Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Sakurai Hanbei was instructing his disciples in training while—

Why must I be forced to assist in this duel?

He pondered the reason why.
The disciples' spear tips thrust fiercely toward him—yet with nerves honed through training, he reflexively dodged them while raising his voice loudly.

"Toh!"

He did shout, but his usual sharpness—the disciples

Is he ill?

had diminished to the point of arousing suspicion.
And even when he saw disciples standing or sitting by the wooden planks, whispering among themselves and wiping their sweat,

(Aren't they gossiping about me?) Or perhaps...

(Could it be that they are criticizing me?)

he began to think such things.
And now he found himself harboring such suspicions even toward his disciples—the baseness of his own heart—

(You coward—)

Scolding himself while— But as for what he should do about it—that remained unclear.

(Because I am the husband of Kawai Matagorō's sister, I have no choice but to serve as his second.)
Why? Because even direct shogunal retainers with no relation are providing that much assistance—so there must be someone connected by ties who will step forward. Plausible-sounding words.
But—wasn't the one Matagorō killed Gendayū, Kazuma's younger brother?
To avenge one's younger brother's killer—there should be no such law.
If Araki and Kazuma were to disregard that law and kill Matagorō through reckless private duel, they would have to be punished for committing unlawful combat; and I too, knowing this clear fact yet still choosing to assist, would have to be punished.
In such a case, how could I ever make amends to my lord?)

In Mino Province, as the spear instructor for Toda Samon Ujigane receiving a 200 koku stipend, it was Hanbei.

When rumors spread among the public that the conflict between the hatamoto and Lord Ikeda had escalated into a major dispute—resulting in Lord Ikeda’s sudden death and Matagorō being driven out of Edo—the members of the household:

“Do you think Hanbei will assist in the duel?”

“Well, even against the hatamoto, he can’t possibly refuse to step forward. Even unrelated hatamoto have gone to such lengths—if he doesn’t come forth to assist and lets Matagorō be cut down without a fight, how can his samurai honor remain intact?”

they said.

But Ujigane and the other senior retainers

“This is not a situation warranting reckless intervention.”

they had said, and the chief retainer summoned Hanbei to

“Were it merely a vendetta or official execution, whether you assist or not would matter little. But this incident has even senior councilors struggling—rumors have arisen about poisoning Lord Ikeda or similar acts. The shogunate is already thoroughly struggling with this matter—they are trying to resolve it peacefully—yet if you recklessly assist in the duel and escalate the situation, there will be cause for concern from our superiors. What misfortunes may befall our house cannot be known. Mark my words—the discretion exercised here carries grave consequences. No matter what the clan members may say, I hereby strictly command you: You must not assist in that duel under any circumstances.”

he issued the command.

But whenever Hanbei heard the clan retainers' rumors about himself, he found himself dwelling on them even during training.

II

After going to the training area set up in a corner of the castle’s wide garden and giving senior officials one or two practice lessons, when he approached the corridor before the gathering place of the night-duty retainers,

“Araki being included in the official matches before the shogun... I wonder if his skills are truly that exceptional?”

One man stood with his arms crossed, leaning against a pillar, talking in a loud voice.
As those words reached his ears, both irritation and a mild anger arose within Hanbei.

(The clan retainers are bullying me alone.)

He felt that way. And then, he peered out from the open sliding paper door.

“What a full house.”

With a slightly pale forehead, he entered. The retainers looked up at Hanbei and fell silent momentarily, but as soon as he sat down, one man—

“I have a question.”

—shifted his posture to face him.

“What?”

“They say Araki Mataemon participated in the shogun’s official match—but why would a country samurai like him be counted among such distinguished company? Consider Koreisui-ken, Ittensai, or Isshinsai—all renowned swordsmen of national fame. Yet Araki, a mere Kōriyama Domain instructor with a 200 koku stipend—why was such a man included in this august contest? It makes no sense.”

“Because his skill is superior.”

“That may be so,” said one person. Hanbei—
“But consider—Araki being Lord Yagyū Munenori’s prized disciple earned him the Mataemon title from Lord Tajima-no-kami himself. Moreover, his involvement in that Kawai Matagorō affair served as credentials. This being a once-in-a-lifetime honor, Araki likely seized the chance for glory, while Lord Tajima-no-kami sought to showcase his protégé.”

“Plausible circumstances indeed,” Hanbei acknowledged. “They say his opponent was Miyamoto Musashi’s son Hachigorō—but could such lineage truly produce a master swordsman?”

“If Musashi willingly adopted him, there’s no need for further words.”

“Then—the match’s outcome?”

“That remains unknown.”

“Your stipend too is 200 koku—in rank terms, no difference exists. Yet... does disparity persist?”
“This impertinence I beg pardon for—were Araki to face you in combat—how would you fare?”

Hanbei formed a rigid smile.

“The hour’s fortune.”

he uttered tersely.
The retainers—their spirits chilled by their own impropriety—sat wordless until Hanbei—

“If I take up my spear—though it may sound boastful—I would at least fight to a mutual strike.”

Having said that, he stood up.
The questioner, flustered,

“Mr. Sakurai, please do not take offense,”

shouted, but Hanbei had already gone out into the corridor.

(The same 200 koku. Araki and I—but Araki fought in glorious shogunal matches befitting a swordsman's lifetime honor, while I would rot away in this countryside as an instructor to provincial warriors.)

This thought became unbearable—disgusting. The houses flanking the road, the trees, even the air itself—every aspect of Gifu filled me with revulsion.

(Matagorō's affairs mean nothing. When comparing Araki and myself—am I truly so inferior? Not to boast, but I too have mastered the highest level of technique. Araki may be a master, but our skill differs by a hair's breadth—whether striking or being struck, I'm confident I won't suffer disgrace. Assisting Matagorō remains secondary. 200 koku and 200 koku. With equal stipends—he displays swordsmanship before the shogun while I, unselected for those matches yet receiving the same stipend—viewed harshly, this deceives our lord. I am a stipend thief. Very well—whether my skill trails Araki's or not, I'll test it against his. As a martial instructor, I cannot ignore this provocation. If struck down, that's punishment for drawing pay unworthy of my skill. If I strike him—?)

Within the Toda household, when it came to wielding the spear, it was Sakurai—nicknamed Kasumi no Hanbei.

(Even if struck down, I will not lose disgracefully. Does only one who competes splendidly in official matches before the shogun possess true strength—or might even those who never participate still be strong? Across the realm, there must be many instructors besides myself subjected to such gossip, seething with bitter resentment. For the sake of those people as well, I will assist Matagorō in the duel. No—I am not going to assist in the duel. I will duel Araki. It will be a contest of skill between two holders of the same 200 koku stipend.)

Through the town now approaching dusk—amidst the early winter mountain gale blowing from Mount Kinka—he hurried toward his mansion.

(Though my wife is pitiful, there’s no helping it.)
It's samurai honor.
(This is the true samurai honor—an indomitable pride belonging to Hanbei alone, one he cannot speak of to others, yet cannot endure keeping contained.)

Hanbei's mind burned with feverish intensity.
An unbearable, unpleasant force was overflowing throughout his entire body.

(I want to leave by tomorrow morning.
Not a moment longer can I endure.)

He felt this. But as the mansion's gate came into view—black and imposing—(My wife will be surprised), he thought, feeling something hard welling up in his chest.

III

His wife Satoe had come out to the veranda in the waning light of dusk and was sewing something. Upon hearing the servant's voice greeting her husband at the entrance, she tried to put away her sewing into the closet and step out into the corridor—but there he already stood.

“Welcome home, my lord.”

Satoe said this and glanced briefly at her husband’s face, but his expression appeared no different from any other day.

*Today was fine too.*

Precisely because Satoe knew her husband’s nature, she both feared not knowing when he might declare his intent to assist in the duel and had resigned herself to it. Trying to resign herself to feelings she couldn’t fully abandon—from the day she heard the rumors circulating around her husband, just as Hanbei had—no, even more than Hanbei—she had tormented herself by imagining the moment of parting from her husband.

That parting was both a separation in life and a farewell in death.
That her husband—a retainer of the Toda household renowned even along the highways—should embark on this perilous journey where life and death hung in the balance, merely because he was Matagorō’s brother-in-law, merely because of a familial tie through herself—

Though Satoe considered Matagorō her brother, she did not think of him as a good one.
For Satoe, comparing brother and husband was akin to comparing strangers and herself.
The memory of her selfish older brother—the only son doted on by parents—and herself, as one of three sisters, treated with more disdain than anyone else, as if told to leave quickly, and married off to Hanbei’s household.

Even when recalling various matters, she felt some closeness with her sisters, but toward her brother Matagorō, she felt nothing—or rather, when she heard how he had killed Gendayū and fled, having even forgotten his sword's sheath in his panic, she found herself unable to speak before her husband. Had it been any ordinary husband—"A yakuza brother," she might have muttered with a displeased expression. But just as this thought formed—Hanbei,

“Shall we go boating?”

Sensing Satoe’s unease, her husband had taken her out to divert her thoughts—yet never once mentioned Matagorō.

That this husband must now assist her brother in the duel—this gossip among the household retainers inflicted twofold anguish upon Satoe. The sorrow of parting from her husband, and the samurai obligation compelling him to act for such a brother’s sake—the agony of being Matagorō’s sister.

*He will surely go to assist in the duel.*

Satoe,

(Obligations entangling me?—What could that possibly be?)
I don't consider him a brother—if severing his head while assisting in the duel might bring my husband honor, I might even strike him down myself. Yet why must obligations entangle me, his sister?
I give no thought to such obligations—yet must my husband act out of duty toward me for that very reason?
That may concern social appearances—but social appearances, samurai obligation.
(Such things—such things)

Satoe thought that if her brother Matagorō had been a man she could respect, she might have been able to ask her husband herself to assist him in the duel—but her revulsion toward this brother made even that impossible.
And then—the society that insists one must uphold duty to that sister—.

(What an incomprehensible world this is.)

Satoe thought such things—but she was a samurai’s daughter.
No—she was Hanbei’s wife.
She was preparing new travel gear so that he could depart at any time for her husband’s honor within the household—but she wept.

IV

“Satoe.”

In her husband’s eyes, in his tone, and then in his proper sitting posture—Satoe—

(Today?)

The mere thought made her chest tighten.

“I will go to assist Lord Matagorō in his duel.”

Satoe lowered her gaze.

“You must have long known of the household rumors.
But I do not join this duel reluctantly—compelled by rumors or pressured by gossip.
In form it is assistance in a duel, but in truth I wish to cross blades with this Araki Mataemon.
To you alone I will confess: Araki of Kōriyama holds a 200-koku stipend—as do I.
That Araki—as you know—has now appeared in an official match before the shogun.
Though we both hold 200-koku stipends—what difference lies between one who may stand before the shogunate and one who may not?
This I would demonstrate to the world.
Assisting Matagorō is but an outward show of samurai principle—I have no desire for it, and ample justification to refuse.
It is mere formality—I’ve no wish to go, nor am I such a coward as to set forth simply because slandered by household vermin.
Yet being told that even among 200-koku stipendiaries exists an abyss between those who attend official matches and those who do not—this rankles.
If I fail to prove my worth to our lord, I can no longer accept this stipend.
Moreover—look you, Hanbei—should I not go now, they’ll claim Araki’s strength in those shogunal matches cowed me despite equal standing.
This resentment I cannot bear.
I go of my own will—let who may say what they please.
Prepare yourself.”

Satoe immediately lowered her eyes brimming with imminent tears and silently stood up to open the sliding fusuma doors of the closet. She then brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle.

"For your journey preparations, my lord."

As she spoke, tears spilled forth like scattered petals.

“If you had declared this was to assist my brother in the duel, I would have resolved to stop you once. Yet to manifest my resolve—here, as you see—all stands prepared...”

Having said that, she opened the bundle to reveal a raincoat, gaiters, and traveling clothes laid out in readiness.

"When—when will you depart? That alone—I've thought of nothing else every single day—"

Hanbei was staring fixedly at his wife’s tears.

“I was watching nothing but your complexion when you returned home and when you went out. During your absences, I prepared travel gear—even now I was sewing this haramaki armor. Though reluctant to part in this lifetime when I think this may be our final farewell, life itself feels futile. Yet as a samurai’s wife, I made ready so you could depart at any time—”

Having said that, she showed him a silk-floss undergarment, quilted leggings, then stood up and went to bring out the haramaki armor with a sewn-in amulet.

“May you strike down Araki with success—again... again...”

Satoe’s voice trembled; her lips spasmed.

“Even should fortune turn against you—without a wound on your back—in honorable...”

When she managed to say that much, she choked back a sob, burying her face in her sleeve.
When Hanbei saw young Satoe weeping—she who, as a samurai’s wife, was admirably managing her reluctant attachment—he found himself, for some reason, unable to endure his hatred toward Matagorō.

(You commit murder, then to save your own skin, subject this innocent sister to such torment—and place even me on the brink of life and death—)

No sooner had this thought arisen than he burned with contempt—for though Matagorō was ostensibly the one he would assist in form, in his heart he seethed with resentment. And

(I am going for my own sake.
It's not for Matagorō's sake!
Who would aid the likes of you cowards?)

he thought.

Five

Her husband’s fate hung in uncertainty—when and where he might encounter enemies, whether he would strike them down or be struck down himself.

At the Buddhist altar, the lamp was always freshly lit, and the offering meals were beautifully arranged—yet among them, one ominous thing stood out: strands of cut hair within paper atop thin silk.

“My lord, Lord Uchiyama has arrived.”

“Oh—”

Satoe became flustered upon hearing of the chief retainer's visit and was having the guest room prepared when—

“No need for that.”

A voice resounded through the corridor as Uchiyama entered.
And

“Ah,”
he laughed.
When Satoe pressed both hands to the floor and began her formal greeting—

“No need for formalities—remain as you are.”

Having said that, he remained standing while viewing the garden.

“I’ve come with good news. Actually—”

“Yes.”

With her hands still pressed to the floor, she raised her face.

“Araki Mataemon has come to the castle town with Kazuma accompanying him.”

“What?”

Satoe’s complexion changed.

“At teahouses or inns, he apparently made various inquiries about Hanbei and promptly departed, but according to the innkeepers, it seems even Araki greatly fears Hanbei’s spear.”
“Again and again, he apparently asked various questions—things like the spear’s length, the tip’s length, whether Hanbei favored tube-joined spears or straight spears.”
“It must have been along the road descending from Edo.”
“Given Hanbei’s renowned skill with the spear, Araki must have come investigating—yet for a warrior of such caliber, one who fought Miyamoto Hachigorō to a draw in an official shogunal match, to come inquiring about Hanbei despite his own expertise—this brings samurai honor.”
“If Hanbei had been present, we could have arranged a match—but they say he panicked and fled—”

“How did you know it was Lord Araki?”

“Since Kazuma is a beauty for the ages, they recognized him immediately and gave chase, but could no longer reach him.
“Given that someone of Araki’s stature is taking precautions, it’s an honor for Hanbei as well.”
“Though you must be lonely being alone, do not lose heart and wait.”
“That’s all.”

“Ah, some tea...”

She called out to Uchiyama’s retreating figure, but Uchiyama—

“No, no.”

With that, he raised a hand and hurried down the corridor toward the entrance. After seeing Uchiyama off from the formal entrance platform—

(Araki of such caliber—those words had clearly positioned Araki above her husband.
Her husband had stormed out over that—)

As this realization took hold, Satoe found herself growing angry at the chief retainer.

(To think he came bearing good news—it wasn't to tell us Lord Araki was superior to my husband. Yet Lord Araki did come asking about him—)

When she heard rumors about her husband and deemed him a formidable enemy, thinking of Mataemon who had come to inquire about his circumstances, rather than perceiving him as an enemy who would kill her husband, she felt he was someone who understood and truly knew her husband—she even began to feel a sense of familiarity somehow.

Six

Matagorō was taking shelter at the temporary residence of Kawai Jinzaemon in Nara-Tegai.

Matagorō, who had been busy concealing himself through Edo to Hiroshima, Hiroshima to Osaka, and Osaka to Nara, had become thoroughly sunburned and travel-worn.
To Hanbei, that appeared less as something pitiable and more as cowardice.
And that was the same for Jinzaemon, Matagorō’s uncle.
Jinzaemon, seeing that Hanbei had abandoned his stipend and come to assist, said to Matagorō—

"You shamelessly scurrying about is causing trouble for everyone," he said with a laugh. Then, "Given our obligations to the direct shogunal retainers—since they went to such lengths to support and protect you, we can’t simply hand your head over to the Ikeda men. Taking shelter is understandable, but this endless fleeing is unseemly. If we’d put up a notice declaring 'Kawai Matagorō Lodges Here' and let the Ikeda men come charging in—even if you were killed, dying in a proper fight would leave your martial name for posterity. But this wretch lacks that resolve."

"I find living more interesting than dying."
"Matagorō."
"Young samurai these days have come to value money, women, and long life more than maintaining warrior honor."
"That’s just how things are these days."

Hanbei laughed.
And

“Lord Kawai and Araki hail from the same domain—but what of his skill，his character—”

“That guy may be Tajima’s favorite and even participated in this honorable match again,” he said with a derisive snort, “but I don’t think his skill surpasses mine all that much.”
“If I were to face him now—should I say the outcome would depend on fortune’s whim?”
“A paper’s breadth apart, should I say.”
“I cannot claim I will surely defeat him, nor can I say I will surely be defeated.”
“As for the man—first-rate, I’d say.”
“Perhaps he’s more attuned to modern ways than I am. When I heard that fool had been driven out of Edo alone, I immediately sought leave from my lord to assist him in the duel—but for whatever reason, that Araki fellow didn’t take leave at all.”
“All that time spent thinking—does he have more sense than I do?”
“Ha ha ha ha!”

Matagorō said to Hanbei,

“You might call Uncle an old-school samurai spirit—a man of single-minded determination—but I can’t help feeling he’s playing into Araki’s schemes.”
“Even among Kōriyama Domain retainers, their skills are considered equal—Uncle and Araki—yet Araki commands greater esteem.”
“The reason for his higher standing lies in his teaching—he adjusts to each student’s ability.”
“But Uncle only ever conducts brutal drills—”

“That’s precisely correct.”
“What worth has a man who can’t withstand my rigorous training when battle comes?”
“Even if mediocrities improve somewhat through Araki’s methods,” he scoffed, “such practice-hall swordsmanship proves worthless against live steel. True mastery isn’t mere bamboo-sword finesse!”
“When crisis strikes, one must forge a spirit willing to plunge through fire and flood.”
“You least of all have tempered such mettle.”

Hanbei felt he could now grasp Araki’s approach to training.
Jinzaemon relied on his own skill and did not seek to understand his enemy, but Araki knew himself and strove to understand his enemy as well, he thought.

“Now that Hanbei has come, there’s no need to linger here. Let us depart for Edo at once. In keeping with the dignity of our 200 koku stipend, we shall bear bow and spear—ready to encounter Araki whenever it may be—and enter Edo openly in broad daylight. Very well—whether we kill or are killed, that is the attitude befitting a samurai. Were it possible, I’d raise a banner inscribed ‘Kawai Matagorō and Company,’ but that cannot be done, Hanbei.”

Jinzaemon laughed loudly again.

Seven

The horse crunched through the frost pillars, blowing out long plumes of white breath.
When they came onto the temporary bridge at Nagata Bridge

“Hanbei, wait! Wait!”

Jinzaemon shouted from behind.
When Hanbei turned around,

“It’s unbearably cold—I’ll add another layer.”

he called out and stopped his horse.
Hanbei nodded—but

(He shouldn't let his guard down,) he thought. Because it was a cold morning, everyone wore thick layers. If they added more clothing on top of that, they wouldn't be able to move when needed—but since Araki's group hadn't been spotted since yesterday, Hanbei too—(He probably can't endure the cold anyway. Kawai was already past forty—)

Thinking this, he surveyed Ueno town ahead, the mountains they had come through behind, and the rice fields around them.

_When a man passes forty in martial arts, does he start to decline? Had age weakened his body so much that the cold now bit so deep? No—it was all a matter of training. After all, there were those who wore just a single lined kimono even at sixty._

Hanbei had always considered Jinzaemon a man of considerable skill, but in matters of intellect and resolve, he judged Araki superior. And

(I will fight alone.
I won't rely on anyone.)

And no sooner had he thought this than he realized that offering criticism about Jinzaemon's layered clothing had been ill-advised.

(Whatever others may do, I am my own.)

With that thought, he began to slowly urge his horse forward.

"My apologies for the wait."

Jinza shouted.
And,

"When you get old, it's the cold you just can't endure."

he said.

At the head of the procession rode Toraya Gozaemon—an Osaka townsman and Matagorō’s brother-in-law—on horseback. Next followed Hanbei with three attendants: a spear bearer, a servant, and a page. Behind them came Matagorō with three retainers, and finally Jinzaemon with another three retainers. Bearing upright spears, ornamental guns, and bows with arrows—each displaying the dignity befitting their stipend—they approached Koda Town in Ueno, presenting the very image of a household dedicated solely to the spear.

At the dead end stood a high stone wall with a house perched atop it.
To the right, the steep incline of Tōsezaka slope descended directly into town; to the left ran a narrow alleyway that led out behind the castle.

And at both sides of this three-way crossroads stood two tea houses—Kagi-ya and Yorozu-ya—operating as corner shops that sent off and welcomed travelers (some theories posit Kagi-ya occupied the right corner). (Now there stands a new establishment called the Kazuma Tea Shop.)

Eight

At the very moment Hanbei turned right at Yorozu-ya's corner, a samurai who had been standing behind a tree near the stone wall on the left side came running out. He wore a white headband and had taken a hakama-clad stance. Hanbei—

(So here it begins...)

At the moment he thought this, a sharp battle cry rose from behind, and simultaneously, a chaotic uproar of voices erupted.

“Kisuke!”

With that, Hanbei reached out his hand, attempting to take the spear from the spear bearer.
And then, the spear bearer

“Yes,” he answered and was about to hand the spear toward Hanbei—the instant
“Grah!”
The man who had rushed out struck at the spear bearer.
As the spear bearer dodged the blade, the shaft of the spear slipped from Hanbei’s grasp.

“Kisuke!”

Hanbei shouted while scanning behind and to the sides—when a samurai came running from between the trees on the right, turning his blade toward Hanbei and glaring as he edged closer—so Hanbei, still fixated on the spear, leapt from his horse, drew his sword, and turned to the spear bearer—

“The spear! Quickly!”

Shouting this, he raised his sword against the approaching samurai.
And—

*Araki must be fighting Jinza.
Jinza won’t be cut down without a fight.
But I don’t want Jinza to kill Araki—whether I’m stronger or Araki is stronger, I came here to settle that.*

Hanbei wanted to quickly kill this underling and face Araki.
And so,

"You wretch—face me!"

With that shout, he began pressing forward step by step.
Even with a sword in hand, the gulf between him and his opponent remained insurmountable.
The adversary stood crimson-faced, biting his lip—unable to muster a battle cry—as he edged backward—but in that instant when his sword tip twitched upward for a desperate strike, Hanbei

"Hya—!"

Struck—forced a dodge—then with the second slash cut through the shoulder—the opponent staggered back three or four feet.
Hanbei

(The spear.
If I don't take up the spear, I can't engage in proper combat—the spear.
Take the spear—)

From Jinza's direction came complete silence now.

(Had the outcome been decided—or—)

As he thought this, he glanced toward the spear bearer—spectators had already formed a dark mass on the slope, behind trees, atop stone walls.
The spear bearer swung the spear desperately, trying to pass it to Hanbei by targeting openings in the opponent's guard—but the opponent struck at the spear with his sword, dodged, and made feinting lunges, blocking the space between spear bearer and Hanbei.
Hanbei—
(Araki must have ordered them not to let me take my spear—fearing its power.)

he concluded.

“Coward!”

A voice called out from behind. When he turned around—his opponent stood with a slashed shoulder, already pale, enduring as his sword tip kept threatening to droop—facing Hanbei.

“Running away?”

The man shouted and glared. He halted, drawing heaving breaths through his shoulders.

Poor things—these two were trying to pin me down.
Araki had executed his tactics skillfully.
I had fallen into Araki's strategy.
If Araki were to come here now, I would have to fight with my inferior sword skills.
The spear... Without the spear—

For the lord's honor, for my wife's resolve, for my own martial path—

(If I don't take up the spear—)

Hanbei thought them pitiful—but

“Fool!”

With that shout—having slashed down once—he immediately turned toward the samurai battling the spear bearer.

“Won’t you clear out?!”

He raised his bloodied sword as he shouted.
The samurai leveled his blade toward Hanbei while the spear bearer—

“Master!”

—shouted as he extended the spear’s shaft—

“Hanbei!”

A heavy footfall accompanied the voice.

(Araki.)

The moment this thought formed, Hanbei reached for the spear.
Yet again it hovered just beyond his fingertips—wrenched away as the bearer desperately swung it.

“Araki!”

Araki stood tall with a slightly pale face, gripping a long, thick sword at the ready. He towered over Hanbei both in height and robust build. Without a haori and wearing only a chain headband, his attire remained light and unrestrictive. His lips bore a faint smile of composure—breathing steady, stance perfected, footing precise—Hanbei...

_Splendid._

The realization that he couldn't face him spear-to-spear welled up from the depths of his bowels—a bitter mix of grief and indignation seeping through his core.

(Why—at this critical moment—can’t I take up my spear?) Even if I lose—even if I must yield victory—I want to fight a full, satisfying match with my spear. Before this crowd of spectators—between two men of equal 200-koku status: Araki who graced official shogunal matches, and I who never did—which of us would demonstrate sharper prowess? Which would display more commendable bearing? As one born to a house of spearmanship—I wanted—at least in my final stand—to cross blades fully with my spear—the spear—) Hanbei, toward Araki who had schemed to prevent him from taking up his spear,

(How about that? He must have heard the rumors and gotten scared.)

I wanted to say—but that wasn't something to voice aloud.
At the same time, anger welled up within me toward Araki—who sought to seal my strengths and force a match with my inferior sword—for this attitude unworthy of a samurai, dishonest and scheming.

(These spectators probably don’t know about such things.
They probably don’t know that I am Sakurai Hanbei of Mino—they must still think I’m a swordsman.
*That’s not true!*
If I could just take up my spear—I could give Araki an even match.
Is there no one who will tell Araki to let Hanbei have his spear, who will declare Araki a coward—No—thinking such things is cowardly.
With my inferior sword, how well can I fight against Araki?
Victory or defeat aside—how valiantly had I fought?
That was acceptable.
If the people of the province could understand how valiantly I had fought—if Hanbei had only possessed his spear at that moment—they would surely say he could have matched Araki blow for blow.
The spear bearer falling for Araki's stratagem marked the end of my fortune.
I will fight Araki splendidly with this sword—and lose to him splendidly.
What samurai value is not victory or defeat.
The contest lies in its conclusion.
(It's the attitude during the contest.)

Hanbei assumed the seigan stance and faced Araki.
And then, just like that, neither moved.

How much time had passed—Hanbei could not tell.
His breathing grew labored, sweat seeping through.
Araki too had erased his smile now, eyes gleaming strangely—an expression of considerable urgency.

(Even with inferior swordplay—I had fought until now.)
This was sufficient.
Among these spectators—there must be discerning eyes.
Someone would convey this to our province.
That sufficed.
(Perhaps better this way—fighting this far with an inferior blade rather than losing with my spear.)

When he thought this, he took a step back.
And then,

(Damn it!)

He cried out inwardly.
The sole of his foot had stepped on something and slipped.
When he instinctively tried to block the sword Araki would bring down, his body gave way and staggered.
True to form, Araki seized this hair's-breadth opportunity and struck.
Hanbei crashed heavily into the dried pine needles stacked high inside the storage shed beside Keya.

Nine

His entire body felt as though it were burning with pain.
His throat parched, his entire body burned with fever, and his consciousness occasionally grew distant.

They tended to him, nursed him, applied ointments, and made him take medicine, but their faces only appeared dimly.
And Hanbei's head was clouded as well, and at times he saw himself fighting Araki with his spear.

(I fought splendidly! Even without a spear, I fought splendidly—if only I hadn't slipped on those dried pine needles, the match would have lasted much longer. Misfortune struck me twice in succession. But I fought valiantly! I must convey this to the homeland—I want to write a letter—someone—even an oral account would suffice—someone—)

In his increasingly hazy mind, he thought such things while—
"I am not dishonorable."

A person stretched their neck and leaned an ear close to his mouth.

"Tell them in the homeland—that I fought splendidly."

That person nodded.

"The wound on my back—it was inflicted—after I fell."

“That guy’s truly despicable—”

And that person replied.

“To the homeland—that Hanbei crossed swords with Araki and fought splendidly—”

“I will convey it properly. Don’t lose heart.”

“To my wife as well—that Hanbei was not inferior to Araki—”

Even as he said this, that person’s face had already begun to fade into dimness.

(I fought splendidly.
Those who saw will come to know.
If it later becomes known that one was Araki and the other Sakurai, those who understand will surely praise me.
Whether one participates in official matches or not, a samurai with true dedication is the same—if only I could see my wife once more—I want to explain in detail to the household members as well—will this person here convey it?—will they speak ill of me, thinking it was merely assistance to Matagorō?—no—those with noble intentions will understand.)

As he was thinking this, his hearing too began to fade.

(I might already be done for.
However, as a samurai and as a martial artist, I acted splendidly and contemplated deeply.
Someone—no, even if just my wife—at least she would understand.
That's still fine—)

Within the gray, Hanbei saw a place with just himself and his wife.

Postscript: The Iga Crossing vendetta is recorded in both the Toda family's official chronicle "Ruisei Kiji" and other popular records as involving four from Araki's side and seven from Matagorō's faction including samurai retainers and servants—eleven participants total. However, since Ichiryūsai Teizan (the second) dramatized it with thirty-six attendants, this inflated number has become widely accepted.
That someone like Sakurai Hanbei—a splendid samurai at twenty-three—has not been properly introduced is truly regrettable.
At this time, the only ones Araki cut down were Kawai Jinzaemon and this Sakurai Hanbei.