Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“A secret talk—come over here.” He was Kobayashi Heihachirō, chief retainer of the collateral branch of the Uesugi family dispatched to guard Kōzuke-no-suke at this Kira mansion. Kobayashi looked up as Shimizu Issumi—fellow Uesugi retainer and inspector whom he'd summoned—stepped briskly inside, then slid the writing desk he'd been using off his knees and set it aside. “It’s bitter cold today.” “Yes.” “After all, December’s upon us.”

Kobayashi pushed aside the brazier he had been warming his hands over, and Issumi, as if snatching it away, clutched it to himself and sat down. “What kind of matter are you referring to—?” Among the many retainers sent from the Uesugi family, these two got along particularly well. Ignoring differences in status, they spoke in such a friendly manner. It was a room in Kira’s mansion in Honjo Matsuzaka-cho, outside the vermilion lines.

Kobayashi remained silent for a moment, “Caution upon caution—” With that, he stood up, slid open the veranda’s lattice shutters and the adjacent room’s partition doors on both sides with a clatter, then returned to his seat with a bitter chuckle. From the garden, pale sunlight streamed in gently. Issumi— “Things have gotten quite strict, haven’t they?” A habit of this man when discussing important matters—Kobayashi smiled amiably, “In front of this back gate, there’s a general goods store. Do you know of it?” he began, peering at Issumi’s face. “There’s someone called Komeya Gohei—that’s Maebara, an Akō ronin—we’ve received a tip about him.”

Issumi laughed. “Again? I was told about an Azukiya Zenbei at some general store in Honjo being an Akō ronin in disguise. Let’s see—Kanzashi Shigorō, Gogorō... but it’s all nonsense. If we follow that logic, Akō rōnin must be lurking everywhere here! How could we possibly endure that? By that measure, every merchant and official informant coming through would be an Akō rōnin! Hell, you yourself might be one of their finest operatives—Ha ha ha! No—sheer paranoia, hearing phantoms in every breeze—”

Kobayashi took out the former Akō domain directory from the document box, spread it open on the tatami mats and examined it, then suddenly pointed to a certain spot,

“Look, it’s right here. “Maebara Iasukesōbō—minor page, concurrently finance magistrate, ten koku and three-person stipend—”

II

Issumi shook his shoulders with a nervous fidget, muttering under his breath: “Shimizu Issumi—this temporary alias grows tiresome! Why bother hiding? At this rate, they’ll soon claim I’m actually a retainer of Asano Takuminokami Naganori himself! Ha ha ha!” But noticing Kobayashi’s grave expression, he lowered his eyes to the directory. “Hmm... So we’ve confirmed this Maebara truly is the rice shop owner by the back gate? Then I’ll cut him down tonight—but—”

“Now, hold on. As for this matter, I’ve already ordered Hoshino to look into it.”

“Then we’ll wait for that report—but I can’t help feeling we’re all getting a bit too jumpy.”

“However, Shimizu—perhaps because the year’s end approaches—society has grown quite turbulent indeed.” “When you say that,” Issumi smiled and made a gesture of gripping his sword, assuming a stance. “It may well be upon us soon—this.” “Hmm.” “It’s about that matter.”

Kobayashi slid his knees forward, “Your brother Kyōtarō—I earnestly wish to request Kyōtarō’s assistance.”

Issumi also leaned over the brazier, bringing his ear close to Kobayashi’s mouth.

The secret talks continued.

It was December 4, Genroku 15.

III

“Elder brother! Elder brother—!” Shimizu Issumi’s rugged hands came to rest on his elder brother Kyōtarō—who lay sprawled in a drunken stupor since morning as usual—as he tried to rouse him. “Elder brother! “Again? “Day and night... what a hopeless man you are!”

Issumi leaned over his brother’s face, the collar of his stitched practice garment—secured with a cord—peeking out from beneath his black habutae kimono worn in casual draping style.

At the row house within Kira’s estate—relocated from Tokiwabashi to Honjo Matsuzaka-cho outside the vermilion lines—Issumi had just left Kobayashi’s presence and returned to his own residence.

From the lattice-patterned window, the heavy sky—suddenly winter-like since December began—appeared to sag low, while sunlight resembling water lapped inward. Though called an inner chamber, this room lay just two rooms from the entrance—its three-foot-wide veranda connected to a token garden, while the mansion’s namako walls encircling the estate pressed inward oppressively close before one’s eyes. With the back of his head resting on the edge of the tokonoma, his discolored black-collared kimono hanging open to reveal a reddened nape, and his ash-stained white hakama-clad legs splayed out, Shimizu Kyōtarō—Issumi’s elder brother—lay sound asleep.

It was a face with severe lines and sharp angles. Though he had just turned forty, when Issumi spotted one or two white strands gleaming amidst the thick black chest hair peeking through his slovenly open collar, he found himself feeling strangely sorry for this dissolute, eccentric brother of his who treated others with contempt. At that moment, the phrase "old steed" surfaced in Issumi’s mind. The old steed lies in its stable. Muttering *“A steed may be old, yet still it longs to gallop a thousand leagues—”* over and over beneath his breath, he suddenly found himself overcome by an uncharacteristically tender—even sentimental—feeling toward this troublesome Kyōtarō.

“Elder brother, wake up.” “I need to talk—this is getting ridiculous.” When he clicked his tongue in annoyance, Kyōtarō’s mouth—whose continued slumber he’d taken for granted—twitched.

“Whether my ears are vertical or horizontal, they hear the same damn way.” Issumi sat back down with a heavy thud that reverberated through the tatami. “Today, Lord Kobayashi requested another private discussion.”

With a thoroughly perplexed expression, Issumi continued speaking, “As usual, what has been frequently discussed up until now is—needless to say—nothing more than a mere rumor.” “What—?” “But the rumor that those Akō rōnin bastards are likely to attack the esteemed household soon is still circulating covertly among the populace.” “Right, that was it. Hearing that, even I ended up completely dumbfounded.” “I’m the one who’s appalled!”

“What’s this—so sudden?” “That’s precisely why we from the Uesugi household are out day and night investigating those Akō rōnin’s movements to repay Lord Chisaka’s benevolence—yet here you alone lie about like this, Elder Brother—.” “Shut up!”

Kyōtarō rolled over heavily.

A mere small fry.

“Your carefree attitude is enough to make one weep.” “I wish you’d try to understand your younger brother’s position for once.” “This is truly a disgraceful situation to face Lord Kobayashi with.” “What the hell are you talking about?” “Your damn face ain’t the type anyone wants to look at anyway.” “A face like that—who’d want to be on the receiving end of it anyway?” “Since this humble one has come as inspector by Lord Chisaka’s esteemed recommendation, I must diligently supervise those men—Ōsuga, Kasahara, Torii, Kasuya, Sudō, Miyauji, Matsuyama, Sakakibara, along with Waku Handayū, Hoshino, and Wakamatsu—and tirelessly investigate the movements of the Akō rōnin.” “Moreover, in fact, everyone is desperately working—and yet you, who should be leading them, just lie there growing that scruffy beard—!”

Kyōtarō brought his hand from his cheek to his chin and stroked it. A loud, grating sound—like sandpaper scraping against pumice—rang out. Issumi continued,

“You’re reeking of booze—”

Letting out a breath, Kyōtarō thrust his nose forward as if chasing it and sniffed. “You’re an eyesore indeed!”

At his brother’s shouted voice, Kyōtarō sat bolt upright.

“That’s a loud voice you have there.” “I can’t even sleep.” With a blank-faced round visage, he stared at Issumi in apparent bewilderment. “Ugh, what do you want me to do?” “Really now, you’re utterly beyond redemption.” “To protect Lord Kira, I need you to uncover the Akō rōnin’s schemes.” “This is your fundamental duty as a retainer!” “Don’t worry.” “They won’t come attacking.” “And if they do come, we’ll handle it then. Don’t panic. Don’t lose your head.”

“What are you on about?! A spy’s duty is to anticipate—” “A spy? Me?” “Indeed.” “An informant?” “Exactly!” “A secret agent—to spell it out.” “Enough!” “So a dog then—meaning...a dog, cat, or even kept man—never thought I’d stoop that low—” “What nonsense! What woman would keep you as her paramour?” Issumi finally burst out laughing. “You sneer at dogs and cats, Elder Brother—yet you’re behaving exactly like one—”

Kyōtarō squinted his bleary eyes, “Now, don’t go saying that.”

“No—I will say it. “That’s precisely why I’m saying it. “You were wandering about just like a dog or cat—without even a place to shelter from rain and dew, your tail feathers all bedraggled—” “Even now, it’s not like I haven’t had my tail feathers bedraggled.” “That’s nothing to boast about!” Issumi’s impatience reached its breaking point. There sat this Kyōtarō, cross-legged like a beached tuna, plopped down smugly right there—he wanted to shove the man with all his might.

II “Though it may be rude to say so—when this humble one took in you, Elder Brother, who were in such dire straits, and brought you here—what did you say?” “Over forty years an old pedant—” or something like that—I might’ve muttered. “Can’t quite remember.” “From now on, you’ll turn over a new leaf and strive to make your name known throughout the land—starting by working diligently as Lord Kira’s guard first—didn’t you emphatically promise as much?”

That was indeed the truth. Kyōtarō, wearing a somewhat defeated expression, vigorously scratched his large disheveled topknot while sending white dandruff flakes scattering everywhere— “Wai-wait! What I said when my belly was empty doesn’t count as no formal pledge!”

“As I have long recommended—would you not take this opportunity, through Lord Kobayashi’s mediation and with Lord Chisaka’s acknowledgment, to enter service with the Uesugi clan?” “It’s not... entirely out of the question.” Kyōtarō looked troubled. “But at this age, serving at court—if I do it for three days, they won’t let me quit. That’s the lot of a beggar and a freeloader.”

Issumi clenched his fist, thrust out his elbow, and closed in. “With that... overflowing talent and once-in-a-generation swordsmanship you possess—” “Hey! You’re flattering me now.” “This guy’s buttering me up.” “And this year-round idling about—is there something wrong with your health?”

“Hmm. “There’s nothing wrong anywhere.” “Just want some sake.” “If you call this an illness, then I suppose you could call it an illness.” “So—therefore, by demonstrating your worth here, gaining Lord Chisaka’s recognition, being taken into Uesugi’s service, receiving a substantial stipend, and enjoying plenty of fine sake—this is what this humble one proposes.” “How does that sound?” “That’s also true.” Kyōtarō replied with bleary eyes, “I get it. When someone’s putting food in your mouth, you do whatever they want. No—rather, you end up *having* to do whatever they want.” “They call this loyalty.” “Look—if the Akō rōnin’s pesky scheming counts as loyalty, then us having to stop them is loyalty too.” “A clash of loyalty against loyalty.” “Truly, isn’t this a bitter world? —Heave-ho.”

With both hands braced against his raised knee, Kyōtarō stood up. “I’m off.” “Where to, Elder Brother—?” “Elder Brother this, Elder Brother that—comin’ to sell me out, ain’t ya? —Don’t stop me.” “Heh, I won’t stop you.” “Where to? That goes without sayin’. I’m goin’ out on a covert mission. Not exactly a role that suits someone like me, but...” “By that, do you mean you have some lead in a particular direction—?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ like that.”

Even as he spoke, Kyōtarō fumblingly sheathed his absurdly long sword, "But even a stray dog might stumble upon a bone." "Later." He had already stepped down into the earthen-floored entrance. And then, dragging his setta sandals with their metal heel reinforcements missing, he strode briskly toward the service gate,

“Coming through! Outta the way, small fry!” “Small fry!” In a voice ragged from shouting, he barked at the gate guard foot soldier and strode briskly out onto Matsusaka-chō Street.

Cotton Drift Judgment

I

But he immediately stopped outside the gate and cast his eyes to the left and right of the thoroughfare.

As the year's end approached, the street was bustling with the hurried footsteps of pedestrians. "East, west, south, north—well, which way should I go?"

With eyes brimming with laughter, Kyōtarō muttered those words to himself and tilted his head. From the rubbing of the sword guard, a large hole opened on the left side of his kimono’s waist, with cotton padding spilling out. Kyōtarō plucked two or three pinches of the cotton and gave a light puff. A barely-there breeze. The cotton, carried by that breeze, drifted through the air like a white moth.

The cotton flew toward Honjo’s Second Bridge.

“East, huh—.” He ambled off.

"Right." "Interesting." "I'll head out to the Tōkaidō Road then."

II

The sea was visible. It was an ashen sea. Boats were out.

The path sloped upward slightly, where a single pilgrim bearing a tengu mask and two townsfolk in travel attire hurried briskly along. To the left, between cedars and zelkova trees, thatched eaves adorned with red lanterns overhung rows of darkened lattice windows—the inns Yoshiya, Taruya, and Tamagawa—where women with askew sashes called out in practiced voices, “Travelers, this way—Hodogaya is still 1 ri and 9 chō ahead.” “Nakaya here.” “Please rest here.” “Please have some tea.” “Our baths happen to be available at this very moment for overnight guests.”

This was the inn at Kanagawa. In its midst, beneath hanging lanterns—the Ōyama pilgrimage group, Tsukishima group, Hyakumi group, Kanda group, Kyōbashi group, Taishi group—the auxiliary headquarters Sawaraya Inn, with its rows of hanging nameplates, was bustling today. In one of the back rooms on the second floor, a quiet voice could be heard through the sliding door. “Well, you see, there’s official business in Edo, and since he’s unaccustomed to legal matters, I—his uncle—have come up to the capital as his guardian, yes indeed.”

The portly, good-natured man of forty-four or five who was saying this—posing as Kakimi Gohei, a wealthy farmer from Ōmi—was Ōishi Kuranosuke. The boy posing as his nephew, Kakimi Sanosuke, who was smiling beside him, was Chikara. The elderly man now bringing tea and sweets to this room under the pretext of having become acquainted in this inn’s bathhouse last night was Onodera Jūnai—a senior comrade posing as a Tosa tea ceremony master.

“Edo must have changed quite a bit as well, I suppose.”

“Well now, for myself—it’s been some time indeed, my third year in Edo this makes.” “Might as well be my first proper visit—” “For us, this is our first—” “My nephew here’s been on a long journey since they cut his cord, yes indeed.” Conscious of the figure passing through the corridor, they kept their voices conspicuously raised.

This man—For Sale

I

“Ho! What’s that?” Takenori Tadaichi, who had been sitting on the front railing of Sawaraya Inn’s second floor, let out a loud exclamation of astonishment.

“Hey, come here and take a look.” Over the past several months, Takenori Tadaichi had secretly traveled back and forth between Harada Soemon, who had been hiding in Osaka; Kataoka Gengo, who had been lying low in Kyoto; and Horibe Yasubei in Edo, persistently advocating his hardline argument to accelerate the timing of their decisive strike. Having thus consolidated his efforts, he had now fully disguised himself in a merchant clerk’s guise and was on his way to Edo.

Hazama Shinroku, who had also adopted a merchant guise, was lying sprawled on his back in the middle of the room,

“Is there a beautiful woman passing by or something?” “No—you won’t believe this. “Never mind that.” “Come look. Now.” “What a racket you’re making.” He pushed himself up. Takenori Tadaichi kept jabbing his finger toward the road below, laughter rumbling in his throat.

A man was passing through. He was a samurai in ronin's guise. On his back was pasted a large sheet of paper bearing the words “This Man For Sale.” On white paper, in jet-black ink—an utterly bizarre phrase. But no matter how many times one looked at it, it undeniably read: “This Man For Sale.” The man was walking with great swagger, carrying the notice on his back.

Shinroku also began to laugh along, “What’s with that guy? Isn’t he a madman?” “A madman?” The part where he said “a madman?” came out slightly louder. It reached the ears of the man passing directly below, and he stopped to look up. With his hair tied in a large topknot, a coppery-black face flushed from drink, and a tall stature—it was Shimizu Kyōtarō. He had devised some eye-catching scheme—anything to create opportunities for conversation among travelers along this highway—and after much deliberation, hit upon this posted notice. At Kawasaki’s stand tea house, one station prior along the road from Edo, he had obtained hanshi paper, borrowed an ink stick, and written it himself.

And then, using rice grains, he had affixed that paper sign to his crested back, and thus he had come all the way to this Kanagawa—welcomed by the astonishment of passersby and seen off by their derisive laughter. When Kyōtarō looked up at the second floor of the inn before him—the Sawaraya—and saw two townsmen smirking down from the railing, he fixed his gaze and glared upward as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Hey, you bastards—you laughed. “What’s so funny?!” “Do you common townsfolk think you can comprehend the true intentions of a samurai like me? “It’s precisely because I lost my stipend and found myself destitute that I swallowed my pride, bent my principles, and put myself up for sale like this. “Why is the serious effort of people trying to survive so damn funny—hmm?”

“Samurai, no matter how desperate you are, this tomfoolery of yours goes too far.”

Suddenly adopting a townsman-like tone as Takenori Tadaichi began to speak these words, Hazama Shinroku desperately pulled at his sleeve, “Stop it—don’t engage him! If we draw strange complaints from him now, it’ll only bring trouble.”

Down below, Kyōtarō raised his voice loudly— “Since you’re laughing at this ‘man for sale,’ I assume you’ve got the means to buy me.” “Alright.” “In that case, I’ll have you buy me as I am.”

"Forgive me—" was heard, and the disreputable ronin had already stepped into the earthen entrance of Sawaraya.

II

Kakimi Gohei, the Ōishi father and son (Sanosuke), and Onodera Jūnai maintained the pretense of meeting for the first time; after revealing their respective statuses, they immersed themselves in deliberately loud small talk—discussing their journey, rumors about the Edo they would soon be descending to, and such matters.

From a slightly removed, dimly lit room at the base of the staircase,

“So I’m tellin’ ya, there’s nothin’ to say about it!” “Every damn night—boozin’ with some pale-necked floozie—we’ll be flat broke ‘fore we hit ten stations on the way back! Then what’d you go yappin’ about, eh?” “Playin’ lord goin’ up and beggar comin’ down—that Edo brat logic o’ yours?” “Idiot! From here to Shinagawa, we could march on ditchwater ’cause—” “I ain’t no fuckin’ goldfish—”

“Oh, Bro. “Don’t keep snappin’ at me like that, I’m tellin’ ya.” “Cut me some slack.” “In return, I’ll carry your load on the shoulder pole from tomorrow on.” “Ain’t no monk’s beggin’ bowl.” “I’ll haul it all the way.” “Then ya got no complaints.”

The two companions—Kumakō and Garappachi, who were loudly exclaiming while appearing to be pilgrims returning from Ise—were none other than Ōtaka Gengo and Akagaki Genzō in attire befitting such roles. Just as this was happening, in the room across the courtyard, “Yes. In my humble medical practice—much like your samurai training journeys—traveling through various provinces and allowing me to take unusual pulses constitutes my greatest study—”

It was Muramatsu Kihei, disguised as a doctor. Indeed, Sugaya Hannojō—dressed in samurai-in-training-style attire—had come over from the neighboring room and was skillfully providing responses.

In addition to these, their comrades—Tomimori Sukeemon, Mase Kyūdayū, Okajima Yasueimon, and others—had disguised themselves variously as townspeople, country samurai, and doctors, all twenty-one of them lodging tonight at this Sawaraya Inn in Kanagawa. They feigned mutual unfamiliarity, maintaining merely the appearance of travelers heading in the same direction who had temporarily gathered at this inn. They met today; they parted tomorrow. They were complete strangers with no connection whatsoever. They maintained this pretense. Even when passing each other in corridors or the bathhouse, they showed no interest whatsoever and pretended not to notice.

The comrades who had been scattered and waiting in Kansai had come down one after another; those covertly active in Edo had gone out partway to meet them, and over these past two or three days—some arriving earlier, some later—they had finally made their way here, proceeding toward Edo in scattered groups while exercising utmost caution—.

“This is the room!” On the front second floor, a loud voice surged—the “man for sale” ronin slid open the sliding door to Takenori Tadaichi and Hazama Shinroku’s room with a clatter. Whistle.

I

Shinroku suddenly slapped his hands down at Kyōtarō’s feet, “Sir Samurai, I humbly apologize—just like this—” As he spoke, he was tense, his complexion changed. Before their grand plan, they must not cause a commotion now and draw public attention. If something were to happen that caused problems, it would be inexcusable to their comrades. Moreover, they did not even know who this opponent was—. “I said something utterly inexcusable—”

However, Kyōtarō entered in silence, passed by Shinroku with a loud tread on the tatami mats, then jabbed the chest of Takenori Tadaichi, who still stood smirking by the window. "You bastard. Was it you who just said something and laughed?" Takenori was short-tempered. Because he stood rigid with a sullen face that looked ready to say something to worsen the situation, Shinroku grew increasingly anxious. He shuffled closer on his knees as if clinging desperately,

“No. It was simply that this humble one misspoke something offensive to your sensibilities—” “Shut up.”

Kyōtarō grabbed Takenori Tadaichi by the collar and yanked it tight. "This guy's not kicking up a fuss. Your stance—how your eyes dart around—ain't normal." Still, Takenori Tadaichi stood blocking Kyōtarō's path, glaring back unflinching.

Shinroku panicked. "Don't just have me doing all the apologizing—you sit down too—no, Sir Samurai, he's a bit of an eccentric, but his intentions are perfectly sound."

And he desperately signaled to Tadaichi with his eyes.

Then Kyōtarō laughed in a startlingly loud voice,

“An eccentric, huh? Heh heh heh—no mistake, you’re an eccentric all right. After all, you’re samurai dressed as townspeople.”

Takenori and Shinroku, who had exchanged a quick glance, “That’s preposterous!” “We’re honest-to-goodness, born-and-bred townspeople.” “We are residents of Shitaya, sir.” “We went to the Kansai region on business—.”

Kyōtarō cast a glance at Tadaichi’s balding forehead and said in a cutting tone. “Helmet chafing—look, this rubbed mark on your face is proof enough.” Tadaichi’s fingers settled quietly over Kyōtarō’s hand gripping his collar. “If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it.” “This man’s for sale—but changed my mind. Ain’t selling to you bastards anymore.” “If you’re peddling a fight, I’m saying I’ll take it.”

Shinroku cut in, shouting. "You there—what are you saying to a samurai without even sizing up your opponent—." “Hmph.” Kyōtarō flared his nostrils. “This hand—look, this hand grabbing mine—you’re pretty damn good at jujutsu, aren’t you?”

Seeing that there was no other choice, Shinroku went toward the closet. There lay two of Takenori’s travel swords.

Because a strange samurai had barged in, the worried faces of the inn’s manager and maids—who had followed in concern—were peering from the hallway. They scattered instantly at Takenori and Kyōtarō’s glaring standoff and Shinroku’s advance toward where swords lay.

2

However, neither drew their swords. Before long, the proprietor of Sawaraya and elders from the same lodging—Kakimi Gohei, Onodera Jūnai, Muramatsu Kihei, and others—came to the room and bowed their heads before Kyōtarō on behalf of the two men. Kyōtarō spent a long time surveying the faces of the assembled group.

“Right.” “I see.” “Well—just a trifle before the main event.” He said through a yawn and clattered down the ladder-like stairs until he’d left Sawaraya behind.

“We should cut him down.” When Kakimi Gohei stopped Takenori Tadaichi—who was trying to rise with sword in hand—a strange whistle like a bird’s cry sounded from the street below and gradually faded away. Kyōtarō left while whistling. It was the first time these people had heard such a thing as a whistle. When Kyōtarō returned to the row house within Kira’s mansion compound, he said to his brother Issumi, “Saw some fools. “Not a trace of those Akō rōnin entering Edo.” “Don’t fret.” “Anyway—worked my ass off today. How ’bout buying me a sho? Come on—a sho—”

3

No matter how much they investigated Shimizu Kyōtarō, nothing about him ever became clear. However, Ōishi’s faction—which had settled at Koyamaya Yahee’s residence in Nihonbashi Ishichō Sanchōme—later took up rented lodgings behind this inn and advanced their covert operations, but Kira’s spies began appearing in the vicinity. Then those spies were often cut down by unknown assailants, but it’s said a whistle was always heard at those times.

And as a certain book states that Kyōtarō, as usual, lay drunk sleeping all day in his brother’s room at Kira’s mansion, he was likely still there on the night of December 14th. Then surely he too must have fought alongside Issumi, Kobayashi Heihachirō, Wakuri Hanta—a practitioner of the Yagyū style—Shinkai Yashichirō, Amano Sadanoshō, and Koryū Genpachirō, distinguishing himself remarkably before meeting his end by the sword. Since no clear records remain, it is uncertain, but it is said that among those Okuda Magodayu faced in the garden was a large samurai who had affixed a hundred-measure candle to a green bamboo tip, thrust it into his sleeping robe’s collar, and staggered forward drunkenly—a man of considerable skill. This might have been Kyōtarō. Given that he was hopelessly drunk, after crossing blades with Magodayu and parting ways, he must have been easily cut down by someone.

The following morning, when the party—having tied Kira’s head to a spear shaft and assembled before Ekōin Muenji Temple’s gate—detoured via Eitaibashi Bridge en route to Sengakuji Temple in Takanawa, Takenori Tadaichi within the procession,

“Hey, Hazama!” Takenori called over his shoulder, halting in the snow. “A whistle sounds—” Just like Takenori, Hazama Shinroku—covered head to toe in splattered blood—also halted his steps. “What? A whistle—?” “Hmm—it’s there. Listen carefully—there!” “From nowhere—a whistle! There!”