wait!” “What?!” “Wait!”

“Shut up!”

Suddenly swords were drawn against each other. Moments later came a sharp gasp—"Ah!" One samurai fell slain while his killer stood over him.

“It’s Masugata Tōma. He’s my closest friend… Why did I kill him?… I don’t even know why. I was terrified… I can’t go on living… I’ll cut my belly open. I’ll cut it open.” He sat upon the earth and sliced his abdomen. It was the Crimson Terror’s doing. In one house, people grappled with each other. In another, they wailed. Something—yes, something dreadful—must have slipped inside.

But eventually, the night ended.

A pitiful procession passed through.

A young woman in bridal attire stood at the front, a square white cloth hanging over her face as she staggered. Following her came a young man. Though resplendent in groom's finery, he too had hidden his face behind a white cloth. Dozens more trailed behind them, all concealing their features with identical white cloths—some crawling on hands and knees, others dragging themselves along, many plodding forward with leaden steps. Those with fingers torn away, those missing legs, those bearing severed arms, those with ears rotting off—they were lepers fashioned in a single night.

They abandoned their homes, left their homeland, and wandered aimlessly. Then, the bell clanged. It was a chest-worn bell.

The sound echoed through the houses. The sky was heavily overcast. Then once more, the bell clanged. Along the highway at the castle town's outskirts, the procession trudged onward. Dogs barked, chickens crowed, and smoke rose from farmhouses. In the fields, rapeseed flowers spilled over in full bloom.

The holy hymns sung by the procession gradually grew more distant. It was a journey with no destination to return to. The voices of holy hymns faded into the distance.

When the anxious day ended, the night of terror came attacking.

The castle town at night was gloomy and desolate, with not a single soul passing through. The bell of the third watch tolled in the deep night. At that moment, a pale red light hazily struck 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 along the earthen wall toward Tsuchiya Uemon’s residence. The still-expressionless mask of the Major General was perched atop the pillar of fire. It was for bestowing blessings upon Kōfu，the castle town where Shingen resided，that the Masked Castle Lord appeared.

“My beloved homeland!” “My beloved Kōfu!” “Receive my blessing!”

Part Fifteen

I

“Is Kōfu truly that terrible? “That’s news to me.”

The one who had spoken was the potter.

This was the third station of Mount Fuji. A fire was burning in the hearth. It looked as thick as melted candy.

Today, the mountain was overcast. The air was also strangely humid. As a result, the small birds too became listless and hid in the leafy shade without singing. “This isn’t even worth talking about. The phrase ‘streets filled with the starving’ comes from Kyoto during the Ōnin era, but present-day Kōfu is so overrun with leprosy patients you can hardly move.” Though they called it spring, the cold lingered. Shading his hand over the hearth’s fire mouth, the bandit leader Mōri Makibē said listlessly: “So they say a pillar of fire appears.” The potter asked curiously.

"Yes, they say it appears every night." "So that's the source of the plague." "Yeah, that seems to be how it stands."

“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 looking for any decent work, but exactly ten days ago now—instead of work, there was such commotion. I came scrambling back in a panic.” Mōri Makibē gave a bitter smile here. “You fool. You spineless coward.” The potter sneered. “That’s the kind of commotion where you should’ve taken the chance to lop off Shingen’s head.” “Huh? What did you say? Shingen’s head? “This ain’t no joke! What the hell are you saying? “You think anyone could pull off such a reckless stunt? “And I don’t hold any grudge like that either.”

“Even without a grudge, it would count as merit.” “The greatest figure in Japan—officially recognized.” “Return to your former lord and you’d be reinstated—granted a land stipend of ten or twenty thousand koku.”

“No good, no good,” Makibē said, clumsily waving both hands. “First off, I don’t intend to return to service and receive some stipend. My current station suits me just fine.” The potter snorted contemptuously. “So you’re content being the leader of ten thieves?” “But I should be superior to you.” “I see. I have no underlings.” “How pathetic, being all alone.” “I have my own way of thinking.” “I’d like to hear that. What sort of ideas?” “Because I have confidence.” “And I hate humans.”

“So you hate humans?” “This is rich.” “Then hurry up and die already.”

Then,the potter did not laugh,

“That’s right. I hate humans.” “Therefore I shall preserve my health and live an exceedingly long life.” Makibē couldn’t grasp his meaning. He stared silently at the hearth fire.

"And," the potter said nonchalantly. "Your neck cuts terribly well."

Makibē involuntarily shuddered.

“What are you saying? You’re a creepy bastard!” … He hastily pulled his neck back. “Death itself holds no terror.” As if speaking to himself, the potter said in a calm tone.

“It’s the association with death that terrifies. … And what’s truly terrifying is being alive. … Yet humans cling to life forever threatened by thoughts of death. … Because they crave experiencing that terror. … How dreadfully dull life would be without fear. … Cowards commit suicide.” "They were devoured by the association with death." “By the way… Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain.”

The potter glanced briefly 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 had gathered in one spot. The edge was streaked with white. Perhaps the sun was there.

Taking a piece of firewood in hand, the potter shoved it into the hearth. With a crackle, the sparks scattered in all directions. One of them flew over and burned the potter’s left cheek. “Shingen must be in trouble too. However strong he may be in battle, he likely can’t overcome this terrible disease.” Makibē nodded. “That’s right.” “He’s panicking, that’s what it means.” “As immovable as a mountain”—even this motto proves futile now.” “Moreover, it’s said that Uesugi has dispatched troops and pressed toward the border.” “I see. Things are getting interesting indeed.”

“Lord Hōjō has also dispatched troops and pressed toward the border, I hear.”

“Hmm… I see. Lord Hōjō as well.” The potter looked oddly breathless, “Our lord seems increasingly vigorous… It’s been ages since we both became masterless samurai.” “But those days were stifling… I don’t find them nostalgic… My current station suits me best… What about you? Do you ever think back?” Makibē’s tone was mocking. “Me?” the potter said languidly. “I try not to remember, you see.”

II “Ahahaha! That figures!” Makibē’s sarcasm intensified. “For some, memories bring great pleasure.” “But not for you, it seems.” “What strange business is this?” “Hōjō Naiki of the Hōjō clan—was he not a samurai of noble lineage?” “Foremost among military commanders, bound by blood to his lord.” “A peerless warrior and martial arts master—one whom his lord must have esteemed most highly.” “Your fortunes then overflowed with blessings.” “How nostalgic those days must feel.” “That was how it should have been.” “Yet you call those memories painful.” “I cannot fathom it. Cannot fathom it at all.” “Ahahaha! It makes no sense!” “Yet upon reflection... perhaps there lies some reason.” “Ah yes—one common tale.” “This wretch must pain you to recall.” “The very reason you became a rōnin.” “Disgrace in martial arts would be one matter—but being cuckolded? No shame runs deeper.”

"But that couldn't be helped." "That's right—couldn't be helped at all." "But your real trouble was how the whole household's pity went to those cheating lovers instead of you, the cuckold." "'With a mug like Hōjō Naiki's, any wife'd get sick of him.' 'But that wife Sonny—she was the household's finest beauty.' 'Ban Gen-no-jō played it smart—snatching Sonny and fleeing the province. Lucky bastard.' 'And Ban Gen-no-jō himself—the handsomest man in the household." "'What a perfect match they made,' they'd whisper behind your back." "Even you must've been crushed." "So you quit the Hōjō clan to become a rōnin and bungled that woman's execution—no wonder memories sting."

Mōri Makibē amusedly spewed venomous words one after another.

“Now then, there’s one thing I want to tell you. It’s about their whereabouts. The whereabouts of that adulterous couple. I happened to catch wind of it. Well? Well? You want to hear it, don’t you? I heard it in Kōfu’s castle town. If you’d like, I could tell you. But it’d be a waste to give it away for free. Hand over some coin. Eh? Some coin?” The potter did not respond. He languidly sprawled out. He spread his right hand as a pillow, placed his left naturally against his side, closed his eyes and lips, and listened in perfect stillness.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Lord Potter? If you’re putting on a brave front, you should stop.” “If you’re going to put on airs, then get lost.” “Indeed, if we were still as we were in the old days, there would’ve been a clear hierarchy between us.” “I was merely a warehouse magistrate; you were a magnificent high-ranking samurai.” “But now we’re the same.” “We’re comrades nesting in the foothills of Mount Fuji, ain’t we—all manner of fiends.” “What difference is there?” “Yeah, even just this feels good.” “Exactly, exactly—for me, that is. What past could you possibly yearn for?” “Ooooh… What’ll you do, Potter? Gonna pay up or not? Don’tcha wanna hear it?”

He pressed on with rising intensity.

Makibē looked terribly delighted. Back when they had served in the same household, he had been oppressed by differences in status; even after they both became bandits, he had been intimidated by disparities in skill. Venting that pent-up resentment seemed to bring him inexpressible delight. Even as he pressed on and on with his words, he kept snickering incessantly.

But the potter did not flinch. He spread his right hand to serve as a pillow, placed his left hand naturally against his side, and kept his eyes closed and lips shut. However, his complexion was pale. He grew increasingly pale. And then the tips of his left hand twitched faintly, ever so faintly.

"Makibē," the potter said abruptly. It was a calm voice. It was icy cold. But there was a thread of menace.

“It’s for your sake—stop blabbering.” “What?” Makibē said spitefully. “You still putting on airs?” “If you poke at old wounds, they’ll burst.” “Oh ho—so it’s your old wound acting up.” “No good. No good—it’s starting to throb.” “What a pity.” “How pitiful.” “Blood takes revenge—beware.” “So what?” “What are you talking about?” “If you poke at old wounds, they’ll burst.” “And then, fresh blood comes gushing out!” “Blood takes revenge—beware.” He slowly lowered his left hand to his abdomen.

But Makibē did not notice.

“Lord Sangaime, my my, what a stingy fellow you are.” “Alright, alright, I’ll tell you for free then. …The tale I heard in Kōfu—it’s like a dream, but doesn’t seem entirely groundless.” “At the border of Kai and Shinano provinces, at the far end of Fujimi Highlands, in the valleys of Yatsugatake, there is said to be a Pure Land.” “There is said to be a monastery.” “A hideout for adulterous lovers—the abbess there is said to be a nun.” “But it is said she has hair.” “Once you flee there, they say they’ll shelter you—no matter how wicked a person you are.” “They’re probably there too—those two you’re after.” “Hearing it’s a nun kills the appeal.” “But since she’s got hair, ain’t so bad after all.” “Well, a fine Pure Land indeed.” “They don’t live separately—it’s a shared dwelling for two who love each other.” “And so it’s a life of repentance.” “Ain’t this repentance business so bad, eh?”

III

The potter still did not flinch.

However, his left hand gradually moved. It moved inch by inch. Eventually, it slid down from his abdomen. Probing the soil with his fingertips, it moved toward his feet. Still, Makibē did not notice.

He had somewhat lost his fighting spirit.

His opponent was being far too composed, making him feel like he’d missed his mark. And he grew anxious. He recalled wanting to say even harsher things to provoke a reaction. “Oh ho—what a fine business! “Taken a liking to this adulterer-hunting trade, eh? “Then let’s search together! “No foolish husbands lurking about, are there? “A husband like you!” “Makibē.”

And then the potter spoke. It was a flat, pressing voice. "What now? You need something?" Makibē licked his lips with his tongue. "I think I'll switch sides." "Huh? Switching sides? What're you on about?" At this, even Makibē was astonished.

“Makibē, that’s why you need to step aside.”

“What?!” Makibē’s voice turned menacing. “Don’t get cocky—this isn’t like the old days.” “I met Kōmyō Ubasoku.” Even during this exchange, the potter’s hand kept crawling toward his feet—inch by inch. The long sword lay there. His fingers crept toward it. “The Fuji Sect’s founder?” “Correct,” replied the potter calmly, “I finished him off.” “That’s none of my concern.” “But I was finished too.” “Haven’t killed since.” “Even this cauldron slave starves now!”

“So what?” “What do you mean?” Even as he said this, Makibē shot a sharp disgusted glance at the enormous pot hanging over the hearth.

“And then you came along and reopened my old wounds.” “How unfortunate for you. It must be agonizing.”

“So, I think I’ll switch sides.”

The potter’s hand kept moving. Two inches from the sword’s hilt—when it reached that point, it stopped moving. “Hey,” the potter said again. It was still a calm voice. “Look at my eyes—they aren’t open.” Those eyes were indeed closed.

With a heavy thud, the potter rolled over. The sword slid free with a whisper, tracing an upward arc from the waist—a left-handed circle drawn in reverse. No sunlight pierced the cloudy sky. And it didn’t gleam even once.

Suddenly, a scream—“Agh!”—rang out.

The potter stood up. A small bird abruptly began to sing.

It wasn’t that the wind had blown.

Dandelion flowers were blooming.

They were dyed a vivid crimson.

They were soaked in blood. A single corpse lay there. Its form was grotesquely comical. Two legs floated upward into the sky. They twitched and jerked. Two arms were stretched out. The fingertips grasped at empty air. It was a headless corpse. Blood flowed from the severed end. It spurted forth almost cheerfully. The head lay six feet away, rolled by the hearth, its mouth clutching dead grass.

Absently, the potter stood there. Nothing unusual had happened. "But," he said cheerfully moving his right hand to the back of his head. "Ah... That feels good right there. "The blockage seems to have cleared."

He approached the corpse, wiped his sword on its sleeve, and sheathed it snugly. Then he grabbed both legs of the corpse and dragged it over to the cauldron. He removed the cauldron’s lid with one hand. Steam rose up. He threw the corpse in with a thud. Next, he threw in the head. Then he put the lid on the cauldron.

“Now then,” he pondered. “Which way should I go?” “...First to Kōfu regardless.” “Then Yatsugatake.” “...Might get to cut my fill of men.”

He briskly descended the mountain.

Four

It was exactly the same day.

Along the Kajiya Highway toward Kōfu, two old men were making their way. They were of similar age, dressed in identical robes, and both wore their hair long. One carried a short sword, the other a wooden sword, each with their hands on their hips. The one with his hand on the wooden sword carried a medicine box on his shoulder. At first glance they appeared to be master and servant, but from their conversation they seemed more like friends. The owner of the wooden sword was Tsukahara Bokuden; the other was Naoe Kurando. They went along talking loudly and cheerfully.

“That looks burdensome. Let me carry it.” Kurando glanced at the medicine box. “Unnecessary. I’ll bear it.” Bokuden hitched the box higher on his shoulder. Along both sides of the highway’s cultivated fields, rapeseed flowers burned vivid yellow. The overcast sky intensified their hue until the very light seemed to sear the eyes.

The two men were headed to Kōfu.