Pathway to Japanese Literature

Night-Weeping Swords

An autumn night deepened quietly. It seemed the wind had picked up; the tightly closed storm shutters occasionally clattered! The clattering sound must have been from the diseased leaves of the garden’s persimmon tree scattering down. Whenever the wind leaked through the gaps and stirred the lantern’s flame, the two shadows on the wall swayed unsteadily like a giant monk—

In Edo, behind Nezu Shrine in a place commonly called Akebono Village, Onozuka Tessai—who ran the Shinpen Musō-ryū town dojo—sat formally in the inner study, gazing intently at the blade of a drawn sword he could not look away from. A blade like frozen meltwater—flowing frost solidified—whose mere sight chilled the flesh with its keen edge. Each time Tessai's sword-gripping hand moved ever so slightly, the lantern's reflection cast flickering silver scales dancing across his face. A short distance away, Yayoi—grinding ink—involuntarily shuddered and clutched her collar.

“No matter how many times I look at it, it seems ready to cut through anything.” Tessai muttered as if to himself. “Yes.” She meant to answer, but Yayoi’s voice never left her lips. “A sword permitted to be drawn only once a year… and tomorrow is that day—I wonder who will wield this blade.” It seemed less that Tessai spoke than that the sword itself had found a voice. But when Tessai’s old eyes glanced back at his daughter, they held an unusual gentleness—a fatherly caress mingled with a parent’s playful teasing. Then Yayoi, for some reason, turned red all the way to the base of her ears and hurriedly pressed harder on the inkstick she was grinding. The drooping nape was translucently white. The plump, rounded breasts rose and fell in undulating waves.

With a roar—a single gust of night wind passed by, making the roof beams ring. Tessai smoothly sheathed the single blade he held into its brocade-wrapped scabbard with a click, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. Near his knees lay two swords of identical mountings. Crafted by Seki no Magoroku, there existed two peerless blades—one long, one short. Both forged as battlefield tachi with scabbards bound in flat silk threads and hilts of shakudō alloy—the long sword engraved with village-cloud patterns and the short sword with a rising dragon—they were named Ken'unmaru ("Heavenly Cloud") for the larger blade and Konryūmaru ("Earth Dragon") for the smaller. This matched pair of legendary swords had been Onozuka family heirlooms for generations, treasures Old Master Tessai would never relinquish even if provincial daimyos piled gold into mountains.

The twin blades Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru were indeed masterpieces without equal in all the land. However, people said the reason these swords were so renowned lay in a separate karmic destiny.

The reason was none other than this: When the two swords remained together in one place, all was well; but once Ken'un and Konryū were separated—as if a cursed lot had been drawn—they would immediately see bloodshed there and inevitably stir up a terrifying maelstrom of chaos.

And the swords wept. When Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—the separated blades—reached the Hour of the Ox, said to make house eaves sag three sun, they sobbed with choked whimpers. The Cloud called to the Dragon; the Dragon yearned for the Cloud. Seeking and longing for each other, the twin blades began weeping softly in unison through the midnight hours. The next day marked the first Day of the Boar in October—the Boar Festival (御玄猪)—when bonfires blazed at Ōte Gate and hereditary daimyos processed in splendor to Edo Castle at dusk to receive wild boar mochi from the shogun. This stood among the annual state ceremonies; yet each year on this date, Onozuka Tessai’s dojo in Akebono Village hosted its grand autumn tournament, upholding the auspicious tradition of temporarily granting Ken'unmaru to the highest scorer and Konryūmaru to the runner-up during the sword-conferment ritual. True, these storied blades had to be swiftly returned to Tessai’s keeping—yet even brief possession of Heaven and Earth’s paired swords could make the lowliest nose tilt skyward in pride. This year—“I must claim Ken'unmaru”—or rather—“I shall take Konryūmaru”—so all disciples drove themselves through daily drills with this aim.

On the eve of the tournament, Tessai was thus examining the sword he had taken out for the first time in a year. "Father... I fear the ink has smudged." Tessai's eyes flew open at Yayoi's words. Smoothly unfurling a sheet of paper as though moving through a dream, he abruptly spoke. "Tomorrow Suwa shall prevail and wield this Ken'unmaru—this much is certain." "And while we speak of it—what think you of Eizaburō?"

Suwa Eizaburō! Upon hearing this, the eighteen-year-old girl’s pale face flashed as if maple leaves had scattered across it. She writhed as though unable to remain seated, her hand mindlessly stroking the tatami—no reply came.

The fragrance of ink flowed through the room.

“Ha ha ha! Indeed! Very well!” “I know.”

Old Master Tessai nodded deeply, and no sooner had he taken up the brush dripping with ink than he sent bold characters dancing across the blank page, writing them out in a single fluid motion. To the victor of today’s tournament—alongside Ken’unmaru—I present my daughter Yayoi. Onozuka Tessai

“Ah! Father!” As she cried out, Yayoi’s voice—a jumble of delight and bashfulness—seemed ready to fade away at any moment. The wooden floor of the spacious dojo—at the front, beneath the great plaque of Yumiya Hachiman, white-haired Onozuka Tessai sat perfectly still, nodding frequently at the words of the disciples beside him, yet his eyes—containing a faint smile—never left the bamboo sword of the young samurai who had just taken an upper stance. Or perhaps “free-for-all”? It was an unorthodox match format.

There was neither order nor decorum. The moment they sensed an opening, five or six men would leap out at once, vying to strike first; those who initially clashed with an opponent would continue facing however many challengers came next—provided they kept winning. However, once they withdrew, there was no returning. In this way, the system dictated that whoever kept winning until the end would be declared the ultimate victor.

No sooner had a combatant appeared— He yielded at once! As if declaring defeat, some even removed their masks with practiced charm as they withdrew. The matches had continued since dawn, combatants taking turns one after another; already, the vivid crimson hues of sunset filtering through latticed windows stained the dojo, casting elongated shadows of bamboo swords across its wooden floor. Though termed a practice match, sparks threatened to fly—.

The era was that of the esteemed reign of Tokugawa Yoshimune, eighth of his shogunal line. People had long grown accustomed to peace—so thoroughly that they easily ossified into rigid forms. Amidst other schools where swordsmanship had become mere pageantry bearing only the name of martial discipline, this Shinpen Musō-ryū clung fiercely to Tessai’s daily injunction: "Never yield—conquer!" Through this singular focus, the school’s techniques naturally grew ruthless. Yet today of all days—this ceremonial occasion with the Heaven's Cloud and Earth Dragon blades! And those very swords!

A large notice had been posted on the dojo wall. "The victor shall take Yayoi!" The master’s only daughter—Lady Yayoi of Akebono Komachi—had been placed on the auction block. What divine fortune for men! It was no wonder they all secretly prayed to both Yumiya Hachiman, the god of archery and war, and the deity of Izumo, their terrifying fighting spirit palpable in the air. Yayoi—the swordsman’s daughter whom all admired—must be won through the blade without resentment, or so it was made to appear. In truth, this mischief had only been possible because Old Man Tessai had already privately settled on a single top disciple—Suwa Eizaburō, the young man who by skill alone deserved victory and met all criteria as a son-in-law. It was the old swordsman’s act of paternal grace, a stylish consideration for his daughter’s heart that yearned for Eizaburō.

“Who’s next? Who’s next?” Mori Tetsuma—who had fought his way through successive opponents—stood brandishing a bamboo sword at the dojo’s center while shouting. Various voices clamored.

“Attack, attack! Letting him rest would be a loss!” “Is there no one who can crush Mori? —Suwa!” “What about Suwa?” “Hey, Mr. Suwa!” “Right! Where’s Eizaburō?” Amidst this commotion, Suwa Eizaburō—clad in a pale blue-striped practice uniform and black-lacquered sun disk breastplate—was pushed out from a corner by numerous hands. At this, Tessai, seated in the place of honor, broke into a smile and instinctively leaned forward, bracing his elbows. And then, through the gap in the door connecting the main house and corridor, a flashily dressed girl flitted past.

Eizaburō was the younger brother of Ōkubo Tōjirō—a shoinban guard with a 300-koku stipend stationed at the Asakusa Torigoe warehouse—now twenty-eight years old, having long adopted his mother’s surname to go by Suwa. He was a man so handsome that women might envy him, but with an underlying dignity that made him unapproachable—so much so that Old Man Tessai had fallen for him even before Yayoi did. With a sudden halt—facing off in a high guard position, Eizaburō’s figure poised neatly on the balls of his feet—Yayoi’s face, peering through the gap in the sliding storm shutters, flushed crimson. Tilting her maiden’s chignon—still never undone—she hid her eyes behind her sleeve like a folding screen and prayed with all her heart—*Please, Lord Eizaburō—for Yayoi’s sake—let victory be yours!*

Victory depended on the luck of the moment, they said. But surely not—! As the thought crossed her mind, *tch… tch…*—the intermittent clashing of bamboo sword tips echoed, followed by a hush like water splashing—a sign of an extraordinarily fierce match. Shouts, stomping feet—the violent clangor of first clash, second clash! What—?! *Lord Eizaburō, win!* *Win!* As Yayoi focused with bated breath, a sharp *clang—* rang out—the sound of someone falling—and then, “I yield! “Withdraw your strike—I yield!” came Eizaburō’s voice. Startled, Yayoi peered out to see Suwa Eizaburō—his bamboo sword sent flying into the distance—now, unthinkably, on all fours on the wooden floor!

He did it on purpose! He lost on purpose! Yayoi—who had screamed this inwardly—clenched her teeth and ran back, but the tears welling up within her overflowed before she reached her own room. No sooner had she slid open the shoji than Yayoi collapsed there weeping.

“To think you would take a loss on purpose because you despise me—Lord Eizaburō, how I resent you!” How I resent you! Ah—I—I— Each time she clawed at her chest and writhed in frenzy, the scarlet-dappled fabric swayed. Unaware of the white skin spilling from her disheveled front, Yayoi was immersed in endless hot tears.

At that moment, voices rang out at the entrance.

“I make this entreaty!”

At the front entrance of Onozuka Tessai in Negishi Akebono no Sato stood a ronin figure as gaunt as a withered tree—terrifyingly thin and imposingly tall. His russet hair was swept up into a large topknot, his left eye a hollow socket, while from the remaining narrow right eye—sardonic in its gleam—to the corner of his mouth, a deep linear sword scar like a furrow marked his right cheek. They say twilight is when apparitions arise. Was this not one of those malevolent spirits? So much so that one might think—around this samurai hovered sinister shadows, dimly swirling and leaping.

With his right hand tucked into his breastfold and his left clutching something like a large wooden plank, he peered deeper inside.

“A request—I humbly beseech you.” Though his voice was loud, with evening’s approach, only birdsong echoed hollowly through the silent grounds—cries hurrying toward Nezu Shrine’s forest behind the vast estate. The samurai tsked! He clicked his tongue and jerked up the board beneath his arm.

The dojo was in utter chaos. Eizaburō, who had been certain of victory, clearly brought about his own defeat in his match against Mori Tetsuma. He lost to avoid Yayoi! Yayoi—who had lost her mother early and through her own efforts blossomed into a beautiful maiden—now stood poised to taste the bitterness of tragic love while still a flower in bud! When he thought this, Old Man Tessai—feeling as if made to drink scalding water—now felt nothing but remorse toward Yayoi for having presumptuously interpreted Eizaburō’s intentions and posted that notice! This self-reproach transformed into irrepressible fury that surged violently up his chest.

Tessai stood up and glared at Eizaburō. “Hey, coward! Take up your bamboo sword!”

Eizaburō’s lips were pale. “With all due respect—the match had already been decided once—”

“Silence! Silence!” “You deliberately threw the match—I saw your scheme!” “I’ll not tolerate such artifice!” “Face Mori again!”

“However—since I myself have declared defeat—” “But Master—” Tetsuma was giving it his all too. “Enough! Don’t speak!” “This match is unacceptable to Tessai!” “Not acceptable! Face him once more!” Amidst this commotion，no one had noticed—but when one happened to glance，there stood a figure at the dojo entrance，having arrived at some unknown time. The samurai at the entrance—since no attendant came out no matter how much he called—kept barging in.

He still had one hand tucked in his pocket and carried the board.

Tessai noticed something amiss and approached. “Who are you? Where did you come from!” “From over there.”

A brazen reply. Leaning his upper body forward forcefully, his voice was gentle. While everyone stood dumbfounded, he expressed his desire to spar with the victor of today's tournament. “Name!” When asked, he answered, “Tange Sazen.” “Style?” When pressed further, he answered “Tange-ryu…” and grinned slyly. “Ah, I see.” “Your honorable surname being Lord Tange and your style Tange-ryu—no, this is amusing.” “However, though I appreciate your interest—today being an internal match—our dojo’s rule compels us to decline all practitioners from other schools.” “Please return on another day.”

Gah! With a sound like “Gah!”, the one-eyed samurai who had introduced himself as Tange Sazen laughed hoarsely from his throat.

“Another day suits you just fine, does it?” “For a dojo challenger, there ain’t gonna be no ‘another day’ or ‘any day’.” “Oi!” “You lot—can you see this?” On the board thrust out with one hand was written in bold strokes: “Shinpen Musō-ryū Instructor Onozuka Tessai Dojo”! Ah! The dojo’s signboard! Ah—it seemed he had torn it off while entering through the gate. “You bastard!” At the moment when they all started to rise, “You’re making this too easy!” Tange Sazen released the signboard and twisted backward, Gah! Ptui!

He spat a glob of green phlegm. While restraining the eager disciples and spreading his arms wide, Tessai looked back at Mori Tetsuma and barked, "Punish him thoroughly!" In the moment Tessai conveyed his command through his eyes, Sazen tested a swing with one of the wooden swords nearby, selected a single blade, and—whoosh!— stretched out and stood rigid. At his hem, women’s undergarments peeked out. His right hand still remained tucked in his pocket. Tetsuma, flaring up,

“Put out your right hand.”

And then, “There is no right hand.”

“What?!” “No right hand?” “One-armed bastard.” “Heh heh... But I won’t go easy on cripples!”

Sazen twisted his mouth into a downward curve and remained silent. The one-eyed, one-armed dojo wrecker Tange Sazen. The positioning of his left hand was extraordinary. But facing a one-armed opponent—what threat could he possibly pose? ...Tap-tap—whoosh! Mori Tetsuma committed fully—his horizontal slash plunging deep into the enemy’s torso struck true—.

It seemed but an instant—*Thud!* With a dull sound,

“Ugh.” “Ugh.” “Ugh... Oww.” The valiant Tetsuma collapsed, his forearm tangled in the strike. Simultaneously, Sazen whirled to face the wall and began reciting the proclamation at full volume. “Ei—Eizaburō! Attack!” Meeting Tessai’s blood-injected glare, Eizaburō answered with frosty composure. “Since he has defeated Mr. Mori—this tournament’s champion—I must humbly acknowledge Lord Tange as the rightful victor.”

The evening gloom grew particularly thick; night came to Akebono Village. No sooner had the sun set than the live-in disciples took the lead, hurrying to prepare the banquet in the garden. First, they spread rush mats over the lawn, piled dried branches and firewood here and there to prepare bonfires, arranged straw covers in rows, drew ceremonial sake vessels from their cases, and set out ladle handles. Following auspicious tradition, they celebrated the first and second-place victors—those bearing Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—with dried persimmon and pounded millet cakes, then held an all-night banquet with rough-hewn homemade dishes.

They warmed sake amidst the groves and burned crimson leaves—the night took on rustic charm through its bonfires, true to its nature. Every year this evening saw wild singing and dancing; though they might falter with swords, when it came to wine cups, quite the assembly of hearty souls gathered for an all-night revelry free of formalities. However, before this revelry came the established closing ceremony: that year's champion—bearing the paired Heaven and Earth blades—leading the procession, Yayoi holding a lantern low to illuminate the path, Old Master Tessai following behind her, and all disciples forming ranks as they paid homage at the Inari shrine enshrined in the inner garden.

Exiting the thicket revealed a single-stone bridge spanning a stream fed by Kiyomizu Kannon's spring. Crossing it brought one to an artificial mound where the Inari shrine stood in shadow. At moonrise lay a tidal flat. Osmanthus perfumed the darkness. Were Mori Tetsuma—today's tournament champion—to be defeated by Tange Sazen, they could hardly send forth Eizaburō now, even knowing Sazen's skill far exceeded Tetsuma's—not when Eizaburō himself had lost to that same Tetsuma. It was precisely this logic Eizaburō had grasped when declining. There stood the unidentifiable one-armed swordsman Tange Sazen, stubborn smile cutting through vivid sword scars on his face. He brandished the posted notice like a shield as he demanded of Tessai: "I shall claim Ken'unmaru and Lady Yayoi." Even when informed this was an internal prize invalid for outsiders, Sazen remained unmoved. Though aged, Onozuka Tessai might have driven him off through direct confrontation—but with his daughter's safety now entangled, placation took priority. If he yielded Ken'unmaru, surely Sazen wouldn't press for the girl too—so reasoned the elder. Drawing on decades of restraint, he acknowledged Tange's victory.

And so, the night-weeping blades forged by Sekino Magoroku—brought from the study—were temporarily entrusted by Tessai: Ken'unmaru to Tange Sazen, and Konryūmaru to Mori Tetsuma. The procession to pay homage. Yayoi, having reapplied makeup over her tear-dampened face, lowered the lantern and took the lead. Bathed in its crimson glow, Sazen kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon her—yet Yayoi, her heart wholly occupied by Eizaburō approaching from behind, remained unaware. Eventually, after filing along and circling the dark garden once before returning, they would return the swords, promptly concluding the ceremony… Bonfires would blaze, young samurai blood would surge—such was the anticipated commotion—when suddenly!

Tetsuma—who had intended to return both his Konryūmaru and Sazen's Ken'unmaru together while frantically searching for Sazen—suddenly cried out in shock. "Hey! He's gone!" "That Tange intruder—he's vanished!"

This voice struck the surroundings—still in disarray from the collapsed procession and buzzing with chaos—like a thunderclap. “What?!” “T-Tange’s gone?” “But he was right here until just now!” Immediately they swarmed in and surrounded Tetsuma. “Did he leave with his sword still at his side?”

When someone among them asked, Tetsuma seemed unable to speak— "Yeah…"

He could only nod repeatedly—.

Tange Sazen vanished with Ken'unmaru in hand.

This calamity sprang from nowhere! Once separated—so it was foretold—the cloud and dragon would resonate: stirring winds and summoning rains that might unleash tempestuous waves to bring hell unto this world! Now the paired Heaven and Earth blades stood sundered! ……The ill-omened lot had been cast. A mountain of dead flesh would rise! A river of fresh blood would flow! A forest of swords rose; a wilderness of chaos unfolded! And...! Across those corpse mountains and blood rivers—the two blades bound by karmic fate sobbed in mutual longing...!

The emergency alarm clapper of Tessai’s dojo shattered Akebono Village’s predawn stillness—Boom! Boom-boom-boom-boom!—and resounded through the air.

Hearing the disturbance, Tessai—who had stepped out onto the veranda—suddenly changed his complexion and issued a command.

“He must have already passed through the gate!”

No—he must still be hiding within the compound. With that, the two teams—Mori Tetsuma at their head—immediately departed the mansion, and lantern fires darted like fireflies across Nezu’s rice fields.

Simultaneously, bang! Bang! With a bang—they struck both front and rear gates—and meanwhile, in the garden, Tessai himself took command of the search; bonfire reflections flickered and flashed upon unsheathed blades probing every tree root and blade of grass. Suwa Eizaburō, having separated himself from the throng alone, swung back his Musashi Tarō Yasukuni at his hip mightily and stood at the edge of the pond strewn with stardust. Night dew dampened feet.

Eizaburō pulled up his hem and stepped through the grass. Then—what was this? Something clung to his step. When he picked it up, it was a crimson crepe obi. What in the world? It seemed to be Lady Yayoi’s—but why would it be here?! He tilted his head... The moment he did— From a corner of the garden where white blades darted through the darkness, frantic voices spread outward like ripples.

“There!” “He’s here! He’s here!” “Here!” “Face me!” No sooner had these two shouts erupted from near the rear gate than silence reclaimed the scene—sending a shiver through the air! The sword aura could be felt keenly. The voices had cut off—it seemed they were already locked in mortal combat. The scattered disciples swarmed toward the rear all at once, appearing to float beneath the night sky. Eizaburō, having brusquely pushed open Musashi Tarō’s scabbard mouth, found his feet quickening as if drawn in—clang...!

“Agh!” One was cut down.

—Seen by starlight. Tange Sazen—his sleeve torn—staggered to his feet against the trunk of a great pine, the two-shaku-three-sun Ken'unmaru gripped in his left hand now performing its blood-flicking ritual. The demonic blade said to shed blood without fail when separated had already tasted blood. At the base of the pine tree, entangled with Sazen’s hem, the black shadow crouching there was none other than Yayoi—her head completely shrouded by one of Sazen’s sleeves. Seizing this moment for Shinpen Musō’s divine technique—the encircling sword formation closed in like a tightening net... step... step... step by cautious tiptoe they advanced.

Sazen’s face—its sword scar vivid—twisted into a grin, his single eye gleaming. “With this blade—clean through—I can’t wait to split you bastards’ worthless spines.” “The flesh bites into the blade—yo—twitchin’ through my hand, na... heh!” “Come on, from whichever side you want!”

Silence. Not a single gleam stirred.

What about Tessai? He looked.

He stood with hands clasped behind his back as if entranced, gazing from outside the encircling formation at this bedraggled rōnin’s swordsmanship. Transcending ally and foe alike, he seemed ready to burst out with “Well now! This is a rare master indeed!” Perhaps grown impatient, one disciple circled behind Sazen past a pine tree, pressing his sword low through the grass... and in an instant had crept close— “Hiyah!” As he rose up thrusting from below— “You bastard!”

No sooner had Sazen’s battle cry—groaned through clenched teeth—split the air with Ken’unmaru in an instant, sending up a splatter of blood, than the thrusting sword flew through the darkness like a comet, its wielder’s body already arching backward to the ground. Yayoi's scream trailed off and echoed through the sinister grove of trees. Seizing this opportunity, four or five figures leaped out in disarray from the arc of blades, their clashing flashes enveloping Sazen in chaos. But Ken’unmaru was a blade that moved on its own, thirsting for human blood. And yet— That blade was in Sword Demon Sazen's hand!

“Here they come!” The moment he saw this, he dropped to his knees—his left sword in his sole hand slashing several shins from left to right in reverse. Kicking away the falling bodies and stepping over them, Sazen charged toward Tessai with Ken’unmaru in one breath. Tessai leapt back with a sharp “dash”—he parried the strike, but his opponent was not Tange Sazen but the demon blade Ken’unmaru itself. After wrenching it free and barely regaining his stance, the second strike grazed his elbow—then Ken’unmaru sank deep into Tessai’s shoulder.

“Gh—! “Ei—!” “Ei—!”

That’s right—what was Eizaburō doing? It goes without saying. Eizaburō’s first strike—brandishing Musashi Tarō Yasukuni with a “Hishō!” cry—bit into emptiness and swooshed away into nothingness.

“Damn you!” As he pursued, Sazen had already retreated back to the base of the pine tree, pulling Yayoi around before the closing-in Eizaburō and fending him off with Ken’unmaru’s blade tip while— “Cut through! This girl first!” Yayoi, standing frenzied between white blade and white blade, let out a blood-curdling scream. “Lord Eizaburō—cut! Cut! To die by your hand would be my greatest wish—... C-come on, quickly!”

In the moment Eizaburō faltered, Sazen—grasping a pine tree’s drooping branch—vaulted off the wall with his mantis-like body while still gripping Ken’unmaru bare-bladed, landing outside with a thud against the ground. Like fire—a metallic clang and wooden clappers cracking. After he had vanished around the town corner—had barely a quarter-hour passed?

At the Tsuchiya Tamon residence—a 150-koku kobushin hatamoto’s estate in Kōjimachi Sanbanchō—someone was relentlessly pounding on the front gate.

“Tch.” “What’s this, at this hour? We ain’t no town doctor!” The elderly gatekeeper, who had been about to go to bed, went out muttering and opened the small gate—and in that instant, Mori Tetsuma came bursting in, panting heavily.

“Hey! You’re from the Nezu dojo—”

“My lord—urgent business!” With those words, Tetsuma collapsed onto the step. Tsuchiya Tamon was Tessai’s cousin and the Onozuka family’s only remaining relative, so Tetsuma had raced here nonstop from Akebono Village to report the incident. To Tamon—who had appeared in nightclothes carrying a sword, wondering what had transpired—Tetsuma recounted every detail of that night’s chaos. ——That the outlaw Tange Sazen had stormed in, won first place in the crucial tournament to claim Ken’unmaru, then attempted to flee with it still drawn only to be discovered—whereupon he cut down Master Tessai and over a dozen others before escaping… And moreover, whether due to Ken’unmaru’s nature, every person struck—regardless of wound severity—had died instantly! Upon hearing this, Tamon pressed—

“The Old Master too?!”

“Wh-what a tragedy… It is truly pitiable beyond words.” “Tch! The Old Master was advanced in years, but I heard you and Suwa among others had quite the skilled swordsmen gathered—wh-what a blunder—”

Tetsuma had gone out to search and found [Sazen] climbing over the back wall, slashing at him, but what with the pitch-dark night and Ken’unmaru’s razor-sharp blade, he ultimately lost sight of Tange’s figure in the direction of the temple district. The words he tacked on like an excuse no longer reached Tamon’s ears. As the old man said, “A palanquin,” “What? We’ll grab palanquin bearers at Kudan.”

With preparations made in haste, Tamon ran out of the estate accompanied by Tetsuma…….

Their destination was, needless to say, Nezu Akebono Village.

That Akebono Village dojo.

In the inner study, Suwa Eizaburō and Yayoi sat facing each other in suffocating silence, their pale faces locked in a mutual gaze. The corpses of Tessai and the other victims of violent death had been enshrined in the dojo, where an unexpected vigil had commenced some time earlier. The two had slipped away from their seats and quietly withdrawn to this room to escape watchful eyes. Having perhaps passed beyond grief's extremity—as though she had no tears left to shed—Yayoi stared with unnaturally gleaming eyes at Konryūmaru. The lone remaining blade lay before Eizaburō's sullenly crossed arms like an object entrusted with solitary sorrow, its paired bond now shattered.

Near and far echoed the sizzle… hiss of water dousing bonfires. A cricket abruptly started chirping on the shoji screen’s frame. “Truly… I know not what to say. No words of condolence remain.”

Delivering each phrase with precision, Eizaburō repeated his words again and again. "No one could have imagined that the treasured Ken'unmaru would be what took the Master's life." "But—this karmic bond, if I may call it such—Ken'unmaru, which demands bloodshed when separated... when parted, first drew the Master's own blood—" "Lord Eizaburō!" "Rather than uselessly lamenting what has come to pass, our most prudent course would be first to reclaim Ken'unmaru and prevent further calamity—"

“Lord Eizaburō!”

“As for that—the strategy I would propose rests upon this truth: a sword calls its counterpart.” “Since Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru are fated to draw together, should you permit me to bear this Konryūmaru in pursuit of Tange Sazen… these blades will thread our paths—I shall inevitably cross steel with him……”

“Lord Eizaburō!” “Yes.” “You are such a stubborn man—the sword may be a sword, but you won’t listen to a single thing Yayoi says!” “What… do you mean by that?” “Oh! How dare you play innocent! If only you had won today’s match as you should have… th-this wouldn’t have happened! When I think of that—Lord Eizaburō, I resent you… I resent you with all my being!”

“The outcome depends on the luck of the moment.” “I competed without ulterior motives.”

“Lies! All lies!” “A touch more decorum—” “No! Could there possibly be another as terrible as you? Even though you know my heart perfectly well… today, for the first time… Yayoi has known the ultimate shame as a woman…” “Lady Yayoi. The Master’s honorable remains are still in the dojo.” “Yes… In this very room, how happily Father smiled as he wrote that label…” “—That too cannot be helped.”

“Lord Eizaburō! Ah—th-that’s too cruel!”

“Ah—!” As Yayoi collapsed in tears, Tamon’s footsteps resounded through the corridor.

Looking coldly at her trembling white nape, Eizaburō picked up Konryūmaru. “Then, I shall take custody of this sword. The dragon beckons the cloud; the cloud awaits the dragon. Though Edo be vast, I shall soon present both Konryūmaru and Tange’s head before your eyes—” And so, the wakizashi crafted in the battlefield-tachi style—reminiscent of the Warring States era—formed a strange pair with the ordinary black-sheathed Musashi Taro Yasukuni, coming to rest at Suwa Eizaburō’s waist from that night onward.

Haunted House

With narrow, long eyes made bleary in a faintly pockmarked face, Suzukawa Genjūrō lay sprawled in mild drunkenness, using an overturned armrest as his pillow.

He was thirty-seven or thirty-eight. Though a five hundred koku lord, his status as a pleasure-seeking hatamoto meant he wore not the grand topknot but a small chonmage hairstyle with thin sideburns—at first glance resembling a prosperous yoriki police official who had received land in Hatchōbori under the town magistrate’s jurisdiction. For this reason, even his fellow hatamoto had nicknamed Genjūrō “Yoriki.” His father was Suzukawa Uemon, commander of the Great Guard Brigade, but by Genjūrō’s generation, they had fallen to kobushin status, a lower-ranking hatamoto group. He was a master of Saryū-style iaijutsu. Though he should have read books appropriately, perhaps having grown restless in this peaceful era, he had recently become a complete playboy of the streets—the tip of his outstretched foot moved in rhythm as if he were singing a little song with vocal shamisen accompaniment, Suzukawa Genjūrō looking blissfully content.

The autumn night was long. After the regular patrons had gathered at Suzukawa’s residence before Honjō Hōonji Temple—engaging in mischief under the pretense of settling accounts—a sudden banquet now began, leaving old Osayo, the sole maid, in a frantic uproar: heating one-shō flasks of sake as they were, ransacking the kitchen to haul in anything edible, running herself ragged with the commotion. “What’s this, Suzukawa? A new old hag has come, hasn’t she?”

Tsuchiya Sen’nosuke watched Osayo leave with curiosity and said.

“Hmm.” “The last one complained about rough treatment and quit.” “That one was hired with Kizaemon—landlord of Tawaramachi Third District—and blacksmith Tomigorō Kajitomi as guarantors.” “She works hard.” “Keep an eye on her.” “Truth be told, maids are best when they’re old crones.” “Young ones these days are worthless.”

“Heh heh heh heh!” came deranged laughter from the corner—it was Yokichi, Komagata’s ne’er-do-well. “Heheh! ‘Rough handlin’’? What’re ya on ’bout, Milord—ya stuck yer own paw out too far… ’Scuse me sayin’, but this master’s had queer tastes since day one!” Suzukawa Genjūrō forced a wry smile as he watched surviving moths flutter toward the paper lantern.

The crowd coiled up tonight in this Honjō residence dubbed the Haunted House was made up entirely of freaks bordering on monstrosities—led by Tsuchiya Sen’nosuke, a former koshōnin whose vile disposition had earned him orders to join the kobushin demotion group. Sen’nosuke himself was a man who carelessly thrust a single wakizashi sideways into the back of his kimono sash, letting the hilt jut from his shoulder like an afterthought. To this crowd were added about ten of Honjō’s most wicked low-ranking hatamoto, a large troupe that included Yokichi the drummer, and one middle-aged woman of vengeful mien who sat cross-legged like a man, a cheap sake bottle at her side and her eyes already thoroughly glazed.

“Oto… ‘One who waits late into the night’—ah, I can guess where this is going.” When someone barked out a call, Kushimaki Oto laughed back alluringly, her white hand stretching toward the sake once more. “He’s muttering something… About that comb needing to be reported to Milord—where’s that man gone gallivanting off to now?” “Honestly! This is beyond exasperating!” “Spare me the groveling.” “But Oto—you’d best keep your wits about you.” “Seems that bastard’s found himself a cozy bolt-hole to skulk in lately—”

“Where’s it at, then?” “No good, no good!” Yokichi frantically waved both hands. “Now don’t go leadin’ her on like that.” “Boss—you… you’re a woman who’s seen your share of hardships.” “If things’re this gloomy, the sake tastes like piss, don’t it?” Thump! With a wave-like roar of laughter, the gathering broke up, and taking this as their cue, one or two people began to leave. Kushimaki Oto, her beautiful face flushed from sake, sat cross-legged like a man with both hands planted on her knees, chin drawn in as she looked up at those departing. A red cloth spilled across the tatami like a half-opened peony, while the oil-absorbed boxwood comb shone provocatively behind seashell-like ears—her allure resembled a setting sun blazing upon an old cherry tree beginning to shed its blossoms. The full-bodied savor of a woman in her prime wafted as a sweet scent from the skin glimpsed at her disheveled collar and from the silk-clad slope of her shoulders draped in black-edged fabric, tickling Genjūrō’s nostrils.

This woman was a wanted criminal—as this thought crossed his mind, Suzukawa Genjūrō felt as though he were living within the pages of an illustrated storybook.

“Boss, everyone’s headin’ out.” “I’ll come with ya.”

Urged by Yokichi, Oto—now the sole remaining person—raised one knee with a hand behind her.

“Yeah…” “Hollow people can wait forever and it won’t make a difference.” “Well then, shall we get this palanquin moving?” “Milord, thank you for your patience.” “Good night.” “Hmm, off you go?” Suzukawa Genjūrō remained sprawled out. A pale light fell upon the ravaged dishes and bowls and the toppled sake bottles, making the weave of the tatami visible.

The eaves hung low; beneath the aqueous moon, wild geese formed diagonal lines.

After Yokichi saw Oto off and returned to the Asakusa house, some time passed, and Genjūrō—who had been lying sprawled out—abruptly sat up and called for Osayo.

“Yes, yes, sir.” Old Osayo emerged and was startled to find that the guests had left without her noticing, leaving the place deserted,

“Oh my! Have all the guests already left? I had no idea—I’ll tidy up here right away, but I’ve already prepared your bedding over in that sitting room.”

“Well, never mind that. Just go lock the doors.”

Osayo’s hands, which had begun sliding out the storm shutters from the veranda’s shutter compartment, involuntarily paused midway.

Moonlight like an indigo-dyed illustration. Nearby, shadows of objects crawled sharply across the ground, while beyond the tiled roofs overlapping like scales in the Nakano district area, the Myoken Forest—resembling a stage flat—appeared blurred in the pale night mist. Somewhere, the cry of a night crow. Osayo looked back at Genjūrō. “Milord, what a fine moon we have tonight, isn’t it?”

Then Genjūrō.

“I hate the moon.” He snapped dismissively. “My, you dislike the moon—is that so? But why… might that be?” “Just because I hate it. When I look at the moon, it makes me think. When humans dwell on things, it becomes painful indeed. That might be why—perhaps.” “Perhaps you’re recalling your departed wife and feeling lonesome, milord.” “Hmm hmm hmm, that might be the case. Well, just close them quick.”

When the doors were completely secured, Suzukawa Genjūrō sprawled out again. "Sayo, come here. Grab my shoulder for a moment." "A massage," he said. Osayo entered the sitting room still wearing her sash and began massaging Genjūrō’s shoulders and lower back.

“What time is it now?”

“I just heard the eighth bell toll from Ekōin Temple moments ago.”

“I see.” “No wonder I felt sleepy.” “Aaaah!”

While letting out a huge yawn, "You old-timers don't get sleepy, do you? Your body seems sturdy enough." "Oh my... I've always been rather hardy, you see. And what's more, as I've aged, I find it harder to sleep through the night at all." "So even if I were to lie down now, I'd still wake before the sun rises." "Seems pretty knotted up there." "Right there—press harder... You got any brats?"

“Yes, one.” “A boy or a girl?” “A girl, milord.” “A girl—well, even so, a pleasure’s still a pleasure.” “Oh, milord—had this child been a boy, there might have been hope to use connections and secure him a position in service someday… But with a girl… and besides—” “So when you say ‘entering service,’ does that mean you’re from a samurai family?” “Yes… It’s rather shameful to admit, milord.”

“Well now. That’s new information.” “Which domain was it from?”

“Milord, I beg your forgiveness on that matter.” “To speak your name in my fallen state—” “Fair enough.” “That was thoughtless of me.” “But in short—after long years of wandering and losing your standing, you ended up in your current state. That’s the story, I suppose?” “As you have surmised, milord.” “So, what became of that daughter of yours?”

“I left her at the lodging house, but milord—she’s truly become quite a handful.”

“Why is that?” “Well, you see... As for this old woman here—fortunately, there are those kind enough to offer capital for her sake. So I thought it proper to find a suitable husband from an appropriate station and set them up in some modest but respectable trade, however small. But as they say, ‘parents’ hearts are unknown to their children’—wouldn’t you know it? Lately, some troublesome influence has taken root...”

“An affair?” “She brings me to tears, milord.” “What’s this? Who’s the fellow—” “Some honorable hatamoto’s second son or something—” “What’s wrong with that? “In cases where children get pawned off as adoptees, hardship often follows in the end.” “If the two care for each other, that’s what counts.” “You’d best fan the flames now and make arrangements for it all to settle quietly later.” “Shall I wrap this up in one neat package? Hahaha!”

“Well, milord’s way of handling matters—but I’m afraid my household’s affairs aren’t progressing smoothly at all.”

Suddenly, Genjūrō pricked up his ears. Chased by the baying barks of dogs, the sound of footsteps treading through the night mist had just stealthily approached when—

*Shh! Shh!*

Along with a low voice scolding the dog in the garden, the storm shutters rattled softly with a *koto-koto-koto*,

“Hey! Genjū! Suzugen! It’s me… I’m here.” “Open up!” No sooner had he realized [the man] had returned than Genjūrō’s brows relaxed; with a jerk of his chin toward the far side of the room—Go over there—he dismissed Osayo, then threw open the very door he had just shut. Like one of the night’s phantoms, Tange Sazen slid soundlessly into the room.

“You’re late,” Genjūrō said. “Where have you been until now?”

Without answering this, Sazen cautiously surveyed the room,

“The others?” “They just returned.” Sazen led the way into the paper lantern’s glow, but Genjūrō—following behind—started at what he saw. It was Sazen’s disheveled state. Though street grime coating him was nothing new—what had transpired tonight! Disheveled hair veiled his forehead; from the torn sleeve of his black robe’s hem to the collar arched a single streak—likely backspattered blood. Tange Sazen: one-eyed and one-armed, gaunt frame towering upward. Hunched yet piercing Genjūrō with his gaze, the sword scar on his face contorted into a rictus.

“Sit!”

Genjūrō shuddered at the night’s chill and pulled his padded robe closer around himself while, “You’ve killed someone, have you?” “Nah—just stirred up some trouble.” He laughed—“Ahahahaha!” “Enough with the slaughter already. You’d do well to quit it.” Having spoken in this advisory tone, Genjūrō—now sitting cross-legged—suddenly cast a curious eye toward the sword Sazen had drawn from his sash, “What’s that? Isn’t this a battlefield longsword?”

Then Sazen twisted the corner of his mouth smugly, but—

“No one else around, I take it?”

After ostentatiously scanning his surroundings, he resolutely leaned his knees forward. “Hey Suzukawa—no, Suzugen, the ‘Gen’ character...” He rasped each word in a thick, gravelly voice.

“What’s this? So ceremonious.” Genjūrō suppressed a laugh. “Rather than that, you shouldn’t aspire to be some dashing ladies’ man." “Oto waited for you until just now and left in quite a huff. You should come back early once in a while and show her that scarred mug of yours—it’d be a good deed.” “Though I can’t fathom what that woman sees in a wretch like you, after devouring men left and right, she must’ve grown desperate enough to find value in some three-parts-human freak.” “She’s a fearless woman, but when it comes to you, she loses all backbone—just like a little girl, no—it’s downright pitiful to watch.” “You ought to feel at least a shred of gratitude for your undeserved fortune.”

Sazen pffted at the tobacco smoke rings Genjūrō blew and averted his face. “In the fourth watch, I return treading on shadows beneath the slanting moon.” “It may seem elegant, but it’s drenched in dew.” “I don’t wanna hear another damn word about that.” “But hey, Suzugen—how many months has it been since I started imposing on your place?” “You’re being strangely sentimental tonight of all nights.” “But come to think of it, it must’ve been nearly half a year by now.” “So it’s come to that?” “Time flies. All this while… I truly thought of you as my brother—”

“Enough! If you saw me as your older brother like that—then having me think of you as my younger brother? Who knows what you’d do?” “Hahahaha!” “This ain’t no joke.” “I plan to spill it all here tonight—a major secret concerning my own self and a certain great domain in the northern border.”

Sazen, leaning forward, suddenly thrust out Ken’unmaru—the battlefield longsword. “Here! This blade! “Now for the tale’s beginning—”

He began to speak. When Genjūrō trimmed the lamp wick and added oil, the thick predawn darkness retreated to the room's four corners under the renewed light with a sizzle. Yet neither noticed the figure standing in the corridor beyond the paper sliding door.

Sazen’s account. This rōnin like the wind, Tange Sazen, was in truth the temporary guise of a retainer from Oshū Nakamura—a sixty-thousand-koku domain seventy-six ri northeast of Edo—who had infiltrated the capital under his lord Sōma Daisanenosuke’s secret orders. And what was the nature of that mission? Why did a proper retainer have to disguise himself in the form of an emaciated stray dog and expose himself to Edo’s eight hundred and eight districts—to its dust, rain, and sun? There must have been some considerable reason for that.

Drawn in by Sazen’s uncharacteristically formal seated posture, even the faint smile vanished from Genjūrō’s face.

In the profound night air enveloping the two, the hues of dawn had already begun to stir. However, Osayo—standing unnoticed in the corridor—clamped both palms over her mouth, barely suppressing the gasp that threatened to escape upon hearing *“Sōma Nakamura.”* The 60,000-koku Sōma clan were outer lords yet an internally prosperous house. Lord Daisanenosuke was an ardent sword enthusiast—or rather, a sword-obsessed devotee. Among the numerous famous and rare blades from across the land that he had gathered at no small expense, there was but one flaw in the jewel: the absence of any notable work by Sonroku, founder of the Seki Shichiryū school.

Therefore, If they were to search for Sonroku anyway—so the reasoning went—they might as well seek the night-weeping daishō pair Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru, blades said to have been forged by that master smith with his final reserves of vitality and divine focus until his dying breath... Thus they divided their efforts nationwide to locate them, only to discover that one blade of the pair was now secretly kept by Nezu Shrine’s Akebono Village swordsmanship instructor Onozuka Tessai. Through Edo representatives, they attempted negotiations without sparing gold or silver, but Tessai—guardian of a hereditary treasure—refused to nod in agreement no matter how they altered their approaches.

It was utterly impossible. Once it became clear [negotiations were futile], the formal discussions were abandoned—but far from subsiding, the burning desire in Daisanenosuke’s breast flared anew as if fed fresh oil, his delusion taking flight like a cloud across seventy-six ri to sway over Akebono Village’s sky. Those who delight in collecting things, having focused their minds on a single pursuit, are often ensnared by deluded obsession. It was karmic fire. On the night when Lord Daisanenosuke—unable to abandon his obsession yet resigned to its impossibility—finally relinquished hope, a single black shadow slipped out through Nakamura Castle’s impure gate under cover of the pitch-black darkness and departed the castle town. The following day, the name Tange Sazen had been struck off the foot soldiers' roster on the grounds of having absconded for unknown reasons.

Having demonstrated his resolve to obtain Sonroku even at the cost of bloodshed and death, the sword-obsessed Tange Sazen was released through the impure gate—by that time already making his way toward Edo proper to the peaceful strains of a muleteer’s song. Outwardly appearing as a masterless rōnin, in truth, he remained under the feudal lord’s covert influence.

If he returned home with these Heaven and Earth blades as his prize, supreme honor and trust, vast amounts of gold, and a large stipend awaited him in his homeland.

Simultaneous with his arrival in Edo, Tange Sazen—who had taken refuge at Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence before Honjō Hōonji Temple—kept clandestine watch over Tessai’s dojo day and night. It was then he caught wind of a rumor: at the annual autumn grand tournament, Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru would be temporarily awarded as ceremonial blades.

Since then, he had been eagerly awaiting the first Day of the Boar in October. Even his defiant storming of the dojo—the act of a man who tears through social conventions like stubbornly ripping paper sideways—had been for the purpose of intercepting the swords’ ceremonial awarding. “Starting with the old master, I slaughtered over ten people and made off with it.” “Draw it and see.” Having concluded his lengthy tale, Sazen raised one eyebrow and burst into raucous laughter. The partial unburdening of his load made the monster Sazen appear all the more unbridled. Genjūrō, having straightened his posture, held a kaishi tissue paper in his mouth and wiped the scabbard, then spent some time narrowing his eyes at Ken’unmaru’s gleaming blade before finally—

“Magnificent—the sheath’s wrapped in flat silk thread. Shakudō hilt with clustered cloud engraving. But as swords go—a single blade’s useless.” “Yet there **is** a way. Genjū—still ignorant I see? They say clouds summon dragons, dragons call clouds. There! The crux! Meaning—this longsword and companion shortsword seek each other out! Won’t settle till reunited as pair!”

“You mean…?” “Slow on the uptake, aren’t you? No matter how far those wielding them stray apart, these blades yearn for each other—bound to reunite sooner or later, I tell ya.” Sazen’s scarred lip twisted. “Between Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru runs an invisible thread that pulls taut.” Genjūrō stroked his pockmarked chin. “Hmm. A weave of karmic threads, one might say.” “Damn right.” Sazen’s single eye gleamed like his blade’s edge. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll roam Edo with this steel at my hip. Mark me—some cocky bastard’ll be strutting about with Konryūmaru on his other side. When cloud calls to dragon…” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a rasp. “That’s when I’ll need your blade at my back—starting now.”

“Being your second? That could prove diverting.” “But this opponent who carries Konryūmaru—who might they be?” “That I can’t say.” “But there was a pale-faced youngster—a lone bastard with monstrous skill.” “Felt like his blade shoved me clean off that damn wall.” “Hmm.” “A single decisive stroke then.” “Konryūmaru’s forged identical to this—flat-wrapped sheath, shakudō hilt, carved with an ascending dragon. No matter whose hip it graces, you’d know it at a glance.”

When a rooster crowed at a nearby peasant’s house, the two men fell silent in unison, three eyes gleaming upon Ken’unmaru’s sword fittings placed between them. Thus did the battlefield tachi—evocative of Warring States antiquity—form its bizarre pairing with an ordinary black-sheathed wakizashi, from that moment onward gracing Tange Sazen’s waist. The old woman Osayo, who had been eavesdropping on this exchange—

“Then Lord Tange came from Nakamura—” Even knowing this—even announcing herself—no one emerged, and she alone kept whatever it was sealed within her breast. For Osayo’s deceased husband Wada Sōemon had served as purveyor chief under the same Lord Sōma during his lifetime—thus Osayo and Sazen, being fellow natives of the same domain, ought to have shared nostalgic bonds.

Shubi no Matsu

Even carrying something cold deep within, the warm sun of late autumn warmed the backs of passersby on the road.

On the indigo shop curtains lining the street, heat haze shimmered, the unseasonably warm weather seeming likely to lure out even red dragonflies.

Along Kuramae Avenue, water sprinkled to suppress dust hung in the air before the houses, while high in the lapis lazuli-clear sky, a flock of migratory birds etched a loose circle. Trailing behind a kabuki actor wearing a wide-brimmed hat came two or three local girls—likely returning from lessons—their laughter tinkling through the air. After their passing left the street momentarily still, a white dog basking in sunlight stretched its front paws forward in perfect unison.

At one of the storehouse-lined inns—Ryōguchiya Kaemon’s shopfront—in the shadow of its water bucket, Yokichi the drummer had been standing idly for some time now, waiting for someone. A man so famous in Komagata that he’d earned the nickname “Drum”—strike him and he’d resonate, beat him and he’d answer back—such was this playboy’s renown. A tanned, rakish man. “Tch! Enough with keepin’ me waitin’! For a milord, he’s sure got a long fuse when it comes to cash—if ya can’t swing it, then just pack up an’ leave already!” “Ain’t like this joint’s our only shot.” “The hell!” “This ain’t funny!”

Peering into Ryōguchiya’s dark earthen entrance, he muttered complaints under his breath. In stark contrast to the bright outdoor light, Ryōguchiya’s storehouse interior loomed with a cold, menacing purple air. Behind the storehouse door, money clerks and rice clerks sat in a long, neat row along the wide threshold frame—these bill broker clerks received salaries befitting department heads, prepared to face down unreasonable hatamoto even at risk of being cut down.

Even now, Suzukawa Genjūrō of Honjo Hoon-ji—the man who made all of Kuramae’s bill brokers weep—had come barging in himself to beg for a thirty-ryō advance and now sat there as immovable as a lever. For a five-hundred-koku hatamoto, thirty ryō might seem trivial enough, but given the borrower’s precarious standing, they couldn’t readily part with it.

Kanekichi, the possessed clerk, slipped, fell, and fumbled about in a daze. For Suzukawa Genjūrō—burdened with thirty ryō in debts from continuous losses—the strain of dealing with upright creditors based solely on ledger entries must have been more mentally taxing than straightforward negotiations. Today, no matter what, he had to procure [the funds]... and had come out with Yokichi in tow, but the lack of progress was overwhelming. As soon as it was ready, he intended to send Yokichi out to make deliveries to various places—which was why he had him waiting outside—making Genjūrō all the more resolute.

“Well, if you’re saying the past accounts haven’t been working out neatly—if you want to call that my fault, then fine, it’s my fault.” “But look here, Kanekō—people do have their miscalculations.” “You’ve got to read between the lines a bit here—it’d be a problem otherwise.” “Hai. I fully comprehend your position, Milord, but as I’ve stated repeatedly—given that your lordship has already been granted considerable credit—we must humbly request settling accounts once before proceeding further… For our part as well, it truly cannot be delayed—”

A thick vein throbbed on Genjūrō’s temple. Slapping his haori with a sharp pop, he sank into a deeper crouch. “So? What now? Even after I’ve bent my principles this far to beg—you still refuse to hand over the money? Are you saying thirty ryō isn’t worth your lordly consideration?” “We must humbly beg your pardon just this once.” “Even after I’ve spelled it out this plainly?” “Our deepest apologies.”

As he stood up, Genjūrō sharply tugged the sword cord,

“Fine! I won’t ask anymore.” “If I don’t ask, there should be no complaints.” “Kanekichi, you’ve really made me look like a fool.”

He started to walk away but immediately turned back, “Hey. I’ll grant you another moment to reconsider. It’s thirty ryō, I tell you! I’m not asking for a thousand or a hundred! Merely thirty ryō—how about it?” At this moment, the clerk turned sideways with a dismissive snort and, while suffusing his entire face with an exaggerated ingratiating smile directed at Genjūrō, “Welcome—oh! Young Master of Toriage! How unusual to see you here…” When Genjūrō turned toward the voice, there stood a handsome young samurai—as if he’d stepped straight from a kabuki theater billboard—just then entering with a sword slung at his side.

Eizaburō acknowledged Kanekichi’s amiability with a glance and called out to two or three clerks further along. “Ah, Hikobei.” “Today I have come as proxy for the steward.” “My, my—that’s most kind of you.” “Now, now—do take your seat… Seikichi! Yumatsu! Bring the seating cushions.” “And then tea—” Genjūrō now realized he had been offered neither tea nor a seating cushion. Genjūrō—who had been intently watching from his position, unaware this was Suwa Eizaburō visiting Ryōguchiya Kaemon’s bill broker shop as proxy for the steward—suddenly found his gaze falling upon the hilt of the short sword Eizaburō seemed to hide with his sleeve. Startled, he reflexively rubbed his eyes.

Flat-silk-wrapped battlefield sword craftsmanship... This must be it! Then that would mean...? Of course—this could only be Konryūmaru, the counterpart to the night-weeping sword Sazen had described.

The sword drew the sword—had his own eyes, now linked to Sazen, already perceived it?—At this thought, even Genjūrō felt a chilling coldness creep over him, and for a moment,

"What should I do?" He hesitated momentarily in confusion but quickly— "Sazen is Sazen, and I am I." After observing this greenhorn a bit more thoroughly, it wouldn't be too late to inform Sazen or take similar action afterward. "Besides—without needing to trouble Sazen over a couple of bundles of such riffraff—I could handle it alone. No—Yokichi alone could finish them off."

Answering himself internally yet continuing to nonchalantly keep his eyes fixed [on Eizaburō]—and since [Eizaburō] remained unaware of this—Eizaburō promptly commenced the crucial discussion. “Steward Shiraki Jūbei should have come himself, but as he is unfortunately occupied with numerous tasks today, this humble one has come in his stead.” “In truth, after we called a roofer due to damage to the Toriage estate’s roof, he stated that a complete re-roofing would be necessary, which requires considerable effort.” “My brother’s finances here have also become somewhat strained, leaving him rather troubled; but with a three-term repayment plan, subtracting principal and interest wouldn’t be burdensome. Might I ask you to lend us around fifty ryō?”

The chief clerk agreed without hesitation. In truth, bill brokers could not earn much from mere brokerage fees; they could not sustain their business without lending money to hatamoto and gokenin retainers and collecting interest. However, Eizaburō’s brother Ōkubo Tōjirō—though young—was a man of prudent habits who had never borrowed even a single copper coin from warehouse lenders, making his estate thoroughly unprofitable for bill brokers. Then came a request to borrow fifty ryō. At a valuation of three hundred bales, fifty ryō was an easy matter.

“My deepest apologies, but might I request your seal?” “Yes, I have brought my brother’s seal.” Indeed, as Tōjirō’s seal showed no discrepancy, clerk Hikobei meticulously aligned the edges of the fifty ryō coins there and— “Here you are.” “Please examine it first before accepting.” Having observed this far, Genjūrō thought: Ah, here I am struggling over thirty ryō, yet those clerks practically beg to lend fifty to this greenhorn... The swords are one thing, but fifty ryō is fifty ryō, no matter where it comes from— With this notion striking him, he sauntered out of Ryōguchiya’s shop, disregarding Eizaburō entirely.

“Milord.”

Yokichi of Tsuzumi, who had been waiting until exhausted, rushed out toward Genjūrō’s figure,

“You took quite a while, didn’t you?” “Did ya get it done, huh?”

As he tried to break into a run,

“Shh! Don’t shout!” Having sharply rebuked him, Genjūrō promptly plunged straight into the backstreet of Morita-chō beyond the storehouse district. “This is strange,” he thought as he followed and hid in the alleyway, where Genjūrō now came to a standstill.

“I couldn’t get the money.” “But with just your efforts now, fifty ryō might come tumbling right here.”

“With my efforts, fifty ryō?” “That’s quite bold.” “Fifty ryō all together—that solid weight. Haven’t had my hands on it in ages, but I can’t forget it.” “So, Milord, what’re ya sayin’ this job’s about?” “A young samurai’s about to come out from that shop over there. Make it look like we’re strangers and follow me four or five ken behind.” “When I raise my hand, you run past and call out to the samurai.” “Speak politely now—‘Ah, I am but a humble clerk from the shop you just visited. It seems there may have been an error in the gold coins we provided. I humbly request to inspect them briefly, if I may.’” “Well, you can tell at a single glance.” “So when the mark takes out the money bundle, don’t give a damn—just grab it and bolt.” “I’ll handle the rest.”

Yokichi was grinning slyly.

“That’s an old trick.” “You think it’ll work?” “That’s exactly where your skill comes in.” “Heh heh heh, right you are.” “Let’s try it.”

The moment they nodded in agreement, “Here he comes! That’s him.” Genjūrō pulled Yokichi’s sleeve. Looking, there was Suwa Eizaburō—dressed in a kimono and setta sandals, casually wearing mismatched long and short swords at his waist—his cleanly defined shoulders bathed in the blazing midday sun as he strode on foot toward Kaminarimon.

It was just as Eizaburō reached the gate of Shōkakuji Temple. Yokichi of Tsuzumi briskly passed by his side at Genjūrō’s signal—a sudden raising of one hand after confirming no passersby were ahead or behind. “Excuse me, sir—”

Hurriedly catching up, "Um, excuse me, samurai sir—if you would be so kind as to wait a moment," he called out and bowed dutifully.

“………?” When Eizaburō silently turned around, a man in an apron who appeared to be a shop clerk was bowing repeatedly like a rice-pounding grasshopper right before his eyes. “Hmm… You seem a stranger. Do you have business with this humble one?” Eizaburō came to a stop. “Yes.” “I must offer my deepest apologies for having called out to you on the roadside—”

“Hmm.” “Well then—this matter you speak of—what is it?” “Uh, well…” Yokichi of Tsuzumi stammered, rubbing his hands together and stroking his neck—maintaining utmost subservience—but try as he might, Eizaburō simply couldn’t reconcile this display with the notorious Komagata thug who’d flip up his hem and deliver a sharp retort anywhere if one thing went wrong. Before he knew it, Eizaburō had let his guard down— “Though I know not what this concerns, if there is a matter to discuss, I shall hear it out.”

In this manner, he first took two or three steps toward the tower gate, positioning himself away from the harsh sunlight and passersby. At that moment, Yokichi—who was seeing Eizaburō’s face head-on for the first time—floundered slightly, as if dazzled by the man’s strikingly handsome features, but immediately adopted an obsequiously polite tone, “Ah, I am from Ryōguchiya, which you graciously visited just now—it seems there may have been an error in the gold coins you requested to take with you, or so the clerks mentioned—and so I pursued after you to humbly request to inspect the money—yes, that is why I have come here—how about it? Might I trouble you to show them for a moment?……”

Cutting off his words, Yokichi stared intently at Eizaburō’s expression.

The ancient Furisode Ginkgo tree famous in this area completely covered Shōkakuji Temple's main gate, its branches flourishing abundantly. Yellow leaves sparsely covering the treetops loomed low against the high autumn sky, their gaps casting stripes of sunlight that made purple mottles dance across Eizaburō's entire body. Eizaburō, who had been silently staring at Yokichi, suddenly spun on his heel—what thought had crossed his mind?—and began hurrying into the temple grounds. “Um, sir!”

Yokichi’s voice called after him. “Follow me.” With those words, Eizaburō made his way toward the main hall. Standing some distance away, Suzukawa Genjūrō had been observing the situation from behind an abandoned cart. Once he saw that Yokichi too had followed Eizaburō into the temple grounds, he muffled his footsteps and pressed himself against the ginkgo tree trunk. Suddenly visiting a temple is strange—! Hmm? “Where could they be going?…” As Genjūrō peered in, Eizaburō—having abruptly halted beside the shrine housing the yin-yang stones at the main hall’s side—turned to look back at Yokichi and was heard speaking these words.

“That place is a thoroughfare. I couldn’t discuss private matters there. But here there are no prying eyes. What?—Explain that matter from earlier again.” “I must apologize for taking up so much of your time with various matters. It appears there was an error on our part regarding the gold coins we provided.” “What you’re saying remains unclear. A miscount is one thing, but there can be no mistake regarding the gold coins.” “Huh? No, but you see…”

“Wait—what are you from Ryōguchiya?” “I am but a junior staff member.” “If you’re a junior, your duty would be that of an errand runner.” “And would someone of your station comprehend the handling of such significant funds?—The clerks laid them out, this humble one formally received them, and affixed his seal to the deed—there can be no error in these coins.” “Huh.” “Well, you see… It’s that clerk’s mistake…”

“Still insisting on this?” “What manner of clerk is this?!” “Uh…”

Eizaburō ignored Yokichi, who had involuntarily stumbled over his words, and—

“Look there.” “First of all—if you were from Ryōguchiya, you would know this humble one.” “State my name!” “Yes. I am already well aware of that.” “Heh heh heh, Young Lord—” “Shut up! To pick a quarrel over a samurai’s belongings—you seem to have no regard for your life.” “N-No such thing! “I’m just…” “Alright! “Then let us proceed to Ryōguchiya—you shall accompany me.” With that—! From behind Eizaburō, who had stepped forward—perhaps deeming the situation too troublesome—Yokichi, who from the start had dismissed the man as merely a handsome coward of a samurai, slipped off his Kai-silk lined haori and flung it like a casting net over him, then wordlessly grappled onto his target.

He’s here!

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than Eizaburō found himself both astonished by this sesame-fly of a man’s recklessness and profoundly irritated. Simultaneously, an amusement transcending both surprise and anger surged through his chest—Eizaburō now wearing Yokichi’s haori over his head—as if he were enacting some absurd farce himself. Pfft! This guy’s a riot! Such was his sentiment. Then in an instant—without offering the slightest resistance, letting Yokichi cling to him unreservedly—the thoroughly emboldened Yokichi,

“Take that, you bastard!” “Spouting your grand speeches is all well and good, but look at the state you’re in now—pathetic, ain’t ya?”

With that—! Not merely for show—true to form as an Edo playboy’s garment designed with silk lining to slip off swiftly during brawls—Yokichi attempted to envelop Eizaburō’s face in the haori and wrench him down in one motion—! Eizaburō slipped through with ease. Dah! As soon as he raised one leg and kicked Yokichi in the solar plexus, the sesame-patterned Tōzan fabric of that haori—What’s this?! and fluttered down onto the face of the staggering Yokichi, “Tch! Damn nuisance…!”

He tried to regain his footing, but the more he struggled, the more entangled he became. Flustered Yokichi put on his own haori and began a lion dance...

“Hiyah!” A frost-edged battle cry. Musashitarō flashed from its scabbard in Eizaburō’s hand; a white light swept sideways—and in an instant, the blade was returned to its sheath. What had appeared to be blood—was in fact Joseph’s coat blazing in the sunlight there. At the gatefront, Genjūrō—who had been peering from the shadows of the long-sleeved ginkgo tree—had his guts turned to water at the brilliance of this iaijutsu draw, and he thought Yokichi had surely been split clean in two.

However, what had been split in two was not Yokichi, but the haori. As if cleanly severed by scissors, it lay fallen to the ground, split into left and right. Yokichi stood dazedly deflated, “Cutting the likes of you would only soil my blade. Learn from this and henceforth look at the person before you speak.” Yokichi snapped back to his senses at Eizaburō’s voice—but having no idea how his haori had been taken, he remained undaunted.

“What the—! You impudent—!” Faster than a groan could escape him, he kicked up his geta, snatched it mid-air, and lunged into the attack. Eizaburō smiled, deftly disengaged, and gave a light poke to the floundering Yokichi’s waist. Yokichi, losing his balance, scraped along the shrine's stone pavement and ended up sprawled out...

He was no amateur.

Before anyone knew it, he had snatched the fifty-ryō purse from Eizaburō’s breast pocket; clutching it tightly in his hand, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward the gate. There would be no more mercy. He followed through with a single stroke!

Gripping the front half of the hilt and stepping back, Eizaburō failed to notice the figure that flickered momentarily in the shadow of the ginkgo tree by the gate he was about to exit. Let alone that Yokichi, as he was leaving through the gate, had thrown the purse toward that shadow—Eizaburō had not the slightest inkling of this.

After wavering left and right two or three times in the street, Yokichi darted off turtle-like toward Kurofune-cho's corner. A turn would bring one to Kōrai Estate. The tightly packed townhouses and maze-like alleyways—perfect for vanishing. Damn you! Suwa Eizaburō—judging where his sword would reach—lowered his hips to pursue, aiming to flip up from beneath the armpit.

The one who watched them depart and revealed a sharp smile from the shadows of the Long-Sleeved Ginkgo was Suzukawa Genjūrō. In his hand, he held a heavily weighted purse. Since Yokichi—who thought he’d been cut down—came running and deftly handed over the purse, Suzukawa Genjūrō adopted a "let the fields be fields and mountains be mountains" attitude thereafter. The fact that Konryūmaru, the short sword which his houseguest Tange Sazen was desperately searching for with wild eyes, hung at that young samurai’s waist meant nothing compared to these fifty ryō.

There was no one watching. Perfect! And his faint pockmarks creased into a smile.

Genjūrō, having filled his pockets for the first time in ages, glanced front and back and was about to saunter off when...

Despite there being no wind—crash! The sound of rustling fallen leaves. From behind Genjūrō as he tried to leave beneath the ginkgo tree without a second thought, a hoarse laugh suddenly struck his ears. “Ha ha ha ha! Heaven knows, earth knows, men know—wicked deeds ain’t possible!” He whirled around in shock, but there was no sign of anyone. Only two or three fan-shaped leaves drifted down through sunlight that fell like rain— One could only think the ginkgo tree had spoken. A trick of the mind!

Scolding himself, Genjūrō was about to move again when—once more—a stifled chuckle sounded nearby.

Genjūrō, instinctively gripping the hilt, recoiled against the ginkgo trunk and assumed a defensive stance…

Along Shōkaku-ji’s hedge ran a ditch dried of water by the prolonged drought. Right beneath the Long-Sleeved Ginkgo, fallen golden leaves had been blown together, filling the ditch like a golden stream—but then one patch of leaves swelled up mound-like, and with a rustle, something rose from within the ditch.

A dog?

The thought had been instantaneous—what now filled Suzukawa Genjūrō’s widened eyes was an utterly incomprehensible human figure using a one-shō sake bottle as a pillow. “Y-you bastard?!” “What the hell are you?”

A cry of surprise burst from Genjūrō’s mouth as he peered down. However, before answering, the man slowly sat cross-legged on his mat of fallen leaves and stared back intently at Genjūrō. The scent of ripe persimmons struck the nostrils—pungent and sharp. Even for a beggar, it was an excessively filthy appearance. But there was long hair sweeping over his shoulders, a broad forehead weathered by drink, cheeks rich with lines that evoked a master sculptor’s chisel. Moreover, clear eyes held both mirth and menace, while from thick chest down to arms, muscles built like small hills bore testament to rigorous training.

His age fell considerably short of forty. His garments were soiled with sweat—an unlined summer kimono of Matsusaka cotton with tattered rags hanging like seaweed—yet his imposing aura defied any semblance of ordinariness.

Before the dumbfounded Genjūrō—who could only stare speechlessly—the man heaved himself up from the ditch. He had briskly brushed the fallen leaves from his body, yet two or three ginkgo leaves clung to his head as he stood there with a sake bottle in one hand, his chest hair rippling in the faint breeze. He stood tall with a rock-like build—an imposing figure bearing the semblance of a wild warrior from the Sengoku era. Though thoroughly disconcerted, Genjūrō nonetheless maintained perfect composure as he fixed this enigmatic drifter with an icy stare.

When he stopped abruptly about a foot before him，the man placed both hands on his hips and suddenly shook forth laughter from his belly’s depths like a horse’s neigh.

The voice entwined with the ginkgo’s uppermost branches was drawn high into the autumn-clear sky like smoke. Because the opponent kept laughing endlessly, Genjūrō too found himself drawn in, becoming somehow inexplicably amused. He grinned in response. Then the man abruptly stopped laughing, “You’re from Hatchōbori?” he demanded in an imperious tone, as though hurling the words. From Genjūrō’s small ginkgo-leaf hairstyle, his worn Hakata obi, and the setta sandals, he had pegged him as a town yoriki or the like. He was called “Yoriki Suzugen” to such an extent that Genjūrō was often mistaken for an official, but since others persisted in this assumption of their own accord, he too considered it advantageous to remain silent on the matter—and at this moment as well, he simply glared fiercely, assuming a formidable demeanor.

“You rude cur! What do you mean by these words now that you dare stand before me?”

The man wrinkled the corners of his eyes, “You heard my muttering—that’s why you came back, isn’t it? Heaven knows, earth knows, men know... I’m shocked a man who eats Tokugawa’s rice while wearing two swords would pull off a daylight robbery.” “What?!” The man gently pressed his fingertip against Genjūrō’s hand as he instinctively reached for the hilt, “I’ve been watching from this ditch the whole time. Hand over the wallet that man threw down.” He applied pressure with his fingers as he spoke.

“Y-you... Let go!” Genjūrō snapped. “This blade hasn’t caught your eye? You’re piss-drunk—I said let go! Still clinging on...?” “Drunk I may be.” “But in this filthy world, at least drunkenness offers fleeting blossoms.” The strange man expelled a liquor-tainted breath—“Hah!”—and brandished his sake flask. Genjūrō—who had strained to wrench free—now embraced void-like stillness, motionless against external forces. Recognizing the Yōshin-ryū principle of pliant fists, he deemed this no ordinary foe; leaving his hand motionless beneath those serpentine coiling fingers, he abruptly transformed his bearing.

“Wait.” “If you saw every detail from the very beginning… then there’s no alternative.” “Since I won’t bandy words about it, let’s split it down the middle—I’ll ask your forbearance in taking half the sum.”

Genjūrō took out Eizaburō’s wallet containing fifty ryō from his breast pocket.

Then, while loosening Genjūrō’s grip,

“Shut up!” he barked, heaving his shoulders. “I’ve yet to chop off a thief’s head!” “Hand over the whole damn wallet!” “And what might you plan to do with this gold?” “That’s plain enough.” “I’ll return it to its proper owner.”

Genjūrō scoffed. “That’s quite the noble aspiration these days—or so I’d say, but pray tell what manner of man are you?” “Me?” “I am a hermit who makes the world his home.”

“What? A hermit? And your esteemed name?” “What name could I possibly have? If pressed, ‘the Nameless Man’ would be my name.” “I see. Well now, this is amusing. In that case, I shall hand over this gold to you as it is.” Appearing to have given up, Genjūrō complied without protest. The wallet passed into the man’s hand. “Hmph! Not that this is particularly amusing… But coming from dogs of the Tokugawa—those grand thieves who monopolize governance and squeeze the people dry—it’s downright hilarious how you so-called ‘reformers of arsonists and thieves’ are the ones committing crimes! Now *this* is entertainment!”

At this venomous tongue, Genjūrō flared up, "In your beggarly state, there'd be no end to your prattling—you claim you'll return the money, but do you even know that young samurai's name and address?"

“Don’t know.” “But he’ll return here eventually,” declared the Nameless Man—and before his words had fully faded, Suwa Eizaburō, who had lost track of Yokichi the drummer along the back road, emerged vacantly from that side street into the thoroughfare. His posture bore the mark of one lost in contemplation.

Upon seeing this, the man—before Genjūrō could react—called out in a loud voice, shot a glance at Genjūrō, and then turned toward the approaching Eizaburō, “Here! The money is here. This Hatchōbori official was kind enough to take him down and retrieve it. Give your thanks to this man here.” Having masterfully elevated Genjūrō’s standing, no sooner had he passed the wallet to Eizaburō than he left the two bewildered men behind and vanished like the wind… a ginkgo leaf resting atop his hair, the sake bottle still clutched in one hand.

A man without a name—bizarre beyond measure! Above all, his audacious manner of speech—seemingly harboring treasonous intent toward the shogunate—who on earth could this man be?

—And so, Eizaburō—knowing nothing—repeatedly bowed in gratitude to Genjūrō, who watched him depart, before soon hurrying off toward Kaminarimon as well. Suzukawa Genjūrō returned the greeting with a peculiar expression, his eyes riveted on the retreating Eizaburō’s waist. Upon the jindachi-style wakizashi—whose craftsmanship he had only heard described in tales—the ninth-hour sunlight of late afternoon danced. Was this Konryūmaru’s spirit bewailing its solitude? A wisp of loneliness hovered like a swarm of mosquitoes about Eizaburō’s receding figure.

“Alright! Since those fifty ryō are gone, I’ll keep hounding that man, stir up Tange, and enjoy the show myself.” Ken’un and Konryū... They say blades call to their kin. “Still, that whelp’s definitely from Torigoe—” When Genjūrō tilted his head quizzically, Eizaburō—walking ahead—turned back once more and bowed deeply. “Heh... What a fool!” Genjūrō smirked to himself. As he returned an overly polite bow, someone tapped his shoulder—

“Ohoho, goodness me, Milord! You’re not fox-possessed—what’s with all this solitary bowing?” “You’re not fox-possessed—what’s with all this solitary bowing……” came the voice of Kushimaki Oto. Before they knew it, Yokichi had somehow come to be standing beside them. Yokichi, who had nearly been caught by Eizaburō and almost had Musashitarō thrown at him, dashed into Oto’s nearby house and was saved in the nick of time. But when they dragged the madam out thinking it safe now, they found the crucial money had been lost—all thanks to some meddling by that Nameless Man—leaving them with neither principal nor interest…—

Oto hiked up her black collar and twisted her body into a C-shape, her abdomen taut. But that girlish laugh vanished instantly as her face turned grave. Genjūrō's words about wanting assistance for Tange Sazen's sake. She didn't know the details. Yet hearing Sazen's name made her vulnerable as one in love. Oto's eyes now held a resolve that would defy fire and flood.

Moreover, Suzukawa Genjūrō’s fervor resonated in both their hearts. Yokichi remained there as their relay, while Oto and Genjūrō set off in pursuit of Eizaburō. Once they identified the residence, one of them would double back to inform Yokichi. Yokichi would bring this information and dash to the Suzukawa residence at Honjo Hōonji Bridge, where they would meet Sazen and discuss launching an assault that very night. As Oto, emboldened, began trotting alongside Genjūrō toward Eizaburō’s diminishing figure, a solitary cloud swiftly veiled the sun, casting a chilly indigo hue over the distant tree-lined avenue.

At that moment, an old samurai who had emerged from the Kurayado Ryōguchiya storehouse behind them similarly shielded his eyes with a hand and observed Eizaburō. "Well then, shall we head out for a stroll while the sun is still high?" "Thank you very much for the hospitality—Miss, I'll leave the tea money here." "Heave-ho!" he said. "Thank you kindly." "Proceed with quiet steps." When the tobacco seller catering to Yoshiwara clientele shouldered his paulownia box and stood up, Oto followed suit and stepped outside.

With an expectant look, she peered toward the Niōmon gate, “It’s about time the Young Master should have arrived, but I wonder what could have happened.” “After making such an unreasonable request, perhaps it ended in failure…” She muttered under her breath, but seeing no sign of anyone approaching, retreated dejectedly into the shadow of the reed screen again. Pigeons were perched on the stone steps, and no worshippers could be seen.

In front of Asakusa Sanja.

It was one of the many tea stalls lining the street—a place called Atariya. Her dark-blue kasuri apron still carried the fresh scent of indigo dye, paired with a crimson tasuki sash—though it had not been long since Oto began cherishing this tea-house version of herself, Suwa Eizaburō’s recent presence had made this guise her sole anchor. Now she found herself willing to exchange even a single polite word with passing customers who paid a mere coin for their tea. A tinny hiss rose from the boiling kettle.

After briefly adjusting the fire under the kettle and tucking her hands into her sash, Oto lowered her white chin deep into her collar and sank unconsciously into thought. Even the uproarious laughter erupting at the neighboring Shitara’s shop seemed not to reach her ears. Her side-locks began to dishevel in a tantalizing manner, as though lifted straight from an ukiyo-e print depicting such scenes——.

This Oto.

There was a man named Wada Sōemon—an upright samurai who had served as provisions officer under Lord Sōma Daizenshō of Nakamura in Ōshū, the domain lord who had sent the sword fiend Tange Sazen undercover into Edo to acquire the night-weeping blades. True to the proverb “Clear waters breed no fish,” Sōemon found himself permanently dismissed after being ensnared in his fellow officials’ embezzlement schemes. Having resolved it was too late to serve another lord and join a new household as a junior retainer, he departed for Edo to adopt the carefree existence of a ronin. Through Kajitomi—a blacksmith called Tomigorou in Asakusa Mikamachi who was a slight acquaintance yet extended him considerable kindness—he managed to open a terakoya school at Kizaemon’s shop in Tawaramachi’s third district, barely sustaining his daily livelihood though…

Between him（Sōemen）and his wife Osayo was a daughter of marriageable age named Oto. Day after day discussing their fervent wish to adopt a son-in-law heir who would assume stewardship and restore the Wada household at once—during which time Sōemen suddenly collapsed onto a makeshift sickbed—the elderly couple found themselves powerless; despite desperate pleas from Osayo,Oto,Kizaemon,and Kajitomi for physicians and remedies,the man departed this world like smoke vanishing in moonlight,their clamor echoing unheard through paper-thin walls.

A mother and daughter left behind in the transient world. They were not permitted to linger in tears for long. The means of livelihood from tomorrow onward loomed before their eyes. The elderly mother Osayo entered service at the residence of hatamoto Suzukawa Genjūrō in Honjo Hōonji—who had been seeking a maid at that very time—with Kizaemon and Kajitomi acting as guarantors. Then, after Oto was left alone, what Kizaemon brought to her was this opportunity: a position at the Atariya tea stall before Sanja Shrine.

The thought of a samurai’s daughter becoming a tea house girl—though she had resigned herself to it as unavoidable in these trying times—was why Oto now made her daily commute from Kizaemon of Tawaramachi to Sanja Shrine. Her informal demeanor accentuated her natural beauty all the more, and despite having opened her shop only recently, there was already none in Asakusa who did not know the name “Oto of Atariya.” If times were as they should be…… The more Oto dwelled on this thought, the heavier her heart grew.

Just then, another—

There is nothing as unreliable as people’s kindness. Kajitomi, who had cared for them as devotedly as family—though now it seemed he had harbored some ulterior motive all along—had recently totaled all the money he had lent them over time and was demanding repayment of fifty ryō with arrow-like urgency.

On a day later that month, when Eizaburō—who had stopped by after returning from a Kannon pilgrimage and had since visited daily without fail—came again, Oto suddenly confided in him about the hardships that weighed heavily on her heart. Without a moment’s hesitation, Eizaburō rushed out to secure fifty ryō, but—— He still hadn’t returned.

“I’m terribly sorry. From the very start, it must seem like I’m begging for money—you must think me such a vulgar tea-house woman.”

A deep sigh escaped from Oto’s lips. On that day, when Shiraki Jūbei, chief retainer of Ōkubo Tōjirō, stopped by the Kurayado Ryōguchiya storehouse on business, he learned that Eizaburō—his master’s younger brother—had just come bearing Tōjirō’s personal seal and borrowed fifty ryō for such a purpose. Even for the Young Master, filching a seal to swindle such a sum could not be overlooked—so Shiraki Jūbei shook his white-haired head fiercely, then dashed out with arm raised in a blocking gesture——.

An autumnal white town street offering distant visibility.

Along the bustling Kuramae street where people moved about in scattered groups, the figure of Eizaburō hurrying from distant Komagata toward Kaminarimon could be seen like a tiny bean. Leaving Yokichi at the relay station, the figures of Genjūrō and Oto following behind naturally appeared to Jūbei’s eyes as nothing more than ordinary passersby.

“If matters were handled discreetly within our circle, that would be acceptable—but resorting to strong-arming a bill broker… I fear for Lord Eizaburō’s future.” He shuddered. “This cannot stand—I must report this to Milord… I must report this to Milord.”

The honest and inflexibly single-minded Shiraki Jūbei immediately turned back toward the Torigoe estate. "I don't know about that matter—but why would this young samurai also head to Torigoe?" While Genjūrō kept his gaze fixed on Eizaburō ahead, instead of descending toward Hanakawado, Eizaburō entered straight through the Niō Gate into Kannon's precincts. "Hmm—this isn't the right path. Where could he be going?" Genjūrō signaled Oto with his eyes and accelerated his pace. From Eizaburō's perspective.

Though knowing he could not simply reject being loved by Yayoi—daughter of the late Master Onozuka Tessai from Akebono Village in Nezu—he had deliberately accepted defeat in that manner and made her weep. Not only that—afterward came an incident where the old master fell to an unforeseen blade, the night-weeping swords were split asunder, and Konryūmaru now rested at his waist. Even Eizaburō would not idly spurn Yayoi and betray his teacher’s wishes. That night, to Yayoi—who had been taken weeping to her relative Tsuchiya Tamon’s house in Kōjimachi—he swore a solemn vow.

The opponent was Tange Sazen of Ken'unmaru. Yet for Eizaburō, that matters had reached this point—trampling upon Yayoi's love—was precisely because there existed this woman named Oto of the Atariya tea stall before Sanja Shrine. The heart's struggle of loving and being loved alone cannot be reined in by this world's ordinary bridle. Could it be called love at first sight? From the moment he first saw her, Eizaburō had been powerless against this tempest of longing that swept him away. It was this fifty ryō scheme proposed by his beloved woman. Eizaburō had accepted with soaring heart yet being but a dependent family member could never muster such funds. At his wit's end—though knowing it wrong—he suddenly conceived withdrawing it through his brother Tōjirō's name from a bill broker. Thus having swiftly stolen the real seal and straightaway made Ryōguchiya disburse these fifty ryō.

Someone strange had tried to snatch it along the way, but then another odd character appeared and retrieved it—just who was that peculiar yet dignified beggar? The path walked while lost in thought felt short. Oh! Still, Oto must have grown weary from waiting by now. When Eizaburō lifted his face and quickened his pace, he found himself already at the row of waterside teahouses—there beneath the Atariya lantern with arrows embedded in its golden target, Oto’s pale face smiled at him.

With a heart declaring *“Supreme fortune—it’s done,”* Eizaburō patted his pocket swollen with gold coins to demonstrate his success. “I truly made such an outrageous request and feared you might never return... Yet seeing your face has somehow put me at ease.” Catching the fragrant smile spilling from her lips with her apron as she spoke, those clear eyes gazing up at Eizaburō held something that would inevitably enthrall any youthful spirit. Eizaburō felt sudden, reckless joy surge through his spine as—

“Well, let’s go in——”

Leading the way, he immediately passed through the reed screen, “Here, fifty ryō.” He laughed loudly and threw the heavy purse onto the seat there.

Oto did not immediately pick it up, instead sending Eizaburō a coquettish glance veiled in shyness before lowering her gaze. “I’m terribly sorry—oh, Young Master, to speak of money so soon when our acquaintance is still new… You must surely think me nothing but a vulgar tea-house woman.” “It’s been so painful for me—” “Not at all. “In times of hardship, everyone faces the same struggles.” “Take this quickly and go pay back the debt to that Kajitomi or whoever.” “I’ll keep watch over the shop.”

"Oh! You've done absolutely everything—well, I'll inform Mother and formally express my gratitude later, but since you've been so kind as to offer this help, I'll rely on your generosity and make a quick trip to repay it now. Oh, it's right there." Oto briskly removed her apron and started running with her sleeves folded over her chest, nearly colliding with a samurai accompanied by a woman. It was Genjūrō. "Oh! Excuse me!"

As Oto hurried off with a pigeon-toed gait, Genjūrō’s eyes fixed intently on her retreating figure— “Milord, that is Oto of Atariya, the renowned teahouse in Asakusa—my, isn’t she a vision!” Oto whispered enticingly.

As Oto hurried away with her kimono hem in disarray, Genjūrō—wearing a lascivious smile—turned toward her and called, “Oto—” “What a beauty! “So that’s Oto of Atariya?” “Hmm, I see.” Oto chided Genjūrō with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Now, now, Milord—you mustn’t...” “That wandering eye of yours is stirring again…” Genjūrō forced a bitter smile—he’d had the young samurai carrying fifty ryō followed because Konryūmaru, the short sword fashioned like a ceremonial blade at his waist, had drawn him here. This was no time to marvel at a tea-house woman’s hem adjustments—gently pushing Oto aside, he peered at the establishment ahead—.

In the shadow of reed screens, benches spread with crimson felt lined the space—teacups and a teapot, a polished kettle gleaming in the dim corner, two or three lacquered confectionery boxes placed about—the ordinary furnishings of a waterside teahouse. A single samurai sat facing away. Upon spotting the plain-wrapped scabbard peeking out from beneath the haori, Genjūrō turned stealthy and beckoned Oto to the shadow of the night lantern.

“He’s here.” “Is he here…? Well, since Yonokimi is waiting, I’ll turn back right away—” To Oto—who was briskly tucking up one hem of her kimono—Genjūrō grinned slyly and—

“Sazen’s staking his life to hunt down this youngster.” “You’ll learn why soon enough—but seeing as this concerns Sazen’s grand scheme, I... no, *you* especially—Ha ha ha! Don’t think you’ll get by without breaking a sweat.” “Stay resolved.” “I’ve already passed along your feelings to Sazen, and I mean to steer clear of any underhanded dealings with you from here on.” At the mention of Sazen’s name, even someone of Kushimaki Oto’s caliber flushed cherry-blossom pink, her voice dropping to a deathly grave tone.

“I won’t let you take back your words now.”

Perhaps due to the sunlight’s shadow, Genjūrō felt an unnatural chill. “It’s fine. Go quickly and send Yoyoshi running… Ah! And another thing—about that Oto earlier: where her shop is located, what her social standing might be—I know it’s trouble, but I’d like you to dig up those details for me.” Oto, who had reproachfully bared her teeth in admonishment, nevertheless gave a large, amused nod and disappeared in her stylish manner along the shadows from the bell tower to the water house.

To Tsuzumi no Yoyoshi, waiting beneath the Furisode Ginkgo tree. And upon receiving the message, Yoyoshi immediately flew through the air toward Honjo Hoonji Bridge, preparing to urgently inform Tange Sazen that Konryūmaru had now arrived at the Atariya teahouse before Asakusa Sansha. Left alone behind, Genjūrō remained motionless like stone for some time.

Before long.

“The samurai known as the young lord of Torigoe has come to this Atariya.” So that guy and Oto—but wait... For me... A living Oto’s worth a hundred Konryūs any day! “Now this is quite a dilemma!” No sooner had he twisted his neck with an audible crack than Genjūrō thrust out his ceremonial sword’s hilt and licked its peg—some scheme evidently dawning on him. He stripped off his setta sandals and stuffed them into his breastfold. With silent steps... he crept toward Atariya’s entrance.

No sooner had he thought this than suddenly— Slash-slash-slash—! As the white light slashed through the reed screen behind him, Eizaburō—already ducking low—kicked over the stool the instant Genjūrō’s mad blade, fully extended without a word, summoned an icy aura and danced above his head. The Saryū-ryū iaijutsu—the ultimate secret of the Wagtail Sword. But already at this moment, in Eizaburō’s hand—which he had barely managed to draw back—Musashi Tarō Yasukuni shone like a polished mirror.

Genjūrō held back a follow-up strike and assumed an upper stance. Eizaburō assumed the hira-seigan stance of Shinpen Musō-ryū.

Inside the narrow teahouse. Backlit, Genjūrō appeared as nothing but a black shadow when viewed from the front.

“Who goes there?!” “You madman?!” “Broad daylight—this outrage! I’ve done nothing to warrant your grudge!” “Back off!” Eizaburō rebuked him with a glare from beneath lowered brows. Genjūrō laughed.

“I could,” “But your breathing’s unsteady.” “That dojo swordsmanship—you’ve never actually cut someone down with it, have you?” “Hah!” “Who are you?!” “State your name! Your name—” “Speaking of Tange Sazen… you must have heard of him.” “Wh-what?!” “T-Tange… that Tange Sazen—?!” When Eizaburō reflexively shifted his stance to peer through, Genjūrō’s sword slid silently back into its scabbard with a swish, “First—first, put away that man-slaying blade and sit down.” “We need to talk.”

Without sparing a glance at Eizaburō—who stood dumbfounded—Genjūrō suddenly rained down thunderous shouts upon the crowd of customers from the neighboring Shitara and passersby who, terrified by this midday sword fight that had erupted without warning, had already formed a gawking circle in front of the shop out of morbid curiosity. “You idiots! You lot!” “What’re you gawking at?!” “This ain’t some sideshow!” “Scram!”

“Let’s make this quick.” “An exchange—the woman for the sword.” “What say you?” Genjūrō jerked his chin as he blurted this out abruptly like a spear thrust. Though shadows pooled across half his face made it hard to see clearly, Eizaburō now recognized this man as the high-ranking official who’d retrieved his wallet earlier at Shōkaku-ji’s gate—but why had he attacked without warning? What could this talk of exchanging blades and women mean? The thought left him momentarily speechless. He stiffened and fixed Genjūrō with a stare.

According to Sazen, this wielder of Konryūmaru was said to possess considerable skill. Genjūrō—who had struck with intent to test his limits—perceived extraordinary vigor in Musashi Tarō’s gleaming edge. Realizing that neither he nor Sazen—now tasked with handling this affair—could afford complacency, he abruptly relaxed his stance. “For my earlier discourtesy, I offer my deepest apologies.” Using this as his opening gambit, he disclosed his knowledge of Tange Sazen and Ken’unmaru’s whereabouts, concluding that depending on developments, he might retrieve the blade and present it to him.

“Where?” To Eizaburō’s urgent question, Genjūrō answered only with “a corner of Edo” and lowered his voice. “Ah, there we are,” he said. “You seek to summon Sazen’s Ken’unmaru with that Konryūmaru of yours, while Sazen wields Ken’unmaru to target both your life and Konryūmaru.” “The one standing between you both, finding amusement in all this—well, that would be this humble one.” “Now then—this calls for discussion. Depending on how our talks proceed, this humble one could either persuade Sazen or dispose of him to return Ken’unmaru to your side. Would your lordship hear me out?”

Eizaburō wore a look of incomprehension. “That refers to the sword.” “And what of this woman you mentioned who’s to be exchanged for the sword?” “Would you not hand over this Oto here to this humble one?”

“Preposterous!” Eizaburō retorted, planting his feet firmly. “What absurd drivel! “True, the sword matter holds importance, but for someone like Sazen—I alone suffice to handle him. To sell a woman with whom I’ve sworn two lifetimes for such ends… Eizaburō would never conceive of such a thing.” “At foundation, human hearts aren’t wares to be traded or surrendered…” “You swore two lifetimes?” “Hahahaha! Now that’s rich!” “How naive!” “So—you refuse?” “Absolutely!” “Then it cannot be helped.” “This humble one shall aid Sazen in claiming that Konryūmaru—and while at it, Oto too shall reckon herself mine henceforth.”

“Do as you please.” “Kindly convey my regards to Lord Tange as well.” “Forgive me.”

As Genjūrō began to walk away, Oto—who had returned earlier but hesitated to enter upon hearing her name—perhaps having sensed Eizaburō’s true identity, tumbled in like a petal. No sooner had her pale arm clung to Eizaburō’s neck than she buried her face wordlessly into the man’s chest… At that sight—this was unbearable! Genjūrō, having been made a fool of, “I’ll let you keep that woman… for now.”

With that parting remark, he dusted his sleeves and nonchalantly walked out of the Atariya shop.

At the same time.

A world of perpetual darkness, devoid of day or night.

Despite the mid-afternoon sun blazing outside, with the sun-cracked shutters tightly closed, at the Suzukawa estate before Hōon-ji temple, Tange Sazen lay snoring. A six-tatami detached cottage styled after a tea room. Amid such clutter that no footing remained clear, his two hairy legs stuck out from the kashiwa-mochi-shaped four-cloth futon—Tange Sazen, who prowled by night, slept thus by day. In a room thickened with accumulated grime and grease, slender shafts of light leaking through gaps in the wooden planks wove strange striped patterns.

Since that night—since obtaining Ken'unmaru—it was not that Tange Sazen was troubled by Eizaburō's Konryūmaru; rather, he seemed tormented by possession from some unknown force. His gaunt frame had grown even more skeletal; his appetite waned, and even alcohol held no appeal—he was seen wandering the Akebono district each night like a scarecrow. Yet the gates of Master Tessai's dojo, now bereft of its master, remained tightly shut, and Yayoi's whereabouts were unknown. He had not forgotten the secret mandate contained within his great lord. He was not entirely insensible to Oto's affection, but whenever he thought of how that woman had been won through combat, Yayoi's figure—blooming like a crabapple in full splendor—would ceaselessly flicker through Sazen's single eye: Tange Sazen in love.

His one-armed existence; his unrequited love. The tangled threads of love could not be cut, not even by the keen blade Ken’unmaru.

In his dream, Yayoi appeared carrying a lantern as she walked along the base of an artificial hill. Grmph! As Sazen turned over, suddenly— A shadow fell through a knothole in the paper-covered door, “Lord Sazen—Lord Tange!” At Yokichi’s calling voice, Sazen snatched Ken’unmaru from beside his pillow and leapt up; when he slid the plank door open, sunlight danced across the garden’s overgrown weeds, a brisk wind teasing the hem of his sleepwear. Having heard Yokichi’s report, Tange Sazen opened wide his rheumy single eye and struck—! and rang Ken’unmaru’s tsuba.

“What? Genjū’s keeping watch? But this’ll be night work—you! Scour the streets now and round up fifteen or sixteen men, starting with Hanyū Sennosuke!”

Yokichi, who had been spinning like a top, shot out through the back gate like a kite with its string cut.

In the darkness, the smell of water spread—.

A moonless night, still early yet hushed in stillness, with the murmured rush of river water washing against the base of stone walls dominating the surroundings.

Behind the Asakura Rice Storehouse.

From First to Eighth, along the shore where boat canals jutted inward like the teeth of a comb, Edo’s famed Pine of Fate stood with its intertwined shadows mingling—and there, two or three small boats of unknown ownership lay moored.

In the middle of that boat sat a young man and woman who had fled the clamorous world. Right after closing the Atariya shop, Oto and Eizaburō wandered aimlessly through streets where lantern lights were beginning to glow, unconsciously choosing darker paths until they arrived here... and into the boat. There were mountains of things they needed to discuss. Yet sensing this alone, Eizaburō took Oto's hand upon his knee—no words were needed now.

Across the river lay Honjo's sky. Stars twinkled on the fire watchtower's shoulder while lamplight from the mansions of Kōna Tōtōmi and Matsuura Bungo-no-kami streamed upon the water, and Otakegura's cedars towered densely...

There were no prying eyes. As the pounding of Oto's heart reached Eizaburō through their clasped hands, he peered into her faintly pale, lotus-like face. "The winter night chill draws near. Staying like this, you'll catch cold—" As he spoke, he removed his haori and tried to drape it over Oto's shoulders.

“Oh! No, I couldn’t! If you do that, you’ll be—” “It’s too much... If you do that, you’ll be—” Oto lightly resisted, but as the man’s haori softly fell onto her shoulders and she leaned into it, Eizaburō pulled her close as if to embrace her.

“Oto” “Young Master.”

Eyes met eyes. Face to face. The light rebounding from four eyes clashed like fire. It was lovers' unforgettable first encounter. Eizaburō quietly placed his hand beneath Oto’s chin and tilted her face upward. “Oto, you’ve long understood this humble one’s heart—know that it shall never change henceforth.”

“Yes. Your words are more than I deserve… This makes me so happy. Even if I were to die like this—” “Die? What ominous nonsense! If we die, we die together!” Oto pressed her chest deeper against him, gently arching her body to look up at Eizaburō.

“Yes.” “Forever and always, no matter what!” “But hmm, there may be all sorts of things lying in wait on our path ahead.”

“Hmm.” “First, we must steel ourselves for that.” “For now—about those weeping blades we spoke of earlier on the road…”

“No.” Oto shook her head like a child throwing a tantrum. “The retrieval of that sword is something Your Lordship could admirably accomplish through skill alone. My late father often told me that those of samurai houses possess an unyielding will in all matters. Especially regarding the rivalry of blades at your waist—I would never speak of such things and dull your resolve. No, truly—when I consider that lawless Sazen targeting Your Lordship, merely imagining it fills me with such terror that my very life seems to shrink. Yet in my position as a woman I can offer no aid, finding myself nothing but a hindrance—how pitiful—though I bear not the slightest resentment. Only... that...”

“Just... that...?”

“Yes.” “The dojo’s—” “The dojo’s?” “I can’t help but be concerned about the young lady I’ve heard tell of.” “Yayoi? D-don’t be absurd! Even should Yayoi approach you in any manner—mark this—so long as I stand firm, you’ve no cause for worry.” “But... a teahouse woman and your lordship differ so in station—this mismatch... it fills me with dread.”

Oto’s voice was crying. How much time had passed since surrendering themselves to the throbbing of their blood...

The Pine of Fate rustled in the wind.

Suddenly, Oto—her flushed cheeks meeting the pleasant night air—leaned over the gunwale. Eizaburō’s hand stretched out tenderly toward her shoulder—

“Ahem!”

Near their ears, from inside the boat, there came the sound of a deliberate cough. Figured-thread spinning wheel Ahem! The deliberate cough had indeed come from within the small boat—

The two abruptly split to either side and strained their ears. All that reached them were the distant calls of a night-sobbing udon vendor moving through town and the high whistle of wind through shore pines—the night had clearly deepened, Ōkawa River’s waters snarling against submerged stakes as they surged darkly onward, while across the bank, house lights winked out one by one into oblivion.

The desolate slumber of Great Edo.

“It seems I heard something just now.” When Eizaburō tilted his head in a mutter,

“Well now—terribly rude to intrude on lovers’ whispers, but I’ve grown a tad bored waiting.” “I suppose it’s time to come out now.” No sooner had a deep, booming voice erupted from the stern than the lump that had seemed to be a bundle of ship’s ropes covered with straw mats swept aside the matting with one hand and heaved itself upright. “Hah!” “Who are you?!” Eizaburō instinctively cried out; with Oto leaping back behind him, he twisted his left hip and snatched Musashitarō’s hilt—tah! With a clang, he seized it.

The slid-open habaki base—an inch or two—glinted sharply in the moonlight, catching the eye. The man sitting at the stern did not move, like a mountain. Unkempt hair and a grime-streaked face—the pungent scent of alcohol hung in the air.

A face he had seen before… Before Eizaburō could peer into the darkness, the man’s laughter resounded through the boat with a creaking shake. “Ha ha ha! Fancy meeting you here of all places!” When put into words, it was unmistakable—that nameless man who had outmaneuvered Suzukawa Genjūrō and retrieved fifty ryō. As the young pair grew flustered—their embarrassment taking precedence upon recognizing even a faint familiarity with his face—the man himself appeared almost apologetic in his haste...

“This won’t do! “My fault. “Woke up sudden-like and showed my mug—beggin’ pardon! “Back to sleep, back to sleep—” Even as he spoke, he lay down on the wooden floorboards and began rustling to pull the straw mat over himself again.

This time, Eizaburō was flustered.

“No need. Th-that’s quite unnecessary.”

Still wearing his tattered clothes and using a cheap sake bottle as a pillow, the nameless man made do with a straw mat for bedding. “Ah. Is it all right if I get up now?”

“Did you hear our conversation from earlier?”

“Hmm. Heard up to the sword part. Don’t know the rest. Sounded like an interesting tale.” “Then—about the sword—?” “That’s right. Was that wrong?” Eizaburō’s eyes took on a fierce gleam.

“No matter how wrong it was, you’ve already heard it—there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

The man remained unfazed. “More importantly, if you’ve no other allies, I’d be willing to lend a hand.” “But if you say you won’t consent to me knowing your secret, then do as you please.” “In the first place, barging into another’s house without permission is the height of rudeness.”

“What? Assistance? Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Eizaburō struck his knee and laughed defiantly. Then the man,

“Right.” “If you want my blade at your side, ask properly and bow your head!” “What insolence!” Enraged, Eizaburō snapped, “Rant your fevered nonsense all you like!” “Who’d ever beg for that?!” “Won’t ask?” “Is that so.”

The man grinned, his white teeth flashing brightly. “Is that so.” “You won’t ask?” “In that case, maybe I’ll be the one to ask you to let me lend a hand.”

“………?” “No—rather, to those who won’t bow their heads to others, I wish to bow mine. It’s admirable that you won’t ask for help.” He craned his neck to peer at Oto,

“Madam, in this world overrun by petty schemers, you’ve hooked a rare big fish! Splendid work, splendid work!” “Ha ha ha ha! Make sure to treasure him!”

Oto—flushed crimson at being called "Madam"—suddenly felt her eyes grow hot with some overwhelming emotion welling up in her chest and pressed her face against Eizaburō’s back.

Eizaburō lurched forward and slapped his hands against the floorboards with a heavy thud, “I humbly ask your forgiveness for my earlier rudeness. I humbly request your assistance once more.” “Understood! But in that case, I am deeply obliged. First, your hand—come now, raise it up.” “You must be the hermit renowned in the world—may I ask your esteemed name?” “A hermit is one who remains hidden—yet here I am, appearing everywhere.” “A name?” “That would be…” He hesitated—and just when one thought he would again identify himself as the nameless man—

“I am Gamō Taiken.” “Now then—you spoke of entering someone’s house without permission—but where do *you* reside?” “Hmm, tricky.” “This boat here—no, not necessarily this one.” “The boats always moored around here are all my lodgings.” “Ha ha ha ha ha! A carefree existence without a roof over my head beneath the open sky.” “When you need me, come to this Pine of Fate and throw three stones into the river—yes, three—that’s how we’ll arrange it.” “Throw three stones into the water, and I’ll emerge from one of these boats…”

And then—at that very moment!

The boat tilted violently, and Oto nearly clung to Eizaburō—how strange! Someone on shore seemed to be hauling in the taut mooring rope caught in the tidal current, and no sooner had the boat crashed into the stone wall than numerous footsteps clattered overhead, and Tange Sazen’s boisterous voice sliced across the river surface.

“Hey! Since Ken’unmaru won’t stop its night weeping, I’ve come to claim its pair.” “Heh, Konryūmaru.” “You’re there, aren’t you?!”

The river, the bank, the sky—all were a single shade of ink. The darkness seemed to congeal and scatter as over twenty black-robed figures came to an abrupt halt beneath a pine tree standing across the moat.

With Sazen and Genjūrō at their head, the hundred demons of the Honjo Monster Mansion had slipped out under cover of midnight and swarmed forth.

Literally a back-to-water formation. At the water’s edge, aligned with Gamō Taiken—who held a boat plank at the ready with lumbering slowness—Suwa Eizaburō had already calmly drawn Musashi Tarō Yasukuni from its sheath. With a smile, he gently shielded Oto—who had unwittingly clung to him—using one hand, “I won’t cut you down until you’ve all landed—so come right up here without worry.” Laughing off Sazen’s words, the three helped one another abandon the small boat.

Behind them was the Ōkawa River. Tossed by the dark waves beneath the stone wall, the boat’s bottom made a rhythmic lapping sound. In the shadows encircling them front and sides, what appeared as rods of ice arranged line by line were unmistakably the forest of swords from the Blue-Eye Faction pressing relentlessly forward.

Silence fell, as though all things had solidified. “A way to flee… you see! “Since I’m a coward—a way to escape—”

Feeling Oto's fervent voice against his cheek, Eizaburō glanced at Taiken. Hanging a stern plank that had been pulled up at the critical moment, Taiken appeared as if blissfully asleep with half-closed eyes... the Water-Moon Stance of Jigen-ryū. And then!

A voice sounded.

“Youngster! Let’s go, hey!”

It was Sazen.

And then, perhaps lured by the ally’s voice, one of the black demons drew near as if sucked in, its feet moving in short, rapid steps— “—Slash!—” Just as it was about to leap silently—! Eizaburō’s sharp sword unleashed a silent gust—mercilessly! No sooner had the blade split the torso with a thud than Eizaburō—who had momentarily sheathed his sword—stepped out with his left foot, swish! No sooner had he pulled away with a sticky tug than he instantly pivoted to the right, forcing another man to claw at the ground with a groan.

But by this time, silver stars were already flying up and down as all three were swallowed into the whirling vortex of battle. Amidst this chaos, Suzukawa Genjūrō stood slightly apart exchanging whispers with Oto—but what met Oto's eyes, now dark-adapted after slipping beneath sword strikes to tumble into tree shadows, was her lover Eizaburō seen in this new aspect for the first time. Those hands that had once gently embraced her now swung a blood-dripping longsword aloft, while eyes flickering left and right held a laughter cold as frozen steel.

“Master Taiken!” “Hey… There! They’ve circled behind—one of ’em!”

Before they knew it, the forces had split into two groups. Gamō Taiken—wielding a single plank against one faction—straightened up, peered into the darkness, and called out over the clustered heads. It was as though some great force kept disrupting the momentum of battle only to restrain it— They would clash fiercely only to suddenly still; a single sway would ripple through them as they gauged each other’s breath. Each time, one or two men staggered back; others fell to the ground, biting back demonic wails.

Flying flesh and bone fragments. The scent of fresh blood, reminiscent of iron rust, thickened by the river wind and threatening to choke... Oto suppressed her rising nausea and covered her face with her sleeve.

But behold! The Shinpen Musō-ryū’s Hawk Feather Technique—swinging left and right in one breath like a hawk’s wings striking, leaving no opening—Eizaburō, now seeing that none dared approach any longer, “Oto! Where are you?” “Where are you?” As he shouted from within the blade shadows,

“Yes. “I’m here.—” Oto’s mouth, which had begun to answer, was suddenly blocked from behind by a stealthy hand that had crept up unnoticed—but in its place, the voice of Tange Sazen, the Sword Demon, struck Eizaburō head-on. “Not bad at all, hey! “Wipe your hand—the blood’ll make you slip.” Eizaburō smiled sharply and wiped his hand on the hem of his robe at his side. His other hand returned to the hilt.

At the same time, Sazen’s one-armed flash—Ken’unmaru swirled earth and sand toward Eizaburō’s legs! It appeared to be heading for his legs, but—Crunch! As pale sparks scattered from the tip of Musashi Taro’s deflected sword, the scar on Sazen’s cheek emerged from the darkness… and in that instant— “Damn! Insolent wretch!” Just as Sazen, driven to his feet, was about to plunge back into the tiger-like frenzy, the plank thrown by Taiken came flying through the air and danced before his eyes. “What the—?! The hell—?!” The moment Sazen struck with the back of his blade, the plank split cleanly in two and fell—!

“To the boat!”

“To the boat!” shouted Taiken. When he looked, a woman’s shadow was just tumbling into one of the boats. Ah! Oto was safe! Before the thought could fully form, Eizaburō too leapt after Taiken toward the vessel. Amidst the watery spray of two or three pursuers he had outrun—now tumbling from the stone wall—Eizaburō severed the stern rope with a sharp snap. Leaving behind Sazen’s curses on the shore, their boat rode the swelling tide toward midstream. Two or three men had plunged into the water, but Sazen—along with his remaining companions—barely kept his footing atop the stone wall,

“Hey! You think there’s any way to run?!” “This Ken’unmaru—yearning for thy Konryūmaru—will charge endlessly onward.” “A sword chases a sword—so believe it!” After shouting angrily at the retreating boat and hurriedly looking around, he found—for some reason—that neither Genjūrō nor Oto were anywhere to be seen. The Ōkawa River’s waters flowed like a ribbon, dissolving the darkness. The 808 districts spreading across both banks pressed down heavily, while the sky—threatening rain—hung low and gloomy.

Like a spinning top tilting and tracing a gentle arc, the boat carrying three people rapidly approached the main current—. Creak... creak! The sculling oar groaned. Taiken, who had promptly lowered what was around the hull into the water and let the river wind take his hem, was demonstrating sculling skills that put the young boatmen of the lodge to shame. “You’ve got skill.”

and looked back at Eizaburō, “That blade’s got fine reach. “It’s been ages since I last saw the Shinpen Musō-ryū... That old man Onozuka from Nezu Akebono Village—his techniques are just like yours.” Eizaburō, who had been wetting a hand towel and wiping off the blood splatter, involuntarily— “Ah! Then you know Tessai-sensei—” His hurried voice seemed snatched away by the wind before reaching Taiken,

“However, that one-armed rōnin—he’s one fierce swordsman.” Taiken continued. “He’s got more killing intent than you, plus his left-handed sword has tenacity.” “In a direct confrontation, it’s sixty-forty. Regrettably, you’re the forty, and he’s the sixty.” “Hahahaha! No—call it a mutual kill if I do say so myself—Oh! Look.” “Here they come, here they come!” When told this, he looked toward the rice warehouse-lined shore—it must be Sazen’s Ken’unmaru. The luminescent figure issuing commands blazed through the night shadows—in an instant crawling down the stone wall—as a pitch-black clustered small boat, carrying the sound of oars upon the wind, rowed forth like an arrow.

“Come on, come! We’ll strike from here too!” Taiken boomed with a laugh, leaning forward and arching back as he thrust the oar deep into the current.

Then, a lukewarm dampness swept swiftly across the water's surface... plink, a single drop. “Rain.” “It’s started.” While they were speaking, large raindrops began pelting the boat planks. Then, a chilling cold crept up their collars, and all at once, a white curtain of rain cascaded from sky to earth, pounding the river’s surface into a misty spray—a midnight deluge that blurred vision with its fury. What about Oto?

When he looked, the woman had remained lying face down at the bow since leaping into the boat without moving a muscle. She'll get drenched! Having thought this, Eizaburō took a straw mat from the stern and approached— “Were you startled? Are you unwell?” “Here—it’s started raining. Put this on and endure a while longer…”

When he tried to lift her up, “Hohohoho!” “My, how awfully kind.” “Terribly sorry about this—truly.”

With that crisp voice, she brushed aside Eizaburō’s hand and looked up—and when he saw her face—! Contrary to his expectations—it was not Oto! “Wha—! “Wh-Who the hell are you?!” “My! What a scary face!” “What does it matter who?” “What a shame—it’s not your precious Oto here taking the hit instead.”

Kushimaki Oto let the rain soak her pale face and laughed with fiery intensity. "But you needn't worry your pretty little head—by now, Ms. Oto must be nestled snugly in the arms of Honjo's lord." "Hohoho! Jumping into the boat as a decoy and making it this far was fine work, but I've ended up the fool." "This damn rain." "What a miserable mess—not even worth joking about... Hey, boatman! Put some hustle into it!"

Ah! Oto had been kidnapped—Eizaburō steadied his faltering legs, unable to utter a sound. The woman sat with one knee raised, resting her cheek against the boat’s edge, “Hey! Quit standing there like a fool! What’ll you do?” “If you hate me so much, stab me! Cut me down! Do as you please—but first, anyone got a flint?” “No use in this downpour though, eh?” “Tch!” “Can’t even smoke a damn cigarette!”

Even cutting them down wouldn’t resolve anything... Just as Taiken and Eizaburō exchanged glances—suddenly!

Sazen’s boat appeared, splitting through the silver curtain of rain! **Crash!** No sooner had they collided sideways than he swept aside the rain with his drawn blade and charged in for a simultaneous strike. Taiken swung up the oar and promptly administered a watery courtesy to four or five men. Dobō Sensuke, who had been dodged by Eizaburō, lost his balance and plunged into the river with a chilling splash. A torrential downpour—and even thunderclaps. In the flickering lightning, Eizaburō caught sight of Sazen’s demon-like visage,

“You! Ken’unmaru! Come!” He shouted—but strangely，his opponent showed no sign of confronting him—and instead gathered up his fallen comrades，thrust a pole against this boat，and retreated in haste．In that instant—seen under the blue storm light—it seemed the guardhouse had dispatched official boats upon hearing the commotion；rain-soaked official lanterns dotted the darkness…

Somehow having transferred over unnoticed, Kushimaki Oto sat hugging her knees on the departing boat, laughing. "Konryūmaru... We'll meet again." Sazen's parting shot disappeared into the rain. "Oto! Where are you?!" As Eizaburō—who had come to know true loneliness—screamed this in his heart, Taiken put his strength into the oar, making the boat rock once. "No—as I've been saying from the start, if it concerns Eizaburō, I have no intention of listening—"

The master curtly said this and gazed outside through the thrown-open shoji screens of the veranda.

In the garden where the sun danced like gold sand, moss-covered stone lanterns cast bright shadows, and the potted chrysanthemums that had just been tended to perfumed the crystalline air. In the broad afternoon house, a listless quietness like that of the sea’s depths hung cold and stagnant. *Clang... clang!* Today as well, the drawn-out sound of hammers being swung at the nearby swordsmith’s workshop resounded clearly.

Serene. As if counting the sounds, the master gazed at the sky for a while; eventually forming a faintly bitter smile, he continued speaking as if suddenly remembering. “I see. “As for that—until recently, I did have a foolish younger brother called Eizaburō, but due to unavoidable circumstances, he has now become effectively disowned. In short, he and I are complete strangers. “I must request that you refrain from uttering that one’s name where it might reach my ears.” Having concluded this plea, the master—noticing a kitten playfully batting at a birdcage placed in the sunny spot of the veranda—rose to chase off the cat, hung the cage from the eaves, and returned to his seat.

Suwa Eizaburō's older brother was Ōkubo Tōjirō.

The Torigoe estate in Asakusa.

In the innermost room of the estate, the guest sitting solemnly with his back against the alcove pillar and a pained expression was Tsuchiya Tamon—a hatamoto from Kōjimachi Sanbanchō and cousin to the late Onozuka Tessai. Since Tessai’s death, he had taken in Tessai’s daughter Yayoi as his foster child and devoted himself to her care with familial devotion. “However, regarding those circumstances of yours—”

After waiting for Tōjirō to adjust his cushion, Tamon began to speak but interrupted himself with a fit of forced coughing. “No—though I know nothing of the particulars—well, you see, if this were what common gossip might call a youthful indiscretion… Hahaha! Allow me to offer apologies in Lord Eizaburō’s stead, so if you could find it in your heart to show him some leniency just this once—” “No—there’s no reason for me to accept intercession from someone I’ve only just met.”

“Well, if you insist…” “That you would personally grace us with your presence—even suggesting taking that fool as a son-in-law—leaves me humbled by your current magnanimity.” “Were this some ordinary matter between brothers, I being a stipendiary in Edo and you a provincial retainer—” “—then should he someday secure an official post, it would naturally benefit him first and foremost—a match he could only dream of, one I myself would ordinarily propose without hesitation. But! As his elder brother, I cannot possibly consent to this arrangement. To speak plainly, this affair brings shame upon our household—it exposes my failure in managing family matters. In short... I trust you will comprehend my position.”

“Now, what exactly has Lord Eizaburō done?” “It’s defiling even to mention—but hear me out—he’s been carrying on with some teahouse girl near the Three Shrines—” Tamon’s expression shifted slightly, but he immediately laughed it off.

“Hahahaha! If I may—such things are common among the young. Surely even you must have one or two similar memories not entirely absent from your past.” “Ah—how presumptuous of me!” “Not only that—that wretch Eizaburō, desperate for money to lavish on that woman, resorted to fraudulently stealing from the storehouse office!” “Steward Shiraki Jūbei went there afterward to investigate.” If he had just noticed how meager the dependent family members’ rice allotment was, he could have easily doctored the ledger with a stroke of his brush—what an utterly inept steward! As Tamon remained silent, Tōjirō continued speaking,

“Since then, he has not once shown his face at the residence. The other night, there was a large-scale sword fight on the Ōkawa River in the rain—they say people from the boat office were dispatched—but as for where Eizaburō is or what he’s doing… No—he’s someone with no connection to me. I haven’t given it a single thought.” “Hahahaha!” Tamon involuntarily looked down. “I fully understand the matter you’ve laid out.” “But even so—I, for my part, must by all means take Lord Eizaburō as my adopted son. That is… Please do not laugh.”

“Why on earth?” “The daughter of mine who should become Eizaburō’s bride—” “Ah—you mentioned someone called Lady Yayoi.”

“Her all-consuming devotion makes even this one who watches over her weep day and night.” “To...to that wretch Eizaburō of ours?” “As one who has nominally become her parent, I cannot stand idly by when considering Yayoi’s heart.” “If I might presume—if you would but send Lord Eizaburō to my care—”

“No.” “Even expending a million words would change nothing.” “The notion of bestowing such an unfit wretch upon you has never once entered my mind.” “Even when I declare this unfit wretch is precisely what we desire?” “Does this not suggest some misunderstanding? I must refuse.” “Very well! But Mr. Ōkubo—you’ll recall declaring him a complete stranger yourself earlier? If he’s a stranger, then you’ve no right to dictate his decisions.”

“As you please!” Tamon resolutely kicked up the tatami mat as Tōjirō’s strained voice pursued him. “Mr. Tsuchiya!” “What is it?” “Will you meet Eizaburō?” “What does it matter if I do?!” “If—when—you meet him… tell him his elder brother hopes he’s living well.” Tamon saw something glisten in Tōjirō’s eyes as the man sharply turned away.

In the evening-glowing sky, the distant clamor of the lower town echoed like a far-off roar, and amidst the bustle that carried a hint of melancholy, another day in Great Edo faded into dusk.

In the estate district of Kōjimachi Sanbanchō, smoke from cooking fires entwined with the dense trees, imbuing the air with a hushed quietness that resonated with piercing clarity in both heart and ear.

Even at the best of times, twilight compels hearts to return to their homeland... How much more deeply, then, does longing's shadow grow within those who dwell in thought.

Even though pale blue light crept across the tatami mats, Yayoi sat motionless in this single room of Tsuchiya Tamon’s residence, appearing to have even forgotten to prepare the lamp. In the dim light before the garden, sasanqua blossoms scattered petals like crimson shells. When Yayoi suddenly raised her face—perhaps due to having been struck too many times by fate’s relentless lash—her cheeks had hollowed and her shoulders grown gaunt over time; even her once-innocent round eyes now sunken into their sockets left her with a pitiful appearance as though she were an entirely different person.

Ah— An involuntary sigh escaped her lips only to transform into a feeble cough; Yayoi pressed her face into her sleeve—Hack! Hack! She trembled violently in quick succession. Lately, her chest had suddenly grown hollow—she felt as though an autumn wind blew through it. In the evening especially, both body and soul grew unbearably heavy. Yayoi had unwittingly had her lung eroded, and an incurable disease was spreading through it like buds on a sapling. She must cast off the burden of her heart—otherwise she would never find peace.

Yayoi was not unaware of this fact—but even after thinking and thinking and thinking, she still couldn't think enough of Lord Eizaburō—what was she to do! Now that she had been taken in as an adopted daughter by her uncle Tamon, what occupied Yayoi's heart every waking moment was neither her father Tessai's violent death, nor the struggle over the Heaven and Earth swords, but—even in death!—only the countenance of Suwa Eizaburō, the one who had sworn to himself. Of course, her father's death was both sad and sorrowful. And that enemy must be sought through every blade of grass and avenged.

The night-weeping blade went without saying—it must be reclaimed through all adversities into my own hands, yet...

The one who would avenge that enemy and reclaim that treasured sword must still be none other than Lord Eizaburō. Strong, kind Lord Eizaburō! Yet even when she coolly traced this logic—that her current plight originated from that man having chosen his own ruin—Yayoi found herself incapable of resenting Eizaburō in the slightest. Instead, she grew ever more unable to consider him as anything separate from herself.

Yayoi may have transposed her late father’s temperament—once honed for swordsmanship—directly into love. For this samurai’s daughter experiencing her first longing for a man, there existed nothing but molten-stone fervor; whenever she whispered “Lord Eizaburō!” alone in the shadows, tears would rise with such piercing poignancy that she found herself almost amused by it. Yayoi dimly sensed that her uncle Tamon—having discerned this guileless devotion—had stealthily visited Eizaburō’s family home in Torigoe that day to discuss adoption arrangements—and yet, what storm raged within this pounding breast because of it?

Like autumn grass tormented by frost, the slender and haggard Yayoi, startled by the sudden dimming of her surroundings, was about to rise to fetch the lamp when she spotted a small spider descending from the ceiling on a silken thread right before her eyes. When Yayoi brushed its upper part with her kaishi paper, the spider fell soundlessly onto the tatami mat while simultaneously attempting to flee in panic. "Kill a night spider even if you think it's your parent—or was it a day spider?" While Yayoi hesitated, the baby spider froze! Then it began crawling desperately away.

That small effort unusually drew a smile from Yayoi.

“Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry? You have no worries at all, do you?” When Yayoi blocked its path with her hand like this, the spider hesitated briefly before immediately trying to slip past to the right. Yayoi moved her hand to the right. The spider frantically tried to escape to the left. Yayoi’s hand blocked the path ahead. The perplexed spider, surrounded by Yayoi’s hands, meekly cowered. “Hohoho, that’s right! Now, stay still, stay still!” As Yayoi laughed a hollow laugh, voices welcoming what seemed to be a palanquin’s arrival stirred at the entrance; soon after, a maid’s paper lantern passed down the front corridor, followed by Tsuchiya Tamon accompanied by his retainer.

What met Yayoi’s eyes as she pressed her hands into the dimness and bowed her head were merely the white tabi socks and hakama hems treading along the wooden corridor, but Tamon—speaking loudly enough for Yayoi to hear—kept glancing back at the retainer behind him.

“There are quite a lot of men in this world. Yet to be so captivated by one that you cannot see others—how narrow-minded! And what if that very man were out frequenting waterside teahouses? Right? That’s how it is. Hahaha!”

“As you say.” The retainer was answering without understanding what was going on. Startled and frozen in place, Yayoi remained unaware that beneath her own heel, the spider she had just been interacting with had collided with a thud! and been crushed.

“Daisaku” While calling out to the next room, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami stuffed the documents he had brought back today from the Nanchō Magistrate’s Office into a paulownia wood box labeled Miscellaneous, likely intending to clean his kiseru pipe. He tore scrap paper and began twisting it into a Kanze cord. After dinner, as was his custom, he had secluded himself in this sitting room and begun reviewing the various petitions and notifications he had left unfinished—yet it didn’t seem much time had passed before the late autumn night deepened. Beyond the wide-open veranda, darkness coiled thickly—plop! The faint sound of carp leaping in the pond echoed.

Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, receiving no reply, briefly inclined his ear toward the sliding door—but retainer Ibuki Daisaku appeared to have dozed off, leaving behind a profound, almost congealed silence.

The only sound was a distant commotion from the children’s room where his grandson Tadayasu seemed to be hitting his nurse with a pillow—the noise reverberated through the old mansion’s air as clearly as if cupped in one’s palm. “Little monk, making a racket instead of sleeping again.” When a smile of satisfaction relaxed the plump cheeks of Tadasuke’s gentle face, the pattering of small footsteps echoed down the corridor—Tadayasu’s dragonfly-like head bowed through the gap in the shoji screen.

“Grandpa, nighty-night!” Before Tadasuke could open his mouth, Tadayasu had already darted back as if fleeing—but startled by the commotion, Daisaku, stationed in the adjacent room, suddenly began rustling about.

“Daisaku, here. Daisaku.” “Hah!”

Startled into a loud response, Ibuki Daisaku slid open the fusuma and knelt formally—only to find Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke already properly seated at his desk, perusing Chinese classics.

“Did you summon me, milord?” “Ah. “You may rest without minding me.” A small, gentle wrinkle formed at the corner of Tadasuke’s eye. “I still have investigations to conduct and reading to do… but, Daisaku—”

As his corpulent body leaned against the armrest, it creaked and groaned under the weight.

“When I looked at the office earlier, a missing persons report had been filed by a landlord named Kizaemon from Asakusa Tawaramachi 3-chōme regarding his tenant Oto—yes, someone called Oto from the Atariya waterside teahouse in front of the Three Shrines—and though it’s a trivial matter, Echizen somehow can’t get it off his mind.” “No—from the magistrate’s duty, even the trivial matters of the town are the great affairs of the state.” “Now then, Daisaku—regarding this woman’s disappearance, does anything come to mind that might be related?”

“Well… I can’t say there’s anything particular…” Daisaku tilted his head sheepishly. Tadasuke had been humming a passage from a noh song in a low voice when—as if suddenly noticing something—he muttered half to himself: “—That woman called Kushimaki Oto: she was formerly a courtesan in Shinagawa, later becoming the wife of Morita Kanya’s theater troupe handler in Kobikichō. But soon after being widowed, her natural wantonness and heavy drinking combined with gambling habits saw her gathering rogues like Tsuzumi no Yokichi year-round—such that their second floor has taken on the perpetual air of a gambling den, as even this magistrate’s ears have heard.” “But that’s not all.” “Extortion, fraud—she’s piled up every vice imaginable, making her what you might call… their boss lady among that lot.” “All that aside—this Oto was supposed to have been banished from within a ten-ri radius for years now, yet reports claim she’s currently infiltrated Edo proper.”

As was usual, Daisaku—astonished anew by his lord Echizen-no-kami’s penetrating insight into the lower classes and prodigious memory—kept his face lowered in deference, “If I may say so, it is believed that she has likely infiltrated under the usual pretext of grave visits.”

“Indeed. “That would be the first assumption… but if Oto is in Edo, I cannot think there is no relation whatsoever to this recent abduction of the woman called Oto from Kizaemon’s shop.” “Well, this is merely this magistrate’s intuition—but Oto has had numerous charges of abducting women before.” “If one considers this, then this magistrate’s intuition—though not precisely accurate—cannot be far from the mark.” “Well—you—don’t you agree?”

“Your words are most reasonable.” “However, from the constables to all the officials across Edo—no matter what they say—they are currently frantically occupied with that crossroad killings case—” When Daisaku addressed him thus and gauged his expression, Ōoka Echizen—who had been gazing at the front garden and suddenly raised one hand—turned back to Daisaku as if it were nothing, “The notorious diagonal-slash crossroad killings… Hmm. You may withdraw now.” “I shall retire to my quarters.”

He said but did not stand up.

The diagonal-slash crossroad killings sweeping through Edo! Yet what unsettled Daisaku more was something invisible to him yet seemingly visible only through his master’s eyes—a presence in the garden that lingered beyond perception. Compelled by Tadasuke’s near-imperious tone, he withdrew from the chamber while still prostrated low. After Ibuki Daisaku vanished behind the sliding door and Tadasuke had waited for his footsteps to fade into silence, the magistrate rose abruptly with lamp in hand. Stepping onto the veranda, he peered into the garden’s shadows and called out softly.

“Gamō...? Taiken—is that you there?”

And from three or four stepping stones beyond the shoe-removal area came an equally low voice. "Seemed like official talk, so I kept my distance." "If I'm botherin' ya, I'll be off then."

At the sight of him already turning on his heel after throwing out those words, Tadasuke hurriedly— “Restraint isn’t your style! Hahaha! Since when do you stand on ceremony?” “It’s been too long.” “You came.” “Now then—no one’s watching.” “Come up here.” Drawn by laughter thick with camaraderie, the figure abruptly stepped into the hand-candle’s pool of light—a man wearing nothing but tattered rags, clutching a two-liter sake flask.

At this late hour, the visitor from the garden could indeed be none other than Gamō Taiken. Master Gamō Taiken led the way into the room without hesitation despite his muddy feet, abruptly sitting down as he casually peered at Tadasuke’s reading desk. “What’s this? What’re you reading?” “Hmm—‘Rhapsody on the Dry Cloud’? Jia Yi’s poem—‘When gazing upon the distant, billowing white clouds…’ Ha ha ha ha!” Tadasuke joined in this hearty laughter, and the deep camaraderie of their friendship—ripe for shared discourse—twined together and rose like smoke.

Brushing off the hem of his robe, South Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke sat down.

The wild eccentric Gamō Taiken plopped down cross-legged in front of him, thrust out his hand to grab the armrest, and tucked it under his grimy armpit,

“Comfortable.”

A smile swelled on Tadasuke’s lustrous, plump cheeks.

“It’s been some time.” “It’s been an age.”

Then host and guest abruptly met each other's gaze and laughed. The comfort of kindred spirits needing no words drifted like mist between them. Noticing the night breeze, Tadasuke stood and closed the veranda's shōji. As he circled behind Taiken while leaving, "You've lost weight—slightly." "Me...?" Taiken stroked his neck. "Scarce feed coming my way, hahaha! But speaking of which—you've grown notably stout lately." "Seems Tokugawa's rice agrees with you after all."

Echizen looked somewhat dazzled. “Still as sharp-tongued as ever. I’d been worried about where you’d gotten to!” “I’m nowhere. And yet everywhere. Think of me as the very air itself.” Taiken chuckled. “A divine aura—elusive and impossible to pin down! But enough of that. How’s that shoulder been? Still stiff?” “It’s fine now. Completely healed.” “That’s what matters most.” “We’re both in good health—splendid.”

The two of them bobbed their heads together in unison, then threw their heads back and laughed uproariously. Yet Taiken noticed something white like first frost in Tadasuke’s sideburns, and Tadasuke saw the same in Taiken’s beard; they must have felt an inexplicable forlornness. Both fell silent at once and averted their eyes to the candlelight’s glow.

It seemed foolish talk was in full swing in the middle room; the burst of laughter sounded muffled like distant surf.

The silence of the autumn night, as though pleading some tale, saw people's ears all too easily stolen by those endless whispers of nothingness.

Host and guest sat facing each other in silence.

One was Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, South Magistrate of Edo, now renowned throughout the realm. The other was Gamō Taiken—a wanderer without refuge in the three worlds, the realm's self-styled beggar teacher—who might as well have said, "Should I drown myself in sake? Or seize five thousand koku? Ah, what's five thousand koku anyway..."

In all the world, there could be no stranger pairing than this. Moreover, this mutual baring of souls and camaraderie. Strange as it may seem, what did superficial barriers matter in a sworn friendship between men? The social ranks of this fleeting world that people had decided—what did distinctions of high and low status matter?! The human Tadasuke and the human Taiken—when one thought about it, theirs had been a refreshing bond, like a summer squall passing through to dry one’s sweat.

That said. Appearing before Lord Ōoka and indulging in whatever he pleased... Just who was this so-called gallant hero of the town, Gamō Taiken?

Isuzu River

“You—where did you get in from? Did you climb over the wall again, as usual?”

Tadasuke smiled with his eyes as he gazed at Taiken leisurely stroking his beard.

Taiken’s shoulders towered like a mountain peak. “I didn’t climb over anything,” he said. “Just stepped across—hahaha! Kōga-ryū ninjutsu... No barrier can hold me—though that’s a joke, of course. But crawling through night shrubs to visit you magistrates at will? That’s a trick only yours truly could pull off!” “Hmm,” Ōoka responded. “You’d be the one to manage it. That’s all well enough—” A dark shadow flickered across Magistrate Tadasuke’s brow as his voice lowered. “They say there’s a skilled crossroad killer about. Best avoid nighttime wanderings for now.”

Then Taiken, rhythmically tapping the cheap sake bottle with his palm, “I’ve only heard the rumors. "A kesa-gake slash—and what’s more, they say every single one has been cut down diagonally from the right shoulder to the left flank without fail." “I’m shocked that ten people were killed in a single night.” “Of course, there’s no doubt they’re skilled—” “The blade too is finely forged—that goes without saying.” “Samurai, townspeople, town girls—all sorts, indeed meeting cruel ends from the looks of it.” “But it does not seem to be the work of one person.” “Aoyama, Ueno, Fuda-no-Tsuji, Shinagawa—they’ve appeared in completely different directions all in a single night.” “Because of that, the vigilance has become exceptionally troublesome.”

“Hmm.” “Even now on my way here—I saw they’d lit bonfires securing every gate along my path.” “But you claim it’s several men’s work? Judging by blade sharpness and swordsmanship—I say there’s only one killer.”

“Hmm... Do you have any leads?”

“Not that there aren’t.” Taiken cut off his words and, inserting his hand into his chest, scratched his side—but— “Listen. You should also consider… If we’re talking about a slash from the right shoulder to beneath the left breast—well now, wouldn’t the one gripping that sword have to wield it in a reverse grip?” “Left-handedness was our initial assumption, but there are many left-handed people throughout Edo.” “Now then! Take that hundred-foot pole and climb one step higher!” As Taiken barked, Tadasuke grinned broadly and slapped his knee with exaggerated force.

“Well, that’s like receiving a Zen master’s rebuke—but even in Edo, it’s unthinkable that so many left-handed crossroad killers could exist and act in unison!” “Which is why I’ve been saying from the start—this might be a one-armed swordsman wielding a left-handed blade in the darkness!”

“Hmm.” “Indeed—there’s logic in this!” “So then—what wretch could be master of that mad blade?”

“Now, hold on.” “Just wait—I’ll grab them by the collar, drag them here, and show you their face myself.” When he laughed uproariously, the beard on both cheeks swayed like grass in a gale; Tadasuke looked at him with concern in his eyes. “You’re being reckless again!” “Are you all right?” “I won’t be responsible if you get hurt.” “Don’t be absurd! In Jigen-ryū—though Japan may be vast—there exists none who surpass this one called Gamō Taiken!” Taiken declared as he rolled up his sleeves, his gnarled arm snapping— He had snapped his arm into position—but the midnight chill seemed to pierce his skin, and with that jolt came a loud “Hakshoo!” As he let out one big sneeze, he seemed to find his own momentary childishness amusing,

“If this were just testing a new blade or steeling one’s nerve, once or twice would suffice… Yet these crossroad killings have continued seven or eight days now—perhaps they’ve sworn some vow to slaughter hundreds.” Ignoring Tadasuke’s half-formed question, he chuckled darkly and abruptly changed the subject. “Your Honor may be managing well enough, but you must have mountains of petty cases piled up, eh?”

“Hmm.” “There’s a mountain of them.” “Now and then, come through the garden like tonight and lend me your wisdom.” “Not a chance.” “What’s the point of punishing some broom-stealing petty thief for a hundred coins when there’s a grand bandit out there who’s stolen the realm?”

When he heard this, Tadasuke solemnly straightened his posture. “The realm remains the realm whether Wu or Yue governs it. The law stands on its own.”

“That’s been your stock phrase since the old days—hahaha!” “Echizen has never punished people. Echizen punishes people’s sins. No—Echizen punishes the world that drives people to sin—and prays day and night to remain thus before the gods.”

Taiken waved both hands vigorously before Tadasuke’s eyes. “Whoa! You’re done for!” “Alright, alright, I get the logic!” “But hey—listen here. When a human attains enlightenment and everything becomes a nuisance, what do you do?” “Hmm?” “I may not be Hakumon-sensei, but I’ll take up these old texts and return to my hermitage…” “Wild flowers and singing birds share the same spring, is that it?” When Tadasuke responded, the two erupted in shared laughter—then Taiken sharply cut through the mirth.

“You’re still far from reaching this state of mind.”

Lonely it was, if one chose to see it as such.

There was a nostalgic tone to the words.

An autumn night, a solitary lamp—and at such times, what one recalls is… They say ten years make an era of the past.

In the mountainous embrace of Chichibu, one of the local lords renowned in neighboring villages as a remnant of the Takeda clan set out on an aimless journey across the provinces and arrived in Yamada Town of Watarai District in Ise Province, where the Isuzu River flows clear, just around this time—the dimming twilight of a day nearing winter.

Gekū Forest.

When a white hand lit the eaves lantern of a traveler’s inn… the innkeepers’ calls, charming even in their dialect.

When speaking of Ise Province’s Yamada, Onoe District was the most prominent thoroughfare. As the feeble late autumn sunlight began shifting to purple, a crowd had gathered in the middle of that street, their raucous shouts of abuse increasingly halting the steps of passersby. A collapsed body. The beggar’s epilepsy. Drunk. At the swirling center of diverse voices lay a man with an unkempt topknot—indeterminate as a rōnin or mountain ascetic—still clad in a long coat soiled by wilderness travels. Using a sake bottle as a pillow, he sprawled on the ground, his drunken nature undiminished as he vigorously pounded out a solitary lecture alongside frothing spittle. Though his tongue was thick with drink and his words unclear, even so, from amidst the difficult Chinese phrases, those gathered around could grasp the audacious meaning—his cursing of the Tokugawa reign and rejection of the hollyhock crest.

Gamō Taiken, a remnant of the Takeda clan who for generations had lived in hiding in the mountainous confines of Chichibu.

Gamō Taiken—whose anti-Tokugawa convictions, instilled since childhood through winter nights by the hearth and summer evenings amid mosquito-repelling fires by ancestral elders, had soaked into his very being—possessed both scholarly mastery of Japanese and Chinese classics and martial prowess in Jigen-ryū swordsmanship, Yōshin-ryū kenpō, and above all, the secret techniques of Kōyō-ryū military strategy. Yet he spurned the lavish offers and ceremonial welcomes from major domain lords competing to recruit him with high stipends and courtesy, descending from the mountains with nonchalance. Though he once served in minor posts under Lord Takatsukasa in Kyoto, his unorthodox and free-spirited nature could not long endure the constraints of court service. Setting out once more upon wandering paths across mountains and rivers, he took the Ise Road to fulfill the lifelong aspiration of one born in this divine land—and thus drifted to this town of Yamada.

If one has what others seek, one destroys oneself for their sake. If one seeks to gain anything from the world, one becomes immersed in the mundane and loses one’s true self. However, if one adheres to oneself, the self itself becomes an obstacle. Gamō Taiken—who needed neither money, life, nor women—truly was a wild child as calm as water, his eyes holding neither people, world, nor self. This splendid spirit likely resonated deeply within the heart of Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—then still known as Hirano Tadaemon—who in his vigorous years served as Yamada Magistrate. Over the years, the only one who ever truly marveled at how well that indomitable Taiken could speak was Lord Ōoka—for to judge a person requires another person. Tadasuke, too, had deeply respected the eccentric Taiken’s character and erudition, their bond since first meeting resembling that of brothers or master and disciple as they collaborated in shadow and light. Yet even Tadasuke could only marvel at Taiken’s vagrant lifestyle—unmarried at forty, his whereabouts ever-shifting—and watch with a distant smile the unfathomable movements of this man who defied scrutiny.

Thus, even after Tadasuke—discovered by Yoshimune, the Eighth Shōgun—ventured to Edo and assumed the prestigious post of South Magistrate, Taiken would visit him like this whenever he remembered, sitting knee-to-knee to reminisce about old times and discuss current affairs. Yet Taiken—who always came through the garden and left through the garden—remained unseen even by the household members, existing solely as Tadasuke’s revered friend in his heart.

That aside.

On this autumn midnight.

In the inner chamber of the magistrate’s residence where Taiken now sat facing Tadasuke, he suddenly narrowed his eyes and peered at Tadasuke’s face as if some old memory had resurfaced. “You—what’s become of Otsuru-boy?” “Does he still send word?”

Then the aged Tadasuke, looking slightly embarrassed, stared at the tatami mats— “He’s no longer a boy.” “He’s taken a wife and has two or three children, I hear.” “The other day, he delivered a splendid basket of matsutake mushrooms.” “I thought of giving you some too, but I couldn’t figure out where to find you—” “Well, if you’d just have some, Otsuru-boy would be satisfied—but we were young back then, weren’t we?” “Yes—young we were! Young we were!” “I was young too, but you were young as well! Hahahaha!”

As if an old scar he had forgotten were throbbing, Tadasuke sat quietly with his arms crossed and suppressed a bitter smile. While lost in reverie, Taiken distractedly stroked the sake flask. Who was this Otsuru-boy who could make even the fearsome magistrate recall days long past? The narrative now returned once again to Yamada of ten years prior. Overjoyed at having reached the sacred town—behaving like an innocent child—Taiken overindulged in ritual sake and began causing ominous disturbances on the main street. Just as an underling from the Yamada Magistrate’s office happened by and moved to apprehend him, a young woman in clogs called out and emerged from the storefront of Wakihonjin Chawanya ahead.

Otsuru of Wakihonjin’s Chawanya inn, moved by her maidenly compassion and pity, pretended Taiken was an acquaintance for the officials’ sake, then invited the swordsman—who sat arrogantly sprawled in the street—into her shop.

Seeing him as a samurai from some distant province with hidden circumstances—she brought water herself for him to wash his feet. She let him bathe and suggested fresh clothes, but Taiken simply pulled on an old coat and immediately demanded sake instead—such was his willfulness. First sake, second sake, third sake.

In the midst of household members furrowing their brows and wondering, "What could possibly be amusing about keeping such an orangutan around?" Otsuru—with no prior connection to Taiken—addressed him as "Master," provided him a room, and diligently attended to his daily needs.

In Otsuru’s mind’s eye—clear as a polished mirror without a speck of cloudiness—Taiken’s greatness may have been reflected vaguely yet as it was. As for Taiken too, he laughingly accepted this young girl’s sincere devotion without refusal or even a word of thanks, and in this unceremonious manner—as though returning to his own home—the days slipped by today and tomorrow, but——

A small town.

Word that a suspicious man dressed as a mountain ascetic had recently been lodging at the branch lodge spread like wildfire—especially when reports from underlings about this strange individual making inflammatory remarks concerning the shogunate’s authority reached Magistrate Ōoka’s ears. As magistrate, he could not turn a blind eye to his duty. He immediately had them apprehend the man and throw him into the temporary jail. That night, Ōoka Tadasuke—later known as Echizen-no-kami, but then serving as Yamada Magistrate Ōoka Tadaemon—slipped into the jail alone to secretly observe what manner of man this was, thinking to catch him off guard…

It is said that a gentleman must be vigilant in solitude. A person’s true nature is revealed when alone and believing none observe them. The vagrant—who had reportedly been troubling the jailers while lying on the wooden floor with his head propped on a hand and humming—now sat solemnly upright at the locked cell’s center, seemingly absorbed in profound meditation. In how he occupied the chamber’s midpoint, one could read an extraordinary martial discipline—one who neglected no aspect of conduct whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down.

Moreover! In the pale forehead illuminated by the earthenware oil lamp’s single wick, Tadasuke—skilled in physiognomy—saw an extraordinary spirit, a radiant talent, and something floating like clouds. This was a man of singular excellence. Quickly discerning this, he summoned him onto the tatami mats, faced him directly, and in their exchange of questions and answers, the interests and nuances to be drawn out welled up like a spring—until at last night gave way to dawn. And the morning sunlight found there a magistrate who had forgotten his official duties and a prisoner who had laid bare his heart—both fully naked as men—merged into one through camaraderie, reverence, and trust.

Though Tadasuke had painfully instructed his subordinates through hushed words—"This man is actually a Chiyoda spy operating as a shogunate guard under concealed identity, secretly investigating major domains' internal affairs, so you must feign ignorance regarding all matters"—to patch over appearances before his underlings, he must have felt no small admiration toward the uneducated Otsuru of Chawanya tea house, whose insight had preceded even his own in highly esteeming the drifter Taiken. Even after entrusting Taiken to Otsuru, he frequently slipped through the tea house’s warm noren curtain in disguise—but was this not rather to encounter Otsuru herself bringing tea sweets to their seat than to visit Taiken? Then one day when even Tadasuke himself had begun to harbor doubts in his own heart, Taiken unerringly struck the mark.

“You come to see Otsuru-boy.” “Hahaha.” “Don’t hide it! Don’t hide it!” “No—it’s precisely why even a magistrate is human.” “Amusing.” Tadasuke said nothing and laughed heartily, his chest heaving.

That was all there was to it.

Is this love? Even if love be a trickster, for Magistrate Ōoka-sama and an innkeeper’s daughter... it was undeniably too strange a caprice of passion. Yet many winters and summers had since passed.

Even now, having risen to prominence as a magistrate praised through the ages and thoroughly versed in the darkest depths of human affairs, Tadasuke still secretly referred to the faint stirrings of affection he once felt toward Otsuru of Yamada in Ise as “the love of my life.” On sunlit verandas where he plucked at his recently multiplied white hairs, whenever Tadasuke drowsily heard the sound of Isuzu River’s waters washing wicker baskets, the face that invariably floated before his eyes was that plump Otsuru’s.

Truly, Otsuru must have been a single crimson mark in Tadasuke’s life—one otherwise lacking in color. Even were it ever so small and faded. It was not long after Taiken had taken up residence at Otsuru’s house that a case arose—one sufficiently difficult to test the mettle of Yamada Magistrate Tadasuke.

At that time at the Matsusaka administrative office, the sixth young lord—Lord Minamoto Rokurō, son of Lord Mitsusada, Middle Counselor of Kishū and tenth collateral line of the retired shogun—resided for academic studies. His mischief knew no bounds, plaguing all townspeople in neighboring villages and districts, yet none dared intervene, cowed by the hollyhock-crested robes. Minamoto Rokurō was fourteen or fifteen years old at the time. Emboldened by this immunity, he began casting nets nightly into Futamigaura—a sacred site where all life-taking was forbidden—smugly taking a basketful of catches for himself, heedless of his attendants' warnings. Though this outrage became widely known, none could apprehend him immediately, for he was no common offender but Kishū's young lord. As authorities floundered helplessly, Yamada Magistrate Ōoka Tadaemon declared upon learning of the matter: "The law is the realm's supreme authority. Even Lord Minamoto Rokurō of Kishū cannot be exempted—to overlook this would seed disorder." After covert consultation with Taiken, he led his officers to Futamigaura for a nighttime ambush and promptly bound Rokurō.

And then. “Insolence!” “Outrageous!” Ignoring indignant shouts of “How dare you bind Minamoto Rokurō with defiling ropes?!”, they dragged him to the magistrate’s office where—flanked by large bonfires and with Tadaemon positioned solemnly at the front—the night court session commenced. “You there! This is unpardonable insolence!” “Who are you? Have you taken leave of your senses?” As Tadaemon, seated in the upper position, glared sharply, “Madness? Don’t spout nonsense!” “I am Matsudaira Rokurō.” “Release me!”

“Shut up!” Tadaemon raised his voice further. “To utter the august name of Matsudaira Rokurō—what insolence! True, the sixth young lord of Kishū is styled Lord Minamoto Rokurō—but though still in his tender years, he is a paragon of sagacious wisdom who would never commit such unconscionable acts as casting nets in a sacred killing-prohibited ground! You have clearly fallen into madness—thou art a madman.”

“How dare you call me a madman! I am none other than Minamoto Rokurō of Kishū!” “You dare repeat this claim? Listen here, madman! Should you dare utter such words again, I shall not overlook thy station! Since thou dost not promptly confess, I shall not wait! I have something to show thee now.” Having said this, Tadaemon summoned a peasant named Genbei from Obata Village, with the village headman and others in attendance.

“Genbei, raise your head.” “Observe closely and respond.” “The one waiting here is your son called Genzō, is he not?” “Well?” At that moment, the aforementioned Genbei rushed toward Minamoto Rokurō in the courtroom without restraint. “Hyah! My son! You went mad ’n’ disappeared—don’tcha know how worried ever’one’s been, huh? “I finally tracked ya down to this magistrate’s office, and I just had the village headman submit a petition to withdraw the charges.” “But still, you’ve managed to stay well…”

The one who was shocked was Minamoto Rokurō. "Back off! Hey! Don't come near me!" "What do you mean by 'son'?" "I've never seen you before!" He desperately tried to rebuke them, but Genbei the peasant—with the village headman leading the entire association—stepped forward and began speaking all at once, "To forget your current parents is shameful!" "Please, hah, calm down now, will ya." "Here, Genzō—look closely." "Ain't I your father?"

With them all uniformly treating him as a madman in this manner, Minamoto Rokurō ground his teeth and was masterfully made out to have lost his mind.

Tadaemon, who had been smiling throughout the spectacle, slowly declared.

“Now, this madman has been determined to be Genzō, son of Genbei, peasant of Obata Village.” “Though it is pitiful for a son living with his father to forget his father’s face and lose all discernment, given that this madness drove him to violate the ordinance by fishing at Futamigaura—an act so deranged—such things may indeed come to pass. In light of his insanity, we shall not deem today’s transgression as willful defiance. Therefore, Genzō is hereby handed over to his father, Genbei.” “Take good care of him—Genzō!” “We shall pardon this deed as a madman’s actions, but take care henceforth to honor not your station—no, first and foremost, you must revere the law.” “Understood? Hmm. All of you, rise.”

Through this all-encompassing judgment, Minamoto Rokurō was outwardly framed as nothing more than a peasant’s child who had lost his mind, narrowly escaping punishment and resolving the matter without complications—but this Rokurō, who would later become the eighth shogun Yoshimune, was of course no fool. Mediating the agonizing conflict between the supreme laws of the realm and the young lord of Kishū without bending the law or harming Rokurō while fulfilling his official duties—this splendid handling by Ōoka Tadasuke left all thoroughly impressed. The magistrate of Ise Yamada known as Ōoka Tadaemon proved himself a renowned judge who embodied both wisdom and compassion.

With this memory firmly etched in his mind, Minamoto Rokurō later succeeded to the positions of Superintendent of the Junna and Shōgaku Institutes and eighth-generation head of the Minamoto clan. When he became Tokugawa Yoshimune—who would later be posthumously enshrined as Yūtoku-in—he summoned Tadaemon to Edo and held his first official audience as shogun that day. The former Tadaemon, now appointed as Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, prostrated himself perfectly and awaited the words that would come—.

Shh-shee—! A ceremonial call to clear the way rang out from beside him. Then deep purple cords smoothly rolled up the noble bamboo curtain edged with scattered hollyhock crests, revealing Lord Yoshimune, the eighth shogun, up to his chest atop the brocade cushion. With the sleeves of his kamishimo stretched taut in the flat Hachimonji style, Tadasuke pressed his forehead against the tatami.

Simultaneously with the voice, Yoshimune’s knee shifted forward incrementally by an inch or two.

“Echizen—you do remember me, do you not?” Startled, Tadasuke raised only his eyes—beneath the partially raised noble bamboo curtain peeked thick white haori cords… and through narrowed eyes, Yoshimune’s faint smile hovered above them. In the night fire’s glow at Yamada Magistrate’s white sand court long ago—the figure of young Minamoto Rokurō, eyebrows proudly raised. Unbidden tears welled in Tadasuke’s eyes, blurring the tatami where his hands pressed.

But he tilted his head quizzically. "I humbly beg your pardon—however, I do not recognize you in the slightest."

Then Yoshimune—for reasons none could fathom—suddenly leaned forward and flipped aside the noble bamboo curtain himself using his fan, abruptly thrusting his face out.

“Echizen—this, this right here.” “This face.” “Surely you recognize it?”

Tadasuke, from his lower seat, merely gazed intently at that face… silently suppressing his words.

When the shogun, unable to retreat from his predicament, began growing visibly irritated, and all present—from the pages onward—could neither mediate nor find a way to resolve the situation,

“It is precisely as you say.”

At the voice of Echizen-no-kami—so composed it was almost infuriating—those such as Takagi Ise-no-kami, the shogunate’s chamberlain for audience affairs, first felt relief and then secretly noticed their sweat drying. “Hmm.” “What say you?” “I humbly beg to inform your lordship—though it has been a considerable time since—that during Tadasuke’s service as magistrate of Ise Yamada, your lordship bears a striking resemblance to a madman named Genzō, son of one Genbei, a peasant from Obata Village who cast nets in the strictly prohibited waters of Futamigaura.”

"What insolence—to say he resembled a madman!" As the ministers flanking him, unaware of the reason, whispered among themselves,

“I see.” “Do I resemble Genzō?” Yoshimune smiled cheerfully from behind the noble bamboo curtain, “Genzō of Obata Village must now surely be reflecting with satisfaction on the splendid handling by a magistrate such as yourself… This—Echizen—I hereby appoint you as Edo Omote Town Magistrate.” “Yoshimune’s discernment—no—rather, it’s Genzō’s sense of gratitude.” “Henceforth—well—apply yourself diligently.” “I’m counting on you.” “Ah—I humbly accept—”

Just as Tadasuke began to speak—his words were cut off as the noble bamboo curtain descended without a sound—and through the blinds，Yoshimune’s figure rose hurriedly，appearing like a dream… The Lord Minamoto Rokurō whom I had once sternly scolded． That he had now grown into such a splendid adult—only his laughing eyes remained unchanged from before．

A smile and tears.

How long the castle corridor was as he exited with shuffling steps.

Since that day when he had accepted the great responsibility. As the South Magistrate, what had he accomplished—and what had he truly come to know? When he reflected, winds had blown and rains had fallen. Yet now—after having discerned all there was to discern—one great mystery alone remained. That was humanity. Lord Ōoka—terrifying in his capacity to intimately know the deepest fathoms of human hearts and distinguish virtue from vice with a single glance. Even this peerless magistrate—said to make hardened criminals involuntarily clutch at the white court’s sand with but one piercing look—might ultimately have found this world naught but ordinary... leaving him nothing save a faint smile.

A dream. Such was the feeling that Tadasuke keenly felt.

When he turned his entranced gaze toward Taiken beside him, there lay Gamō Taiken—who had somehow plopped down during the lull in conversation—already resting his head on a sake bottle and emitting light snores. Disheveled hair. A half-open mouth. Though he appeared strong, his sleep-worn face—soiled by a life of wandering—was somehow haggard and sorrowful. "You must be exhausted. Sleep," he muttered under his breath. "Sleep, sleep." After muttering to himself, Tadasuke suddenly seemed to hit upon an idea and quickly searched his portable writing box.

“This guy—broke yet so damn stubborn!” As usual, he would never bring it up himself. If he woke up, he’d start making excuses again and definitely refuse to accept it—right! “Now was the chance—” When Ōoka Tadasuke wrapped a considerable number of gold coins in paper and quietly slipped them into Taiken’s sleeve, Master Taiken—who should have been asleep—cracked his eyes open slightly and smiled faintly, then immediately began snoring even louder than before.

The moment he did,

Hurried footsteps came flying across the front garden and crouched at the edge of the veranda; then Daisaku’s breathless voice struck the shoji screen. “I beg to report.” “What is it?”

A harsh expression flashed across Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke’s face in an instant.

Green-Faced Demoness

“What’s all this racket!” “Isn’t that you, Daisaku?” “What is it?”

When Tadasuke raised his voice from inside the room, Ibuki Daisaku outside regained some composure. “It’s happened—the crossroad killings! That crossroad killer from this morning… They failed to cut down a townsman in front of the main gate and are now clashing with our residence’s men.” “Crossroad killings? Hmph. Is that so?” Lord Echizen-no-kami nodded sleepily. Perhaps thinking this response sounded too indifferent, he added in an affected manner:

“That must be quite valiant.”

“What are your orders?” “First, let us assess the situation.”

As Tadasuke finally rose to his feet, opened the shoji screen, and listened intently near the edge of the veranda,

A moonless, starless midnight.

A thick mist of impenetrable darkness enveloped the vast garden, jet-black imps seeming to leap from tree to tree—the lanterns gliding in the distance likely belonged to retainers securing the estate. The pond water shone white, and the wind lay dead. In the depths of midnight chill that seeped into every breath, a soundless battle cry and the taut sensation of a killing blade drifted from nowhere. As Tadasuke envisioned the scene of their fully prepared confrontation, his tone involuntarily sharpened.

“The villain seems formidable—who is confronting him?” “Iwaki and Shinmen are handling it, but unfortunately, with this fog…” “In front of the gate—you said that, didn’t you? What became of the one who was cut?” “He appears to be a clerk from a merchant house, but from this shoulder down diagonally—no—rather, such a ghastly wound you couldn’t bear to look twice…” “We have sent him to the tenement for treatment, but ultimately I do not believe he will survive.” Even as they spoke, the palpable tension of clashing swords within pressed in as if about to burst.

“Innocent passersby—! Damned wretch! And to think you dared this challenge knowing it’s before the Ōoka residence!”

As his thick eyebrows twitched, Tadasuke sharply called out to Daisaku at his feet.

“Alright! Go!” “Lend them a hand—cut them down if you must.” After seeing Daisaku off as he ran away gripping the sword hilt, and while quietly returning to his room, Tadasuke—his face twisted in disgust as if he had seen blood—debated within himself.

I had discerned from the very beginning that the perpetrator of this morning's crossroad killing was none other than the one-armed swordsman. When I had told Taiken earlier—speculating that the killer might be left-handed or that there were multiple perpetrators involved—it was solely because, even though this was Taiken, he remained someone other than myself, and thus I strictly honored the investigation's confidentiality while merely attempting to subtly draw out his true intentions—and yet—

Inside, Taiken was tightening his obi. Even he who would bow his head to no one under heaven had long since thrown himself into service for Ōoka Echizen.

“I heard. I’ll go check it out.” “Enough!” Tadasuke laughed. “I can’t have you getting injured on my account.” “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Having spat out a single word, Taiken "I'll just take a look on my way back... Then I'll come again." With that, he laughed from the depths of darkness and vanished into the garden as swiftly as he had come—"Watch out!" He no longer answered even to Tadasuke's pursuing voice.

Merciless crossroad killing!

That this demon’s surreptitious movements surged forth was wholly due to Tadasuke’s lack of virtue—! Leaving behind Lord Echizen-no-kami who sat resentfully folding his arms under lamplight, Taiken—having slipped out through the shadows—reached the corner of the wall!

At the gate ahead, just as two or three loud voices seemed about to disintegrate, a shadowy figure—as ethereal as smoke—swayed unsteadily into view before his eyes?

“Gah!” When he stopped and peered through, there stood a tall, slender figure—disheveled kimono with an obi slipping down, hiding the drawn sword in his left hand tightly behind his back. “What’s so amusing about killing someone who’s clinging to life?”

Taiken’s voice sank into a piercing resonance. “Huh? What’s so amusing? You reek of hell!” "…………"

But the opponent remained silent, staggering forward like one intoxicated by living blood. The tip of the sword struck a pebble with a clink! It rang out.

“You and I should recognize each other. Now! Come on! Try to cut me!” Having declared this, Taiken was simultaneously struck by no small measure of an unusual feeling and peered ahead. He thought the shadow of a one-armed man was sobbing—a trick of the ears—when suddenly, "Kekeke!" came a beast-like laugh that rattled from the throat. “Cut! How’s that? Can’t cut me, can you?! If you can’t cut me, then follow me quietly!” As Taiken calmly turned his back—without a moment’s delay—the strike came! With that, a white flash split the darkness—a leaping sword thrust from behind closed in on Taiken’s body.

Magosuke and Warimeshi were waiting by the hearth for Eizaburō—who had left the wellside after hanging a bundled toothbrush on the fence—to return.

Senju Bamboo Mound.

It was a bright autumn morning. At the edge of the eaves, on a chestnut treetop where azure sky showed through, a small bird's shadow slid across sunlight with sharp chirps. "That's a shrike..." Eizaburō spoke these words as he moved toward his meal tray. Then, "This truly is rural country. So quiet and pleasant. People live long lives in places like this." He gazed anew at daikon radishes laid out to dry in front of him - pale early winter sunlight bathing them as he stared absently.

Magosuke silently stuffed his mouth with rice. A chicken, timidly trying to enter the earthen floor area, raised one leg and pondered. “There must have been crowds for Shichi-Go-San—at Kanda Myojin and such—”

Old woman Okane held out the serving tray while speaking in a hushed, continuous tone. “Why don’t you eat with us, Okane? If you treat me as a guest like this, I—a mere burden—cannot bear it.” Eizaburō tried to encourage her, but Okane made no move to take up her chopsticks, and her son Magotarō added nothing to the conversation. Thus, the three fell silent, and within the dimly gleaming farmhouse, the sounds of their meager morning meal flowed in profound stillness. Even though he understood the care put into it, for Eizaburō, burdened with worries, the meal would not go down.

Soon, the taciturn Magotarō stood up sullenly to cut brushwood. The lodger Eizaburō, as usual, immediately climbed the makeshift ladder to his assigned room.

Though "room" was an overstatement—it was just an attic with a ceiling so low one could bump their head.

Suwa Eizaburō lay down out of restlessness. Try as he might not to think of her, Oto’s figure kept crossing his mind.

That night at the Pine of Fate. Having lost Oto in the midst of battle, he had been pursued through wind and rain by the official lanterns’ bearers until rowing to the opposite shore. Upon landing, he immediately parted ways with Taiken and guarded the Konryūmaru at his hip while waiting for dawn on the street… Yet with the faint light of daybreak came thoughts of Okane and her son living here in Senju Take no Tsuka. When Eizaburō was born, his mother’s breast milk had not flowed well, so they brought in Okane—a farmer’s wife from Senju—as a wet nurse to their estate. Okane had a son named Magotarō who was Eizaburō’s age, but as they lived together under one roof, she came to regard Eizaburō as her own child, and he in turn came to revere her as his true mother. This continued even after Eizaburō was weaned and Okane left service—mother and son never failed to come for Bon festivals and year-end greetings. Now Magotarō had taken over, cultivating their own fields while modestly supporting his elderly mother.

Magotarō, the taciturn and kind foster brother, and Okane, the wet nurse who forever considered him her own child. They would surely shelter this wounded heart for a time... At least for now, protection from the elements. After thinking this way, several days had already passed since Eizaburō took shelter at Magotarō’s house in Take no Tsuka. Though a samurai must have a samurai’s circumstances, Old Okane and Magotarō asked nothing, and Eizaburō also said nothing. But precisely because of that, the suffering that Eizaburō had to bear alone only grew greater the more his body opened—it must be said.

Wrapped in a grease-stained futon cover and stroking Konryūmaru by his pillow, how many times had Eizaburō chided himself for his tears on sleepless nights? At midnight, waking from a dream, he called Oto’s name. But Eizaburō was not one who could satisfy himself merely by steering through love’s current. The fervor of youthful blood and a samurai’s oath! Oto and Ken'unmaru! It was in this inability to abandon all else for one thing that Eizaburō’s torment ran deepest. Night after night, he would stand beneath the Pine of Fate, throw three stones into the river, and meet Taiken—yet both Oto’s whereabouts and Ken'unmaru’s location had been swallowed by the restless capital and vanished beyond knowing.

And then there was Yayoi.

The matter of his elder brother Fujijirō. Eizaburō’s heart wept alongside the night-crying sword. The sound of the ravine from the back mountain tickled Eizaburō’s ears as he lay sprawled out. He abruptly sat up and brushed Konryūmaru’s sheath in the window light. In the dim room, sunlight streaming through one window reflected off Konryūmaru’s blade, and a bright beam flickered across the soot-covered ceiling.

On a desolate day nearing winter, Eizaburō sat on the second floor of Magotarō’s house in Senju Take no Tsuka, unsheathed the night-crying short sword, and gazed absently at it for a long time. As he turned the blade over repeatedly from hilt to tip, examining both sides, he felt the indomitable spirit of the master-forged sword seeping into him—and raising his eyes, he looked out the window.

Through the bamboo latticework, a lapis lazuli sky smiled. A lone cloud resembling a kitten’s sleeping form floated distantly in what could only be Edo’s heavens… After sheathing his sword, Eizaburō now leaned listlessly against the wall, closed his eyes, and began to ponder. In this world where so much defies control, he had lately been forced to taste with visceral intensity this truth: that which seems most within one’s power—yet proves utterly ungovernable—is none other than one’s own heart.

This was especially true whenever he recalled Master Tessai’s daughter, Lady Yayoi—a hundredfold diamond-hard force struck young Eizaburō. It’s not that I dislike her. I certainly don’t dislike her! But when mere lack of dislike proved insufficient to wholeheartedly turn one’s affections, and the other party pressed their feelings upon him with insistence, he found himself reflexively rebuffing them despite his own indifference—such was the eternal dance of courtship between men and women, it was said.

It wasn't that Eizaburō utterly detested Yayoi, but no matter how he tried, he could do nothing about his own heart that refused to love her. Why? Even if asked, Eizaburō likely could not have answered—there was neither need to strive to love her nor any ability to do so. Instead, those very feelings pressed down on him like a debt, perhaps driving him further from Yayoi.

But, logically speaking, Needless to say, this was because there existed in Eizaburō’s heart the woman named Oto of the Atariya tea house near the Three Shrines. Rather than the uncompromisingly pure yet worldly-naive—and thus fiercely intense—love of Yayoi, the daughter of a samurai family, it was the delicate figure of Oto—tossed about by rough tides, clinging like a seaweed flower, ever passive—that held the bonds seizing Eizaburō’s entire being. Upon reflection, this was hardly surprising.

That Oto. That night on the Ōkawa River, Bakurenjo—who had leapt into the boat as a decoy—said Oto had been abducted by some lord from Honjo... How was she faring now? Thinking this, Eizaburō was driven by unbearable restlessness and wildly grabbed his trusted blade Musashi Tarō Yasukuni. Yet every time he saw Konryūmaru resting beside that sword, he became acutely aware of the private emotions in his heart—feelings he had to slash away and discard first—and abruptly straightened his collar and squared his shoulders.

Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru! The sword demon Tange Sazen rides Ken'unmaru to soar through the heavens and plunge into darkness, seeking to lure away this Konryūmaru of mine—in answer, I shall make Konryūmaru leap beneath the blazing sun and charge forth to summon Ken'unmaru! I cannot remain like this! To be ensnared in love's warp and weft until my body cannot move! Enough! What disgrace! Sever it! Yes—before cutting down Sazen, I must first slice away these delusions toward Oto with Konryūmaru's icy edge, cleanly renounce all worldly ties, and become a swordsman undisturbed by anything! Only then can I act freely!

He knew all too well. Yet when he thought of Oto，Eizaburō found himself prioritizing her over his blade！ His heart raced… This was his struggle between passion and duty.

But? If I remained passive and let them make me an adopted son or such, both Oto and the sword would be lost forever. Was this not Eizaburō—who, finding it unbearable, had clasped his hands in prayer to shadows for Brother Fujijirō’s forgiveness even as he deliberately provoked his brother through all manner of reckless acts, thus severing ties to his family home and cutting all bonds? How furious my upright elder brother must be! Even if those fifty ryō had been for dear Oto’s sake—though there had been no need to resort to such measures when legitimate means were not beyond his ingenuity—was that act of provoking his brother’s displeasure not also, even now as he secretly apologized in his heart, all for staking his entire being to unite the Heaven and Earth blades?

“Oto! Don’t resent me. I’ll find you and save you without fail.” After muttering this in a low voice, Eizaburō somehow keenly sensed that the time for battle was near again, and—*snap*—when he opened his bloodshot eyes, the hollow sound of wooden fish percussion arose from the temple behind. “Young Master, the tea is ready, but――” On the middle of the ladder steps, Old Woman Okane’s voice rang out.

“Oto!” “Hey, Oto!”

With a voice that seemed hesitant to carry through the surroundings, Oto awoke from her afternoon nap.

She realized she had been dreaming. Her own body had transformed into a mermaid, chained to a rock on the seabed. It was an indigo-hazed world, as though seen through a blue mosquito net. A forest of seaweed thrived around her, and strangely enough, each frond tip bore human faces like fruits. There was Genjūrō. There was Oto herself. There was Yokichi. There was the head of a samurai called Sazen—one-eyed and marred by a fearsome scar. They swayed toward her from all directions, poised to bite at any moment.

Even as Oto shuddered in terror and tried to flee, kelp-like things entangled around her legs and waist, leaving her unable to move an inch. Even as she desperately called for help, only large bubbles rose from her mouth, her own voice remaining inaudible even to herself. How utterly pathetic—! Clawing at her chest and looking upward, she saw Eizaburō—wearing Konryūmaru at his waist—swimming through the water’s surface where sunlight slanted in blurred stripes. Over and over he circled high above her head, yet he did not descend, and Oto could not rise to meet him.

Ah! How maddening! He was circling so intently above me—and yet couldn't see this? Even if he saw me, did he no longer intend to rescue me? In the boat beneath the Pine of Fate... After we'd made such a firm vow! When Oto, transformed into a mermaid, found herself pressed against Genjūrō's neck and involuntarily tried to scream,

“Oto!” “Oto!”

The voice calling "Oto" gradually grew clearer as it passed through the layers of water. Ah! Lord Eizaburō had come!

“Y-yes—Oto is here!” “Oto.”

When the final voice rang out loudly beside her ear, Oto’s eyes snapped open to find... It wasn’t Eizaburō—her mother Osayo had come carrying something on a tray and was crouching there. “Oto… you were loved… weren’t you?” “I made some sweet bean soup, so I brought it here. Come on, sit up and have some.” Osayo peered at her daughter, “You seemed to be having some sort of nightmare, huh?” “Yes… A terrible dream… Thank goodness it was just a dream.” Still dazed as she sat up, Oto quickly swept back her disheveled hair. It seemed she had been crying in her sleep—noticing the edge of the zabuton cushion she had rolled up as a pillow was damp with tears, she quietly hid it behind her and smiled sadly.

Her cheeks bore red marks from sleep—an allure that could not help but stir men’s hearts. Mother and daughter faced each other in silence within the narrow, shadowed room.

It was a room in Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence before Honjo Hōonji Bridge. Through Kushimaki Oto’s machinations, Genjūrō had slipped into the sword-clashing turmoil and deftly abducted Oto; having secured a street palanquin amid the late-night bustle, he successfully transported her to his Honjo residence—all had proceeded smoothly up to that point, but…

That the daughter mentioned by the old maid Osayo some time ago was this Oto—even someone as cunning as Genjūrō had never dreamed of such a thing. When Osayo saw Oto being dragged out of the palanquin, she recoiled in shock; but drawing on her years of wisdom and understanding of Genjūrō’s nature, she instantly concluded that concealing her maternal bond and discreetly safeguarding Oto from the shadows was now the wisest course of action. Osayo swiftly signaled her intent to Oto with a glance, maintaining an outward show of strictly obeying Genjūrō’s orders as she roughly confined Oto to the inner chambers—all while behind the scenes, as a mother, how much anguished care she must have exercised. Fortune had not abandoned Oto—within the demon’s den where she had been confined, a mother’s hand awaited her.

A deep storage room. Day after day brought Oto nothing but mold-scented mornings and evenings of captivity—yet as overseer of her daily routine, Osayo could slip unnoticed into Oto's room just like this, whispering comforts and bringing favorite foods. That they were mother and daughter...not a soul in the estate had yet discerned. At drinking gatherings, Oto was invariably produced.

Thus Oto became aware that the one-eyed samurai sneaking morning and night to the detached room visible through her window among the grasses wore a ceremonial longsword identical in make to Lord Eizaburō’s—she wanted somehow to get word to Lord Eizaburō, but hers was the plight of a bird with clipped wings. Yet Genjūrō could only fret, unable to even inch closer to Oto’s side, powerless to act. Whenever he pressed his advances, Osayo would inevitably rush in like the wind, hands pressed against the threshold to announce visitors. “Do you require something?” she interjected. Genjūrō could only click his tongue in frustration.

Even now, Genjūrō’s sharp voice approached down the hallway along with footsteps. “Sayo! “Sayo!” “Hey! Ain’t Sayo here?” Restraining Oto, who had instantly cowered, Osayo hurriedly left the room. “Oh, Mother! He’s coming this way again. Please hurry and stop him…”

As Oto cowered into the corner, Osayo— “Just keep quiet and let me handle this!”

Scolding her in a low voice and closing the shoji screen, she hurried down the corridor toward the front room—but just then, “Osayo! …Where’d that old hag disappear to?”

Genjūrō’s voice pierced through as it drew closer.

At Suzukawa’s Monster House in Honjo, a dark chill hung heavily despite the mid-afternoon hour, and this area devoid of houses lay as quiet as a graveyard. Osayo hurried around the corner and collided headlong into Genjūrō’s chest at their sudden meeting. “What?!” “Old hag.” “Clutching at me like this—what’re you playing at?” “Hah! More importantly—Sayo! Why no answer when I called? You were sneaking off to Oto’s room again!”

Suzukawa Genjūrō’s thick eyebrows twitched momentarily,

“Something’s off here. You—do you have some connection to that girl?”

When he peered at Osayo, the startled woman immediately forced a miserable smile. "No, Milord, such a thing is unthinkable! It's just that the girl is far too stubborn for her youth, and since Milord is so gracious, she's grown rather full of herself—why, it's downright vexing to see! So this old woman here has been working on her from the shadows, little by little." And Osayo was filled with determination to somehow placate him.

“I see.” “I don’t care for rough methods either—though I’ve left things as they are out of shame—but you… I’m counting on you.” “Make sure you explain it thoroughly to her.” “Yeeeees.” “That is indeed the case.” “At present, she remains stubbornly resistant, so Milord’s true intentions haven’t yet reached her—but once she thoroughly weighs the pros and cons, hohoho, she’ll surely yield before long.”

Even if lies are a means to an end, what kind of mother was I now! As she thought this, Osayo had no choice but to swallow her tears in her heart. "Moreover, Milord—they say those rigid ones in particular, once obtained, come rushing in on their own afterward. So please, leave it to this old woman and keep your patience a while longer." Genjūrō, in high spirits, stood blocking the hallway’s wooden planks, incessantly stroking his chin with a hand emerging from his collar as he indulged in self-satisfaction alone,

“Hmm, I suppose that’s how it is. Hahaha! No—indeed, that must be so.” “It’s not as though I intend to make her some fleeting diversion.” “As for that… I have been thoroughly advising her every day, yes.” “Having said that, given that a water teahouse girl could raise eyebrows with the shogunate authorities, I can’t very well make her my legal wife—but for life, well… let’s say as a concubine, I’d like to keep her by my side and cherish her.”

Genjūrō put on a show of earnestness with his glib words—but when Osayo, who had sunk from the depths of poverty into servitude, heard his promise to “keep her by his side for life,” a flicker of tension crossed her face. “Milord.”

“What? So formal all of a sudden…” “The words you just spoke… are they truly sincere, Milord?” “What’s this? Did I say something now?”

“Oh! How cruel! Then wouldn’t that be too pitiful for that girl?” “What are you talking about? I don’t get it.” “‘To keep her by your side for life’—that was what you said… Surely that was a jest, Milord?” Genjūrō turned aside and laughed. “What nonsense! Do you think I’m joking?! Determining the course of a person’s entire life is no matter for trifling games. Truly, I intend to stay by that Oto’s side until her hair turns white and take care of her. This is the unfeigned truth of my heart.”

As Osayo—the old woman—instantly deliberated over what this reality would mean for both Oto and herself... Suzukawa Genjūrō watched suspiciously as her expression brimmed with earnest resolve, as though she might now decisively make Oto accept her fate, karmic consequences and all. "Osayo, you're getting strangely invested in this matter." "No, no! Th-that's absolutely not the case!" Flustered, Osayo stammered, "It's just—well—I happen to have a daughter around the same age, so I couldn't help drawing parallels... If Miss Oto were to become your lifelong concubine, why, she'd surely live in comfort—"

“Indeed.” “Not only for her sake—should there be any blood relatives—I mean to track down her father or mother and see them generously provided for. In truth, we’re talking about a five-hundred-koku widow with child.” “They’ll want for nothing.”

When Genjūrō declared this, Osayo instinctively clung— “Milord! Is that… your true intention?”

Then Genjūrō, “Wh-what do you say?!” “A samurai does not go back on his word!” Leaning back smugly with self-satisfaction, he intended to rattle his dual swords—reaching to his left—but unfortunately, he was unarmed.

And just as he was about to say something—*Ji!*—he fixed his gaze on Osayo in that instant! A cloth-rending scream trailed from nowhere and seeped through the shadow-drenched mansion...

Genjūrō and Osayo—hah! They wordlessly met each other’s eyes. Hah! Once again came the voice— “Eeek…!” The shudder-inducing scream was unmistakably a woman’s cry! The scream—as if welling up from a well’s depths—remained eerily muffled before being swallowed by the surrounding silence and vanishing. Genjūrō, appearing privy to every detail, turned a bitter smile toward Osayo. Yet what he spoke of remained Oto. “Now then, Osayo—you seem oddly meddlesome in that girl’s affairs—but I’ll hear your excuses later—”

“No.” “There’s nothing to tell—no details or anything of the sort.” “I merely had my reasons to advance the conversation and, above all else, wished to firmly ascertain your most crucial feelings, Milord… and now I have come to fully understand them.” “Yes.” “Miss Oto is truly fortunate.”

And so, the honest and single-minded Osayo gradually began to feel grateful toward Genjūrō.

“Well, yes, that’s about the size of it.”

Genjūrō, concealing a cunning smile, nodded repeatedly, “We shouldn’t stand here talking forever.” “I plan to discuss it thoroughly at our leisure and make a formal request in due course.” “For you to make such a request, Milord—it’s too great an honor!” “It is I who should act on Oto’s behalf…”

Osayo began to speak but hurriedly clamped her mouth shut. Genjūrō pretended not to notice and lowered his voice.

What he meant was this.

That scream—a woman’s scream.

That was the frenzied Tange Sazen tormenting Kushimaki Oto in the detached room.

When she heard this, Osayo found herself recalling certain details. On the stormy night when Genjūrō had Oto’s palanquin brought in—late into the night, or rather nearing dawn—Osayo, hearing unusual voices at the garden entrance, quietly slid open the shutters and peered out to see the drenched figures of Tange Sazen and Tsuchiya Sen’nosuke’s group coldly dragging away a composed yet resentful-looking Oto, just as they were about to pass through the door of the detached room— Since then, Oto had not been allowed to return to her home in Asakusa, and from the detached room, her weeping could be heard daily, mingled with Sazen’s roars.

An air of significance! She had sensed this air of significance, but as it was hardly a situation for an elderly maid like herself to intervene, she had busied herself with protecting Oto while remaining concerned—yet now what rose in her heart was… That rōnin Tange Sazen. He was a retainer of Lord Sōma of Nakamura in Ōshū, the same as her late husband Mun'emon, and shared a hometown with both herself and Oto; but she had once overheard outside the parlor one night that he was apparently hiding here in Edo under some secret mission to search for a sword.

No wonder—even as crossroad killings were spreading these days, Sazen still wandered out nightly into the murk as if being called... for yet another sword hunt!

But now!

While sneaking to Oto without Genjūrō’s knowledge and engaged in deep conversation, Osayo had come to learn much about Eizaburō’s subsequent circumstances; according to Oto, Eizaburō now desperately searched for one of the two swords while possessing the other. So that’s it! Osayo had grasped it instantly—but though she composed herself in the moment, feigning nonchalance, she had long since discerned how Oto in the storehouse kept subtly watching Sazen’s comings and goings from the window, desperate by any means to inform Eizaburō. Now it was clear: Sazen and Eizaburō were enemies, each carrying one half of a pair, both seeking to unite the two swords in their own hands… All of this drifted hazily through Osayo’s mind, as visible through steam.

But now, Genjūrō desired Oto’s entire life! Even as a concubine—if she were to serve permanently as a legal wife—then I, her mother with little time left, could go to my final rest without hardship. Moreover, were Oto’s background discovered and her samurai lineage recognized, public registrations could be made and announcements would surely follow.

If that came to pass, along with dear Oto’s rise in status, she herself would naturally become a carefree retired lady with five hundred koku!—Thus the gullible Osayo, taking Genjūrō’s nonsense at face value from the start, resolved here and now to sever ties with Eizaburō and, above all else, entrust Milord Genjūrō with seizing the very sword he so desired from Sazen and delivering it to him… Osayo promptly conceived this plan. Precisely because of her mother’s protection, Oto had remained unharmed in this monster mansion until now! Now that her mother’s feelings had changed, how could she continue to maintain her loyalty to Eizaburō?

The white-feathered arrow of human sacrifice... It had truly come to rest upon Oto now. But would Genjūrō truly accept Osayo’s plea and separate Sazen from Ken'unmaru?

―As Osayo sank into contemplation― “Since Oto colluded with me to abduct her namesake beauty,* that Sazen brute’s been raging these past days over failing to seize the sword—so play your part as mediator and calm his temper.” Snapping alert at Genjūrō’s voice, she parted knee-high grasses and found herself already before the detached room. *Slash!* Sazen’s curses pierced through drifting bloodlust: “Bastard! Who ordered your meddling?!” “Answer me, you wretch…!”

Then, *crack!* the sound of a whip striking. “Ohohoho! How dreadful for you!” “You’ve made a terrible mistake, you bastard.” Kushimaki Oto seemed to have become completely defiant. “Hey! What the hell’re you sayin’, meddlin’ in someone else’s business?!” “Damn it! You bastard!” “Damn it! Because of you, I couldn’t take the sword I should’ve been able to take!” “Make some noise! Come on, make some noise!” “Ohoho! You want me to make noise—is that it?!” “A regular little Hatchōbori you’ve got here.”

“What?!” Roaring, Sazen shook his head to toss back his palm-fiber broom-like hair that had fallen over the sword scar on his cheek, his single eye burning with hatred as he glared down at Oto lying at his feet. Tange Sazen—his gaunt frame reminiscent of a slender pine trunk, his threadbare lined garment hanging open like a sparrow’s worn feathers, a man who lived by absorbing the nightly darkness—already resembled nothing less than a blue demon from hell paintings. And now, each time he raised Ken'unmaru in its sheath with his left hand, his empty right sleeve performed a sinister dance in the air.

A narrow six-tatami room. Suzukawa Uemon, Genjūrō’s father, had likely built this detached hermitage intending to spend his remaining years quietly enjoying tea ceremonies in old age—but as constellations shifted and times changed, look at it now! Decayed with sagging eaves and overgrown with grass, it had become a garden of torment where the one-eyed, one-armed fiend Tange Sazen shook with fury as he whipped a woman’s body. The overcast sky hung gray.

In Honjo, this area lay far removed from any houses; each time the sun broke through gaps in the clouds as if on a whim, a pale light would slant through—momentarily illuminating Sazen standing like a Nio guardian statue and Oto entangled at his hem—only to retreat into shadow again. With no one crossing the Hōonji Bridge ahead, it was a hushed seventh hour when daylight hastened its retreat... The chillingly cold room had bedding and personal belongings kicked aside into a corner. In the scant open space at the center, the figure of Kushimaki Oto—as if hurled there—lay face down with insolent defiance.

Four or five men surrounded her in a circle. The faces of Hanyū Sennosuke and Tsuzumi no Yoshi could be seen among them, but they all simply stared with bloodshot eyes at Sazen and Oto in turn, not uttering a word. Tange Sazen—already emaciated—had grown even more withered from the dew and frost of his recent nightly wanderings, intensifying his fierce demeanor. Snap! His single eye flew open, harboring a cruel smile— Again! “Hey! Say something! Damn you! Still… still won’t talk even with this?! You bastard! Still… even with this…?!”

And faster than he could shout, he slashed Ken’unmaru’s scabbard tip with a swish! He struck Oto’s back— Agh! Clenching her teeth and clutching the tatami mat—Oto lay motionless as if asleep. In the watery half-light, Kushimaki Oto’s usually prideful hairstyle clung greasily to her disheveled clothes—her exposed neck and knees, along with oil-smeared white skin, bloomed like grotesque flowers. The terror of the scene gave way to something perversely alluring depending on one’s perspective. Hanyū Sennosuke, hands thrust into his belt, licked his lips as he stared unabashedly at her ruined state, while Tsuzumi no Yoshi averted his eyes… powerless to intervene, he could only fidget helplessly.

This… this daily torture and abuse.

That had just begun again today. What’s the point! It was none other than this—on that night of chaos beneath the Pine of Fate, the moment Tange Sazen slashed at Suwa Eizaburō, Kushimaki Oto had disguised herself as Oyū and leapt into a small boat, causing Eizaburō and that beggar to quickly follow and set out in the boat. All because of Oto’s interference—just one step away from seizing the serpent—it had slipped away! If only he had held back, he could have splendidly cut down that young fool and claimed Konryūmaru! Now then—who on earth asked you to jump out there as a substitute for Oyū? From the very beginning, she must have intended to interfere there and throw our plans into disarray. What a brazen woman. I’ll torture her to death!

Sazen had confined Oto to his room, subjecting her daily to beatings, kicks, and torture; though he fully understood she had merely acted to facilitate Genjūrō’s abduction of Oyū. He intended to confront Genjūrō using any slip of the tongue from Oto—such as admitting she’d been ordered by “Milord”—yet she stubbornly kept her lips sealed, refusing to utter a word. But from Oto’s perspective—despite her current suffering, she believed Genjūrō would surely step in and set everything right; but Genjūrō, consumed by matters concerning Oyū, had turned a blind eye not only to his promise to Oto—who had sworn to act as intermediary with Sazen—but also to her present anguish.

A weakness born of infatuation—but that couldn’t be, for she was the boss lady of Edo. When Oto looked up at Sazen and broke into a grin with her blood-streaked mouth, the men all turned their faces toward the edge.

A figure blocked the doorway leading to the garden. Sazen, flashing the women’s undergarment as usual, stomped forward while carrying Ken’unmaru,

“What the hell? Ain’t this Suzugen and Osayo? You bastards got no business here! What’d you come for?” Sazen spread his stance, but Genjūrō smirked and gave Osayo a gentle poke. “Well, you’re perfect for playin’ the old hag. Now go on—apologize nice an’ proper.”

Whispered to by Genjūrō, Osayo—her mind overwhelmed by terror—averted her eyes from Sazen’s face and mumbled incoherently, bowing her head in rapid succession. Sazen roared, “Shut up! This ain’t no place for an old hag!” and brushed past Osayo to sarcastically confront Genjūrō behind her. “Suzugen! You’re clinging to that woman in the storehouse day and night, aren’t you? Well, isn’t this a rare sight—you showing up. How’d it go? You said that woman was Oyū, right? Did it work out?”

Sneering, Sazen slowly retreated back into the room, and Genjūrō followed him with his eyes, maintaining a faint, dandyish smile as though his affair with Oto were proceeding splendidly. "My woman is this one here!"

And then, Sazen abruptly kicked Oto back,

“Hey! Oto! Who put you up to interfering with the sword? Spit it out!” Screaming, he wrapped her hair around his left hand and dragged her about—yet Oto, as if surrendering both body and soul to this frenzied Tange Sazen, gritted her teeth in her pallid face, submitting without even the strength to cry out, not bothering to adjust her disheveled kimono as she simply slumped and clung to his leg.

Her hair, torn out by days of beatings, lay scattered about while unseen flames of obsession blazed throughout the room. Overwhelmed by the sight, Osayo fled as if sliding away—but when Genjūrō arrived and witnessed the unimaginable rampage that shattered his resolve, he was about to charge forward, unable to stay silent toward Oto any longer! At the visage of Tange Sazen—frenzied like the Ashura King—twisting Oto’s hands and trampling every inch of her body without restraint! As he recoiled in shock, a voice steeped in sorrow seeped from the shadows.

“Milord?”

Oto, from beneath Sazen’s foot, sent a resentful glare through the hair veiling her face toward Genjūrō. “Hmph!” “Milord’s stunned face says it all!” “I’ll get your message through, so in return you just had to watch for an opening, pretend to be Oyū, and tumble into the boat—‘I’ll make sure nothing bad happens afterward,’ huh? Who the hell was it that fed me such sweet lies?” Genjūrō panicked.

“Hey, Oto! You’re getting carried away, spouting such nonsense...” “Shut up, Suzugen!” It was Sazen who roared. At the same time, he grabbed her hair and yanked Oto upright—overwhelmed by the pain, she looked up at Sazen and let out a piercing scream. “Please stop! At least my head—!” “I’m head over heels for you no matter what you do—so if you’ll kill me, I’ll let you!” “Oh yes! Kill me splendidly!” “But if you feel any pity—Lord Tange—cut me clean! Don’t make me suffer! I’m Kushimaki Oto too!” “If it’s your blade, I’ll take it gladly.” “Wait! Before dying—I’ve got words left!”

Breaking free from Sazen's grip, she staggered! She collapsed right before Genjūrō's face at the entrance step she'd just risen from, "Welcome. Long time no see, oh ho ho! That face of yours!" "Thanks to you, I've ended up drenched in blood like this!" No sooner had she smiled sweetly than Oto's entire body trembled violently toward Genjūrō before Sazen and the stunned onlookers. "If you're the one who planned both moves, then all eyes should be on you!" "What's this?!" "Even at Misho Shrine, when you begged me, you spouted such pretty promises—and because of that, people suffered terribly! Now you play the clueless Hanbei!" "And you call yourself a samurai?!" "You're not fit to stand upwind of an Edokko...!"

“Boss, boss—if you get this riled up, we can’t talk proper.” “Hey now—this here’s our Boss we’re talkin’ about.” “You shouldn’t go spoutin’ reckless...” As Yokichi fretted and tried whispering advice, Sazen shoved him sideways from the flank. “Yokichi! Stay the hell back!” “Damn straight!” Oto swung her battered face around, blood-caked lips twisting. “Let Yokichi gawk in awe all he likes... Oh yes—now that it’s come to this, I’ll speak plain! You there—Milord! All ’cause I helped you snatch Oyū like you begged me to, Lord Tange here’s skinned me raw!” “But I’m downright delighted!” “If I were some stranger—you couldn’t bring yourself to punish me like this—could you?”

In the breathless tension, Tange Sazen flashed a spasmodic smile, quietly shoved Oto aside, and with his gleaming single eye piercing Genjūrō’s face, his lone hand already rested on the hilt of Ken'unmaru—thirsting for blood. “Hey, Suzukawa…” In Tange Sazen’s hoarse voice—which had called out flatly—lurked something dangerous, something that could erupt at any moment.

“Hey Genjirō—you and I ain’t some passing acquaintance from yesterday or today.” “You’ve known damn well for ages how I’ve staked my whole being on getting Konryūmaru—and yet—” As he spoke, Sazen stepped down into the earthen-floored area, his face rapidly darkening. “And yet—!” When his voice rose another octave, he had already drowned out both himself and his fury, unveiling the true demonic countenance of Tange Sazen—the one-eyed swordsman incarnate.

“You pledged to help me seize Konryūmaru—what the hell?!” “You’d sell out a friend over some girl’s pretty face?” “Genjū! You’re a damn disgrace!” He snarled like a wild animal, Ken'unmaru in his left hand clattering—the tsuba shaking violently. The wind dropped dead—a silence so heavy it strained to bursting.

Dobō Sensuke, Oto, Yokichi, and two or three others had lined up their faces near the edge, breathlessly comparing Genjūrō—who stood straddling the entrance threshold—with Sazen, who faced him directly at a distance of one ken. Genjūrō, hands tucked in his sleeves, let out a chuckle several degrees colder than warranted by the situation. “Tange!” he whispered low. “You too—seeing how quick you are to fly into a rage, you’re surprisingly childish!” “I never plotted to interfere with you—”

“Shut the hell up!” “D-dammit! Shut up and let me cut you down!”

Sazen abruptly narrowed his eyes, slipping into a trance. The cursed sword's hilt surged through his chest—for Tange Sazen, right and wrong were secondary now; all he needed was the scent of fresh blood. His white lips quivered like snake scales, twisting the sword scar on his right cheek...

The delusions of the night-wailing swords from separate realms transformed into flames and seemed to blaze fiercely upward from his hem. Sever the leaping human flesh with your blade! That intoxication, like poisoned wine, had become a daytime hallucination, numbing Sazen’s five senses. “L-let me cut you down! “Hey Gen! You hear me?!” “Let me cut you down! Ahahahaha!” Sazen staggered forward two or three steps as though slumping over. Aghast! With that, Genjūrō leaped back.

“You’re an impossible man—fine, I’ll admit it: that night, I hauled Oyū over my shoulder and headed back a step ahead. That I didn’t join forces with you lot is entirely my fault. I apologize for that point. There, see? I’m apologizing over and over… But listen here, Tange—even if Oto jumped into the boat and the enemy mistook her for Oyū and immediately fled aboard it, th-that’s none of my concern.” Then, Oto, who had been listening,

“You’re still saying such things! Milord, you’re being quite stubborn here—didn’t all this start with your own schemes?” Yokichi cut her off. “Madam! Come on, let it go—Milord is backing down already—” “See?!” Sazen returned his triumphant gaze from Oto to Genjūrō, “If it weren’t for your fire-looting thievery, I would’ve gotten Konryūmaru that night—this, this one—” while brandishing his left sword,

“I could’ve united this blade with its pair—Suzukawa! Never thought I’d be crossed by you!”

“You’re quite the tenacious man.” “In any case, it’s past.” “Isn’t this enough already…” “You might be fine with that, but nothing’s resolved here.” “This isn’t my fixation.” “It’s the sword’s fixation.” “Th-this is Ken'unmaru’s fixation!” “Hmph!” Genjūrō sneered derisively. “How droll.” “So you mean to say you honor us nightly with your crossroad slaughters?” He spat out the words like drawn steel.

Thud! "Thwack!"

Sazen, his pallor deepening, suddenly flushed an uncanny crimson. “How did you know?”

“Ah! So you’ve finally spilled the beans. Well, I just took a little stab in the dark—but hey Tange, with every filthy constable in Edo hunting down that notorious reverse-kesa slashing night killer… Oh right, the South Magistrate’s that famed judge Ōoka Echizen-no-kami, isn’t he! If I, with all due respect, were to rush in with just a word—! Well?! Figure out the rest yourself!” “Grr! Before that, I’ll cut you down!”

“I’ve no taste for this.” “I-I’ll cut you down, Genjū! K-Ken'unmaru… It’s crying—begging to cut through! Can’t you hear this voice?!”

“I take no pleasure in this… but it cannot be helped!” Genjūrō abruptly turned a pallid smile toward Yokichi.

“Bring me my sword from the sitting room!”

Sazen sat down in the overgrown weeds of the inner garden—a lawn in name only, long unacquainted with a sickle—and plucked a single leaf from the pathside weeds nearby,

“Look at this—this one’s already turning red. “So then, between the 210th day and the 220th day, there’ll be one great storm, eh?” “The age-old adage never lies.” He had been making such carefree remarks, but when he saw Tsuzumi no Yokichi return and timidly hand the great sword to Genjūrō, even he finally rose to his feet.

“Well then, shall we finally begin?” Sazen's pale eye grinned in the faint sunlight. “Genjū, let me say one word of thanks before you die.” “To die… Who is it that will die?” “Ain’t it obvious? You’re gonna die now—” “Oh ho! You’re the one who’ll die. Say what you will! I’ll hear it.” “I’ve imposed on you for quite some time now. Much obliged… That’s all!” “Hahahaha!” Genjūrō’s laughter was somewhat hollow. “As a bird about to die sings mournfully, so a man about to die speaks good words—or so they say. Hey Tange, do you truly desire this duel?”

“The hell it is!” Sazen stepped back—tap-tap-tap! With a swift motion, he discarded the flat silk-wrapped scabbard and lowered Ken'unmaru’s cold, azure-polished blade into his left hand. He smiled nonchalantly. “Because of you letting Konryūmaru slip away, I might not care, but this Ken'unmaru here resents you—it’s dead set on cutting you down whether I will it or not.” “Well, you must have your own reasons for wanting to live—but here and now, set all else aside and meet your end by my hand.”

“Don’t you dare make me laugh.” “You’re one hell of a persistent bastard.” “Persistent? Couldn’t do this job if I weren’t.” “Even I have my reasons, you know.” “Now that you’ve sniffed out my crossroad killings—can’t let you live no matter what.”

“I see… Then! If you desire it that much, I, Suzukawa Genjūrō, shall indeed face you! But regret comes too late—once you’ve taken a strike, it’ll be too late to cry ‘Hold!’” “What’re you yammerin’ about?! You spineless worm! I’ll see whether your blood runs red or white! Hey! Come on—move! I’m comin’! You don’t—! Hahaha!”

With a derisive laugh, Ken'unmaru’s gleaming blade extended, swirling a vortex ring three inches before his eyes as it challenged him. There was no choice but to retaliate! Genjūrō steeled himself and spoke quietly: “How childish. But here I come, Tange! ...Like this!” Faster than a groan, his feet scattered dirt as he spread into the Sareryu school’s Amigasa-hane iaijutsu stance—his great sword arced diagonally with a clang! Sazen swept Ken'unmaru upward from below.

Sazen stepped back, then flowed naturally as he steadily closed in to the left. At the same time, Genjūrō moved two or three steps to the right, seizing the initiative. The setting sun, hastening the dusk, glinted off two sword blades—white circular lights blooming and vanishing. The frost-withered garden brimmed with a fierce and majestic aura. A kitten peered at the two men from the hedge, listlessly batting at grass heads with its paws. Sazen glanced at it briefly, contorted his scarred face into a smirk—and laughed.

“Suzukawa,” he said in a tone as bright and clear as if he were another man entirely. “Only when I’m doin’ this do I feel alive.” “What a cursed nature I’ve got!” “I’ve seen how you handle jars—flippin’ ’em over, poppin’ ’em open—and your tricks for sneakin’ women in. But your swordplay’s new to me.” “Come at me full force now!”

Suzukawa Genjūrō remained silent. When he slightly lowered the hilt gripped in the blue-eyed stance, the toes of his left foot—planted firmly behind him—involuntarily tensed, crushing a clod of earth.

Both stood motionless. Sazen tilted his chin slightly, allowing slack in his left sword while his lone eye remained rigid as a rod—spitting repeatedly through habit, his full fighting spirit leaking out...... Neither would draw first. Oto and Yohachi had already vanished, unwilling to be caught in the duel’s crossfire, while Sen’nosuke—left behind—could only wander helplessly, unable to intervene.

The Sareryū school combined the Shinkage and Hōzan styles. It was said they made it read as "sare sui" by splitting the character for 'hō' (法). The founder was Tsuzuki Yasuemono, a disciple of Asada Kurōbē. Suzukawa Genjūrō seemed to have mastered this Sareryū style remarkably well—so much so that even Tange Sazen, who typically overwhelmed opponents with his intimidating aura before drawing steel, showed no reckless moves... Just as one might think this, Sazen suddenly drew his blade and erupted in raucous laughter. "Hahaha, quit it." "Lord Gen!" "You're already dead!"

Sazen abruptly stopped laughing and, with a sidelong glance at the dumbfounded Genjūrō, “If you can’t even realize you’re beaten, there’s no helping you… I’ve opened my mind’s eye and foreseen how this duel will end.” “Listen—I just imagined myself brandishing Ken’unmaru and striking your torso.” “And there you go—you parried the strike with the back of your blade, and did a damn fine job of it.” “Yeah, you blocked it—blocked it good.” “But then, right away, I thought I’d draw and slash at your right shoulder—…Hahaha! Perfectly done, Genjū! I saw your blood spray out like a rainbow!” “I definitely saw it!”

Genjūrō made a strange face, like someone about to sneeze. …… “So you’re already dead.” “I cut you down!” “What’s standing there is your ghost.” “Ahahahaha! To know victory without even fighting.” “That’s the profound truth of unifying sword and Zen.”

Genjūrō managed a wry smile across his pallid cheeks. “You spout nonsense—” As he lowered his blade, Hanyū Sen’nosuke—who had been hovering uncertainly nearby—inserted himself between them. “This is no occasion for comrades to cross steel.” “Now then, sirs—withdraw for my sake, I implore you.” Sazen contorted his scarred mouth into a sneer. “The hell’s this timing?! Clueless bastard!”

And sheathing Ken’unmaru, he briskly entered Rian. As Genjūrō attempted to leave, Sen’nosuke clung to him and pulled him back inside. Before long, the bell rang and Osayo was summoned—the three in the hermitage would hold a reconciliation drinking party into the night… As was customary, Oto would likely be drawn out before long—

There was a shed next to the back gate.

In the shadow of piled firewood and kindling. Even during daylight hours, sunlight never reached this place—the rear of a hut where the perpetually damp, stagnant odor of wood festered year-round. Now, as the deceptive chill of approaching dusk veiled the air in faint darkness, leaves fell like rain from the overhanging chinquapin branches above.

A pair of a man and a woman.

Kushimaki Oto and Tsuzumi no Yohachi were squatting on the ground, engrossed in conversation. Oto fixed her burning eyes near Yohachi’s mouth and edged closer as if to pounce, uncaring of the hem of her workman’s coat being trampled in the dirt. “So what you’re sayin’… it ain’t a lie, huh?” Startled by the shrillness of her voice, Yohachi looked around. “Boss, if ya get all riled up like that, we can’t talk proper.” “Look—I thought ’bout keepin’ my trap shut, but ya looked so damn pitiful I figured I’d spill it all out. Ain’t no point lyin’ to ya like this.” “Nah, this ain’t just some half-baked guess o’ mine.” “Well, ya might say it’s near as good as Lord Tange hisself confessed—so there ain’t no wriggle room here.”

The color drained from Oto's face, and she began to tremble finely as if struck by a chill.

“Confession… you said—did Lord Tange say something?” “Well, now you’re puttin’ me on the spot,” Yohachi said, scratching his head with deliberate playfulness. “Ain’t exactly a confession—just somethin’ he said in his sleep, I tell ya. Well, after hearing that sleep-talkin’, when I secretly looked into it—”

Having broken off mid-sentence, Yohachi—who kept poking the ground with a stick fragment—resumed speaking at Oto’s urging. According to him.

That Sazen’s demeanor had been changing in some indefinable way of late was something Oto, precisely because she was emotionally invested, had noticed before anyone else—but for Yohachi, who came and went morning and night to attend closely to his daily needs, it could not help but stand out all the more. Sazen sighed. Sazen deep in thought. ――It was a Sazen never before seen. And when he paid subtle attention, he found that Sazen often talked in his sleep. The name Yayoi.

If it’s Yayoi we’re talking about, she must be a woman…! And then, when Yohachi secretly investigated around—sure enough! There was a daughter named Yayoi of Onozuka Tessai—the kendo instructor of Nezu Akebono Village who had formerly kept Ken’unmaru—and it was said that she had gone missing after losing both her father and the sword because of Sazen. “It’s precisely because Lord Tange is obsessed with this Yayoi that he makes you suffer so terribly over every little thing, Boss.” “Whenever I think about that, it just burns me up inside!”

Yohachi, chatting away in good spirits and casually glancing up at Oto without a care, involuntarily let out a “Doh—!” and landed on his rear as he cried out. “Ah! Boss! What’s with that face?!” If the god of love were peach-colored— The god of jealousy would be painted head to toe in the green of curses!

It was then that Yohachi beheld before his very eyes that green-faced female yaksha.

In the mist-laden dusk where twilight encroached. In the shadow of the storage shed, Tsuzumi no Yohachi gulped down his spit and gazed up with concern at Oto—staggering as she leaned against the ancient chinquapin trunk. When Oto heard that Tange Sazen loved a girl called Yayoi—So that's it!—the blood throughout her body froze instantaneously, her hollow eyes darting madly elsewhere... Her papery lips quivered with violent tremors.

Jealousy's heart, a demon's heart. That transformed into unseen flames, causing Kushimaki Oto’s fiercely beautiful figure to emerge starkly within the pale twilight. Yohachi unconsciously lowered his face and silently addressed the soil at his feet within his heart. This guy’s really done it now! I never thought she’d change her appearance this much, but damn it! I should’ve kept my mouth shut… Then, above [his] head, Oto’s voice sounded—lifeless, as if dreaming.

“She must be a real beauty, that Miss Yayoi or whatever she’s called.” “Huh?” Yohachi looked up, instantly feeling as though three pecks of cold water had been poured down his collar. “W-well, they say she’s called the Akebono Komachi, so that’s already—” He trailed off and fell silent. Seeing Oto’s mask-like face contort into a stiff smile, Yohachi shuddered. “That’s how it is, I suppose.” “An old woman like me wouldn’t even be allowed near her feet.” “Hahaha! I know!” “But Yonokō—you did me a real favor by telling me that, didn’t you?” “It’s not much, but here—a token of gratitude. Take it.”

No sooner had a white hand moved between the black collar than there was a *clink*! With a single clear *clink*, a gold coin danced before Yohachi’s eyes.

Simultaneously. Leaving Yohachi standing there dumbfounded, Oto began walking through the twilight garden, trampling the weeds that thrived there. Driven mad by jealousy, she staggered forward in uneven steps as if crossing the boundary between light and darkness. A soundless laugh escaped Oto's lips――.

I was not someone who would start longing for a man or falling in love at this point. Yet despite being drawn to something within Tange Sazen—this one-eyed, one-handed man whose appeal bewildered both bystanders and myself—not even a needle’s tip of understanding reached him. Worse still, his relentless reprimands over that minor incident from last night persisted precisely because he had Yayoi as his companion and viewed me and my genuine feelings as obstacles.

Even so— What kind of man was Lord Genjūrō! He had made a firm promise to mediate her relationship with Lord Tange in exchange for...! And yet she had gone along with bringing Oto out! Not only had he failed to convey her feelings, but that blunder had provoked Lord Sazen’s fierce wrath—yet that clueless Hanbē kept up his act until the bitter end! Kushimaki Oto—who had directed her all-knowing heart toward Tange Sazen, a man who held no one in his eyes—now understood: he had never regarded anyone from the very beginning.

If the girl's love was one of tears, Oto's love was one of fire—a jet-black charred remnant of a snake's hideous corpse left after being doused and extinguished.

Revenge! A woman like Kushimaki Oto—to have her man stolen by mere girls and endure people’s ridicule? Unthinkable. Entrusting both body and soul to a rakshasa’s fury, she slipped stealthily to the edge of the main house under night’s fully descended veil—as though harboring some scheme within her breast.

At the edge of the veranda was a storage room. On the shoji of that storage room, two large silhouettes loomed. Entwined, they swayed there… “Now, Oto, that’s how it is,” said old Osayo as she took Oto’s hand, her voice tending to rise. “Since His Lordship says he’ll keep you by his side for life, why don’t you put your heart into it and do your best to stay in his good graces?” “I’d never tell you anything that wouldn’t do you good, you know.” “As for Mr. Eizaburō—if he were to ask His Lordship to pass along the item at Lord Tange’s waist—I think he’d cut ties without a word of complaint.”

Oto shrank into the shadow of the lamp.

“Oh! Mother, you’re pathetic! To bring up that inhuman creature now—!” “That’s why—that’s why I’m not saying we need to decide anything right away. Anyway—just put on some makeup and come out to the drinking party at least. Please! Smile! For mercy’s sake, put on a happy face…! His Lordship’s been urgently asking ‘Where’s Oto?’ since earlier. Now really—what’s this at your age? You shouldn’t make your mother fuss over you like this. It’s only causing me trouble being caught in the middle—now hurry up and come along! Here—let me fix your hair.”

“I told you I don’t want to!”

As Oto desperately knocked away her mother’s hand, a quiet rustling of clothing came to a halt outside the shoji.

“Good evening…” “Good evening… Is Osayo here?” No sooner had a low voice whispered beyond the shoji than someone quietly slid it open from outside. Seeing this, Osayo caught her breath. Kushimaki Oto—her face a deep green, her features like a yaksha—stood there smiling like an apparition, Sazen’s whip marks showing as purple spots. Sliding into the room, she plonked down and glanced back diagonally at the veranda behind her. “Osayo—why are you so startled? His Lordship is calling for you.” “The sake’s gone cold, and he’s been howling like a madman since earlier.” “Go see to it then.”

“Yes… you see… it’s simply too much for one person alone… so I thought I’d ask Ms. Oto here for help.” “Moreover, it is His Lordship’s will… Now, Ms. Oto, come quietly to the detached room.” “Now, before there’s any punishment.” Seizing this opportunity, Osayo once again tried to hurriedly take Oto’s hand—but Oto, with the same poised hand, stopped her mid-motion and unleashed a chilling ferocity upon Osayo.

“What’s wrong with right here?!” “Oto has all sorts of matters His Lordship entrusted her with—you just scram over there already!” “But I was told to bring you—” “Persistent old hag, aren’t you? I’ll take her myself—isn’t that fine?” “Besides, the hotheads are all gathered.” “Even if they hurl another sake flask at ya—I won’t lift a finger! Move it!” “Hey! Vanish already!”

Osayo—having been frightened—darted down the corridor as if fleeing; once she waited for those footsteps to fade into the distance, Kushimaki Oyo suddenly let her eyes crinkle with amusement as she glanced toward Yayoi crouching in the room’s corner. It must have already passed the fifth hour.

In the depths of silence like a demonic abyss, Otose—unable to shield her thinly-clad shoulders from the night chill creeping through the darkness—stood transfixed under Oto’s motionless, piercing gaze. The voices from Rian calling for sake felt close enough to grasp… A masseur’s flute drifting along the moat’s reclaimed land rode the wind into audibility.

Edging forward on her knees, Oto thrust a hand to the side and peered into the shadow of the lamp. “Ms. Otose… you poor thing—you’ve gotten a bit thinner.” “Oh ho!” “No wonder.” “It’s like you’ve gathered all the world’s hardships onto yourself alone—I always say that to Yonokō and the likes, you know.” “Truly, the storage room girl is pitiable,” she said. Weighed down by days of hardship, Otose—already frail of heart—could not help but be moved to shed a hot tear whenever she heard even the hollow comforts of someone with no right to offer them… and more often than not, her cheek would grow damp.

There, Oto slid closer, “So, you resent me, don’t you? “Oh, no—you’re free to resent me all you like, but truth be told, I’m also one who’s been swindled by the master of this house. You could say we’re fellow passengers on the same sinking boat.” “This must be some kind of fate.” “Having thought this through, I can’t just leave you be—it’d be a disservice to the present moment. So from here on out, we’ll help each other out and such, see?” “So, as a token of our new acquaintance, I’ve gone and, heh heh heh, done my duty by the code.”

As Otose slightly lowered her head, Oto, “Look at this!” she said, pulling the tip of a straw sandal from her sleeve. “See? Even in my hometown of Edo, I’m living as a traveler.” “A wanted criminal even in Edo’s outskirts.” “Even if the officials spot me anytime, I could just say I came to visit the grave yesterday—hohohoho.” “I’ll show you by wearing these.” “Well, that’s fine for me, but you had yourself a cute man, didn’t you?” Otose turned beet red and doubled over like a shrimp.

“Men’s hearts and this season’s weather—the twin grand champions of unreliability, eh?” “Huh?” As Otose looked up dazedly, Oto’s eyes pierced her face with sharp intensity. “That girl they call Lady Yayoi—you know where she’s holed up now, don’t you?”

“Yes.” “I heard Lady Yayoi has been taken in by Lord Tsuchiya Tamon—a hatamoto in Sambanchō—” Having drawn out this response, Oto needed nothing more— “There! What a colossal misunderstanding—that’s why I laughed,” she said stone-faced. “This isn’t the time for tears.” “You never know what men might be scheming.” “Another’s business, true—but seeing you trampled so thoroughly riles my very nature… Now steel yourself! Listen—Lady Yayoi’s got herself a fine man and household now.”

“What?!” “Oh!” As Otose involuntarily recoiled, Oto placed a steadying hand on her from beside,

“You go in yourself and say everything you want to say. Go ahead.” “I’ll take you there myself right now!”

Two birds with one stone.

Kushimaki Oto—having let Otose escape to exact revenge on Suzukawa Genjūrō while discovering Yayoi’s whereabouts to retaliate against Tange Sazen—secretly harbored some scheme within her breast as she hastened the trembling Otose into the garden. Soon after, two disheveled embodiments of feminine jealousy emerged from the haunted mansion’s rear gate, glancing about before being engulfed by the lightless night. In their wake, wind stirred through the standing trees’ branches, and a song began swelling in the distance.

Though not quite a scene of cups and plates in disarray or a decadent feast of wine pools and meat forests, with sliced takuan pickles and kusaya dried fish as accompaniments, an untimely night revelry was in full swing—here in Rian’s sitting room were Sazen, Genjūrō, Sennosuke, and Yokichi.

A Scene of Red Demons, Blue Demons, and a Hellish Banquet.

“Hey! Genjū! Genji! The ‘Gen’ character—ah no—Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō! Let’s have a drink!” Tange Sazen pulled the greatsword Ken’unmaru close to his knee, his face flushed like crumbling jade, his lone eye burning unnaturally crimson. “L-Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō—you’re pushin’ your luck! But damn—you’ve got decent form. That seigan stance carries real heft.” “Not takin’ the bait—smart move.” “The Nagare school? Just flashy iai tricks.” “Didn’t I crush it splendidly? Ah ha ha!”

With an inscrutable smile, Suzukawa Genjūrō returned the cup to Sazen. "Unlike your murderous blade, mine is the sword of the righteous path." Then Sazen shook his empty sleeve and sneered.

“A sword that kills is a sword that saves—one who kills well also saves well… Ha ha ha! You’re a real piece of work, you are—my big brother. Well, think of me as your unruly younger brother—I ask for your long-term support.”

And so, both Sazen and Genjūrō sat there unfazed.

When Sazen propped his one-armed elbow and offered a perfunctory bow, Dobashi Sennosuke clapped his hands. “That’s right, that’s right! So to speak, it’s a brotherly quarrel. There’s no need to hold grudges.”

“Hmm.” “As Lord Dobashi has said.” Yokichi, who had slipped in unnoticed and taken his place at the lower seat, interjected while observing both men’s expressions. “However, from now on, if all of you would lend a hand so that Lord Tange may successfully secure the sword—well, there isn’t a day I don’t pray for that… If even a lowly underling like myself can be of any service, please do not hesitate to command me.”

“Hmm.” Sazen’s face—etched with sword scars—glowed with sake as he laughed heartily. “Well, never mind. The talk’s gotten too logical. But handling a couple of youngsters single-handedly ain’t no trouble for me—but there’s this one shaggy-bearded beggar with a topknot sticking around. That guy… even this Sazen had some trouble handling him.” He began to recount: One night some time ago, when I committed a crossroad killing in front of Lord Ōoka’s residence—Noticed by a memorable beggar ronin—a stalwart man—I brandished Ken'unmaru and struck as he turned his back, but—! Did I miss?! By the time I realized it, my opponent had already moved to dodge. In that instant, I felt a powerful grip on my elbow—then a shout rang out in the darkness near my shoulder.

“Fool!” Thud! The figure had already vanished into the midnight mist――.

“Even I broke a sweat that time.”

As Sazen concluded,

“There’s always a higher peak.” “Heh!” “But someone stronger than Lord Tange? Come now, Milord—that’d be one boastful tengu, wouldn’t it?” Sennosuke and Yokichi each continued their flattery, but Suzukawa Genjūrō sat alone, licking the rim of his cup as he waited for footsteps in the courtyard… For Oto, having refreshed herself, was surely about to appear with a radiant smile. The four shadows mingled, disrupting the reddish light. Cups flew. Chopsticks darted out. Tapped the bottom of the sake bottle—a long night of drinking. When the words ceased, the sound of the night deepening seemed to pierce the ears.

Tange Sazen lay down, clutching his sword. “What happened to Oto?” “Hmm.” “She came back a moment ago.” “Was I a bit too rough? Ha ha ha ha!” When Tange Sazen exhaled a rainbow-like, alcohol-laden breath, Osayo’s voice called out from the dirt-floored entrance.

“Milord, may I have a moment of your time...” Suzukawa Genjūrō rose to his feet. “They say Oto awaits.” “Quit dawdling and bring her here.” Hearing Sazen’s mocking words at his back, he began walking alongside Osayo toward the main house. In the night dew verging on frost, the thongs of his garden geta grew damp and heavy. The wind carried rain’s foreboding scent. “Milord.” “What?” “About Oto...” “Well?” “How goes it?” “Will she bend?”

“Yes.” “I tried every means of persuasion, but she says... ‘If Milord would consent to keep me by his side for life—’”

“I see.” “Good work.” “I’ll have you rewarded properly later.” “No, that’s not—but Milord—” “What?” “Well... About Oto...”

As Osayo opened the storehouse while speaking, Genjūrō peered inside with one eye and abruptly grabbed the old woman’s hand. “What! Look! Oto’s not here! Ah! You’ve been scheming with her! You let her escape, you bastard!”

The forged sword Ken'unmaru by Seki no Magoroku. The legend of the sword that weeps at night holds that if Ken'unmaru and the companion blade Konryūmaru are separated... without fail, during the hour of the Ox and Rat, wandering clouds will form and sob as they yearn for the dragon beneath the earth.

Now, in the depths of midnight when even the spirits of mountains, rivers, plants, and trees lay sleeping.

In this detached room of the Honjo Suzukawa estate. Tange Sazen heard that weeping voice once again. Demonic Sword Ken'unmaru—with what tears did it address Sazen?

A grotesquely pleading voice, like that of an old woman fervently arguing some case, reached the ears of the drunken Tange Sazen like the hum of insect wings. He wrenched open his single eye and glared at Ken'unmaru lying by his knee. The ceremonial longsword Ken'unmaru—its copper-alloy hilt glistening with hand grease beneath mottled cloud carvings, its scabbard tightly bound in flat silk thread—lay with its guard as a pillow upon the dampened torn tatami mat, its blade stretched out as the naked candle's crimson shadow quivered minutely. The sword-spirit's entreaty.

That sound reached Sazen’s ears with perfect clarity. “Blood, blood, blood… Let’s kill people… kill people…” And so it went— Tange Sazen grinned. But he felt something strange. Why? Up until now, Tange Sazen had often heard what seemed to be the sword’s weeping in the dead of night—always the choked sobs of a young woman—but tonight’s was unmistakably the tearful weeping of an old crone. When the mournful voice—groaning intermittently from the earth’s depths—reached Sazen’s drunken ears, he jolted upright, glanced furtively around, and seized Ken'unmaru.

Genjūrō had left with Osayo earlier and not returned. Amidst the cramped space littered with remnants of their feast, Sen’nosuke and Yoshi lay in drunken slumber. The late-night chill deepened. Then came that demonic voice again... from Ken'unmaru's blade? Tange Sazen drew Ken'unmaru an inch or two with his left hand. In one fluid motion—as if propelled upward—he rose and landed soundlessly on the hermitage's earthen floor, the great sword held low in reverse grip.

They were deeply asleep. There was nothing to see. Yet Tange Sazen swiftly searched his pocket, took out a black cloth, and deftly wrapped it around his face with one hand. Exiting the detached room without making a sound, he found the night wind blowing through the darkness pleasantly cool against his alcohol-warmed body. Having become a single long, slender shadow, Tange Sazen laid Ken'unmaru across his frame and slipped out of the estate along the hedgerow. Where to? To Edo’s crossroads to cut down passersby. For what purpose? Simply to kill.

However, though Tange Sazen had once earnestly believed that soon the dragon and cloud would align—that through the sword’s guidance he would meet Suwa Eizaburō—now he was a Sazen who cut solely to cut and killed purely to kill. When kept as a pair, nothing untoward occurs, but once separated from its counterpart, the cursed blade Ken'unmaru becomes insatiable in its thirst for human blood. Enchanted by the sword’s spirit, Tange Sazen wandered nightly through the darkness—not so much wielding Ken'unmaru as being wielded by it, not so much slaughtering people himself as serving as its vessel for crossroad killings. Yet now, even a glimpse of Ken'unmaru’s edge compelled him to kill; these days, only by bathing in the warm blood spray of nighttime killings could he barely muster enough spirit to snatch meager sleep by daylight.

Yet the claim that the sword wept was a delusion born of Sazen's corrupted mind—the young woman's voice heard until now had been Oto's from the storehouse, while tonight's old woman's weeping was that of Osayo, imprisoned there in Oto's place.

After Sazen left.

In the storehouse, Genjūrō was interrogating Osayo.

“I’ve suspected something was off for a while now, but this! Osayo! You’re the one who let Oto escape—no doubt about it. What exactly are you to that woman? Hmm? I’ve had my suspicions you’re close kin—out with it plainly!” Genjūrō—whose caged bird had flown—crouched before the prostrate, weeping Osayo and pressed his interrogation with the tenacity befitting his “Inspector Suzugen” moniker. “Her aunt? An acquaintance? What?” Osayo appeared to have exhausted her defenses and now stubbornly kept silent as Genjūrō,

“I’ll make your body sing soon enough—but until Oto returns to my hands, I won’t let you out of here.”

Dismissing her—perhaps having learned his lesson from before—he locked the plank door this time and left. In the room where her daughter had been until today, he imprisoned her mother—

Message wrapped around a stone It was a night where the moon seemed to linger somewhere behind the clouds, its silvery light tinged with gray drifting dreamily without falling.

Dawn couldn’t be far off now. The direction of Tamahime Shrine to their right must have been east. By now, a whitish dawn hue was stirring beyond the forest.

Along the deserted thoroughfare of Kozukahara, two shadows—a man and a woman—hurried side by side: Oto of Atariya and Gamō Taiken. They had crossed the Sanya Moat long before. Yet Taiken gave no indication of stopping, and before them stretched an interminable road—its dust swirling in their night-adapted vision as it narrowed into the distance, its far end dissolving into haze... leading toward Senju Village. Unaccustomed to walking, Oto clutched at her kimono's obstructive hem while quickening her lagging pace, catching up to Taiken with a sigh that seemed to mourn her own plight.

“Master, how much farther must we go? It’s awfully far, isn’t it? Isn’t this place already outside Edo?” Taiken’s smiling face turned toward her. “That’s right. It’s not Edo. But it’s still within Japan. Just follow along without worry. From the very start when we set out, I did emphasize it’d be a long haul. Here we are rushing through the night to meet a cute man, and you’re getting cold feet? Ha ha ha ha!”

“But—” Oto gasped. “But… what’s this now?” “But Master, I implore you—please be open with me. Um, is Lord Eizaburō truly residing at that place called Senju Take no Tsuka?” “You’ll know once we get there. It’s the quickest way.” “And… and he’s all by himself…?” “Well, that’ll become clear soon enough once we raid their sleeping quarters.” When Taiken said this teasingly, Oto hung her head pitifully and bit the edge of the hand towel covering her head with her front teeth.

Though he thought it a sin... since it would become a laughable tale later anyway, Taiken walked on ahead, careful to keep his face from showing a smile. The heart of Oto following behind was rent by jealousy, anxiety, and fleeting joy—a tangled skein of hemp thread.

Since being led by the hand by Kushimaki Oto and escaping from the Suzukawa estate in front of Honjo Hōonji Bridge. Around the time she thought they had come about a block away, Yayoi lost sight of Oto. For Oto—having learned from Yayoi the whereabouts of her love rival Yayoi herself, then leading Yayoi out to settle her grudge against Genjūrō—Yayoi had now become nothing but a burden; thus, she promptly abandoned her in the night-cloaked town. Yet Yayoi, having only heard that “Yayoi and Eizaburō have a house together—”, without even asking where in which town— Yayoi, who still hadn’t questioned Oto about it, found herself utterly lost alone on the late-night street.

That young lord, of all people—it couldn't be!

Though she had once tried to vehemently deny it—though the doubts had spread through her chest like summer cumulus clouds towering over open seas until they could no longer be seen as anything but fact—Oto now harbored a heart raging like storm-tossed waves with thoughts of confronting Eizaburō and Yayoi to curse them both to death... Wandering aimlessly until she finally came to her senses and found herself drawn to that Pine of Fate—the very place whose memory brought both joyous shame.

Oh, that's right! I must rely on Master Taiken! Then—three small stones swallowed by the black river's current; in the darkness, a white hand flickered at a sleeve cuff.

Plop! Plop plop! After peeling off the thatch and emerging from a boat, Gamō Taiken explained the circumstances of Oto’s subsequent capture, the location, and how Tange Sazen—the one-eyed, one-armed guest wielding Ken’unmaru—lurked there. When she urgently asked, “What about Lord Eizaburō?” Taiken replied calmly, “He’s in the countryside—let’s both go there ourselves,” and with that abruptly started walking. A beggar carrying a shabby flask and a young woman uncaring of her disheveled appearance… they made a strange sight along the road.

And. Oto, who sank into silence and surrendered herself to idle fantasies, inadvertently raised her eyes in anger and sorrow and glanced around the dim surroundings. “What?! “That’s the execution grounds,” came Taiken’s voice. “Oh! That’s terrifying…”

“Ha ha ha ha! Then let’s hurry.”

But Gamō Taiken came to an abrupt halt and assumed a stance as if to shield Oto behind him.

A row of cedar trees stood sandwiched between rice fields.

Ahead on the faintly white road, a black shadow clung to a cedar trunk. Then came Oto's unforgettable youthful voice reciting poetry, cutting through the half-darkness ahead. "At dusk, I return to behold the blood upon my blade." Could this be Konryūmaru's doing—the night-weeping short sword delivering its secret message? The plain-wrapped scabbard seemed to press against his waist, urging him onward—Suwa Eizaburō, who could no longer stay still, arrived at Kozukahara Execution Grounds along the Senju Highway with only a shadow as companion, intending to walk through Edo come dawn—

Something flickered across the corner of his eye. It had scarcely cleared the tree roots lining the right side when—Tat-tat! Sensing someone closing in from behind—about two paces away—Eizaburō whirled around.

At that moment. Chōsei. A blade came flying through the darkness, its metallic scent grazing his nostrils. "Here it comes!" Realizing this—if he jumped back, the sword's tip would strike him—Eizaburō thought, So be it! Instead he lunged forward. The blade struck true against his opponent's body as Eizaburō seized the masked swordsman whose identity remained unknown. That was his left arm—his only hand! The sword was Ken'unmaru... and the man was Tange Sazen, whom he had been desperately searching for until this very day. "This! Ken'unmaru!" Sazen rasped. "You!" Eizaburō snarled. "Konryūmaru! A fine place to meet you."

When it came to swordsmanship, Sazen—unyielding and unrestrained—grinned with genuine delight beneath his mask. He had come this way seeking opponents for his crossroad killings, guided solely by Ken'unmaru's pull—only to find that the very prey who had evaded his first strike was none other than Konryūmaru!

There was nothing more to say.

The seventh hour.

Over the distant rice fields, disrupting the faint light of the low-hanging crescent moon, two shadows burst forth— And to either side of the single path. The two combatants, having measured each other’s breathing in their clash, separated—the momentum of their live blades instantly creating a gap of four or five *ken* between them. There, Eizaburō cast off the woven hat he had been wearing by the roadside and quietly unsheathed his beloved sword Musashi Tarō Yasukuni. As if wringing a damp cloth, even through the hilt’s gentle grip he held—tonight was the night! Stirred by this fierce resolve—tonight was the night!—Eizaburō’s *Hira-Seigan* stance naturally solidified.

And then, behind him.

“Softly.”

A voice spoke. Strange! Who? Even as he tried to turn around, ahead of him Sazen’s single arm stretched straight out, steadily closing in… The tip of Ken'unmaru gleaming as a single point of white light. “How I’ve searched for you—heh heh heh, your luck has run out! “Here I come, you!”

With sweat beading on his pale, beautiful face, Eizaburō remained silent. Sazen, holding the large sword without the slightest waver—his body opened to the right as he caught the faint dawn breeze—scraped his right foot sharply behind him! The moment his left heel struck the ground ahead, he instantly lowered his back from his upright stance and dug his left toes into the earth once more, creeping closer. Then his right foot shifted slowly again... Closing in diagonally across the road toward Eizaburō, the one-eyed man laughed from behind his mask—How’s that, Greenhorn! —as if snarling, “Ain’t feelin’ so fine now, are ya!”—

Neither pushed nor pursued, Eizaburō retreated to the trunk of a pine tree on one side before he suddenly snapped to attention and tightened his focus. “Young Lord! “Lord Eizaburō—! Lady Oto has arrived!” “Please remain steadfast.” The voice came from nearby. Though Eizaburō had initially dismissed it as mere confusion of the heart and idle tricks of the ear—this very thought now galvanized his entire being, and in the next instant, Musashi Tarō Yasukuni, emitting a low hum, surged forth aimed at Sazen’s forehead.

But this was no ordinary man. It was Sazen. Far from parrying, with leaping sword shadows before his eyes, the moment Ken'unmaru's wielder drew the blade back toward his own torso, he leaned his upper body away to evade Eizaburō's sharp edge—then drove Ken'unmaru diagonally upward from below his right side, skewering Eizaburō up to the sword guard. It seemed as though... but... Pressed down by the hilt of Musashi Tarō Yasukuni that had sliced through empty air, the faint streak of blood along Ken'unmaru's tip came from residual force grazing the back of Eizaburō's hand. "You—!"

A grinding of teeth escaped from Sazen’s mouth. Now! Eizaburō threw his weight into a body press, mustering every ounce of strength to shove him away—but Sazen stood rooted to the earth like an immovable boulder, refusing to yield.

From both sides—crunch! They clashed together, coming to a standstill in a human-shaped stance—a sword guard deadlock. Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru drew near. As their tangled breath burned with flames of hostility, two faces peered from the shade of the trees.

The rain-laden night sky hung low.

The scattered dripping of night dew from the striped bamboo beneath the window sounded—whether it was just imagination—like the patter of rain.

In the mansion district, the early evening was strangely quieter than the dead of night. After a group of likely guards—their drunken country accents loud as they passed down the main street toward some disreputable place—the hushed night air settled once more over the area. A damp wind swept in, chillingly brushing against Yayoi’s bedside.

Yayoi coughed violently, as if biting the collar of her sleeping robe. Kōjimachi Sanbanchō—a room in Tsuchiya Tamon’s mansion. It was the room where Yayoi lay bedridden with lung disease. Lately repelling even her caretakers, Yayoi... her sickroom—unrecognizable as that of a young maiden—lay cold and disheveled, the evening meal tray brought in earlier by a maid still untouched. Lying in bed with her eyes closed, what Yayoi thought of once again was—that Lord Suwa Eizaburō.

Lord Eizaburō was on intimate terms with a woman from Asakusa’s Three Shrines area or some such place. From her uncle Tamon’s indirect words, Yayoi had drawn out and learned everything—yet rather than resigning herself as Tamon had hoped, the flames of her love and desire only burned fiercer. Compounded by her rapidly deteriorating condition, she now muttered Eizaburō’s name as if delirious from the fevers that consumed her morning and night—this was the pitiful sight of Yayoi, her body in the bloom of youth wasting away to a gaunt shadow under the twin scourges of love and illness.

Tamon’s anguish at witnessing this daily was profound, yet amidst this suffering, there was one thing that could be called a joy: the chest ailment that had once seemed so perilous had recently begun to stabilize, and with the right state of mind and proper care, her lung affliction was by no means incurable. Far from being incurable, if only one knew the proper treatment, she would recover rapidly—this strong belief had come to be held not just by Yayoi herself but by Tamon as well.

However, as her illness began to improve in this way, Yayoi’s feelings toward Eizaburō only grew more intense—and unlike the innocent love of a maiden’s heart she had felt at first, now that Oto stood between them, they were transforming into a maliciously tenacious jealousy that defied the ways of this world. A rivalry in love—though shocked by the blatant love and hatred within her own heart, Yayoi could not help but spend her days and nights invoking demon gods to curse that Oto…

Though her condition was gradually improving, she still could not leave her sickbed. Tonight as well, Yayoi lay in the lamplight of her Yuzen-patterned lamp, unable to sleep as she pressed her cheek to the pillow—chasing the figure of Eizaburō that rose unbidden before her eyes while simultaneously muttering resentful curses under her breath toward that unseen Oto… A damp night wind seeped in without a sound. The moment she did, Yayoi was seized by another fit of coughing, “Oh! “I forgot to close the window…”

While muttering to herself and deeming it unnecessary to call for help, she quietly threw off her nightclothes and got up. It was then. From the pitch-black darkness outside that seemed ready to burst into rain at any moment, something like a white pebble flew through the window frame and struck the tatami mats.

Yayoi tilted her head curiously and cautiously picked it up to find a pebble wrapped in a scrap of paper and twisted shut—a message-stone. "What could this be?" Before she could even wonder, Yayoi hurriedly opened it. A pebble rolled down at her feet, leaving in her hand a scrap of rolled paper. Yayoi naturally had no way of recognizing whose handwriting it was, but the crude, nail-scratched script slanted diagonally like a driving autumn shower across open fields. Pardon my rudeness, but I shall pen a brief message.

Seeing how Oto and Lord Eizaburō delight in keeping house together as man and wife, I cannot help but find you pitiable—and though I know this is needless meddling, I felt compelled to inform you. If you have any intention of coming to that place, I shall guide you there—please make haste. Sincerely. Startled, Yayoi staggered. Clutching the window, she peered out to see a woman she had never met before—though the message claimed acquaintance—standing beneath a tree in the garden, now hazy with light rain. The woman’s pale face tilted upward as she narrowed her umbrella and beckoned insistently.

As if possessed, Yayoi stood up and, with a ghastly expression, hastily tightened her obi—and in that instant, the rain suddenly shifted to a downpour, thick silver-glinting raindrops pounding the eaves. Household goods—if they could even call them that—consisted of bowls, plates, small dishes, two sets of chopsticks, and a modest assortment of cooking utensils. Truth be told, they would have preferred to make do with just one bowl and one set of chopsticks if possible. Even if they had nothing else, for Eizaburō and Oto, their back-alley tenement surpassed any lofty hall or jeweled tower.

The house being empty… might suggest a certain spaciousness, but it was in fact a convoluted nine-by-two-ken tenement division located in the depths of an alley in Kawara-cho near Asakusa Gate—and beyond that, the very back—of that alley’s labyrinthine depths. So narrow it defied the term—if you lay straight, your legs would protrude out the doorway—but… When Oto laughed at how cramped and dirty it was, Eizaburō would smile in turn. Even a new bamboo basket and miso strainer became the young couple’s love nest—a place of heartfelt joy and bashful tenderness.

For Oto and Eizaburō，it was all well and good that their wish had been granted to set up a home here—but whenever Oto thought her fleeing might have cast suspicion upon her mother，causing her to suffer abuse at Lord Genjūrō’s Honjo estate，she could not rest easy even now．At the same time，what struck her as strange upon reflection was the behavior and words of Ms．Oto—the woman who had helped her escape． Oto，who had rushed out in a frenzy upon hearing about Lord Eizaburō and Lady Yayoi…，was hurrying toward Senju with Taiken when—

That dawn at Kozukahara, Sazen and Eizaburō crossed blades. Though equipped with both aspects of swordsmanship—the forty-sixty ratio Gamō Taiken had once described—Eizaburō, having not faced mortal combat to Sazen's degree, found himself forced into defensive stances. Fresh blood from the wound splitting his hand showed no sign of stopping, streaming down his lower body to soak relentlessly into the roadway's earth. Even so, from the shadows came Taiken's spirited cry: "Hyaah!" "Yah!" Spurred unconsciously by Taiken's battle cries, Eizaburō had fiercely exchanged five or six blows when— Sazen, hearing what seemed like reinforcement voices from nowhere—perhaps deeming prolonged combat troublesome—vowed future reunion with asura-like ferocity before dashing toward Edo, chased by the slanting moonlight.

Oto and Eizaburō joined hands beneath the pale crimson sky at daybreak after so long apart. As Oto tore a hand towel to dress his wound while asking questions, it became clear—just as Taiken had said—that Eizaburō had indeed been hiding at his foster brother Magotarō’s place in Senju Take no Tsuka until now. The doubts whispered into her by Oto vanished completely without a trace—but rather than puzzling over why such lies had been told, she could only blush as she joyfully discussed with Eizaburō their plans to set up house together immediately.

“I’d only be in the way if I stayed any longer.” “If I linger around here any longer, I’ll only be resented.” “Let’s scram, scram—before the dogs eat me!” After Gamō Taiken left with such flair, how long had the two of them been sitting on the steps of Tamahime Shrine talking like that—by the time they noticed, the sun had already risen at an angle, and blue cargo carts—their color deepened by morning dew—were following one after another along Senju Highway to Edo’s markets, accompanied by a refreshing scent.

Not long after that. This was the house the three of them had searched for and rented due to its proximity to the Pine of Fate where Taiken resided.

Even in their wanting life, with the sound of morning dusting every dawn and Oto’s youthful wifely demeanor, Gamō Taiken would visit daily—and without fail after his departures, a few small coins would always fall near the entryway. It must have been that he was discreetly using the gold coins given by Lord Ōoka. Eizaburō humbly accepted and used them, yet despite always meeting face to face, neither he nor Taiken ever said a word about it. Oto was so happy that tears spilled over, wondering why men’s interactions managed to be so refreshingly straightforward.

Through Oto’s account. It was discovered that Tange Sazen was hiding at Hatamoto Suzukawa Genjūrō’s detached cottage in front of Honjo Hoonji Temple，where his mother Osayo was employed.

And so... Taiken and Eizaburō had been secretly discussing their plans these past two or three days—but thinking it would only worry Oto unnecessarily if told, Eizaburō, who had earlier casually gone out to the bathhouse in the rain, was in truth at this very moment storming Suzukawa's mansion in Honjo alongside Taiken! Unaware of this truth, Oto waited eagerly for Eizaburō—who carried a damp hand towel—and sought to silently serve him despite their poverty, hoping to bring him joy as she anxiously checked the sake flask she had begun warming when—

Suddenly, a flash of vivid color flickered at the latticework—and in the next instant, a young woman of highborn princess-like demeanor stood on the three-shaku earthen floor, her hair disheveled by the rain that blew in with her.

Bang! The first move was a kick against the rain shutters from outside. Eizaburō and Taiken simultaneously split left and right, concealing themselves on either side of the door. The man inside the hermitage—unaware of their presence—seemed to scramble up in frenzy before opening the door with an annoyed look: “Tch!” “Who’s there? The one who just hit the door?” “If you’ve got business—” Before he could finish speaking—in that instant—Musashirō Takeru leaped back from its scabbard; a silver flash passed—Gwah! With a soul-rending death scream as his final utterance, the man—slashed diagonally upward from below his torso—collapsed in a motion resembling a deep bow before tumbling through the door gap to writhe across rain-soaked garden soil, clawing at the earth.

Living blood splat! Like sparks, it scattered hotly onto Eizaburō’s feet. But! Judging by how easily they fell to the blade, the one cut down was not Sazen. Indeed, the man was clutching the stepping stones with both arms. If that was the case— There was no doubt their target Tange Sazen still lay hidden within the cottage—yet not a single sound stirred, whether he slept or remained awake... Taiken and Eizaburō involuntarily held their breath.

The night's freezing rain steadily poured down, melting the pitch-black darkness. The leaves of the trees glowed white, unable to bear the weight of the accumulated rainwater; when they suddenly tilted, the sound of droplets plopping onto the grass below could be heard. The tips of the pine needles each bore a droplet of water, catching the faint light from the door and shining conspicuously even to night-adjusted eyes.

The sorrowful rain of third watch seeped into the bone. The two men who had raided the cottage at Honjo Bakemono Yashiki hid on either side of an open wooden door, listening intently for movement within. Having learned through Oto that Tange Sazen—wielder of Ken'unmaru—lurked here, Suwa Eizaburō and Gamō Taiken had launched this ambush without her knowledge; en route, Taiken wrenched a roadside stake free as practice prey, then whispered instructions to Eizaburō to finalize their strategy.

“You focus on Tange.” “According to Ms. Oto, there’s always four or five to ten ruffians holed up in that mansion—but no matter how many come interferin’, I’ll handle ’em all.” Steeled by Taiken’s dependable words—this time he absolutely had to seize Ken’unmaru, the wailing counterpart—Eizaburō revealed his fierce resolve in the set of his brow. Secretly caressing Musashirō, he slipped into Suzukawa’s estate like a shadow-thief.

Midnight. The darkness was profound, and the rain relentless. It was a night ripe for attacking a sleeping target. Having stealthily approached the detached room with hushed warnings, Taiken and Eizaburō—the latter being the one who opened the door—cut down an opponent in a surprise strike, though it appeared to be merely some nameless low-ranking thug from a petty gambling den. Inside, they could not discern how many rōnin or outcasts—Sazen chief among them—might be sleeping haphazardly, so even these two dared not recklessly charge in.

The noise hadn't reached Genjūrō and the others in the main house, but those in the detached quarters were undoubtedly on high alert, holding their breath. Yet to Eizaburō and Taiken pressed close outside, only night's footsteps echoed beneath the rain's dripping... No matter how long they waited, not a single reaction came. Just as they thought this—

Inside the rain shutters came a rustle! There was a sense of someone moving within—and in the same instant, they abruptly blew out the pillow lantern. "There’s no end unless I charge in!" Eizaburō, fired up with resolve, entrusted Taiken to guard his rear and slipped into the door gap just in time! The ice-cold blade waiting inside sliced through the air toward his shoulder! In that split second, Musashirō Takeru’s large foreign-iron tsuba clanged! Meeting steel from below with an upward clash, the metallic stench of violent impact summoned a wisp of battle aura that stung his nostrils— Instantly! Eizaburō’s fully extended one-handed strike—what Shinpen Musō-ryū practitioners call the Wish-Fulfilling Sword Edge—bloomed splendidly into blood flowers as yet another man clutched his groin mid-leap and crashed down! Unable to endure, he collapsed onto the veranda’s edge.

Kicking away the wounded man who came lunging at him, he took a step onto the threshold—Eizaburō, his blood-dripping blade held in blue-eyed glare through the darkness...summoned a voiceless battle cry from the depths of his belly. Motionless silence.

Suddenly, to Eizaburō’s eyes—now adapted to the darkness—a figure sitting upright at the room’s center with a sword drawn and ready began to materialize hazily. “Konryūmaru...” “To come in this rain... You’ve got guts!” “My apologies for the other night—” Sazen’s low, lingering voice—and at the same moment, from the direction of the main house came the sound of a door being thrown open, followed by the clamor of Suzukawa Genjūrō’s shouting. “What’s this?!” “Tange! What’s happened?!” Ōmura Kaku—creator of the true fifteen-layer kabutogane method who established a school in new sword forging.

Kabutofuse—colloquially called marugitae—was said to produce blades bearing a bluish tint that were fiercely sharp. Originally developed by Fujiwara Genjisuke Sanemasa of Kamakura but never transmitted beyond his own practice, Ōmura Kaku had perfected this method, declaring to the world that tachi were dead blades while kabutofuse were living blades—yet in his entire lifetime he forged scarcely a hundred swords. Musashirō Yasunari was a disciple of this Ōmura Kaku. Suwa Eizaburō, who now held the single blade forged by Musashirō Takeru perfectly in the *seigan* stance, focused his eyes within the cottage submerged in darkness, prepared for Ken’unmaru that was sure to come charging from afar.

The main house in the separate building was in an uproar, with Suzukawa Genjūrō, Tsuchi Shinnosuke, Tsuzumi no Yoshi, and fourteen or fifteen others shouting back and forth. If they were to spill into the garden now, Taiken alone would be no match for the chaotic blades in the darkness—but just as Eizaburō’s focus shifted outward—at the rear entrance! “Lord Eizaburō! I’ll handle things here.” “Go on and finish off Tange without hesitation!”

At Taiken’s resolute voice, Eizaburō decisively severed his lingering apprehensions—“Finish him!” The one who grinned sharply in the darkness, baring his teeth at these words, was Tange Sazen—still sitting with his knees neatly together. “So you’ve come raiding here—looks like your time’s finally come.” Sazen the Sword Demon—the tsuba clanged sharply, likely from the force concentrated in his one-handed grip on Ken’unmaru’s hilt. At the same time, “Well then, shall we get down to it?!”

Bellowing, purple lightning arced low toward Eizaburō's knee. Eizaburō leaped back—Ken'unmaru, deflected sideways, *cracked*! As it shattered the shoji frame with a splintering crash, he charged toward Sazen's head with Nagamitsu trailing through the air. Yet what split open was merely a futon mattress and tatami mat section. In that instant, Sazen—rebounding mid-air—kicked over the tobacco tray while sliding up the rear wall. There in billowing ash-clouds, his figure raising Ken'unmaru with his left arm stood frozen like a wrathful statue.

“You bastard!” “Now, I’ll send that skinny neck flying!” Tange Sazen’s roared words vanished into the sword’s realm. Eizaburō, having closed in without giving him a moment to breathe, executed a brilliant footwork dance—darting up, down, left, and right! He was closing in on him. Only through death by the sword does one live by the sword. For Eizaburō, who had already transcended life and death, neither Sazen nor Sazen’s sword differed from his usual training partners who crossed bamboo swords at the dojo. Having cast aside all concern for himself to seize an opening, he left his defensive stance wide open and briskly closed in—like someone splitting firewood—then lunged! Struck. A fearsome sword strike that ignored the laws yet naturally conformed to them.

This seemed to chill the resolve of Sazen—who ordinarily tended to treat swordsmanship as mere play—and even he now adopted a slightly defensive stance, intently eyeing the rain-lashed doorway as if waiting for the moment to leap into the garden and join forces with Genjūrō. But Eizaburō, having already detected this intent, fiercely crossed blades while using his body to block the outdoor path—a maneuver that made Sazen involuntarily panic and seethe.

“H-hey! Quit your damn yappin’!” Sazen suddenly shifted to offense, deflecting Eizaburō’s two-handed thrust in the blink of an eye—then Ken’unmaru’s cold gleam traced a rainbow through the air as it descended upon Eizaburō. Musashirō Takeru parried, the grating of iron against iron transmitting through to make Eizaburō’s hand on the hilt faintly numb. The moment he stepped back a step, he inadvertently tripped over the corpse by the threshold and fell on his back.

Seeing this, Sazen—with a gut-piercing battle cry—immediately closed in to deliver the second strike... Though enveloped in darkness, the two could see each other. The sword energy scattering sparks reflected in their mind's eye made it seem like daylight. Sazen slashed down.

Eizaburō parried upward. Between them! Agh! Was the piercing scream Sazen's, or Eizaburō's?

Around the time when Suzukawa’s monster mansion in Honjo was submerged beneath sword shadows, transforming into a blood-soaked battlefield where gleaming blades clashed in the cold rain.

There in the depths of an alley in Kawaramachi, at Suwa Eizaburō’s empty home, an equally ferocious struggle had begun. Men fight with swords and strength.

But the weapons wielded in women’s battles were twisted smiles, glistening tears, words sheathed in needles… and two searing emotions that coursed like a river of fire beneath the surface. Mutual curses—a pair of white serpents coiled in hatred. There they sat now—in what passed for Eizaburō’s parlor, though it was merely a single room in his wretched dwelling—facing each other across a chipped mortar filled with ashes that served as their hearth.

Oto and Yayoi. They stared at each other in silence—neither willing to yield, as though the first to lower their eyes would be declared the loser—a battle of gazes. However, Oto—having managed a water teahouse—was more worldly than Yayoi. Oto, as she had done many times since earlier, bowed her head politely, and while letting a measured smile bloom, repeated the same words—still laced with ample hostility. “Well then, you must be Lady Yayoi.” “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” “I have often heard about you from my husband… but I am Oto, Eizaburō’s wife—a humble woman indeed.” “Please treat me kindly… Hohohoho. My husband has just gone to take a bath, but since it’s already the time when the bathwater’s been drained, I believe he should be back soon—though he may have gone somewhere else instead.” “Oh, do take your time.”

For Oto, emphasizing the phrase “Eizaburō’s wife” as she spoke required every ounce of her desperate struggle. She refused to be mocked as some former teahouse girl. If she failed to offer proper greetings, the disgrace would fall not upon herself—but upon Lord Eizaburō’s honor. In Oto’s tautly strung heart—above all else—the triumphant conviction that *she* now wholly possessed Eizaburō’s body and soul enabled her to deliver such fluent introductory words at their first encounter; yet afterward,

“It seems my husband has been troubled by you in various ways...” Oto had just begun to speak when suddenly, an indescribable cloud of jealousy seethed and surged up within her, and she felt her vision darken abruptly.

However, Yayoi remained silent. Since entering this house, she had not once taken her eyes off Oto’s face—let alone bowing her head—and sat without uttering a single word. To even speak felt defiling! Yayoi, who was sternly reprimanding herself yet upon realizing this was Eizaburō’s dwelling, felt the corners of her eyes grow hot—every meager household item around her seeming to stir nostalgic longing as though they were her own possessions long stored away and forgotten.

But this woman before her? She was proclaiming herself as Lord Eizaburō’s wife. Ah… So this was the notorious Oto they called Atariya. But to claim herself his wife—absurd! No! No! A wife—she could never be his wife! Absolutely not! Yayoi screamed internally while staring fixedly at Oto—what had driven her to come rushing through this rain to such a place? As she lost grasp of her own motive and saw her position appear utterly wretched before her eyes, no sooner had she felt her raging heart abruptly snap than an involuntary sob escaped through teeth clenched against tears that clouded her vision.

Yayoi, who had been lured out of Tsuchiya Tamon’s residence by a message-wrapped stone, was led through the rain-muddied road to this place by Kushimaki Oto, who had been waiting. “Oh dear! How pitiful you are,” Oto said. “I truly understand your pain.” Having said this—though she had no personal connection—Oto proceeded to explain in a fragmented manner, as if making excuses, how she had come to guide Yayoi to Eizaburō’s hideout without being asked, empathizing with the tragically unrequited love as though it were her own. And,

“You see, young lady, I too have a lord who leaves me feeling utterly wretched, no matter how deeply I care for him.” While recalling Sazen—This girl! This girl! This girl!—Oto glanced sideways in exasperation. Yayoi—driven by love and jealousy—paid no heed to who her companion might be, her disheveled hair thoroughly drenched by the driving rain as she pressed her lips tightly together.

Braving the rain that had begun at dusk, the usual gambling crowd gathered at Suzukawa’s mansion that night, their lively voices clashing over wagers until late into the evening. But their revelry eventually dissolved, and the regulars—disreputable hatamoto and fallen low-ranking samurai who had convened there—lay down side by side to sleep in the main house. Just as they drifted into slumber, a raid erupted like a sudden storm overturning their rest. That night, over twenty comrades had taken shelter at Suzukawa’s mansion, with two of them sleeping alongside Sazen in the detached cottage. These men became Musashi Tarō’s victims nearly simultaneous with Eizaburō’s frontal assault—front and back attacks timed as one. When Genjūrō, Sennosuke, Yokichi, and fourteen others from the main house heard the commotion and slid open the rain shutters to peer outside, the midnight downpour shrouded the entire garden. Through the thicket came an ominous aura drifting from the direction of the cottage.

Even as they called out in unison, there was no response from Sazen. Not only that, but the light in the detached cottage—which until moments ago had been illuminating a round window in the rain-drenched darkness—was now gone. Emergency!

Simultaneously sensing this, Suzukawa Genjūrō immediately issued commands. The group hitched up the hems of their nightclothes, thrust their swords into their sashes, and stealthily descended into the garden. In the rain, they split into several groups and advanced toward the cottage. The *squelch squelch squelch* of those footsteps summoned a chill at their collars, while the surrounding blackness hung heavy with the pouring rain. Gamō Taiken, who had been keeping watch on the large group of figures from the moment they left the main house, first gave Eizaburō a brief word of encouragement, then immediately dashed low to the ground and hid in the shadow of a stone lantern along the path from the main house to await the vanguard.

Though it was a garden, it lived up to its name as a monster mansion—a stretch of overgrown thickets. Dohu Sennosuke, who had taken the lead, parted the wet grass while shielding his drawn sword from the rain, "We came out here, but all that racket for just a damn mouse... This rain won't let up."

He was muttering to himself as he approached when— Taiken’s log-like club suddenly darted out sideways, “Gah! “He’s here!” Sennosuke’s body, stunned and panicked, was flung into the grass, and what met the eyes of those following behind was the figure of a grotesque beggar now blocking their path in his place. And in that hand, he brandished the bare blade he had swiftly seized from Sennosuke.

“Hmph! This is him!” “Now! All at once—slash him to pieces!” With Genjūrō at their head exchanging loud shouts, a formation of murderous blades glinting with raindrops surrounded Taiken in a circle. Yet Gamō Taiken—bold and unflinching—trusted deeply in his swordsmanship. Kicking off the ground, he positioned himself behind a stone lantern as a makeshift shield, adopting Jigen-ryū’s Chūseigan stance—a composed demeanor as if observing transformations within stillness. This Jigen-ryū is said to have originated when its founder, after mastering the exquisite swordsmanship of Setoguchi Bizen-no-kami Seimyō—a swordsmith of the Satsuma Shimazu clan—encountered Jigenbō at Iō no Taki waterfall and attained enlightenment in the school’s principles.

Master Taiken had secretly prided himself on being unrivaled in all the land when it came to the Jigen-ryū school. Now, pressed by that ferocity and sword stance, seeing the encircling group falter slightly, "My apologies!" "This humble one shall face you!" Genjūrō leaped out—the flying draw of Saruigawa Iaijutsu slicing through the rain—swish! The moment his blade tore through the downpour—! Without hesitation, Master Taiken sprang aside. His dagger—having shattered part of the encircling formation—instantly gleamed crimson, forcing him to sacrifice one of those nearby in a blood offering.

A groan of agony rose as they clawed at the roots of weeds. Along with this, four or five gleaming blades pressed in on Taiken—but in the rainy darkness, a jet-black splatter shot through the air, and already one or two men knelt on the ground clinging to their swords or clutched their shoulders, unable to rise.

Taiken rushed in. In the wake of his charge, the cries of the wounded intermingled with death throes in chaotic disarray. Thus, as Taiken rampaged through the entire garden, he suddenly clashed with Genjūrō—the very man he had been seeking! The moment their blades met in a single exchange, from within the detached cottage that had constantly weighed on his mind came a bloodcurdling scream—unmistakably of slayer and slain—piercing clearly through the night.

And soon, a single black shadow emerged—adorned with fresh blood and holding a sword that had lost its light. A tumbling figure could be seen emerging from the cottage. That hand holding the sword! Was it the right arm or the left?

If it was the right arm, then Eizaburō; if the left arm, then Sazen... At that very moment, Taiken's gaze was involuntarily drawn—!

“Hah!” With an explosive battle cry, Genjūrō’s longsword whipped up a whirlwind and came crashing down upon Taiken.

Kushimaki Oto harbored a wicked scheme in her heart. The girl named Yayoi—the one her beloved Sazen had feelings for—also desperately longed for Sazen's mortal enemy Suwa Eizaburō. Upon learning that Yayoi and Oto—whom she had helped escape from Genjūrō's place the previous night—were fierce rivals in love, Oto plotted to provoke Yayoi here and there redirect her heart single-mindedly toward Eizaburō while giving Sazen a rude awakening. For this purpose came her idea of using a message-wrapped stone.

Love and jealousy were two sides of the same heart. They could never be parted. Moreover, this was Yayoi—the very one who had long secretly loosed arrows of bitter hatred and ceaselessly cursed the woman called Oto. She could never have realized she was being manipulated as Oto's puppet. Without hesitation, she had been drawn in by the rope Oto cast, arriving at this house in Kawaramachi under a shared umbrella with a wolf in disguise—all in a dreamlike trance... Now having witnessed Oto and Eizaburō's life firsthand—facing this hateful woman directly—Yayoi heard phrases like "my master Eizaburō" from those very lips. A samurai-raised woman of single-minded devotion by nature, her strength born of worldly ignorance transformed instantly into vulnerability here. Futility and wretchedness surged through her chest until Yayoi could do nothing but weep.

Yayoi cried. She wept bitterly. Yet she neither collapsed forward nor covered her tearful face with hands or sleeves. With both hands stacked on her knees and sitting solemnly upright while facing Oto, Yayoi soaked her entire face in tears and sobbed. When those sobs reached the ears of Kushimaki Oto—who stood eavesdropping in the alley outside with her umbrella closed—she furrowed her slender brows into an inverted V and clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Tch!” “What is this? So undisciplined!” “There’s no one who’d just sit there sniveling in front of the woman who stole her man.” “Are all young ladies this weak-willed? How exasperating!” “I’m really getting sick of this.”

As she muttered this and pressed her ear to the door once more, Yayoi’s weeping grew gradually louder, surpassing even the sound of the rain. Indeed, Yayoi did not even attempt to turn her face away from the torn lantern, showing her streaming tears directly to Oto as she sobbed—*Hah!* *Hah!* Yayoi wept with coughing sobs, but Oto, at first finding this strange, could only stare in astonishment. Her beautifully gaunt white face crumpled convulsively inward, her mouth twisted, her nostrils flared, and from eyes gathered with countless wrinkles, tears were forced out—glistening droplets falling one after another, soaking the backs of her hands with prominent blue veins and the yuzen-patterned kimono wrapped around her knees.

Yayoi raised her face straight—now devoid of shame, reputation, or pride—her clenched teeth no longer able to hold back her sobs as she let out a wailing cry of anguish—her body remained completely still. Yet the reason Yayoi’s shadow loomed large and blurred upon the bone-exposed wall, her shoulder area appearing to tremble minutely, was not solely due to the bare lamp wick’s insufficient oil…… Yayoi, even as she remained seated, threw herself into a river of tears, swept along by the roaring surge of her own emotions—seeming to savor some sweet satisfaction there.

Oto stared fixedly at Yayoi’s tears, astonished in some corner of her mind—is this how a samurai’s daughter weeps, so unreservedly?—but a woman’s tears are understood only by another woman. Before long, when thoughts of Eizaburō—who was not present here—flashed through her mind and she felt Yayoi’s heart pounding against her own emotions by comparison, Oto too found the corners of her eyes growing moist before she knew it. It was a fragile moment of mutual understanding—through their shared connection to a single man, their hearts seemed poised to blend into one. But for them to become harmonious before then, their two souls must still clash and strike against each other, shedding their jagged edges... Even if doing so ignites a fire that consumes both themselves and others.

It was a long silence. At that moment, noticing that something resembling words had become mixed within Yayoi’s crying voice, Oto— “Huh? What is it—?” She had meant to ask in return, but even she was shocked—what emerged from Oto’s mouth was nothing but a sob.

Oto, who had been listening outside in anticipation that a physical fight would break out at any moment,

“Well, well!” “Things’ve gone all damp and dreary, ain’t they?” “This ain’t no damn funeral… what’s the big idea!” “Now they’re both bawlin’ their eyes out!” In vexed anger over her miscalculation, she thumped her black collar and struck a dramatic pose to empty air.

At that very moment, at Suzukawa’s mansion in Honjo— Tripping over the corpse cooling in the darkness, Eizaburō fell—and Sazen slashed down at that spot…

But, at that moment! Musashitarō, supporting from below, met blade resistance; the one who let out a gut-wrenching scream was the sword fiend Tange Sazen. Sazen, who had done nothing but cut others down and hadn’t been cut himself in recent times, felt the taste of iron upon his body—a sensation he had long forgotten—and with a beast-like howl, he stomped his foot and lurched toward the edge; but even without reexamining it, the wound had only bitten into his right knee without reaching the bone. Once he determined it wasn’t serious, he fiercely grabbed Ken’unmaru again.

One-eyed and one-armed—a monster with deep sword scars carved into his face... Add a limp to that, and I'll be downright hopeless! The moment this thought struck him, that cunning rogue—contrary to the urgency of the situation—clenched his teeth as if enduring the pain... and laughed. "Now yourself! "I'll repay this debt right now!" ………

In place of an answer, Eizaburō sprang up and immediately leaped to press his pursuit. While parrying left and right, Sazen stepped back toward the doorway, one deliberate step at a time. Precisely because of the confined hermitage interior, even Tange Sazen—with his eight-turns-four-directions swordsmanship—could not wield his blade freely, and even Suwa Eizaburō—accustomed to fighting beneath dojo roofs—could only manage an even match. But once unleashed into open terrain, it was well known: relying on geographical advantages, gathering reinforcements, the fugitive swordsman’s demonic prowess would multiply tenfold. Especially outdoors, Taiken was struggling against numerous opponents. If he were to let Tange Sazen escape there and go out himself, it was clear as day that he and Gamō Taiken would fall into perilous circumstances together.

"I must keep him pinned inside—" As Eizaburō circled right to block the escape route, Sazen's left hand twitched! The instant it moved—already leaping through Ken'unmaru's slicing arc—Eizaburō tried to recoil and create distance. But just then came footsteps in the dirt-floored entryway as Sazen's six-foot-tall frame slid smoothly through the doorway. It was Taiken who saw where he emerged. Taiken granted but a fleeting glance... yet that momentary lapse inadvertently gave Genjūrō an opening—Suzukawa Genjūrō charged through mud-spattering strides and swung his blade down through the rain-streamed darkness, its edge trailing luminescent droplets—

The swing was all well and good. The outstretched branch of a standing tree was struck, and the shattered bark and leaves scattered the dew in a chaotic burst—clattering down! Perceiving the scattering debris with swift intuition, Taiken lowered his stance and retreated backward—so that Genjūrō came within a hair's breadth of catching his own foot on his beloved blade's tip. Sword flashes glinted in the rain; they trampled the grass and dashed wildly in all directions. At its peak.

Were it not for this, it would be an evening of early winter’s fine rain.

It was a quiet night well-suited for sipping wine and humming verses, for discussing refined poetry... Now, within this monster mansion, under a sky dark with lowering clouds, halberds churned in turbulent swarms as the relentless rain showed no sign of ceasing. The sound of rain striking bloodied grass blades.

The groans of the slain, mingled with mud, rang out intermittently across the battlefield. Wet blades clashed and crossed through the rain, their glints resembling an untimely swarm of dueling fireflies. Taiken dodged Genjūrō’s razor-edged strike. Simultaneously from behind—whoosh!—an icy sword gust grazed his neck. Had Taiken’s reflexive spin been quicker? Or had Sazen—who’d burst from the detached room upon spotting him, flipping Ken’unmaru for a rear strike—been slower? Regardless, Sazen’s slash severed only rain streaks staining the darkness. Meanwhile, Master Taiken—wielding Dohō Sensuke’s supreme-grade blade seized earlier—whirled it wheel-like to slice unexpectedly at Genjūrō behind him. Then, against the crescent-shaped blades now converging, he settled once more into stillness: Fūha school’s Chūseigan stance—mind emptied, unwavering.

“You damn beggar!” “I’ll give you a taste!” It was Sazen’s voice, uttered with genuine admiration. Konryūmaru raced out of the room in pursuit of Ken’unmaru. When Eizaburō peered through the rain-swept darkness to survey the garden, he saw clusters of sword glows near a small grassy clearing—apparently surrounding Taiken. “Damn you all!” “If it’s come to this, I’ll make every one of you taste Musashitarō’s steel!” The instant Eizaburō charged headlong toward his foes— A black shadow surged from the void of darkness to intercept his advance!

“A bout, if you please!” He stood blocking the way, his voice quiet. Coldly drenching Edo’s towns, the rain intensified as night deepened… From the ditch where gathered runoff had swelled the water’s flow, a muddy stench abruptly struck Oto’s nostrils. The eaves on both sides pressed together, forming an alley so deep it seemed roofed beneath. Droplets fell from the eaves at precise intervals, striking the tilted umbrella with a startlingly loud, muffled sound.

A continuous row of tenements lay quiet in the rain. Inside the house, Oto and Yayoi, their mutual tears drawing forth fresh tears, seemed to be going on and on about something. Tange Sazen had stoked the flames of Yayoi’s longing for Eizaburō, aiming to twist their romantic entanglements into chaos—and now Oto, this meddlesome jealous demon of a woman who’d inserted herself unasked, had gone to the trouble of dragging her romantic rival all the way from the backstreets of Kōjimachi through this rain. Yet despite standing outside straining to listen, she saw no sign of things heating up—let alone any physical altercation.

Even just showing Yayoi Eizaburō’s intimate living quarters had allowed Oto to torment her considerably—but unless Yayoi suffered far greater humiliation, Oto knew her fury would never subside. However, no matter how long she waited, the two women did nothing but weep together... With this, Kushimaki Oto’s initial scheme had completely backfired. Now unable to retreat, she continued pressing her ear against the lattice gap—

A black shadow had been lurking near the alley entrance like a dog since earlier. It had crouched on a ditch board a little further ahead until now, but perhaps finally confirming Oto's presence, it suddenly retreated backward as if to hide and quietly slipped away into the street... but Oto, her attention fixed entirely on the house's interior, failed to notice.

Inside that house.

Oto and Yayoi shared tears between women over love's shared bitterness.

Why had Lady Yayoi tracked down our hideout—and what had driven her to come barging in so suddenly on this rain-drenched late night? This had been the first thought to come to Oto’s mind—but from the moment they had sat down until now, as she watched Yayoi weep silently without a word, she found herself inexplicably unable to hold back her own tears. After a single drop fell, all the words they should have said vanished entirely, leaving both women to cry and cry, weeping without end, as if to clasp hands like sisters yet never quite reaching out.

Yayoi, who did not spare tears for her lost love, and...

Yayoi, with the anxiety of a love gained and compassion for the rival she had defeated, and Oto, who harbored another lament… Finally wiping away her tears, Yayoi somberly recounted to Oto: Her own feelings of love directed toward Eizaburō. The intentions of her deceased father, Tessai. "The distinction between the great and small swords’ nightly weeping." "My illness… and such things." And then— "I shall take my leave now. "I myself don’t understand why I came to disturb you. "It would be best not to meet Lord Eizaburō…… Please take care of yourselves, both of you."

As she stood up, Yayoi added.

“Lady Oto. “Please devote yourself to Lord Eizaburō on my behalf as well.” “Ever since his days at the dojo, Lord Eizaburō has preferred wearing light clothing even in winter—and with the cold deepening from here, I worried he might catch a chill… Ohoho! How foolish of me to say such things when you’re here for him.” “Then, please do not mention that I came here—I apologize for disturbing you so late at night.”

And so, the strong Yayoi was once again her usual strong self.

But at that very moment, the weak Oto—having reverted to her usual fragile self—could she endure the torment of her victorious love? Ah—! When she cried out and collapsed weeping upon hearing this—Oto outside, "What in blazes!" "What a tedious sob fest." "She's started bawling again!"

The moment the words rose unbidden to her lips and she muttered them— The presence of many people approaching, disrupting the sound of rain!

Startled, Oto turned her gaze toward the alley's entrance—through the faintly glowing silver bead curtain reflected in her eyes was a pitch-black mass of constables heaped together, as if they had materialized from nowhere! A forest of truncheons! Holding their weapons in silence.

Ah! Though her courage faltered, there was Kushimaki's veteran madam—baring her teeth into the blackness, she snapped her gaze upward to scan both rooftops, and—Hah!

The dragnet had no gaps; lanterns boldly inscribed with "Official Business" cast their yellowish light into the rain, blurring here and there, high and low……. Fukuro Alley. There was no escape route.

And in that instant, having perceived this, Kushimaki Oto covered her small mouth with her sleeve and instinctively struck a coquettish pose. “Well now, how crude! Awfully quick work, isn’t it!” A man’s voice—“I request a duel”—struck Eizaburō’s ear with unmistakable clarity amidst the disordered battlefield. Their noses nearly touching—without even peering into the darkness, his opponent was a splendid samurai drenched to the bone by the pouring rain!

At Suzukawa Genjūrō’s monstrous mansion, the waves of sword blades still raged in the rain. Taiken's in danger! Even Eizaburō—who had stepped forward upon realizing this—found himself momentarily stunned by the appearance of this samurai before him, his breath catching in his throat.

Official fireman’s attire—not only that, but clearly brand-new, worn in a manner that suggested a distinguished lineage. Keeping his drawn greatsword fixed downward—whether due to Eizaburō’s perception or not—the figure seemed to be smiling with his eyes from beneath his horned hood. Yet his sword stance was of extraordinary dignity, and in this moment, as Eizaburō instinctively confronted him, an eerie shiver—*zokku!*—ran down his spine. What the hell? Had they surged up from the earth, or had the darkness congealed into form?—In any case, they bore no resemblance to anyone from within the Suzukawa residence.

In that case…? Could they be enemy reinforcements? Yet this exaggerated fireman's attire and the inexplicable oppressive, arrogant air they exuded—what could this mean……? Even with his sword at his side, Eizaburō couldn't suppress his doubts. As his thoughts whirled chaotically, he shot a glance into the nearby darkness—strange! Beneath rain-dripping trees clinging to their last leaves, four or five figures in identical garb waited orderly in the shadows, each hand resting on a sword pommel.

Whether by chance or by design, this group in fireman’s attire undoubtedly slipped into the mansion amidst the ongoing bloodshed. A gang of bandits rampaging under the cover of night! This group in fireman’s attire must have stumbled into this scene of carnage purely by coincidence. Eizaburō, deeming any further hesitation a mere waste of time, readied his body and sword with minute bursts of momentum to transition into action—yet contrary to his anticipation of seizing the initiative, the enigmatic fire-attired warrior stood resolutely in a defensive stance, brandishing his blade as if in mockery.

“You are—” “Konryū?”

It was a calm, composed voice that carried the timbre of an elderly man. Eizaburō was once more taken aback. The struggle over the Ken'un and Konryū blades between himself and Sazen—which should have been known to none—yet this suddenly appeared band of strangely attired warriors seemed to have come here of their own accord, fully aware of every detail of the conflict. Their identities may be unknown, but they were no ordinary band! Moreover, the well-built samurai currently engaged with Eizaburō appeared to be their leader—his entire sword stance and bearing were unlike those of any common thief.

Into the stagnant sword maelstrom of nightly weeping that had engulfed Sazen, Eizaburō, Taiken, Genjūrō, and the others, yet another mysterious boulder was cast! The legend held that once separated, the two swords would birth raging tides and a stench-filled wind would bring blood rain—and now, that very legend had manifested as prophetic truth.

Frantic, Eizaburō—now that things had come to this, there was nothing left but to preserve his life— “Hah!”

With an air bursting forth, he feigned a strike—swiftly! No sooner had he pulled back than— "I must hurry—forgive me!" As Eizaburō tried to dash toward Taiken after uttering those words, sword glints scattered wildly behind him—the fire-attired warriors united in pursuit. Meanwhile, the mansion's denizens—who had noticed these sudden intruders earlier and abandoned Taiken to gather—now seeing the threat looming overhead, closed in to envelop both Eizaburō and the warriors together.

When he looked, Taiken was over there locked in combat with Sazen alone. Get out of the mansion as quickly as possible! Having made his decision, Eizaburō slashed through one of the Suzukawa men who had collided with him! Having cut through, he kicked up a spray of mud as he attacked Sazen, then seized the moment of disorientation to urge Taiken up onto the main house's veranda. There was no sign of pursuit.

The group, having encountered the fire-attired newcomers, though uncertain of what was happening, were in the midst of a fierce struggle in the rain-white garden. “Master Taiken! Unexpected interference has arrived!” “What the hell are those guys?!”

“As expected, they appear to be a group targeting Ken’un and Konryū.” “Well then, they’re a common enemy for Sazen and you—but they ain’t lookin’ easy!” “Right. Unfortunately, we should withdraw from this mansion for now—”

“That would be best.” “What matters most is we’re both unharmed.” “Night will soon break.” Indeed. Night was soon to break. At the edge of the veranda near the storeroom, dawn’s arrival faintly glimmered whitish.

“This way!”

The two started walking and approached the storeroom where Granny Osayo was being held. With a clatter... As the lattice door slid open, Oto and Yayoi turned their faces simultaneously to find Kushimaki Oto standing there, holding an umbrella from which droplets cascaded. “Sorry about this—let me through for a sec—” she said while already grabbing her umbrella and geta. In the blink of an eye, she darted between them and slipped out through the back exit.

The rear opened onto a separate alley; turning right and proceeding straight would bring one out before Dairokuten Shinozuka Inari. Having fled along the eaves to that point, Oto looked back with relief.

No official lanterns pursued her; the night rain veiled the distant streets in a faint white haze—it seemed she had slipped through that tightly stretched net of pursuers after all. But upon belatedly realizing her own status—banned from Edo for extortion, fraud, gambling, and violent crimes—it appeared the current commotion and everything here had already been brought under control. "I can't afford any slip-ups now!"

Just as Oto muttered to herself—! “Hey! A woman alone? Where are you going at this late hour?” A booming voice from ahead jolted Oto’s chest. “Oh. “Oh, no, I-I’m a woman from that tenement over there, but there’s been a sudden illness in the middle of the night—” “Are you saying you’re going to fetch a doctor?” “Yes.” “Alright. “Proceed with caution.” “Thank you very much.” And just as she took two or three steps—from behind her!

“Kushimaki Oto! Surrender meekly and accept your binding—now!” With a shout! In the hand of an officer who had passed by flashed a glinting jitte!

“What?! This isn’t a joke!” Oto assumed her stance, glancing around furtively, only to find the officers crouched in the rain tightening their crosswise sashes securely around them as they closed in. “There’s a song about Kintarō-san coming from the rain… So you were lying in wait here after all. Hohohohoho.” “Hohohohoho.” Smiling fearlessly while gripping the dagger hidden in her bosom in a reverse grip, no sooner had Kushimaki Oto slashed the flank of an approaching officer than she dashed into the Inari shrine grounds like a fleeing rabbit and raised her white arm high toward the shrine.

“Halt in the name of the law!” “Kushimaki! You’re under arrest!” “Halt in the name of the law!” Swish! The crowd of officers worked their arrest ropes and shouted over one another as they surrounded Oto before the shrine, pressing in step by step.

Oto’s figure, having stepped back onto the stairs, remained motionless as if fixed in place.

Shortly after Oto, who had rushed in like the wind from the front, blew through to the rear like the wind. Just as Oyan and Yayoi were exchanging astonished looks, several constables—led by the informant who had earlier spotted Oto—clattered in noisily.

"A woman just entered here, didn't she?" they demanded with imposing authority. Yayoi and Oto quickly exchanged glances and, through some unspoken understanding, feigned ignorance in perfect unison as if rehearsed. "No one has come through..." "Hmm?" When the group tilted their heads in confusion, would they press forward? But as they watched, the officers hurriedly left, apparently deciding it must have been another household.

From the garden path to the rooftops, official lanterns filled the area while officers who had let their target woman escape still scurried about in frustration. In the untimely commotion of the rain, tenement residents too seemed to have risen one after another. “The stakeout had no flaws, so they must’ve caught her somewhere else.” The informant’s overly loud voice echoed as he stomped across the ditch planks… Oto and Yayoi gazed searchingly into the depths of each other’s eyes, yet neither spoke a word about Oto who had slipped through their grasp. As the commotion outside gradually subsided, the two women—who had been cowering like frightened sheep—finally relaxed. For the first time, Oto and Yayoi laughed together like the young women they were.

Taking that opportunity, Yayoi hurriedly went to the doorway, and after a lengthy exchange of greetings between the women, the sound of footsteps along the garden path soon faded away.

In this rainy dawn, Lady Yayoi intended to return alone to Banchō or wherever—what a strong-willed person she was! When Oto, who had sent her off, came to her senses, she realized that Lord Eizaburō—who should have gone to the bathhouse—still hadn’t returned home! What kind of sudden incident was this! Oto found herself suddenly plunged into the depths of dark anxiety—but he, collapsed on the tatami and lost in thought, was contemplating his obligation to Lady Yayoi, who had just left! Obligation! Obligation!

Having endured even the hardships of a water teahouse, Oto was nevertheless fragile—excessively so—to the obligations of the floating world.

At the sound of clashing swords intermingling in the inner garden, Osayo cowered—trembling in a corner of the storehouse— As footsteps approached alongside Taiken and Eizaburō's voices, Osayo shrank further back into the depths of darkness. Two troublemakers she didn't recognize had come... Thinking this, she held her breath, terrified she'd be discovered. In the corridor outside, the two seemed to have stopped before the storehouse, "Oh! There's a room here of all places."

A young voice spoke up. Then an aged voice answered it, "Hoh. Can we get outside from here?" No sooner had these words been uttered than the plank door slid open with a swish. Two rōnin—one old, one young—stood as dark shadows blocking the entrance. They peered into the dim interior for a moment before apparently concluding there was no exit. With disappointed mutterings, they closed the door again.

The footsteps of the two faded into the distance, and before long, it seemed they had departed the mansion through the kitchen entrance. Unaware that this was Eizaburō—her daughter Oto’s man—Osayo let out a sigh of relief and once again strained her ears.

Despite the two having just left, the lingering energy of swords still hung in the garden—the clashing of blades and fierce shouts continued to reverberate. As for Taiken's stance toward Eizaburō... In this Suzukawa mansion, Oto's mother Osayo worked as a maid. Knowing she was likely suffering harsh treatment from Genjūrō due to Oto's escape, they had tried rescuing her by even opening the storehouse during their search—yet such strange twists were hardly rare in this world. Those seeking salvation and those aiming to save them once drew so near, only to pass by unknowingly—perhaps this too was but one small nudge shaping the course of human destiny.

The rain continued through the night as Edo's morning finally began to break. Before long... Around the time Taiken and Eizaburō had left Suzukawa’s mansion far behind, five mountain-style palanquins—crudely made and unseen in Edo’s streets—were pressed tightly against the outer wall on the opposite side, set down with an air of waiting since earlier. Their bearers, all strapping men with squared shoulders, stood lined up in a row. “Hey Tatsuu! Kou! They’re makin’ us wait damn long, ain’t they?”

“Damn straight. They oughta be comin’ out any minute now, but seein’ as it’s takin’ this long—hell, might be a major brawl goin’ on in there. Right, Kan?” “Damn right.” “That’s one hell of a rough remedy.” “Takin’ longer than expected, but that’s just how it goes, right?” “But ain’t they sayin’ there’s already plenty who’ve made good headway up ahead?” “In return, we’re a handpicked elite ourselves.” “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about, I tell ya.”

"I tell ya, if the call comes, I'll jump right in and raise hell! Those masters swingin' those clangin' swords like 'Hyaah!'... Damn it! They're pullin' it off!" "Damn right. I wanna jump in and try my hand too." "Shh! Hey, everyone! Keep your voices down!" "Shut it! Shut it! Anyway - you lot ready? We move the second they come out. Kōre! Shichikō! Get your asses lower - that's the order!"

They were noisily arguing— Both their somewhat knowing tone and, more strikingly, the fact that these ten men—each nearly six feet tall and robust as Nio statues—were uniformly lined up made it impossible to perceive them as ordinary palanquin bearers. As these ten imposing laborers—sumo-like in their dignity—all focused their eyes on the wooden gate in Suzukawa’s wall, suddenly, five fire-attired warriors kicked the door open from inside and came rushing out!

With an old man who appeared to be their leader at the front, each holding drawn swords, they swiftly settled into the palanquins,

“There they come!” “Let’s go!” came the signal shout. The five palanquins creaked and lifted off the ground—their pole tips aligned— Heave, hah! Hut, ho! In the blink of an eye, the five palanquins dashed out, swiftly engulfed by the cold morning rain, and vanished without a trace like a procession of marauders—a truly astonishing display of rapid training. Five palanquins of unknowable origin and destination! The five fire-attired warriors among them. Were they too seeking to seize the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru swords and unite them?

Could it be that they too sought to seize and unite the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru swords? ...In any case, it was from this moment that five palanquins swift as a gale first appeared in Edo's streets, and afterward, all that remained at Suzukawa's mansion—ravaged by a night of sword clashes—was freezing rain softened by morning light, once more pitter-pattering as it misted the air.

Double Mirrors

The unseasonably warm winter sun blazed down, and standing out in its rays like this, one might even break a sweat. The scent of flickering sunlight wafted over the shoji screens, tatami mats, and household altar, while beyond the lattice door, one could see what was likely a small whirlwind amusingly sending spirals of white road dust and dried horse manure dancing into the air before vanishing. At the bathhouse out back, the wooden clapper at the counter calling Sansuke struck—*Choon!* *Choon!* With two *Choon!* sounds, even amidst the year-end bustle, their sound waves transmitted sluggishly somewhere. As if waiting for that cue, practice voices suddenly welled up from the neighboring Kishiya residence, and Kii-chan, Mii-chan, and the peach-split girls noisily raised their shrill voices.

Kuro-u, ka-a-mi-i no, tsunten! Mu-su-u-bo-o-re-e-ta——ruu-uu. The rusty-voiced instructor’s tone threaded the middle ground, neither clinging nor straying. As Kizaemon listened, a bright smile involuntarily filled his deeply wrinkled face. He pfft— blew out the fireball he’d been about to inhale, then gave the edge of the Togetsuho a light tap. Exquisitely polished latticework alongside the sacred lanterns of the Thirty Guardian Deities. This was the residence of Kizaemon, landlord of Asakusa Tawaramachi 3-chome.

Kneeling formally before the long charcoal brazier, Kizaemon suddenly reached over to the tea cabinet beside him, took down an inkstone box, and began jotting down some notes. Pressed like this, just when he had a mountain of official duties he wanted to settle by year’s end, today too since morning he’d been bombarded with various neighborhood chores, leaving him unable to leisurely drink even a single cup of tea. After Kyuuta the errand runner brought notices about town decorations and events for the first three days of the New Year, the head clerk’s messenger arrived with the floor plan for the rental house. The corner grain shop owner had just left after a lengthy discussion about mutual aid association matters.

“Good grief!” muttered Kizaemon. “With things being this busy, even two of me wouldn’t be enough!”

Then, suddenly he became lost in thought and stuck the brush behind his ear, crossing his arms.

A troubled expression. The matter concerned the former tenant, old woman Osayo. Kajiya Tomigorō of Mikamachi, having been asked by Kajidomi, arranged for a certain Lord Wada Sōemon—a rōnin from Ōshū—to open a terakoya in one of the properties in this third block. However, Sōemon would soon die. Regarding the disposition of Osayo and Oto—the mother and daughter left behind—after thorough consultation with Kajidomi, they arranged for old woman Osayo to be sent as a maid to the residence of Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō, a 500-koku hatamoto before Honjo Hōonji Bridge, with Kizaemon himself and Tomigorō acting as guarantors. For her daughter Oto, Kizaemon took the initiative to have her purchase the Atariya Teahouse near Three Shrines, which had been up for sale at the time...

According to rumors, Kajidomi had been quite taken with Oto and had poured money into pursuing her, but once he realized that avenue was utterly hopeless, he apparently began pressing quite fiercely for repayment of his loans. I merely looked after them without any thought of personal gain—acting solely from the mindset that tenants are like children and landlords are like parents. And yet. From Osayo, who had entered the mansion, there came not so much as a single message—let alone proper correspondence—and as for her daughter, she had gone and created some man on her own accord, closed up shop, and dashed off to who-knows-where.

Oto, being a young woman through and through, had only made this hard-won house feel more forbidding—which, when you considered it, was her own doing—but for an old woman who had lived so many years, Osayo remained far too restless. But were he to grow angry at every such matter, the landlord's temper would have burst, leaving him unable to last a single day. Yet from what he heard, there were those who said Lord Suzukawa's residence was not particularly well-regarded. Weighing all this together, Kizaemon—a born worrier—found himself lately unable to stop fretting over Oto's circumstances and, most especially, old woman Osayo.

“The daughter’s the daughter, but the mother’s the mother through and through.”

To Kizaemon, who had let the words slip out unintentionally, the wife entered the tearoom and responded. "You’re worrying yourself sick over Osayo and Oto, aren’t you?"

“Yeah.” “Call it a premonition, perhaps.” “Somehow… I just can’t shake this uneasy feeling.” “Hmm, you’re right.” “Now that you mention it, I’ve also been having bad dreams about that mother and daughter these past two or three days.” “What do you think—perhaps we should go pay a visit to the Honjo mansion?” “Yeah… I guess you’re right.”

As Kizaemon gave a vague reply, the lattice door burst open with force,

“Hey, Kizaemon! You in there?” “Things have piled up, haven’t they?” Kajidomi sat down, immediately pulled out his tobacco pouch with a swift motion, and then spoke. “You must be quite busy indeed...” Kizaemon answered tersely, appearing indifferent. Kajidomi scrubbed his hand all over his face, “No, no. It’s nothing really. Just feeling all restless for no good reason, hahaha. Can’t handle it anymore.” And now, as if the clamor of the year-end town pierced their very beings—as if they were chewing and savoring it—the two men looked downward slightly, each gazing at their own hands.

Kizaemon's wife brewed tea and offered it. The two slurped noisily in unison. Kizaemon had mostly white hair and seemed to have long passed sixty, while Kajidomi, being a blacksmith by trade—and one who still swung a heavy hammer himself even now—was built quite differently. Though far younger in age than Kizaemon, he nonetheless possessed a robust physique. His arms were like pine trees. “Hey, Kizaemon.”

“Yes.”

After fidgeting restlessly for a while, Kajidomi finally opened his mouth resolutely. “About Osayo-san, you see――” Upon hearing this, Kizaemon went "Hmph, hmph!" and suddenly leaned forward, which in turn spurred Kajidomi on, "Well, you might laugh at this—but I’ve heard some rather unpleasant things about Lord Suzukawa’s mansion..." “Hah! "What's that?"

“Well now—getting Osayo-san into that place was you and I acting as guarantors.” “When you’re a guarantor—standin’ in place o’ parents—every strange rumor from their side’s had me frettin’ over this ’n’ that... But this time I couldn’t just let it pass unheard—that’s why I’ve come talkin’ like this—” “Aye.” “Well—’bout Milord’s unsavory ways—I’ve caught whispers here ’n’ there myself... But what in blazes has happened now?” “Truth be told—whether it’s old Osayo or that Oto girl—even this old codger had his hands full cleanin’ up after this Mr.Wada business.” “So sick o’ mindin’ others’ troubles—always grumblin’ ’bout it to my missus here.” “Well—speakin’ plain before you—I’ve bent over backwards ’bout this matter... Was just sayin’ to her—‘Why don’t we go withdraw our request—maybe even have you take Osayo in?’—somethin’ along those lines.”

“Heh heh heh, Miss Oto’s quite the handful, ain’t she? We’ve already filed a missin’ person report with the magistrate’s office ’bout that, but more importantly... See here—got this friend workin’ fer an informant-type fella.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Says there was some ruckus t’other night—rain pourin’ buckets—when they raided that mansion.” His voice dropped lower still. “Heard tell o’ dead folk piled high an’ wounded screamin’. You catch wind o’ anythin’, eh?”

“Yes. Now that you mention it, I did catch wind of something like that… So what’s the deal with that rampaging group that stormed in? Is it some kind of grudge or vendetta we’re talking about here?” “Well, according to that informant, seems like two groups raided the place that same night—but then five samurai in fireman’s attire showed up later… Thing is, he’s got no earthly idea what they were even sword-fightin’ about.”

“Fireman’s attire?” “Strange story.” “No matter what, it’s gotten dangerous as the year’s end approaches.” “Well, anyway…” “So, that guy’s been scouring around with eyes wide as plates, see? Now, if you try to get his story straight—well, I can’t say this too loud—but seems Lord Suzukawa’s caught some serious attention from the authorities.” “Depending on how things go, there might be a raid soon.” “Well, you see—this is just my own idea, hahaha… Well, that’s about what I said.” “What do you think we should do?”

“After something happens, poor Osayo would suffer too——” “And having our names dragged into this mess is the last thing we need.” “Let’s get to it!” Kizaemon unfolded the arm he’d been propping his chin on. “Since we’re already on this boat with no way ashore—how about it? Busy as you are, why not come with me to Honjo right now… Hey!” “Woman! Bring out that haori over there.” “Tch!” “Never around when needed.” “Putting on airs at her age, and not worth a copper bell.” “Old hag!—Useless...” “Baa-san!”

Kizaemon the landlord was growing increasingly furious, puffing steam like a kettle.

Though he wasn't exactly a guest—while Kajiya Tomigorō was visiting—Kizaemon's wife took a broom and went out to sweep the street in front of the house.

It was a fine day.

Sunlight danced brightly over the entire town, people's footsteps naturally quickening to create a bustling evening mood, yet within this commotion vendors' voices flowed gently—the peaceful reign of the eighth Tokugawa shogunate held a certain cheerfulness throughout. Carts carrying felled pine trees dashed vigorously toward the year-end market. An apprentice wrapped year-end gifts in a turmeric-dyed cotton furoshiki and hung it from his neck to his chest, accompanying the young master while wearing baggy pale indigo hakama.

“Auntie……”

At the sound of the voice, she turned around to see Yūkō from the tenement being pulled by his mother's hand as they disappeared into the alleyway crowd. The mother's pale face smiled and appeared to offer a hurried greeting. Whether one wept or laughed, only a few days remained—venturing out into town made this truth sink in deeply.

That was right. It was the thought that counted—she had to give that child some year-end gift... For girls, a decorative battledore would be suitably modest, but for a mischievous boy, perhaps a demon-quelling bow? While thinking such thoughts and repeatedly stretching her back, Kizaemon's wife diligently swept in front of the lattice. As she kept her head bowed and worked the broom, all that entered her eyes were the feet of people passing nearby.

Acquainted people called out as they passed. She had been careful not to dirty passersby's feet, but someone's deep bow caused an accident. An unexpected force at the broom's tip sent freshly swept dust flying, splattering against the hem and tabi of the man walking ahead. Startled, she looked up— There stood a portly samurai of imposing bearing, dressed in an informal kimono with swords in waxed scabbards at his waist. Narrow eyes creased by fine wrinkles remained fixed as he calmly compared his dust-covered feet with the flustered face of the old woman clutching her broom.

Kizaemon’s wife panicked as if her back were on fire. "He’ll cut me down!" "I’ll be cut down!" Even if she wasn’t cut down, there was no telling what punishment might await—the thought struck her, and her tongue stiffened in shock. “Oh no! What a terrible—another clumsy mistake I’ve made! Please, my lord, please show mercy!” The moment she blurted this apology, she lunged forward as if falling headlong, trying to wipe the samurai’s feet with the edge of her apron.

The samurai took two or three steps back and smiled calmly. “Ah, no need.” “Mistakes happen to anyone—I’ll wipe it myself, so there’s no need to worry.”

As he spoke, he produced a folded paper from his sleeve and began methodically dusting his hem. He was advanced in years. Though his clothing drew no particular attention, it radiated an irrefutable nobility—more than anything, his full-cheeked serene countenance bore a congenial smile that glowed like sunlight on spring seas.

Kizaemon’s wife, who had been staring blankly, charged once more toward the samurai’s feet as if snapping back to her senses, squatting down as though falling and began frantically beating away the dust. “This is all due to my clumsiness. For you to do it yourself is far too generous—I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Please deign to forgive me.” “No. That won’t be necessary.” The samurai hastily pulled back and, as though taking her hand, made the still-resisting old woman stand up. “Hahaha, it’s nothing at all! When you’re at home, you’re someone’s wife, a mother—or rather, a grandmother by now. If I were to have you—a wife, a mother, or rather a grandmother—wipe my feet, I would be failing those people. There, forgive me. In this case, I am the one who should apologize. Hahahaha!”

“What an understanding, noble samurai!” thought the old woman as she tearfully bowed her head—but the samurai continued: “However... It would be better to do your sweeping of public thoroughfares in the early morning, before people come out.” “Ah, this!” “And those scraps of paper and old wooden sandals scattered over there—they’re most unsightly for welcoming the new year.” “Though it’s in front of the neighbor’s house, clean it up while you’re at it.” As the old woman silently doubled over at the waist, the aforementioned samurai glanced back over his shoulder and began to walk away. Likely his attendant—a single young samurai of similar build—stood some distance away, exuding vigor.

Unaware of this commotion, the women inside—from one old crone to another—were noisily debasing themselves, while Kizaemon bellowed in his gruff voice. "He’s calling for you! Go!" In this manner, the samurai up ahead smiled kindly with his eyes as he looked at the old woman. No matter how much he called, his wife gave no reply—tsk! Clicking his tongue in irritation, Kizaemon prepared to go out himself and, intent on heading straight to Lord Suzukawa’s residence in Honjo, urged Kajiya Tomigorō the blacksmith outside.

When he stepped outside,

The wife he had thought wasn't around was lowering her face as if about to cry and bobbing bows to someone. The old man Kizaemon flared up. "What the hell?!" "You idiot! Sniveling at every damn passerby!" "Have you lost your damn mind?" While barking and glancing around, he saw a splendid samurai with attendants passing by four or five ken away.

"What the—? Where have I seen him before?!" Kizaemon tilted his head slightly; this time his voice dropped to a mosquito-whisper. "Hey, Granny—what's wrong? Did that samurai chew you out or somethin'?"

"Oh Grandpa, listen," said Kizaemon's wife. "There truly are noble people in this world." As she explained what had happened—"This is how it was"—Kizaemon listened intently, thoroughly impressed. "Hee!" he exclaimed, raising his eyes to watch the samurai's retreating figure once more—the very moment he did so— The master and servant who had begun walking turned back slightly together. But when Kizaemon saw the face of the elderly samurai leading them, he suddenly panicked. Abruptly seizing his wife and Kajitomi by their hands, he continued in a hushed, rapid voice—

“It’s Lord Ōoka! “Lord Ōoka! “Lord Ōoka!... That’s Lord Ōoka without a doubt!” “Gah! Granny!” “You actually spoke with such an important person!”

“What?!” “Ah, that’s Lord Ōoka!” “Grandpa, you’re not pulling my leg again, are you?” “You fool! “How could I joke about such a thing?! “With all due respect, he’s deeply versed in official matters—a renowned mediator even in Edo. “The South Magistrate’s Office knows our house better than we do! Remember when that iron bastard Tetsu from the outlaw tenement got arrested, and I accompanied them as part of the investigation? “The face that presided over that courtroom examination is still seared into my eyes. “That’s right! “That was Lord Ōoka! “Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke of the South Magistrate’s Office!”

“Though I say I didn’t know,”

The old woman was putting on a theatrical performance of her own. “Ah, how grateful I am! If only I’d gotten closer and properly gazed upon your noble face. Hey, Grandpa—this story’ll be a tale told down to our grandchildren’s generation, right?” “That’s right, that’s right! Even his retreating figure deserves another bow!”

“Folks like us wouldn’t even get to see the Magistrate’s face if it weren’t for times like this.” “Alright then!” “Let’s spread word through the whole tenement and gather everyone over.”

Kizaemon stopped Kajitomi as he tried to dash out. “Tomi! “That’s a damn waste, I tell ya!” “He’s visiting incognito—” Passersby who knew nothing of the circumstances looked on with puzzled expressions as Kizaemon and his wife, along with Kajitomi Tomigorō the blacksmith, made a clamor that bordered on prostration.

Before long.

Ōoka Tadasuke basked in the radiant sun. As today was indeed an incognito outing, he took only his chief retainer Ibuki Daisaku and quickly rounded the corner.

Where to? Without any particular destination. It was, so to speak, an aimless stroll. Lord Echizen-no-kami, who considered understanding the people's conditions and investigating the lower classes essential duties of a magistrate, not only made efforts to wander Edo's streets whenever official duties permitted but also took pleasure in doing so. On this day too, taking advantage of the unseasonably clear winter weather, he had likely left his residence to observe the year-end bustle. Seemingly without a care, Lord Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke walked while avoiding people. Ibuki Daisaku following behind faced immense difficulty avoiding detection. After all, he had to keep watch in all directions and single-handedly maintain vigilant attendance—

If they bumped into apprentice boys' quarrels, horse snorts would erupt. A girl engrossed in play would come running out and stumble; a craftsman would pass close by... Each time Daisaku started, but to Tadasuke it all appeared as smiles—he walked amiably on, glancing left and right with an air of ease. At Kannon Temple lay Edo's foremost grand market. From the tree-lined avenue to Raijin Gate surged a relentless crush of bodies. "Well, well!" With that air about him, Lord Echizen turned his smiling face back toward Daisaku.

Edo’s famed Asakusa Year-End Market.

Towns and crossroads had carts stopped and straw mats spread out, with pines, sacred straw ropes, ferns, yuzuriha leaves, bitter oranges, yuzu...

The clamorous shouts of vendors resounded through rows of stalls where market goods like mortars, wooden bowls, and hand buckets displayed their pristine whiteness. From Asakusabashi to Okura-mae, Komagata Namiki, and the thoroughfares east and west of Kaminarimon Gate—over a span of about five *chō*—stalls lined three or four sides until the temple grounds were so packed there wasn't even room to stand a needle. Moreover, the gravel area at the back extended all the way to the mountain lodgings, where crowds of people—old and young, men and women, samurai, townsfolk, and peasants—swirled into a great whirlpool of color, flowing leisurely, ever so leisurely.

The winter sun hung high, glowing silver as dust, human heat, and sounds intertwined and rose in a hazy blend. Sunspots and small shadows danced across the shoulders of the overflowing crowd, like the noble pelt of a tiger, yet something fragile and cold filled the spaces between them, evoking a sense that this year's commotion left little to spare. A crowd packed like sardines.

Through this throng, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, the South Magistrate in disguise, wound his way with one hand tucked into his sleeve as though strolling through his own garden. Ibuki Daisaku, the attendant following at a slight distance, grew frantic with worry as his master's figure threatened to vanish into the surging crowd. He desperately pushed through the mass of people, eyes locked on Tadasuke's broad shoulders, determined not to fall behind.

Right and left, front and back—every street as far as the eye could see was filled with people, people, people… Tadasuke was simply filled with a rich heart that accepted everything around him, nodded, and wanted to smile at all people and things. In that moment, there was not a trace of that childish yet fulfilling joy—the kind born from no one knowing that he himself, a man of high rank and renown, was now walking shoulder to shoulder with the common folk through the bustling market streets. To be sure, when he had first begun these covert patrols through the city, such mischievous impulses had not been entirely absent from him either—imagining how those passing through the streets or the men and women clamoring about the shops might react if by some chance they discovered he was Ōoka Echizen: how astonished and fearful they would be, how they would surely prostrate themselves upon the ground in panic! At such thoughts, Tadasuke would grow unbearably anxious that someone might recognize him at any moment; at times, he had even been seized by the impulse to shout out, "I am Echizen of the South Magistrate’s Office!" There were times when he was struck by the impulse to shout out, but that was all in the past.

Now, Tadasuke was completely dried up. He walked through Hinata Town with neither reason nor purpose, merely as a middle-aged warrior steeped in desolate contemplation—or rather, this portly, refined samurai browsing through Asakusa’s year-end market was not the renowned South Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, but simply an ordinary citizen of Edo. Therefore, it was no wonder that the many people coming from the opposite direction—naturally meeting and passing by—went on their way without anyone noticing.

Even a magistrate has two legs—there’s nothing strange about walking through town incognito—such were Tadasuke’s convictions. With that mindset, he would plunge into any place, forcing his attendants to endure unseen hardships; thus, whenever he ordered a covert outing, they would typically either slip away unnoticed or suddenly develop stomachaches. Due to his obliging nature, Ibuki Daisaku had often been saddled with accompanying duties in others’ stead, and since he was fundamentally well-liked, it had somehow become established that Daisaku would always attend during city patrols these days—though this proved quite a sweaty ordeal, and even the stalwart Daisaku privately grumbled about the nuisance deep down.

Today of all days! Of all places, I never thought your feet would take you to the Asakusa market! As Daisaku, pushed back by the human wave, resented in his distress, Tadasuke—wholly unconcerned with his attendant’s inner turmoil—angled his body and forged ahead, thrusting his head into one of the temporary stalls that had caught his eye. “Hmm. You have lobsters.” “Yes, sir. We do—straight from the source.”

“Yes, sir—straight from the source.” “When you say ‘the real thing’… you mean Ise, perhaps?” “Yes, sir. They’re the finest from Ise.”

“Yes, sir. They’re the finest from Ise.” Hearing this, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—perhaps nostalgic for his Yamada days—whirled around and bellowed. “Daisaku! Come see this!” “Magnificent Ise lobsters!” Tadasuke’s voice exploded like thunder from clear skies. The baby strapped to the proprietress’s back—she’d been twisting sacred ropes at the neighboring stall—jolted awake with a piercing wail. They stood at the market’s heart now.

Suddenly hearing voices erupt behind him, Tadasuke turned around without a second thought.

“Thief! Thief!” Shouting abuse, the crowd behind formed into a seething mass that swayed violently. Arms flew, fists swung up—punches and kicks rained down. The entire road became like susuki grass in an autumn gale… Slash! Amidst the human whirlpool, something glinted coldly. “Look out! “He’s drawn it! “He’s drawn it! “Don’t get hurt! Don’t get hurt!” No sooner had these shouts disintegrated into chaos than a young man—apparently a merchant clad for travel—came darting rat-like toward them. A split bundle hung from his shoulder as he wildly brandished a short traveling sword. Fearing collateral cuts, pedestrians swiftly parted left and right, creating a narrow deserted path through which he sprinted, pursued by gawkers—this was none other than Tsuzumi no Yokichi.

Yokichi, that bastard, was shouting in a shrill voice as he ran.

“Bring it on! If it’s come to this, I ain’t holdin’ back against any of you bastards! If you come near, I’ll cut every last one of you down! Move it! Get outta the way!” Overwhelmed by this ferocity, they all scrambled to clear the road... Not a single soul stepped forward. The screams of women and children; a chaotically jostling crowd. In the middle of the year-end market, a tremendous commotion erupted. Unaware that this was Tsuzumi no Yokichi—the moment he saw the man brandishing a drawn sword approach, Daisaku threw himself forward, swiftly shielding Tadasuke as his hand went to his sword hilt.

“Zen!” “Over here!” “Over here!” “Quickly!” A shrill voice exploded right beneath Tadasuke’s ear. A young woman who seemed to be a merchant’s wife—apparently separated in the commotion—was desperately calling to a four- or five-year-old child toddling across an open space from the opposite side. Yokichi made his blade glitter in sunlight as he closed in right before their very noses. “Zen, watch out!” “Just go back!” “That way!”

The moment the woman shouted, Tadasuke slipped deftly from Daisaku's guard and, in that instant, swept up Zen—hesitating mid-road—and leapt across to the far side.

Simultaneously! Yokichi and his traveling sword vanished like a gunshot through empty air and raced away. Passing rōnin and scaffolders collided with each other as they chased after Yokichi. At Tadasuke's look that practically shouted "Now!", Daisaku too immediately joined the pursuit. "Drawing steel in this crowd—what a reckless bastard." "They say he's a pickpocket." "Either way, he's nothing but trouble."

Afterwards, the market crowd buzzed all around, with lively conversations in full swing here and there.

Tadasuke also spoke up. “A pickpocket... Still, it’s unusual to see one in traveling attire.” “Huh. So that’s the work of those guys… One wrong move and they’d use those very legs to slip off to some distant province—”

“I see.” He was a samurai of respectable demeanor, but since no one knew his origins, they all spoke to him casually. “Apparently, he tried some mischief on a young samurai’s sleeve—got caught in the act and barely escaped. Well, that scoundrel sure used this crowd to make his ruckus... Anyway, what a damn fast runner he was, I tell ya.”

Tadasuke shook his head in admiration. “He said to have tampered with someone’s sleeve—I suppose he must have stolen something.” “I ain’t sure ’bout that, but anyways, a beast like that—everyone oughta gang up an’ beat it down, tie a picklin’ stone to it ’n sink it in the Ōkawa. That’d be best.” “Even with Lord Ōoka, that famous South Magistrate, keeping a watchful eye over Minamimachi, this scoundrel’s causing trouble right under his nose.” “Damn fat beast, ain’t he? Huh?”

Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke nodded awkwardly and was about to leave with a smile when the young mother holding Zen-chan’s hand expressed her gratitude once more. “No need…” As Tadasuke laughed, his gaze came to rest on yet another figure—a young rōnin pushing through the crowd with a frantic expression. Suwa Eizaburō—he clutched a scrap of paper in his hand. The raid on the Honjo Bakemono Mansion—disrupted by the unexpected interference of a fire-attired squadron—had amounted to nothing more than slaying four or five enemies to no avail and inflicting mere scratches upon their target Sazen. Yet Suwa Eizaburō, convinced he might yet reunite with Ken'unmaru even today, wandered aimlessly through the crowds of the year-end market.

Suddenly feeling something touch his sleeve, he carelessly looked back... But wait! Tsuzumi no Yokichi—Suzukawa Genjūrō’s lackey—had, for reasons unknown, prepared for travel and was now attempting to slip something resembling a letter into his own sleeve. *You bastard! What are you doing?!*

Before he could even process the thought, Eizaburō’s hand was already gripping Yokichi’s elbow. “You bastard!” “Oh! I’m sorry.” “I mistook you for someone else.”

“Shut up!” “You from the other day—Hmm, enough!” “Get over here!”

He tried to drag him away. He kept apologizing and tried to flee. In response to this scuffle between the two, the quick-tempered Edo townsfolk around them immediately assumed it was a botched purse-cutting attempt and began shouting, “Pickpocket! Pickpocket!” Taking this as their cue, they surrounded Yokichi and began to beat him mercilessly, but seeing that he was outmatched, Yokichi swiftly drew his traveling sword, cleared a path, and dashed away. Thanks to the meddlesome crowd’s interference, Eizaburō—having failed to apprehend Yokichi—checked his sleeve just in case, only for what emerged to be a letter from Tange Sazen to Eizaburō… that is, from the night-weeping sword Ken’unmaru to its companion wakizashi Konryūmaru!

Despite the crowd’s chaos, there was no time to hesitate. Eizaburō swiftly sliced open the seal and scanned the contents—what was this?! No sooner had his face paled than he clenched both letter and Musashi Tarō’s hilt in one fierce grip, then charged belatedly toward where Yokichi had fled. The handwriting of Sword Demon Sazen—what could it possibly contain? Through Sazen’s brush, what ominous message had the cursed blade Ken’unmaru delivered to its twin Konryūmaru?

But that aside. Spotting the rōnin Eizaburō pushing through the crowd left and right, Tadasuke—upon hearing whispers identifying him as the samurai from the earlier pickpocket incident—suddenly quickened his pace and began following him.

Snap!

Eizaburō, his blood seemingly rushing to his head, pushed through the human wave and staggered forward. He shoved a man aside. He shoved women aside and kicked children out of his way—a desperate frenzy.

Tadasuke also hurried after him but ended up stepping so hard on someone's foot that they yelped, "Ouch!" When the pained cry rang out, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke turned a cordial smile toward them and offered a meticulous apology.

However,

Having reached Komagata and approached Asakusabashi, by the time Yokichi and his pursuers had vanished from sight, Eizaburō—perhaps resigning himself for the first time—dejectedly slackened his pace, turned from there, and carried his steps into a certain alley in Kawaramachi… leaving the market’s bustle behind.

Tadasuke called out from behind. "That bastard—a peerless sprinter! Hahaha! Now then—you there, have you lost something?" Eizaburō turned to find an unfamiliar, refined samurai standing there and instinctively retorted in irritation. "Did you address this humble one?" "No—regarding that commotion earlier... I believe he must have slipped this document into your possession." "Well now, this is merely this humble one's conjecture—Hahaha—what say you?"

At Tadasuke’s words, Eizaburō—as if suddenly realizing something—shot a sharp glance at Tadasuke and tried to turn on his heel, but—! The letter from Sazen that should have been in his hand until just this moment—! It had disappeared—he must have dropped it somewhere, at some point—oh! When he looked at Tadasuke’s hands—! What in the world was this? When and where he had picked it up—the crumpled letter was now properly in Tadasuke’s hand.

“Ah! “Th-that...” As the flustered Eizaburō, losing all composure, attempted to lunge forward, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke nimbly stepped back and—teasingly holding up both sides of the sealed letter—smiled before Eizaburō’s eyes. Lord Suwa Eizaburō The One-Armed Lay Priest, Tange Sazen [Respectfully] “That letter is indeed something this humble one dropped.” “A blunder… There are no words to describe it. I am deeply ashamed.” “To your lordship who has picked it up, I humbly express my profound gratitude.” “Now, I ask that you hand it over—”

Unaware that this was Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, the Town Magistrate, Eizaburō—even having fallen into decline and wearing coarse clothes—faced the unfamiliar samurai as an equal. He desperately suppressed his panic and took two or three steps forward as he spoke, but Tadasuke simultaneously stepped back,

“You are known as Suwa Eizaburō.” “That’s well and good, but here on the back it says ‘Tange Sazen—the One-Armed Lay Priest respectfully.’” “Now then, Lord Suwa—might I inquire whether this single arm is the left one?” “No—it must be the left arm. What say you?”

The moment he heard this, what flashed through Tadasuke’s mind like lightning was the fact that the perpetrator of the reverse-grip crossroad slayings currently shocking the capital must also wield his sword left-handed.

And then, when Tadasuke saw Eizaburō nod in astonishment—containing both affirmation and shock—he “If that is so, then this letter cannot be returned to you.” flatly refused and swiftly tucked it into his pocket.

Outrageous! Even if it cost him his sword, he had to reclaim it! As Eizaburō’s face paled and he pressed forward, he noticed a samurai who seemed to be Tadasuke’s companion approaching swiftly. Realizing with dread that being cornered by these two ominous figures would only multiply his errors under their relentless questioning, Eizaburō frantically broke away from Tadasuke and disappeared into the alley’s depths like a fugitive.

“Your lordship, I had no inkling you would be in such a place, hence I searched for you everywhere.”

At the voice, when Tadasuke turned around, it was Ibuki Daisaku who had been chasing Yohachi. They gave chase with many men, but given the sheer crowd—though they once laid hands on his traveler’s cloak—he slipped away nimbly, and in the end, they lost sight of Yohachi at that very street. “I have no excuse—good grief! For one trying to be a pickpocket, what a nimble fellow he is!” “Pickpocket? Who speaks of a pickpocket?” “Huh? That man—”

“That was no pickpocket.” “Then a purse-snatcher? Or maybe a cutpurse...?” “You imbecile! They’re the same thing!” “My deepest apologies.” “Listen well, Daisaku. Stealing from another’s pocket by seizing opportunity—that we call a pickpocket.” “Understood.” “But placing an item into someone’s sleeve through opportunity—this isn’t pickpocketing. That man acted under orders to slip this sealed letter into his sleeve. Therefore, this Echizen shall not call that townsman a pickpocket.”

“About that letter…?” “But Your Lordship, how did you come to understand such a thing?” Silently urging the wide-eyed Daisaku onward, Tadasuke—looking genuinely pleased—gave a light pat to the breast pocket containing Sazen’s letter and started walking. “Ah! “Ah! So all the particulars lie there!” Daisaku imitated striking his own chest, “Why, that must indeed be the case!” “That must indeed be the case!” As he shook his head, overwhelmed, and moved to follow along, Tadasuke absently came to a halt and fixed his gaze on the mouth of the alley where Eizaburō had just disappeared.

A narrow back alley. At the corner, a modest open space.

A stack of lumber lay piled up, and about fourteen or fifteen children were playing noisily. High in the sky, the sun hung warm like nurturing rain. Ōoka Tadasuke stood bathed in blazing sunlight, having drunk his fill of the town's essence after so long—his spirit melded with the people's hearts—now gazing upon the commotion with childlike single-mindedness. The eldest child sat formally atop an elevated stack of building blocks. "It is I, South Magistrate Ōoka Echizen! Lift thy mask! Thou there..." They were playing at holding court. No wonder they had spread a reed mat on the ground—a child lay prostrate there playing the accused. On either side crouched children imitating constables during an interrogation, their earnest faces all knitted brows and puffed cheeks.

While Echizen-no-kami was smiling wryly, Daisaku, who was behind him, burst out laughing.

In the far distance, Landlord Kizaemon and Blacksmith Tomi—who had just emerged from Tahara-cho—bowed politely toward Ōoka from afar once again. They appeared to be en route to Suzukawa's residence in Honjo. Seeing this, Tadasuke realized someone familiar with his appearance must have spotted him! He quickened his pace to depart, but a faint capricious wind sent white sandy dust swirling low across the ground as children's voices calling "Lord Ōoka" echoed behind him. "Thou there—on the twenty-ninth day past, thou didst cast the pawnshop cat into yon rainwater barrel of the side street and hurl it through the window beyond doubt." "Declare it plainly—"

“Madam!”

At Yohachi's shrill voice bursting into the room, Oto wearily lifted her eyebrows from across the long brazier.

“What’s all the noise?”

With one knee raised, she was smoothing the tatami with one hand—apparently searching for her pipe.

This was Kushimaki Oto’s hideout. “This is bad! You can’t just stay calm!” Yohachi was still catching his breath, not even having time to untie his straw sandals—while Oto, inside the house, let out a huge yawn.

“Here we go again with this guy.”

She seemed utterly disinclined to engage, yet even so, when Oto caught sight of Yohachi’s travel-worn appearance as he abruptly rose, her face tightened with faint surprise— “Oh! Going on a trip?” “Heh heh heh.” Yohachi laughed in quick bursts like the villain he was. “Oh, it’s nothing—just put on a little show,” he said. “A show?!” “Aye.” Yohachi plonked himself down, gulped the bowl of cold sake that Oto thrust out, and then cheerfully began to talk...

The matter of Sazen's letter.

In that rainy night’s frenzied swordplay at the haunted mansion, those slain totaled seven—all gambling associates who had been staying there—while the injured numbered nearly ten, with Sazen’s minor wound being the most severe. Moreover, before Eizaburō and Taiken could exchange a single blow, that mysterious band in fireman attire came charging in—whereupon even Sazen and Genjūrō briefly teamed up with Eizaburō’s faction to face them—but during this clash, Taiken escaped from the mansion.

The leader of the fire-attired warriors brandished his sword and declared they too sought the twin blades—Ken'unmaru, the night-wailing sword, and Konryūmaru. In other words, this grotesque band posed an equal threat to both Sazen's Ken'unmaru and Eizaburō's Konryūmaru.

Thereupon, swordmaster Sazen wrenched his left arm once again and battled fiercely for hours—until dawn finally broke, but...! At that critical moment, Sazen found himself overpowered; his rare blade Ken'unmaru had been wrested away by five fire-attired warriors. When he immediately charged beyond the compound walls in pursuit, the five palanquins had already disappeared without trace—or so witnesses later claimed. Ken'unmaru was gone. Now the miraculous blade had slipped from Tange Sazen's grasp—it must lie hidden within one of those five mysterious palanquins, their occupants still unknown! Oto bit her lip until it whitened.

“Yonokō, is that true?” Yohachi—who had been nodding repeatedly—continued his tale: now that Ken’unmaru was no longer in Sazen’s possession, there was no need to pointlessly confront Eizaburō. Thus, Yohachi of Tsuzumi had been tasked with secretly delivering Sazen’s letter stating this intent to Eizaburō. He had spotted Eizaburō amidst the year-end market’s bustle and deftly slipped the missive into his sleeve… but then— “Got mistaken for a pickpocket—what a mess!” “Drew my shiny blade and came charging through!” “Nah—just a risky little act! Hahahaha!”

Yohachi laughed nonchalantly, but as Oto listened, her eyes settled into a doubtful cast.

If that were true, Tange Sazen would likely visit Eizaburō himself and smoothly propose a reconciliation—that would be just like him, who knows how much more characteristic that might prove... First—would Lord Tange, who had staked his very life on Ken'unmaru, let it be taken so easily? Yet in all things exists timing. Even Tange Sazen was no demon god... As she turned this over, Oto found herself unable to believe Yohachi lied or that Sazen had deceived him. In short—Oto couldn't make sense of any of it.

"Is that so?" She muttered without any trace of amusement and began rubbing her temples vigorously, as though plagued by a headache. No sooner had she done that than she began meticulously smoothing the ashes in the brazier. In her mind raced tumultuous thoughts, yet outwardly she appeared utterly composed like a bored mistress. The carelessly draped tanzen robe over sloping shoulders, the black collar faintly smudged with white powder... The scene retained lingering traces of womanly prime in the plump flesh of her raised knee—a fragrance of fading youth. Purple tobacco smoke rings drifted lazily through midday sunlight, entwining with shelf-top talismans.

Yonokō of Tsuzumi, somewhat overwhelmed by the midday heat, gazed sidelong at Oto's demeanor. "Lord Tange's beyond comprehension," she spat, "discarding a woman at the peak of her allure like this." Oto spat out her words. "So you're saying," she drawled, "Lord Tange had his sword snatched by that five-man band of fire-attired ones, wrote a letter about no longer possessing it, and you slipped that into Eizaburō's sleeve on his orders?"

“Huh. Exactly as you say—I went through hell.”

Yohachi felt as if Oto’s fragrance still lingered around him, his mind drifting hazily as though caught in a dream. Oto, acting on impulse, extended the scorching-hot head of her long pipe slightly and pressed it against Yohachi’s hand. “Get a grip, Yonokō! What’s with that dumb look on your face? This isn’t some lazy evening with gourds!”

“Agh!” “Hotttt—!” Yohachi, who had leaped back, licked the back of his hand while making an exaggerated grimace, “That’s harsh, Boss! It’s hot! Hotttt!” “It’s hot! ...Oww, hot!” “Hohoho, how unfortunate for you.” “So I’m telling you—confess already before you get blamed!”

“Huh? Confess? What’s there to confess?” “I ain’t hiding anything from you, Boss Kushimaki.” “Then suddenly—she thrust that scorching thing into me!” “That's how it went down. Heh heh, you're wicked, Boss.” “What the hell are you talking about?!” “Then I’ll ask—what’s with that traveler getup of yours?” “Ah! This?” Yohachi scratched his head absurdly. “This here’s, well—a slapped-together disguise I whipped up. Thing is, Boss, like you know, I’m a bit of a known face around Asakusa’s Komagata no Tsuzumi. Plus that brat Eizaburō might recognize me. Goin’ plain-faced for today’s job just didn’t sit right.” “But if I went overboard with some fancy disguise, that’d just make me stand out more, y’know? After racking my brains silly, I settled on this traveler getup as a neat solution.” “How’s this? Does it suit me? Heh heh…”

“Ah, I see.” While responding lightly, Oto shot a piercing gaze at Yohachi’s face. “So you’re not planning to run off anywhere, are you?” “To be honest, as long as you’re here, Boss, Yohachi won’t abandon Edo either.” “Smooth talker. What about Lord Sazen?” “What about Lord Sazen?” “Well—probably at Mr. Suzukawa’s place.” “What’s this ‘prob’ly’? Don’t you know what that means?” “Lately, the authorities have been keeping a close eye on that mansion, so I’ve been keeping my distance from there a bit.”

“If that’s how it is, fine—but Yonokō, you seem to share the same den as Lord Sazen after all.” “N-No such thing!” As Yohachi floundered in panic, Oto fixed him with a cold, piercing glare, “Anyway, I can’t tell what you and Sazen are scheming.” “I’ve a temperament that loathes half-measures.” “Since I’ve been cast aside, I mean to keep meddling with Lord Tange from now on—and I won’t let you leave this house for some time.” “Listen—keep that in mind.”

“Boss, please cut me some slack on this one.” With a playful bow of his head, Yohachi tried to hide his expression—troubled yet somehow pleased—by lowering his face when Oto peered up at him from below. “You’re targeting Ms. Yayoi because Sazen asked you to, aren’t you? But Yonokō, that girl’s been missing since the other day.” Yayoi had vanished! In fact, since that rainy dawn when she dejectedly left Eizaburō’s house in Kawaramachi, Yayoi had neither returned to her foster home with Tamon in Banchō nor been glimpsed by a single soul thereafter…

Alive or dead—Yayoi’s traces had abruptly ceased.

Suspicious!

Speaking of which, there was another matter. On that same dawn, this Kushimaki Oto—surrounded by captors before Dairokuten Shinozuka Inari shrine—should have met her end then and there. Yet though she might be iron-willed, how had a woman's hands alone broken through such layered encirclement? And here she now stood, attempting to make Tsuzumi no Yohachi a pliant captive through half-hearted feminine wiles.

Mysteries beget mysteries, leaving nothing but unanswered questions—yet there remained one even more perplexing matter.

At that very moment—

Suwa Eizaburō—unaware that the samurai who had picked up Sazen’s letter was Lord Ōoka—returned to his home at the end of the back alley in a daze and blankly opened the lattice door! Since washing her hands of the tea house trade, Oto—who had always kept her hair in tightly wound coils—now swept it up today into a stylish ginkgo-leaf twist for reasons unknown. Her slovenly sidelong posture exposed pale upper arms as she sat before the double mirror...

“Who?” “Oh!” “If you’re coming in, shut the door behind you.” “What now?” “You’re letting dust in!” “Tch!” “And there you go, hanging that money-shy face of yours again.” “Ugh, no! No!”

A double mirror of front and back—could this transformation truly reflect Oto’s innermost heart?

Heretic of Earthly Desires

In the beginning, when Osayo came to live at Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence through the mediation of Kizaemon, the landlord of Asakusa Tahara-cho, and Tomigorō, the blacksmith.

He was a five hundred-koku hatamoto, but as a minor retainer who did not attend the castle, he had neither horses nor grooms. The sole maidservant was Osayo herself. In that desolate place where foxes might roam, the only dwelling was Suzukawa’s mansion. Yet despite his diligent service as a retainer, nightly crowds gathered—Tange Sazen, Tsuchiwa Sensuke, Kushimaki Oto, Tsuzumi no Yohachi among them—sometimes lodging for days on end while government-banned mischief flourished. They formed circles to gamble—it was bakuchi. In Honjo, this residence of Suzukawa Genjūrō had become notorious among lower-ranking hatamoto samurai as the haunted mansion.

However, on the mornings following such gatherings—after they had busied themselves with meal preparations—without fail, "Hey Tsuchiwa! You were the one running the game last night—give Osayo some pocket money." “Fine! Ill-gotten gains never prosper. Take as much as you want. Hey, Osayo… I said come forward.” With that, he would toss out around four hundred coins each time, and she would receive two or three hundred of them… In Osayo’s estimation, if she saved up these temporarily received bird coins, this would amount to more than half her fixed salary. If she endured this for three years, she thought, the money might even help her daughter Oto’s lover Eizaburō secure a slightly higher-ranking retainer’s position… With such hopes for the future driving her, she worked diligently—until one day she inadvertently overheard matters concerning the lodger Tange Sazen’s background and secret mission, along with dark shadows surrounding Eizaburō tied to those so-called night-crying swords.

But even after learning they were from the same domain, Osayo kept this knowledge to herself while discreetly observing Sazen's movements—until calamity struck without warning: her daughter Oto was abducted one night by Lord Genjūrō and confined to an inner storehouse.

She had to protect it from the shadows, careful not to let the mother-daughter relationship be noticed. How immense must Osayo's hardship have been.

Yet. When Genjūrō earnestly professed his wish to make Oto his lifelong mistress, even Osayo—though she had not changed allegiances out of personal avarice—found her aged self first contemplating the future of herself and her daughter. At this juncture, she resolved to forcibly separate Oto and Eizaburō; Oto would in truth become the wife of a five-hundred-koku lord. Though she ardently entreated Oto on Genjūrō’s behalf to rise to the station of Her Ladyship, Oto—pining for Eizaburō—refused consent despite all exhortations.

She had privately settled on a plan: as a token of severance, they would seize Ken’unmaru—the sword Eizaburō risked his life to reclaim—from Sazen with Genjūrō’s aid and deliver it to him. But just then, the very person at the heart of it all, Oto, had secretly slipped away. This was Kushimaki Oto’s act of vengeance against Genjūrō, but Genjūrō—unaware of this—shifted all blame onto old woman Osayo. He confined her to the very storehouse where he had previously imprisoned Oto and subjected her to daily torture in an attempt to extract information about Osayo and Oto’s relationship.

During this time, the helping hand of Eizaburō and Taiken had nearly reached but failed to arrive—all due to Genjūrō’s interrogation. "Yes." "In truth, I am Oto’s mother. She is my daughter." When a single word escaped Osayo’s lips, Genjūrō erupted in a booming, triumphant guffaw,

"No—I had thought it would be something like that. "So it was true after all—the daughter I’d heard about was that Oto, and the second son of that hatamoto must be Suwa Eizaburō. "But now that it’s clearly understood—if you’re the birth mother of the woman I desire, then you’re also a mother figure to this Genjūrō. “This demands proper treatment.” “Though I plead ignorance, I humbly beg your forgiveness for every discourtesy shown until now.” And so Suzukawa Genjūrō—ever the cunning schemer—immediately began treating Osayo as though she were his own mother, prostrating himself in apology. He promptly summoned her to a neat little room, and now Osayo served him without want, living comfortably under his employ.

"If you wish to shoot the general, first shoot his horse." As the saying goes—"The enemy is at Honnō-ji"—meaning the true target lies elsewhere. Thus Suzukawa Genjūrō, having deceived this "mother," now sought to gradually secure Oto for himself. Today as well, he dressed Osayo in what appeared to be a warm kosode robe and devoutly kept her company in the sunlit parlor, engaging in idle chatter— “Excuse me…”

A voice that seemed to belong to townspeople requesting guidance at the back door.

“Good day… Excuse me.” “Isn’t Ms. Osayo here?” Even when Kizaemon shouted loudly, there was no sign of anyone emerging, so this time the blacksmith Tomigorō took over and began making an even louder racket. “Ms. Osayo! Osayo, you old woman!” “Tch! Ain’t she here...?” “This is so damn aggravating!”

As these voices pierced through to the inner rooms, even Osayo—despite being Genjūrō’s companion—could no longer remain still. As she tried to immediately head to the back door, Suzukawa Genjūrō stopped her with the courtesy one might show one’s own mother, “Now, now—leave it be. Just as it is—exactly as it is.” “What—mere regular merchants.” “I shall go out.” With hands tucked into his sleeves, he lumbered into the kitchen—only to find two faces peering through the waist-high lattice window by the water spout. When Kizaemon, landlord of Asakusa Tawaramachi Third District, and Tomi the blacksmith of Mikamachi—Osayo’s two guarantors—both presented themselves, Genjūrō thought, *Ah—they must have caught wind of some ill rumor.* Internally, he found this far from amusing.

“What? Do you have business with Madam Osayo?” He stood imposingly like a temple guardian statue, dominating the space. “Madam Osayo!” Thus declared the lord! Kizaemon and Tomi the blacksmith grew deeply uneasy upon hearing this extraordinary address. Dispensing with courtesies while reading Genjūrō’s expression, they stated that—should it suit the mansion’s convenience—they wished to temporarily reclaim old Osayo today due to certain circumstances on their end, having now formally approached him with guarantors lined up in submission… or so their claim went!

Genjūrō raised his eyebrows, his bearing imposingly fierce.

“What?! You’ve come to take back Madam Osayo over some petty reason? Now then—Kizaemon and Tomigorō, was it?” “Yes, yes—Kajiya Tomigorō, Kaji-Tomi at your service.”

“Never mind that.” “Both of you—step forward.” “I have something to make clear to you.”

Having tossed out those words, Genjūrō briskly retreated into the inner rooms—Huh?! What fresh horror was about to unfold? As the two men were timidly backing away in fear, they saw Genjūrō immediately return, gripping a long sword by its sageo cord in his left hand—likely having gone to retrieve it—his face like a wrathful demon, making it clear the situation was anything but calm. Despite being utterly unable to make sense of anything, Kizaemon and Tomi looked ready to bolt at any moment.

There came Genjūrō’s furious roar. "You there! Come forward a bit more!" "Out! Move! I said out!" True to his station as Suzugen the yoriki, his voice held a convincing gruffness, his threats carried practiced ease—more than sufficient to make the townspeople quake. “Yes. We’re coming out, coming out.” “Like this, sir?” As the two men, trembling, inched forward an inch or two, Genjūrō made his sword’s tsuba rattle and barked a command.

“Someone must have spouted nonsense about this mansion, and you commoners, in your simple-mindedness, took it as truth.” “Isn’t that right?” “Huh?” they responded, but since neither understood, they fidgeted in silence—then Genjūrō continued,

“Even if I keep Madam Osayo under my care as before, I won’t let any trouble fall upon you lot.” “Though I may be unworthy, I do understand that elders deserve respect.” “Now I’ve got something to show you bastards—get your asses to the garden!” With relief, Kizaemon and Tomigorō left the back entrance. When they looked left, they found a folding door leading to the central courtyard. Pushing it open warily, they crouched before the step-stone at the inner tatami room’s edge,

“Both of you!” “Look up!” “It’s Madam Osayo.” At Genjūrō’s voice, Osayo stepped forward— “Oh my! If it isn’t Mr. Kizaemon and Tomigorō-don! It’s been an age since we last met—how reassuring to see you both in such fine health. Well...” What in the world?! When they raised their faces and looked closely, there was old Osayo—who was supposed to be a lowly servant—now putting on airs of elegance like the lord’s mother, gazing down demurely from a plush cushion as though granting them an audience.

With a glance that seemed to say *I permit this*—as if declaring it outright. "Pfft!"—as Kizaemon and Kaji-Tomi nearly burst out laughing, they subtly nudged each other’s elbows to restrain themselves. Meanwhile, Genjūrō beside them straightened his posture and began speaking solemnly. “They say resemblance to strangers is uncanny—Madam Osayo here is a perfect likeness of my late mother… People speak of splitting a melon in two, but this is more like placing two whole melons side by side! Ah—when one wishes to be filial, parents are no more; yet one cannot clothe stones in quilts… Even as I gaze upon Madam Osayo now, Genjūrō finds his eyes growing strangely warm with nostalgia.”

Genjūrō put on a theatrical act, blinking incessantly all the while.

Baffled by the smokescreen, Kizaemon and Tomigorō returned home in a daze. "That was shocking, Mr. Kizaemon." "Well I was shocked too, Tomigorō." "What in blazes is goin' on here? "Heh heh—just like some retired widow. "Both of you lookin' so hale and hearty—what a blessed sight... Then when he got to that part—tehehe—I swear my head near spun clean off!" "Well now—accord'n' to Milord—since Osayo here’s th' spittin' image of his late ma—he’s treatin' her like his real mother an' all filial-like... But I can’t shake this feelin' somethin’s right fishy about it."

“Fishy? What do you mean by that?” “I keep thinking there’s some scheme at the bottom of this—though maybe I’m just being paranoid. But when you reach my age, Tomigorō, you start sensing shadows of what’s yet to come. The worrying never stops.” “A thankless job, eh?” “But even with Granny Osayo—without some proper ties beyond just resembling Milord’s late mother, there’s no reason she’d be pampered like that. You might be onto something here, Kizaemon-don—could well be some hidden motive at play.”

“’Cause Milord ain’t right in the head.” “He’s a swindler, that samurai. That samurai.”

Whispering in hushed tones, they left the mansion. As they neared Hōonji Bridge's street, one side ran along Suzukawa's wall while facing it stretched endless fields. Midwinter's grip left no hint of green in sight—only undulating earth reaching the horizon... Scattered stacks of straw caught faint glimmers of sunlight cold as riverbed stones. A rotting scarecrow stood besieged by clamoring crows—the desolate chill seeped into their collars.

In the far distance were one or two farmhouses with thatched roofs...

Somewhere, a voice was calling out.

A gust of wind. “Brr, it’s freezing!” Without thinking, the two blurted out together—Kizaemon and Kajitomi began to quicken their pace into a trot when—! By the roadside in front of the fields stood a Dōsojin stone. From its shadow suddenly leaped two or three people! When they looked in surprise, there were arresting officers wearing chain-patterned headbands, white cloth armbands, and meticulously prepared footwear—wasn’t this a full-fledged raid? They fanned out to surround them, and one of their number— “You just came out from that Suzukawa mansion over there, didn’t you?”

Pressed in this manner, though startled and flustered, landlord Kizaemon—true to his reputation as a skilled negotiator—quickly regained his composure and responded clearly. “Yes, I am Kizaemon the landlord of Third Block, Tawaramachi in Asakusa, and this here is Tomigorō the blacksmith of Mikamachō. We came to Lord Suzukawa’s mansion regarding the maidservant we arranged—” “And since the mansion’s reputation ain’t exactly stellar,” chimed in Tomigorō the blacksmith, “today we came to retrieve [her], but that old woman’s sittin’ up there all high-and-mighty like—‘Oh, both of you in such fine health, most commendable indeed…’”

“What are you saying?!” After reprimanding them, the officials conferred briefly, “To be direct—a letter in a woman’s hand was submitted to the Asakusa Bridge guardhouse moments ago. According to its contents, the reverse-kesa-wearing crossroad killer long sought by the authorities is reported to be hiding in this mansion. Did you notice any such suspicious individual within the premises?” “No!”—as the two shook their heads vigorously—the authorities, perhaps deeming them not worth detaining,

“Alright, move along. Sorry to have kept you.” Having been released, Kizaemon and Tomigorō dashed off as if fleeing, each trying to outpace the other... Driven by morbid curiosity. Peering around the wall’s corner, they saw constables in identical gear—groups of two or three—already encircling the mansion, pressed flat against tree shadows and ground depressions. Their numbers reached twenty or thirty.

“This has turned into quite a situation.” “That’s why we should’ve just grabbed that old woman’s hand and dragged her out by force earlier.”

As they kept peering in while talking, a constable abruptly raised his hand in signal. The moment they saw it, the officials silently crawled along the ground and began advancing toward both the main and rear gates. Yet none of them—neither Kizaemon nor Tomigorō, nor any constable—had noticed that from some time earlier, within the dense foliage of a great zelkova tree overhanging Suzukawa's wall, a viper-like eye had been gleaming down, watching every movement of the proceedings.

Genjūrō absently watched the flitting shadows of birds move across the sunlit shoji for some time.

It was a chilly silence. In a back room of the haunted mansion—after Kizaemon the Landlord and Tomigorō the Blacksmith had departed, terrified by Osayo’s composure and left feeling fox-tricked— Genjūrō sat lost in thought, plucking specks of dust from his clothes one by one, when the sound of Osayo sipping tea suddenly dominated the room. “Now, Madam Osayo,” Genjūrō began with sudden resolve, meekly shuffling forward on his knees, “as I made clear to those townsfolk earlier, I don’t regard you as an outsider.” “Not only do you resemble my late mother—though shameful to admit—I too brought my own mother nothing but worry while she lived. No—rather, I should’ve shown more filial piety while she was alive. This is mere grumbling, but even now it’s all spilled water.” “So listen—Madam Osayo—if I properly care for you in your twilight years, you who so mirror my departed mother, I believe she’d rejoice from beyond the grave. Henceforth I’ll treat you as my true mother. Should you ever find my conduct wanting, rebuke me without reserve.”

The smooth-talking Genjūrō rattled off all this in one breath and stole a furtive glance at Osayo’s face—but Osayo, thoroughly taken in by him up to now, had no way of discerning his ulterior motives. Fully convinced she had become his mother—a 500-koku retired gentlewoman—she merely bowed her head as gracefully as she could manage this time as well.

“Oh no, Milord, if anything, it is I who should—” came her nearly ecstatic reply. The first stage of the scheme. "My scheme is half-complete," thought Suzukawa Genjūrō, puffing out his chest as he sat upright with an expression suggesting today’s discussion would be somewhat formal. “Now then, Madam Osayo…” Genjūrō was being uncharacteristically stubborn. “Yes.” “Now then—I’ve heard your circumstances in detail, but adoption is rather like a lottery. If you don’t win, there’s nothing more pointless.” "A close example would be your own situation." "Growing old and working as a maid—in a way, it’s proof that Lady Oto’s man lacks backbone." “Now, Madam Osayo—isn’t that so?”

“Yes.” “By the way—there’s a matter I’d like to discuss,” Genjūrō hastily added, peering up at her from below. “What say you, Madam Osayo—would you consider letting your daughter become my lifelong concubine?” “No—though I call her a concubine, that’s but the surface. In truth, she’d be a 500-koku lady—none other than the mistress of that household. How does that sound?” “Yes, if that were truly so…” “Hmm. Then what?”

“If that were indeed the case, it would mean unparalleled advancement not only for myself but for my daughter as well—but…” “But—what?” “Yes. However, there is the matter of Suwa Eizaburō…” “Hmm. I’m aware of him.” “I’m aware.” “But Suwa remains Suwa.” “But since Lord Eizaburō has been disowned by his family over Oto, to secure this divorce now would require some financial… Without that, I fear the arrangement may never come to fruition.”

Genjūrō jerked back sharply,

“Severance payment? No—that’s only natural.” “Let’s make this quick.” “How long until Suwa produces that divorce notice?” “That is correct.” “We once received fifty ryō all at once—it was after that when relations with his elder brother soured. If we give fifty ryō now, Lord Eizaburō would cut ties with Oto…” Recalling that fifty ryō from before—the money he’d temporarily obtained through Yohachi of Tsuzumi at Komagata’s temple grounds, only to have Taiken reclaim it moments later—Genjūrō suppressed a smirk,

“Alright, understood,” said Genjūrō. “Then I shall undertake to arrange that money myself. That’s well enough—but who will conduct the negotiations?” “That is to say—without naming any particular person—I shall go.” “I see. Then I entrust it to you.” As Genjūrō gave a quick bow, Osayo swiftly brought her mouth to his ear—

“And then—that thing Eizaburō is desperate to obtain with his life on the line—” “Hmm, hmm! It’s a sword, isn’t it? However, Madam Osayo—that is, that is Sazen’s...”

"But Milord..." Osayo, who had sidled closer, whispered something to Genjūrō—and the moment her throat bobbed with the final word, Suzukawa Genjūrō let out an involuntary “Ah!” of shock—when suddenly!

A shadow suddenly fell upon the shoji screen—the hoarse voice of the monstrous Tange Sazen. “Hey! Genjūrō! Hatchōbori’s here. Another sword dance begins.”

And—!

Agh—! The scream erupted from all around the mansion grounds! Halt in the name of the law! Halt in the name of the law! Halt in the name of the law! As Suzukawa Genjūrō—hearing the shouts erupt in unison—kicked open the shoji screen before him, there stood Tange Sazen, the one-eyed and one-armed swordsman: Ken’unmaru had been stolen by five fire-attired warriors, leaving him with ordinary long and short swords. Being a left-handed swordsman, he had thrust them firmly into his right hip and was now skillfully retying his obi over them with his single hand. On the veranda above and below, Genjūrō and Sazen exchanged probing gazes, and a prolonged silence ensued.

The mountain rain poised to break; winds saturated the tower.

Sazen sensed some commotion outside and quietly slipped out of the detached room. Spotting the white sashes of constables moving beyond the fence, he scaled the large zelkova tree jutting from the wall into the outer thoroughfare like a monkey—nimbly climbing upward to peer down below... The wave of constables’ staffs glittered in the sunlight as they closed in. The gale of authority skimmed the ground as it approached. So they’d discovered that crossroad killing with a reverse kesa slash! But before this thought could fully form in Sword Demon Sazen’s mind, another flashed through—who had informed on him to send this swarm of constables? Though suspicion lingered, he realized his priority was cutting through this crisscrossed net of arrest ropes. Finding no escape route beyond the wall, he gripped the ancient trunk with his left hand, slid down into the garden, and rushed toward Genjūrō’s chamber where he sat facing Osayo.

Sazen’s pallid face, deeply scarred by sword strikes, seemed to catch the scent of fresh blood as he flashed his white teeth. “They’re here, Genjū!”

“Higher-ups, huh? Killing them’s one thing. But the aftermath’ll be a pain.” “But even so—can’t be helped.” “Well, it cannot be helped.” Before he could speak, numerous footsteps closed in from all sides. Sword Demon Sazen bared one shoulder in a flash—and as a woman’s undergarment beside him burst into vivid color, his left finger snapped! Though it was not the demonic sword Ken’unmaru, he pushed open the koi-guchi. And—!

The moment he saw figures shift through the trees behind him—whizz...! Through the air flew expertly cast hook ropes, writhing like living serpents—now snapping toward Sazen's neck! The instant they grazed him—a silver flash leapt diagonally, severing the snake-like cords—and the severed rope coiled through low air like a drawn-out wave. Simultaneously. The off-balance thrower still clutching the rope's end lurched forward two, three steps as if yanked—just then!

Sazen’s plummeting longsword met with a crunch! The severed skull fragment rolled across the ground. Brain matter scattered through the grass like a rice bowl crowned with a samurai’s topknot flung aside— Slash! Splattered with arterial backspray, Sazen “Ptui! These shitty staffs reek!”

And, when he wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, “Submit quietly!”

A constable bellowed; another officer kicked off the ground and lunged—and in that instant, Sazen dropped his stance, "Th-this one too?!" A groan became his battle cry—then a thrust into the torso with a thud! He plunged the blade in. No sooner seen than Sazen whirled again—toward the wielder of the constable’s staff glinting sideways—and in an instant delivered a swift two-handed thrust, burying half the blade into the chestplate. Kicking up a leg to yank it free, he spun three times—four times—then five, transformed into a single entity with his blade. Wherever the cursed edge moved, clouds of blood followed—and there, under broad daylight, Sword Demon Tange Sazen began to unfold martial techniques bordering on divine mastery.

But the attackers were numerous. Like ants swarming toward honey, like a casting net tightening its mouth, they flashed their silver-polished constable’s staffs—seeming to press forward only to rise up, feigning retreat to close in… their crimson and violet sashes blooming like flowers out of season. “Grah!” Sazen dropped into a fluid low stance, his single eye darting in all directions… seeking any path through the tightening encirclement.

The winter sun hastened dusk with its stride.

And then, the evening moon. Trees, houses, and people's faces—all were cast in that blood-crimson moment of sunset. Amid the fading daylight, the moon had not yet added its glow. Where flames like blade-fire burned skyward, some unknown bird let out a shrill, wintry cry and took flight from the roof. Genjūrō stood on the veranda, utterly entranced by this fierce battle—perhaps so intoxicated by the scent of steel that he forgot to draw his own blade. Moreover, he remained completely unaware that Old Osayo had somehow stolen away silently, having slipped out of the room long before.

Should I defy my superiors and rescue Sazen… or abandon my friend to secure my own safety? Torn between these two paths, Suzukawa Genjūrō stood transfixed, utterly captivated by the blood-soaked tableau of the swordmaster's desperate struggle unfurling before him in the garden. He gripped a long sword in one hand while absently stroking the veranda pillar with the other—each time Sazen's blade drank fresh blood from the constables,

“One! Two! That’s three! Three! There! Four!” Genjūrō exclaimed, thrusting out his fingers in delight like a child counting chestnuts fallen from a tree. Beneath sunset clouds stretched from west to east like a single sweeping belt. Scattering and trampling the crimson afterglow across the garden’s expanse, alongside a slender shadow leaping across the ground, the Sword Demon Tange Sazen now demonstrated his ferocious prowess. “You lot! Come! Come at me together! Damn…!”

Exposing his blood-drenched form halfway up the artificial hill, Sazen raised his left sword high in a jōdan stance and swept his blazing single eye across his surroundings with a piercing glare.

Approaching dusk. Fearing they might lose their quarry in the gathering darkness, the arresting officers formed a circle with their well-practiced jitte, eager to subdue him quickly—yet though they urged themselves to charge up the slope, Sazen’s elevated position and unpredictable movements left them all hesitating with second and third thoughts... Meanwhile, Sazen—whose breathing had grown ragged during the flint-spark swordplay—now regained his composure, shoulders settling into an immovable stance as steady as stone.

Seeing this, one who seemed to be the leader of the constables shouted a loud reprimand from behind the semicircle. “Hey! Tange Sazen!” “The authorities have known full well since last winter that you’re the one who’s been terrorizing the capital with those crossroad killings!” “If you’re truly a master swordsman, recognize your hopeless situation! Why not submit quietly and accept these ropes?” “At this point, your resistance only adds to your crimes!”

Sazen’s pallid face smiled toward the source of the voice. “What’s this? So the crossroad killings are my doing? Tell me—who played the accuser? How’d you sniff out my hideout? Spit it out—now!” he forced out in a low, cold voice from the corner of his mouth. The constables persisted in booming voices, “I need not explain such matters to you!” he bellowed—but then, perhaps reconsidering, “But—” he lowered his voice, “the accuser… came from someone unexpectedly close to you.”

Sazen's single eye took on a crueler gleam. “Wh... what?!” “So...” “S-So... I’ve been sold out by a friend... Hah!” “How amusing!” “So that... the friend who ratted me out—where’s he from? Who the hell is he?” “Let me hear it!”

But the officials did not wait for Sazen’s words to finish, “Enough! Quit wasting time with this and that!” “Quit wasting time with this and that!” “If you want to hear it, you’ll listen once bound with ropes—now, all of you—attack!”

"And with that—'Arrest him! Submit properly!' The angry shouts coalesced into a swirling vortex, yet through a lull in the uproar came the faint sound of Sazen's throat—rasping with bitterness—wrenching out a desperate plea. 'Hey! Mercy! T-tell me!—Ngh! Wh-who betrayed me?! Y-you think I'll let these filthy ropes take me without knowing th-that?! Hah! A name! Hey! Name! Tell me the accuser's name! The name—U—!'"

But the officials, already frantically wielding their jitte, kept their mouths tightly shut—utterly without time to show any sign of response. Amidst the tempest where rain poured and winds howled like a storm of constables’ jitte, what suddenly caught Sazen’s eye at that moment was the figure of Suzukawa Genjūrō standing on the veranda in a dazed state, watching his own calamity unfold. No sooner had Sazen seen this than—as if something had flashed through his mind— “You! “Genjū! Hey, Genkō! “You bastard! You’re the one who ratted me out!”

Even as he roared—though it wasn't Ken'unmaru—Sazen's blade gained an extra sharpness, and he instantly sliced through two or three surrounding constables with a—Thud! No sooner had he mowed them down than he fixed his single eye—glinting with hatred and vengeance—on Genjūrō, tearing up the earth in his sprint as he charged through the swarm of constables' staffs toward the veranda. At that very moment. Booooom! With a single shot, a deep-rumbling cannon roar shook the winter-bare branches and echoed from beyond the mansion.

In the desolate garden of Honjo’s haunted mansion, blood-spraying waves of constables’ staffs churned violently alongside left-handed sword gusts... Though the miraculous blade Ken'unmaru was not at hand—claimed to have been taken by an enigmatic group—the mad swordsman Sazen’s skills ran wild freely, without needing to wait for Ken'unmaru.

And then. At that very moment when Sazen—single-mindedly convinced that Suzukawa Genjūrō, master of this house, must have been the secret accuser—disrupted formations and blended with shadows to break through the swarming constables, charging in one great leap toward Genjūrō on the veranda! Thrust!

Through the indigo twilight air rang out a single pistol shot from a concealed firearm. "Blast!" "A projectile's aid!..." A cry of astonishment at the ambush escaped the constables' lips. As one, they instinctively turned toward the gunfire's direction— A woman's figure approached through the garden's standing trees—her pale right arm extended straight as if clutching a European-made pistol, left hand pinning down her sleeve cuff. Step by cautious step she advanced. It was none other than Kushimaki Oto!

That was Oto—another wanted fugitive! Realizing this, the constables buzzed with renewed agitation, but Oto moved slowly forward, using a tree trunk as a small shield as she swung her pistol muzzle across the line of officers arrayed before her. “Now, Lord Sazen! Hurry!—It’s Oto! I’ve come for you. I’ll hold them off here—you make for the back gate! I’ll be right behind you!” Upon hearing this shrill cry, Sazen—for whom escape had now become imperative—paid no heed to Genjūrō still standing dazedly at the veranda’s edge.

“Hey, Suzugen! I never thought I’d be bitten by the likes of you!”

Genjūrō coldly retorted, “Don’t be absurd! That I accused you is nothing but your complete and utter delusion! That’s pure paranoia!” “Shut up! I’ll uncover the truth soon enough,” Sazen snapped back. “Sooner or later I’ll return the favor—mark my words!” “Precisely! The truth will out in time—but more importantly, Tange! We must quit this place immediately…!” “What’s this sudden charity?! Spare me your false concern!” Even as they exchanged these terse words, Sazen and Genjūrō—

“You folks move and I’ll shoot!...This foreign toy doesn’t wait around, heh heh heh...” As Oto thrust her pistol forward, the constables’ ranks momentarily let their guard down, left dumbfounded—and in that instant, Sazen smirked sardonically with his single eye and swiftly circled behind Oto, but…

With a couple of brisk pats to brush off his hem and adjust his collar—still vividly splattered with blood—he soon blended into the descending veil of night and nonchalantly slipped out through the back gate. He let fall a large sword that was not Ken’unmaru as if nothing had happened. And then immediately, Oto too—while tracing a circle before the officials with her pistol’s muzzle—cast a pale, meaningful smile at Genjūrō on the veranda, then retreated through the trees until four or five ken separated them when—Snap!—she leapt into motion and chased after Sazen.

The two shadows of the sword demon and female specter rapidly receded into the distance. "Now!" At the barked command, when constables jostled while trampling the pair's footprints, no human trace remained beyond the wall—only twilight haze thickening over fields flanking the road, and white smoke from evening meals drifting pale and long above distant rooftops. At Houonji Bridge's base, a lone stray dog howled toward the faint evening moon. Kushimaki Oto—where could she possibly be taking Sazen after rescuing him?

And what of Genjūrō, left behind?

No! But more importantly—where was Osayo...?

Even setting aside the cursed Ken-Kon swords and their nocturnal lamentations, Tange Sazen's mind roiled with turmoil—for he knew Yayoi's heart, which he naturally believed belonged to him after triumphing in last autumn's tournament at Akebono Village, now leaned irrevocably toward his sworn rival Suwa Eizaburō. This truth left his spirit profoundly unsettled, needless to say.

Therefore.

Sazen’s feelings toward Eizaburō contained much of a grudge born of a love entangled with swords—

Be that as it may.

As Sazen—who bore his lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke's secret decree—there remained one matter he found utterly perplexing no matter how he pondered it. Specifically: the true nature and purpose of those five palanquins...the fire-attired warriors who had materialized like phantoms when Eizaburō and Taiken stormed Suzukawa's mansion—after a night of chaotic combat through drizzling rain that lasted until near dawn—who crossed blades not only with his own group but with Eizaburō himself before vanishing into Shinonome's dawn-lit streets shortly thereafter.

They, too, sought to unite the twin blades of heaven and earth! This had been made clear during the fray when an old man who appeared to be their leader declared it amidst the chaos of battle, but this was a matter of supreme suspicion.

But in the first place...

Originating from Tange Sazen’s secret mission, an unforeseen great conflict had erupted between Suwa Eizaburō and Sazen—a struggle known only to the two principals involved, the few surrounding them, and the gods of fate who govern the workings of the world!

And yet! The five fire-attired warriors had abruptly burst onto the scene precisely at that critical moment when the cloud and dragon clashed in a single courtyard—as if they had been observing everything from the very beginning—their conflict forming twin tomoe. Five formidable swordsmen with drawn blades formed a single unit—undoubtedly plotting in the shadows with tiger-like vigilance to seize Ken'unmaru from Sazen and Konryūmaru from Eizaburō.

Even if one tentatively settled on that assumption—now then, even were they to gather together the two opposing swords of Cloud and Dragon, what in blazes did that five-member group intend? But now that matters had reached this point, doubts circled back—to conjecture about their objectives required first knowing their true nature. Who were they? Or perhaps—whose agents? ...Yet no matter how he racked his brains, Tange Sazen found no answers. Eizaburō's swordsmanship remained lethally sharp—honed through life-and-death battlegrounds, his skill advancing unnaturally fast. Worse still, he had Gamō Taiken at his side—a demon armed with an iron rod—making it no simple feat for Sazen's Ken'unmaru to summon Eizaburō's Konryūmaru. To compound matters, Suzukawa Genjūrō—the man bound by alliance—proved endlessly unreliable given his habitual conduct. And into this maelstrom had stormed those five mysterious warriors.

Thus, Tange Sazen found himself repeatedly forced to set aside his sword and ponder deeply—this being one day shortly after the raid—but Sazen, who had scarcely exercised his mind beyond gripping a blade in his single arm, grew utterly perplexed and turned to Yohachi, who sat in the thatched hut spouting idle chatter. “Hey, Yonokō.” “Huh? “Yeah, exactly.” “Heh. “What’s ‘exactly’?” “I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“Oh, right! But Milord, that guy… y’know, the samurai in fireman attire. Hey! Bullseye! This one’s a bullseye—” “Hmm! That’s precisely correct. You seem to possess mind-reading skills.”

“Heh-heh. “You’re joking. "I don't know nothin' 'bout such complicated stuff. What’re we s’posed to do ‘bout this mess, eh?” “Right, that’s it. What’s to be done, I wonder.” As they deliberated, Yohachi—whose moniker “the drum that resonates when struck” spoke to his quick-wittedness—twisted his thoughts this way and that until an idea struck him. After whispering two or three things, Sazen promptly accepted his counsel. A glint of joy lit the rōnin’s lone eye as he slapped his knee in satisfaction.

Although they had likely sworn to bestow an appropriate reward once their scheme bore fruit, the two continued their secret discussions for several hours more before finally settling on a single plan and immediately setting it into motion.

This occurred several days before Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke appeared at Asakusa’s Toshi no Ichi market and obtained the letter Sazen had addressed to Eizaburō…in other words, before the new year had properly begun. And thus, the lifetime of wicked schemes by Tsuzumi no Yonokō unfolded as follows. Now, through Tsuzumi no Yonokō’s stratagem—Sazen immediately seized his brush and drafted that very missive addressed to Eizaburō. The text declared that Ken'unmaru had been wrested away by his five-member group and now lay beyond his reach.

And since I no longer possess Ken'unmaru, there remains no meaning for us—you and I—to persist as sworn enemies locked in mutual pursuit. Moreover henceforth: let Tange Sazen lend his blade-arm to you. Through Konryūmaru’s magnetic pull still anchored at your hip—that cursed sword’s lingering gravity—we shall summon Ken'unmaru anew and make fools of those fire-cloaked warriors! Let past grievances dissolve like morning mist—cast them off utterly—and might you deign to count this Sazen among your allies afresh?

It was a truce letter filled with deception and guile—and indeed, an utterly self-serving proposal for an alliance.

For now, by delivering this letter to Eizaburō and temporarily restraining Konryūmaru's movements— "Now—what do we do in the meantime?"

Having reached this stage, Tange Sazen and Yohachi delved deeper into their discussion until finally— Now Sazen had to contend not only with Eizaburō—who bore Konryūmaru—and his sword ally Taiken, but also with those truly enigmatic fire-attired warriors of five. However peerless a swordsman he was, Tange Sazen alone could not manage. Moreover, Suzukawa Genjūrō—master of the house where Sazen had taken refuge—now found his initial fervor to eliminate Eizaburō gradually waning. Having ingratiated himself with elderly maid Osayo to drive a wedge between Oto and Eizaburō, he who had once resolutely joined swords with Sazen now devoted all efforts solely to their estrangement.

Indeed, Suwa Eizaburō was a sword foe to Sazen. For Genjūrō, a rival in love... Yet contrary to Sazen's initial confidence—that he would simply seize both swords of Heaven and Earth and make a swift retreat to his home domain of Nakamura—Suwa Eizaburō proved more formidable than anticipated. Then came the emergence of the swashbuckler Taiken, followed by the arrival of the five-member group. As these unforeseen obstacles multiplied and Suzukawa Genjūrō began employing tactics divergent from Sazen's own, Tange Sazen—now isolated across Edo's vast expanse with no allies—found himself growing uncharacteristically uneasy. In the shadows, he could do nothing but stroke Ken'unmaru with his single arm.

Suzukawa Genjūrō was so utterly unreliable! When he realized it—that the root of Tange Sazen's endless tribulations lay in Lord Sōma Daisanryō's burning ambition and strict command—there remained no choice but to urgently summon several dozen hardy swordsmen from his home domain. They would both prepare against the five-member group and simultaneously launch a surprise assault with overwhelming numbers to crush Eizaburō and Taiken, seizing Konryūmaru in one fell swoop! With the situation now this dire, speed meant victory.

A day's delay meant a day lost!

He had to race against time and summon a band of swordsmen from Sōma Nakamura! "Ah, Milord—that's indeed the wisest decision and finest idea at this critical hour..." Thus resolved, Tange Sazen pledged post-success rewards and secretly arranged for Tsuzumi no Yonokō to infiltrate Ōshū Nakamura. Therefore... The claim that Ken'unmaru had been stolen and now lay beyond Sazen's grasp was merely a desperate stopgap measure—all to maintain this false peace with Eizaburō through the forged letter until reinforcements arrived from his domain.

"If Yohachi brings along swordsmen from our domain?" "The rest was as good as done!" But during that period—if only Taiken and Eizaburō would take this document at face value and remain still… With half apprehension and half prayer, Tange Sazen handed the letter to Yohachi— Everything had sprung from his own mind; Tsuzumi no Yonokō understood every detail. “Milord, if I may be so bold—rest easy. “I’ll take care of deliverin’ this letter to Eizaburō, then head straight out for Oshū right away.”

“I see. Now—regarding what you’ll say when reaching Nakamura…” Tange Sazen meticulously reiterated the mission’s particulars before concluding, “Explain this situation thoroughly—gather our men. Harsh as it is on you, I want you departing that very night and racing back to Edo. You’ll claim whatever reward you desire afterward.” “Whoa now! That’s a fishy promise, Milord.” Yohachi chuckled slyly. “Between you and me—since when do we need such formal thanks? Heh-heh-heh…”

With their plan settled, Yohachi soon returned home to prepare—and at that very moment—!

In the dead of night, under cover of darkness, Tange Sazen stealthily—with utmost stealth—dug into the earth in a corner of the Suzukawa residence’s grounds and buried the great wailing blade known as Ken'unmaru— Who would have known! There, someone had secretly witnessed this burial of Ken'unmaru by Sazen.

Several days had passed since then. Now then—Tsuzumi no Yohachi, he of those ostentatious travel preparations. By this hour, was he truly hastening ever northward along the Oshu route? At any rate, until this very day, Tange Sazen of Rian’an had maintained an existence tinged with vague unease. Tsuzumi no Yohachi—the secret envoy dispatched to seek reinforcements for Sazen. Having swiftly made his travel arrangements and wandered through Asakusa’s New Year Market in desperate hopes of locating Eizaburō, all had proceeded splendidly up to the moment he fortuitously spotted his target and slipped him the letter—but—

Mistaken for a pickpocket and chased, he finally managed to leap into Kushimaki Oto’s house and breathe a sigh of relief—only to have his travel attire immediately arouse suspicion of collusion with Sazen, leaving him utterly disarmed by Oto’s charms and reduced to a captive. Yohachi, having melted into submission under Oto’s alluring gaze, had thus betrayed Sazen’s expectations and might still be loitering upstairs in her house even now. For someone in Sazen’s position, there could be no greater setback than this. But then—despite that—how had Eizaburō thought upon reading Sazen’s letter? Though he surely had not accepted Sazen’s claims as truth, what measures had he decided upon for the future? This matter would remain a divine secret for the time being.

Moreover, that Eizaburō had dropped Sazen’s letter—and that it had been picked up, of all people, by Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, now resting in his possession—was a matter we shall not delve into here...

But it was Oto. The moment she heard from Yohachi's own mouth that Ken'unmaru was left unpossessed by Sazen, she instantly pierced through the ruse and burned with resentment that even Yohachi now supported him. I yearn for Lord Sazen—that remains unchanged—but only when requited does love become love. To be so utterly scorned yet still nurse secret affection for a man—this aligned neither with Oto's temperament nor her age of coy maidenhood; from the outset, it defied all reason.

Not only that. When Oto thought of Sazen's heart—racing only toward Yayoi without sparing her a glance—the memory of his harsh rejection burned within her, and she had waited for any chance to retaliate against him. "If I can't have it, I'll destroy it completely!" "If we're strangers anyway, why hold back!" "Curse Sazen to hell—no, better yet, wreck everything about that man!" No sooner had jealous Oto—having duped Yohachi into staying put—slipped away than she drafted an accusation exposing the whereabouts of Tange Sazen, the one-armed rōnin responsible for crossroad killings— and flung it into the Asakusabashi guardhouse. The handwriting betrayed feminine strokes, but she boldly inscribed "Suzukawa Genjūrō" as the complainant's name.

This was what had sparked that raid... The police uproar had occurred, but—! The moment the swarm of constables rushed into the haunted mansion in Honjo, Oto found herself utterly powerless against the desolate emotion that seethed up from her heart’s depths. Lord Tange must be arrested!

"And all because I did a bit of meddling!" No sooner had this thought struck her than Oto could bear it no longer—a natural outpouring of human emotion, this unbearable restlessness—and she abruptly tucked her cherished pistol into her kimono and dashed off toward Honjo.

What for? To pull Sazen out of the trap she herself had laid! There could be no doubt this was the madam of Kushimaki—a woman who combined a witch’s venom with an Edo native’s passionate devotion. Yet if both traits were intrinsic to Oto’s true nature, then one must say her racing after the arresting officers to stage a rescue mere moments after selling him out demonstrated an exceptionally elaborate form of panic. However, it was no contradiction— Why…? If one were to ask— This thought had come to Oto’s mind as she raced through the town streets: if she rescued Sazen with her own hands now, she would place him under an immense debt of gratitude—greater than any other. Then, if she later demonstrated and articulated her devotion thoroughly, even someone as formidable as Lord Sazen might finally cast aside Yayoi’s phantom and become truly bound to her. No—it was certain to happen.

Moreover, since the accusation formally bore the name of the Honjo lord himself, this would splendidly drive a wedge between Sazen and Genjūrō—and before long, she might even see Genjūrō’s blood staining Sazen’s blade! That detestable Lord Genjūrō—breaking his bridge-crossing promise, thinking only of himself! A debt! A debt! I’ll make him indebted to me! That man was neither wood nor stone—and they said samurai above all were moved by debts of gratitude—.

Oto—her longing for Sazen now painfully intensified—a debt! A debt! Debt! Debt! Keeping time with her pounding heart, sustaining a silent scream that threatened to burst her chest, she soared through the air toward Sazen’s peril and loosed a single pistol shot—a desperate gambit. She rescued Tange Sazen at the critical moment, and then—!

Where to take him……she had a clear destination in mind. There——to that place known to none but Oto! At the Suzukawa mansion in Honjo, amidst the lingering clash of constables’ staffs and gleaming blades encircling the sword fiend Sazen... This had occurred just moments before—Kushimaki Oto had suddenly appeared and, with a single pistol tucked in her kimono, shielded Sazen as they fled together.

A hazy dusk enveloped the surroundings like thin mist. The lingering afterglow quivered faintly in the skies over Oshiage and Yanagishima—though only briefly—as first Hirakawayama Hōonji, then nearby Shinshō, Daihō, Reizan, Honpō, Eiryū, Honbutsu, and other numerous temples sounded their bells. The strikes of their wooden mallets drew lingering trails through the twilight hour before fading away between heaven and earth. The sixth hour of dusk. Behind the Suzukawa haunted mansion, beneath an ancient chinquapin tree that thrust upward like a madwoman with disheveled hair, stood a modest storage shed beside a crumbling folding door—half-buried under aged firewood and kindling as though forgotten by time.

This was the very place where, once before, Kushimaki Oto—having heard from Yohachi of Tange Sazen’s affections toward Yayoi—had transformed into a green-faced female yasha.

But now.

In the creeping evening darkness, only the clang of clashing swords and guttural battle cries flowed from the inner garden—though on the lawn before the main hall, Tange Sazen was likely staging his one-armed swordplay against the constables. Here on the backside facing away, there were no human figures to be seen—just a low wind passing through the sky, the chinquapin treetops groaning as if suddenly remembering, caressing stardust scattered like agar-agar. A desolate evening scene.

Thud!

At this moment. As if possessed by some malevolent spirit, a single black-robed monk appeared unsteadily in this corner of the garden. For a while, she pressed her ear to the storage shed’s door and listened toward the front and surroundings. Then, upon determining that the mansion—now consumed by the police raid—had no one approaching, she quietly slipped inside the shed—and emerged moments later.

Needless to say, it was old woman Osayo who had stealthily slipped out of the room when the sword fight between Sazen and the constables began while she was conversing with Genjūrō. In her hand, she gripped a hoe taken from the storage shed. As she took out a hoe in the evening—what could she be doing in such a place?—one might wonder while watching! Osayo, without a moment’s hesitation, immediately raised the hoe and began digging at the base of the chinquapin tree in the shed’s shadow— How strange! It seemed someone had recently dug here—the surface had only just begun to harden. With each strike—one, two—the soft soil piled effortlessly onto the metal tip and was scooped out at Osayo’s feet.

In the dim twilight, the hoe’s blade gleamed whitely. Each time its dull thud bit into the soil and shattered the surrounding silence, the hole grew gradually larger. Hah! Hah! The old woman Osayo heaved her shoulders with each labored breath as she stole glances around—what could she be trying to unearth in the shadow of this shed...? That was—

Some nights prior, one night. Osayo—who as an old woman had stayed awake past her usual bedtime—suddenly rose to relieve herself and peered absently through a small window into the outdoor darkness. There, where Tange Sazen should have been sleeping apart, he was digging into the very spot, attempting to bury a long narrow object wrapped layer upon layer in rags and oiled paper. Under cover of midnight, their houseguest Sazen had engaged in suspicious activity... This formed part of a clandestine scheme: temporarily hiding Ken'unmaru here while falsely claiming the five-member fire-attired group had stolen it, thereby deceiving even Eizaburō and those within the mansion. But Osayo—who had witnessed everything from start to finish—now intended to exploit the current chaos just as she had reported to Genjūrō earlier: she would unearth the sword and promptly deliver it to Eizaburō as part of severing ties with Oto.

The number of hoe swings brought down by old woman Osayo’s hands!…… Dirt flew. Pebbles scattered. And finally—not a dragon of the earth, but Ken'unmaru in the soil—when the blade appeared before Osayo’s eyes! The gunshot fired by Kushimaki Oto to rescue Tange Sazen rang out. For how many days since their separation had this night-wailing blade’s counterpart—yearning for Konryūmaru, weeping in solitary sorrow, sated with human blood—driven men toward tragedy and ceaselessly stirred wicked desires? Now, here for the first time, Ken'unmaru slipped from Tange Sazen’s grasp.

Osayo squatted down as if about to stumble and lifted the heavy sword from the bottom of the hole. A sharp snap rang through the darkness as she brushed the dirt from its wrappings. After Oto and Sazen had been swallowed by the evening gloom, the constables too hurriedly exited the garden in pursuit.

Genjūrō stood blankly alone on the veranda for a long time. Even now, the constables might return at any moment, and there would likely be an interrogation of himself as well. He might possibly be ordered to appear before the magistrate’s office, but since he would first need to make arrangements with Lord Aoyama Bizen-no-kami, head of the Kobushin Administration, and follow proper procedures, tonight should be safe for now. In that time, if he carefully crafted his defense, navigating this situation shouldn’t be too difficult—so Genjūrō thought dismissively as he waited for the officials to return. But the pursuers seemed to have already crossed Hōonji Bridge and scattered along the Yokogawa riverbank. A cold, desolate wind brushed his temples, and across the garden—which until moments ago had been surrendered to whirlpools of blades and tides of halberds—dark crimson stains, likely blood from the arrested wounded, now dotted the grass roots.

The deep hue of full night.

Genjūrō remained motionless for a long time. Tange Sazen stubbornly persisted in believing that Genjūrō had betrayed him by informing the authorities, but how those officials had managed to pinpoint Sazen's whereabouts remained as much a mystery to Genjūrō as it did to Sazen himself. "The bastard seemed to hold a grudge against me," a muttered soliloquy escaped Genjūrō’s lips. Simultaneously, he shuddered as something beyond mere cold crept up his nape—for Genjūrō now vividly recalled Sazen's indescribably dreadful sword techniques and that single eye resembling a frenzied serpent. Yet he looked up at the twilight sky and grinned.

“Sazen! What’s the matter!” “First off, whatever you say—it’s none of my concern.” With that, Genjūrō mumbled the latter part like a half-hearted excuse under his breath and turned to enter the room—but upon reconsidering, what struck him as even more baffling was how Kushimaki Oto had leaped out at that crucial juncture.

Hmm! Oto... The moment he chewed on this single word as if savoring it, all pathways seemed to become transparent to Genjūrō. Leaning against a pillar, he spun around while shifting his posture with a wry smile. No sooner had this thought struck him than—Ha ha ha! A booming laugh welled up from the pit of his belly, "Oto... "Ah hahaha! So this was Oto's doing—" He was endlessly swept up in his amusement, but—

Eventually.

“Osayo… Lady Osayo…!” When he called out and peered into the room, discovering the old woman was nowhere to be seen, Genjūrō abruptly stopped laughing and strained his ears. Only the sound of evening wind blowing through the trees——the quietness of twilight pierced deeper than midnight’s chill. In the pitch darkness, white flakes fluttered and danced——it seemed snow had begun to fall. Suzukawa Genjūrō, having suddenly remembered something, hurriedly descended into the garden.

Regarding the matter of Ken'unmaru that Osayo had whispered about earlier... Having seen Tange Sazen burying that sword behind the storage shed, she wanted to secretly dig it up immediately and deliver it to Suwa Eizaburō as compensation from Suzukawa Genjūrō for Oto. Osayo had said this, but she might have already dug up the earth and taken something away. In that case, the blame would eventually come from Sazen to himself. When it came to the night-wailing blades, Sword Demon Sazen would throw away his life—there was no telling what he might do——.

As this thought occurred to Genjūrō, he grew somewhat concerned and slipped on his garden clogs before hurrying around to the back. Snow struck cheeks and vanished. A chinquapin tree. In its shadow stood a decayed woodshed. He looked at the tree's roots— A hole had indeed been dug. Into the dark narrow earthen pit, snowflakes like white butterflies kept fluttering down one after another. "Osayo! You've finally outsmarted Sazen and made off with Ken'unmaru." "This has become a bit troublesome regarding Tange!"

Repeating this in his mind, Genjūrō brushed the snow from his head and returned to the room. However, he found himself completely stuck on procuring the fifty ryō severance payment for Eizaburō that he had promised Osayo that day—more so than even the matter of Ken'unmaru.

That a five hundred koku hatamoto would be troubled by fifty ryō... It seemed unthinkable, but mired in debts and unable to make ends meet, Genjūrō lacked even five ryō, let alone fifty. Worldly desires drive people to heresy. Hmm— Maybe I should kill...

As he stepped up onto the veranda while swinging an imaginary sword in the darkness, Tsuchiwa Sensuke's humming could be heard from beyond the shoji screens - having arrived unnoticed at some point.

In Edo, it was the evening when the first snow of that winter fell.

Two Tears “Oh yes. “I’m just a yakuza woman after all.” “Well~ Unlike some young lady from a swordsmanship master’s household, I can’t measure up.” “Hmph!” “What a shame for you.”

Oto pursed her lips into a scowl and glared resentfully at Eizaburō. A petulant sideways slouch— Eizaburō stared miserably at the two glossy, reddish heels spilled across the tatami like discarded things, then turned his eyes away. It was a heavy, overcast winter day. Beneath a sky threatening tears, laundry from the main street's sundry shop hung damp and limp behind window lattices... In the depths of Kawaramachi's grimy back alleys where everything lay thin and soiled. Suddenly from the neighboring plasterer's house came the bellowing voice of a shrew.

“What the hell, you brat! Scattering ashes here again?!” “Really, really a brat who never learns his lesson.” “You look just like your father!” Next came a sharp slap! The sound of a blow striking his head. “Waaah!” A child’s wail rose shrilly—slap slap slap went the mother’s palm, lashing the child’s cheek with reckless abandon.

What a dark, damp world this was! …Young Eizaburō’s heart felt unable to bear that tormenting weight, and he forced a gentle smile toward Oto. "What dreary weather. Rain... no—it might turn to snow. How’s your headache?" Oto snorted, "Hmph!" Turning away, she made sure Eizaburō saw the headache plaster on her temple.

He once again bitterly furrowed his brows.

A brittle— In the silence unnaturally severed, an ominous air enveloped the two. It truly was an ominous atmosphere—one that could bring rain, snow, no—rather, a tempest…

A beat.

Oto pulled slightly at the collar and bit the nails of the hand, then began to speak in a half-soliloquy, with solemn gravity. “Foolish as I am, even a mere teahouse woman like me knows full well it’s a miracle I can still call myself the wife—nay, the lady—of such a fine samurai as yourself.” “But you see, even if people can somehow scrape together meals and get through the day with that—that’s not enough, I tell you.” “I’ve got my moments too—times when I want to put on one or two nice kimonos like any ordinary woman.”

Here we go again!— With that thought, Eizaburō grimaced, his eyes glinting like thorns as he glared around the room.

How changed Oto had become! The once-diligent Oto had lately not once touched a needle or broom, while both Eizaburō and she wore nothing but clothes riddled with frayed threads and stains… Before long, dust piled high in the corners of their single tatami room, discarded underrobes lying flipped inside-out to reveal their faded crimson linings, while nearby a day-night obi coiled insolently like a serpent—such was their wretched state.

It was as if they’d plucked some post town prostitute and enshrined her as the grand madam of their household—

But that wasn’t all—from her attitude and manner of speaking to the very things she said, Oto had transformed completely into a self-indulgent woman. It hadn’t been like this. Until recently, it hadn’t been like this at all. As he dwelled on this, Eizaburō wondered—what could have changed Oto so drastically? Yet rather than puzzling over the reasons and motives behind it, he now found himself perpetually irritated by countless daily trivialities, his eyes inevitably narrowing in displeasure. Because of this, their petty marital quarrels—unchanged from days of old, so trifling even dogs would scorn them—had bloomed anew, and today proved no exception…

Earlier, with a lacquer-chipped tray between them, the two began their morning meal. No matter how one looked at it - even though there must have been other options - when Eizaburō failed to bring the so-called miso soup stripped down to bare essentials and meager scraps of pickled radish to his mouth with any relish, Oto predictably seized the moment to ignite hostilities, as if she had been waiting for precisely this opportunity. "Oh! What a disgusted face! Why are you making such a face?"

“…………” “Is what I cooked really that disgusting?!” “Now, you don’t have to—” “No! “I shouldn’t say this, but if we just had money—I could make do a bit better… Hmph!” “...Hmph! That’s how it is.” What had just unfolded was...

Eizaburō turned aside, trying to distract himself with other matters. "Master Taiken hasn't shown himself in quite some time. I wonder where he could be." "Living aboard a boat beneath this frigid sky must be no easy thing." As if suddenly noticing his own words—"cold sky"—he shuddered violently and moved to add charcoal to the dying brazier fire. "You!" Oto's voice contained something at its depths that still threatened to erupt, desperately holding it back.

“You—!” “What?”

In Eizaburō’s hand, the fire tongs gripping charcoal hung motionless in midair. “What’s with that face?” Oto shot a pale, piercing glance at Eizaburō and remained silent for a time, but— “This face, that face—this is my face we’re talking about. What do you expect me to do? It’s not like I can just peel it off and put on a new one now!” “What?” “No, well—it’s not like everything can go as smoothly as that Nezu young lady’s situation, y’know.” “Oto, what are you saying?”

“They say even a packhorse driver can look decent with proper clothes and hairstyle—well, if I dolled myself up all fancy-like, people’d see me in a new light too, y’know. But it takes money. And for that… you need mo-ney! Do you understand?”

“Nonsense! You’ve been out of your mind lately!” Eizaburō began quietly adjusting the arrangement of the charcoal without attempting to respond, though his inner turmoil seemed beyond control—the tips of the fire tongs trembled violently, collapsing the charcoal as soon as he set them upright. Both their faces were pale. Lips white as paper—. As if utterly resolved to prolong this quarrel, when Oto suddenly lunged forward vehemently, her kneecap struck a knee, and the coarse tea bowl overturned with force.

“Hmph!” Eizaburō grunted, “Wh-what are you doing?!” “What the hell is this?!” Oto grabbed the corner of the tray once more and shook it violently. The ceramic dishes clashed together, making a violent sound.

“Oto!” “But isn’t that exactly how it is? Is there anything in this world that money can’t accomplish? I never imagined things would get this hard when I joined up with you... Looking like such a wretched mess these days—” Oto tugged at the patched sleeve of her yellow-checkered kimono, “—I’m too ashamed to even go buy tofu. When I pass by fabric stores, I cover my eyes and run past them.”

“...My apologies.” “Apologies won’t fill our bellies! This shack creaks and groans year-round—we’re riding a burning chariot of debt!” “New Year’s comes and we can’t even pound mochi! Everything we scrounge gets tossed in the storehouse—pah! All we stockpile are pawnshop tickets! See?” “There’s not even scraps left to pawn now!” “Enough shouting. The neighbors will hear.” “That’s rich! ‘Why this’ and ‘shame that’—hmph! Samurai live by different rules, don’t they!”

“Hey—Oto!”

“Yes?” “What’s come over you these days?” “There’s nothing wrong.” “Is that so? To my eyes, your manner has changed entirely—” “No. There’s nothing amiss... but I’ve been pondering something deeply.” “Hmm. What might that be? Speak plainly.” “……” “If you’ve grown weary of this humble one, why not declare it outright? State all clearly.”

Oto's profile hung wordlessly, her face seemingly on the verge of tears—and seeing this, Eizaburō found himself unexpectedly slipping back into tender feelings. "Come on, speak up," he urged. "I'll listen properly." As he leaned in to peer at her—ho ho ho ho!—Oto shook him off and declared airily: "You should quit this sword-hunting business... It's out of fashion these days."

With a flirtatious coquettish laugh, Oto shook off Eizaburō and casually declared: "You should quit this sword hunt... It's not in fashion these days." Her words urging him to abandon his quest to retrieve Ken'unmaru—the night-wailing blade—were spoken in a tone akin to advising someone to discard worn-out sandals. Even Eizaburō couldn't help but flare up at this sudden remark— But he, being a prudent man with critical matters at hand, did not so easily let his fury show. However, the low voice he deliberately adopted in quiet tones betrayed his self-control with a faint tremble.

“Why?—Why say such things now?” “You knew from the start I’ve staked my life on retrieving Ken’unmaru.” “Didn’t you enter into this with me… fully aware of that?” “Yes—I know that.” Oto buried her chin in her collar and glared up at Eizaburō through narrowed eyes. When silence fell, the iron kettle’s boiling water chimed like wind through pines—though they sat in Edo’s heart, the secluded back alley’s end gave them the feel of a mountain hermitage far from human company.

Through the eaves of the opposite building, a feeble excuse of cloudy sunlight streamed in, dimly illuminating the faded red-brown tatami mats frayed at their edges. A sensation as inexorable as morning chill's high tide seeped steadily into Eizaburō's chest until it brimmed over. Oto continued. "I understand that. But when I see you making our life second or third priority like this—throwing yourself into those sword matters..." "You've grown sick of it—is what you mean?"

Eizaburō's voice had dried out and grown strained.

“…………” “Hey!”

“My! What a tone to take!” Oto said admonishingly, but immediately sneered through her nose— “Yes. “That’s right!” “That is precisely the case.” Her voice as she declared this was nearly a shout.

Then she slumped her body even more sloppily at an angle and began speaking rapidly in a shrill voice, as if a dam had burst. “Yes! That is precisely the case!” “I hate people like you who try to play nice with both sides!” “You want the sword, you want to stay with me—that’s just balancing two weights! Isn’t it obvious one will get neglected?”

“Wh-what did you say? What’s this ‘good guy to both sides’ nonsense? When have I ever neglected you?” “Aren’t you neglecting me? Is the sword more important to you than I am? If you can just get that blade, you won’t care if someone like me dies rotting in a ditch.” “You fool! Do as you please!”

Muttering as if spitting the words out, Eizaburō slowly rose to his feet. Oto glared sharply up at him from below, “You!” “What’s all this racket?!” “You’d call me noisy now, would you?!—Back when we were together, you fussed over me with this and that—I was overwhelmed by your attentiveness! The moment the tide turns against you, you always make yourself scarce. Don’t play these cowardly games—if you’re a samurai, settle this clearly like a true samurai! —Where are you off to? …I know already! The northwest quarter. Kōjimachi, is it? Oh, that young lady is someone of higher standing to you, and given her noble birth, there’s no feminine art she hasn’t mastered—why, compared to me, we’re as different as snow and ink, the moon and a snapping turtle! Why don’t you do your utmost to take good care of her, then?”

Eizaburō pretended not to hear—forming a twisted smile, he busied himself retying his sash.

As the frayed end of his sash brushed against the tatami and slid toward Oto, she raised her knee and firmly pressed it down. “Hey! Just settle this already! It’s one or the other—Ken’unmaru or me. Which will you choose…?” “Oto!” Eizaburō’s eyes were filled with sorrow. “Now you’re being reasonable.” “I’ve got business to attend to now—look—” “Running around sorting this mess out.” “Blind as a bat.” “Hahaha! Don’t torment me so—just stay put quietly.” “You understand?”

“I refuse!” “Enough with your jokes already.” “I’m the woman they call Atariya no Oto.” “You’re not the only man in this world, you know.” Eizaburō’s eyes narrowed, glinting strangely. “Oto! Y-you… Sit! Right there!” “But I am sitting here, aren’t I?” “Why don’t you be the one to sit down instead?” “You’ve grown quick with your retorts.” “You’ve been acting oddly these days.” “You must harbor some resentment—picking fights over trifles and defying me at every turn.” “Well? No—such vulgar words only spawn uglier quarrels.” “Cease this at once!”

“Oh, how self-serving! I can’t simply leave things at this.”

“You’ve completely changed as a person.” “Wouldn’t I have changed too? Living in such poverty!” “Every other word out of your mouth is ‘poverty’… Do you hate being poor that much?” “Maybe it’s my nerves, but it doesn’t give me the creeps much. Well then—what’s your answer? Kengenmaru or me?”

“Shut up! You wretch, Oto! For one who presumes to be a samurai’s wife—even in destitution—to show no grasp of right and wrong, no comprehension of affection or duty! How dare you spew such boundless drivel with such impudence! Since demons possess you, this humble one shan’t engage earnestly. Go—place a hand on your breast and ponder this alone.”

“More lectures! Everything’s about ‘samurai this’ and ‘swords that’ with you—thanks to you, even I’ve learned this stiff proper talk they call ‘Atariya no Oto.’ But I’d rather have someone who truly cherishes me—just me—than some fool prattling noble words while starving themselves, changing their face’s color over a single sword, running around dawn till dusk. Townsfolk or farmers would do fine! That’s all I want.”

“Hmm… Have I misjudged you—” “Hohoho, that goes both ways.” “So? What exactly are you proposing?” “First cleanly forget about Kengenmaru—then casually discard those imposing swords of yours—adopt a neat hairstyle—dress cheerfully in something striped or such…” “Y-you... Idiot!” “What are you saying?!” “You... Th-that’s your true intention?!” “It is my true intention, I assure you.” “I can see a little of what’s right in front of me, you know.” “You—even if you wish to be with Lady Yayoi, without that sword you can’t even become a live-in son-in-law. So until it falls into your hands, you’re using someone like me as your pawn—and once you seize that blade, you’ll cast me aside and take it as a gift to Lady Yayoi’s side, won’t you?” “I’ve been well aware of that all along.” “Hohoho.”

“Oto! Y-you… You’ve lost your mind!” “The separation of the night-crying swords—when traced back to its origin—began with this humble one.” “Therefore, retrieving Ken'unmaru from Tange Sazen and presenting both it and this Konryūmaru before Lady Yayoi, head of the Onozuka house—no, more than for Lady Yayoi... it is the greatest memorial offering to Master Tessai, who fell to Sazen’s blade! A matter of duty—of obligation!” “As a human… as a man…” “Aaaah!—Oh, pardon me.” “Went and yawned right in your face.”

“Tch! You know this humble one’s true heart a hundredfold—a thousandfold—yet you nitpick at every turn… Women and children are indeed hard to please. You utterly contemptible wretch!” “Stop this! I’ve had enough!”

“What? What did you say?!” “I’ve had enough of your sanctimonious lectures. My ears have grown calluses from hearing them.” “I do not wish to repeat such matters from this humble one’s own lips—that I betrayed my late master’s will, brought grief upon Lady Yayoi, angered my brother in Torigoe, and now dwell in these wretched alleys…” “Hold there! Are you claiming all this was done for my sake? How pitiful for you. With a mind like yours, no wonder you cherish swords over me—I’ll hear no more!”

“What vulgar language!” “Ugh... How utterly crude…” “Hohohoho! What’s this sudden act? This is the true worth of Sansha-mae’s sister—Oto of Atariya herself.” “If you saw my unvarnished self, even your last shred of patience would vanish.” “How dare you...” “Oh please. Posturing like a paper-mâché tiger—how utterly pathetic.” “How dare you hide your fangs all this time!” “Young master, have you finally noticed?” “Ohohoho.” “But you know—there are those who insist only Oto will do.” “The world works in strange ways—it seems not entirely without its charms.”

“I... I’ve been tricked! Damn it!” “Take nearby examples—Milord Suzukawa can’t spend a single day or night without me.” “Wh-what?! S-Suzukawa Genjūrō?!” “Suzukawa Genjūrō… You mean that Suzukawa Genjūrō?!” When Eizaburō glared and spoke in a raised voice, Oto put her hand to her small mouth and laughed alluringly. “Yes, there’s only one Milord Suzukawa, isn’t there? The honorable hatamoto in front of Hōonji Temple in Honjo—”

Oto's words, which she had begun to speak, were mercilessly severed midway. Without waiting for her to finish, Eizaburō’s arm lunged forth with brute force—seizing Oto by the collar and hair—then yanked her bodily down to the floor.

“Oto!”

With one knee raised and Oto firmly pinned beneath him, Eizaburō's voice grew clouded with sorrowful anger, his eyes already glistening with bitter tears.

“Oto... I’d long known about Suzukawa of Honjo’s obsession with you. But that you—as my wife—would show even a shred of affection for that man... I... I’d never dreamed such a thing until this very moment!” “—”

Her pale cheek nearly crushed against the floor, Oto's face was pressed into the tatami until she couldn't utter a sound. "And yet—had I remained silent and listened, you would've brazenly boasted of Suzukawa's affections before your own husband... Oto!" "You... When you were confined at the Honjo mansion days ago—" Eizaburō's voice—his tongue tangled in jealous flames—poured forth with heartrending intensity. Hearing this, Oto lay half-entranced against the tatami, enduring his insistent prodding as one side of her body remained pressed to the matting...

A large teardrop slipped from the corner of her eye, trailed down her long lashes, streaked across her cheek, and was swiftly absorbed into the sun-baked tatami mat. A single streak of white light trailed behind.

And then, at that moment— "You! When you were confined at the Honjo mansion the other day—" Hearing Eizaburō's words trailing off ambiguously— Oto, seemingly enraged to her core with disheveled hair and exposed chest, attempted to leap up suddenly. But as Eizaburō's arm surged with strength, she was effortlessly forced back into her original position. Instead, she strained out a voice choked with tears. "Are you implying I... with Milord Suzukawa?" "This goes too far—utterly too far!" "That alone—even from someone of your standing—I cannot let pass unchallenged!" "Release me." "What evidence... No, I'll ask directly." "I beg you—let go—"

And as she now completely abandoned feminine composure, writhing frenziedly in heartfelt frustration, Eizaburō pressed down even harder, pulling her close against his knees, “Shut up! If this recent behavior shows your true self, then even if you cozy up to Genjūrō—or anyone else—Eizaburō wouldn’t bat an eye!” “Wh-what... Unngh!” “What a harlot—!” “W-wait, please!” “Harlot! Witch!” “Viper!”

Eizaburō, his hot tears gushing uncontrollably, groaned in broken intervals as with each falling teardrop, his love-agonized fists rained down upon Oto like hail. The torment of being unable to refrain from striking the one you love precisely because you love them... Even had he swung with ferocious momentum in that instant, by the time his hand—weakening mid-arc—reached Oto's body, it had naturally gentled into what might be called a caress.

Oto recoiled from Eizaburō’s grip and leapt back to the base of the pillar. “It’s not only Milord Suzukawa who dotes on me.” “There’s the blacksmith Tomigorō too, and that young master from the grand shop who visits Atariya’s establishment…” “Enough! Must you keep speaking?!” As he roared, Eizaburō’s hand involuntarily closed around his sword’s pommel. Seeing this, Oto laughed with pallid lips.

“Ohoho, you’d actually cut down someone like me?” “How amusing—but mind you, I’ve many patrons who might take issue with that afterward.” “—!” Without a word, Eizaburō suddenly swung Musashi Tarō overhead—the blade he’d silently drawn from its sheath—and with a wailing shout, the icy edge unleashed a killing gale as he thrust! The strike sank deep into Oto’s shoulder. Ggh—!

Gritting her teeth, Oto twisted her supple torso in an instant, scraped the tatami mats, and fell face-down.

But—! It had been a back strike. Oto immediately winced in pain and tried to rise, but Eizaburō had already cleanly sheathed Musashi Tarō and stood blocking her path with both hands on his hips, staring down at her fixedly.

His eyes...!

Oh—those eyes—as though gathering all human passions—lust, hatred, longing—into one place here, harboring an inexpressible passion that defies words, drenched in an uncanny light—seeming to weep—yet when looked at again, to laugh.

In the momentary silence, the man and the woman’s eyes—fervently striving to read the profound meanings in each other’s depths—clashed fiercely, creaking as if about to make a sound. It was Eizaburō who broke the silence. “Oto! You who had vowed so solemnly and whom I had trusted completely until this very day—I cannot believe you to be such a tainted woman. No—I refuse to believe it, no matter what. However—”

“…………?” As Oto looked up at Eizaburō—his words faltering mid-sentence—a sorrow so profound it seemed detached from all worldly existence flickered across her face. But before Eizaburō could notice, it vanished beneath a defiant smile, and Oto pressed him onward through wordless mockery.

“………?” “However—since your very nature has undergone such a leopard-like transformation of late, I must reluctantly acknowledge this change of heart." “The human heart flows like water—once it has coursed away, neither a hundred lamentations nor a thousand sermons can return it to its source—wouldn’t you agree?” “What’s this—tears? What cause have you to weep now?” “Yes… no.” “I too have awakened to the truth—hahaha! No—once I clearly perceive that your heart has abandoned me, I—as a man—shall not cling to this hollowed husk bereft of soul." “Therefore—let us make this our final day together.”

As he spoke—what would her answer be? Though his words suggested finality, Eizaburō—leaning forward in a half-crouch, his face overflowing with fragile anxiety—clearly still clung to lingering attachment... "I-I'm sorry." At Oto's stammered apology, Eizaburō—who had secretly harbored a sliver of hope at that "Perhaps..."—jerked backward in shock! Even as he recoiled, an irrepressible new yearning surged from the depths of his chest— "I see."

A low voice choked with suppressed emotion. Tears feigned with effort seeped out uncontrollably— Wah! And Oto collapsed weeping there. “Thank you for…” “What?” “The kindness you’ve shown me—I will never forget it, even in death.” “Hmph! Spouting nonsense...”

Eizaburō had already regained his composure. Feeling along his belt at the hilt of the long sword Musashi Tarō Yasukuni, he slipped Konryū and the short sword into place as a matched pair. As the swords' weight caused his loosened belt to sag, he lightly shifted it upward, adjusted the fit of both blades, then stepped down onto the dirt floor with a deliberate grace. In one hand, he held a rōnin’s hat.

He slipped on his sandals... and then casually moved to step through the lattice door. "You! Lord Eizaburō!" Oto’s voice desperately pursued him. But he did not even turn around, “Take care—” “What? Let me see your face one more time!” Oto, choked by bitter tears, pressed her disheveled white knees into the tatami mats, then staggered toward the entrance frame with hands raised emptily— "Hah! Live well!” A shout... and the lattice door snapped shut! As the lattice door closed and the man’s figure momentarily blocked the sunlight, Oto—who had collapsed weeping at the entrance—could only listen as Eizaburō’s footsteps on the roji’s drainage boards gradually faded into the distance, like a dream she had no choice but to endure.

A dream? Truly... truly a dream. A long dream! Oto, having returned her tear-swollen eyes to the room, noticed Eizaburō's haori discarded there and jolted upright in surprise. Oh! Without the haori—out into this freezing cold!

What if he catches cold! No sooner had this thought struck Oto than maintaining appearances became impossible. She tucked the disheveled end of her obi into place and ran out of the house with the haori under her arm, tear-streaked face unchanged.

She ran out to the alley entrance clutching the haori, but Eizaburō's figure was nowhere to be seen.

Across the quiet street, a line of cargo-laden horses passed by. A clammy cold pressed down upon the entire town. To Oto, standing there vacantly, “Auntie, where ya goin’ with those clothes?” The tenement children called out to her, but Oto paid them no heed.

“Hey! Auntie’s cryin’!” “Cryin’!” “Hey, funny Auntie!”

Because children suddenly began jeering at her feet，Oto snapped back to her senses and pressed her face into the haori． “What good kids you are．Auntie isn’t crying or anything，you know．Now，off you go and play over there．” The children dashed off down the main street，glancing back curiously．

Oto returned home dejectedly, holding the haori in one hand without noticing its sleeve dragging. She went up and tried to sit down... but even in this small house, the space Eizaburō had left behind felt unbearably lonely. The vise-like grip of loneliness sank deeper into her chest. "Lord Eizaburō..." Even if she called out, there was no way he could hear. Startled by her own whisper, Oto looked around; but when she noticed Eizaburō's haori—which she had been absently clutching on her lap—she began murmuring to herself solemnly.

Was she talking to herself? No, she wasn’t. She was talking to the haori. "I am so sorry." "I have made you—so honest and steadfast, with not a shadow in your heart—so terribly angry, and though I tell myself it was all for the sake of the weeping swords and poor Lady Yayoi, when I truly think on it, this Oto is a woman of profound sin." The words had imperceptibly dissolved into muffled sobs. "But if we continue like this, when will this ever be resolved?... In the end, it’s because of me that you remain trapped in ruin—please, I beg you, cast this Oto aside and devote yourself fully to your cause." "Please secure Kengenmaru as soon as possible and be with Lady Yayoi... Lady Yayoi and—"

Oto, having collapsed, pleaded through her tears while crumpling the haori. "That is this Oto's one request in this lifetime—! But... but please, even just a little, try to understand the true heart of this Oto, who had no choice but to anger you by listing such indecent things she didn't truly feel—going so far as this. Later, you'll understand everything—and when you do, just say one word for this pitiful wretch... Lord Eizaburō! Cry for me... cry for me..."

Oto, writhing as if on the verge of madness, collapsed onto the tatami with a thud and clutched the haori to her chest. The lingering scent of the man she had parted from without truly parting brushed faintly against Oto’s nose buried in the haori.

That invited fresh tears, and Oto let out a guttural sob! She wailed at the top of her voice without regard for her surroundings, but fortuitously, neighborhood children had gathered at the neighboring house and were playing noisily with shrill giggles, allowing her to lose herself completely in anguished weeping amid the commotion. Around and around the little Buddhas Around and around the little Buddhas

The commotion next door only grew louder—Oto, somehow reverting to a childlike state, wept like a little girl, her tears soaking through. Eizaburō’s departing tears and Oto’s lingering ones—. For Oto—whose father had abandoned his stipend early to wander Edo’s back alleys, and who, after losing him, had parted from her mother and tasted every hardship this fleeting world could offer—no words carried more weight than those two: duty and obligation. Whether it was the separation of the swords or Yayoi’s grief—all stemmed from Eizaburō’s feelings for her. Thinking this, Oto resolved: Even if she had to abandon her own love—! Having steeled her resolve, there she was—praying in secret while cursing openly, this master of two-faced courtesy... Oto too was a woman of Edo.

Some time had passed.

Oto remained perfectly still.

She was asleep.

Exhausted from weeping, Oto had at some point fallen into a peaceful doze. Had Eizaburō been there, he would have at least draped a single thin cover over her.

Around and around the O little Buddhas Around and around the O little Buddhas

In the neighboring house, children were engrossed in their play.

With a clatter, the lattice door slid open, and for the first time in ages, the gruff voice of Gamō Taiken, the so-called Beggar Sage of Edo, rang out. “Ha ha ha ha ha! Well now—this threshold’s grown steep! Long time no see, long time no see!” Startled awake, Oto bore red tatami mat imprints on her cheek. Swirling tomoe pattern

That night.

Having wandered who knows where and how, Eizaburō returned to the house in Kawaramachi, covered from head to shoulder in snow. Unnoticed, it had turned to snow. Almost— “Oto, I’m back.”

He suppressed the words about to leave his lips, brushed the snow from his body, and stepped inside—only to find complete darkness.

With numb hands, he struck the flint.

A pale yellow wick light flickered and seeped into the darkness, revealing the unusually tidied state of the room to Eizaburō’s eyes.

Oto wasn’t there. It was clear she had gathered two or three kimonos and hair tools and hurriedly left the house. The room, devoid of any feminine presence, lost all traces of red hues, and the cold of the snowy night seeped into Eizaburō’s bones.

But he was no longer grieving. Gone, had she... You filthy wench... I never imagined it would come to this... Muttering as though spitting the words out—Did she leave some note behind?—he glared around the area.

There was nothing. Eizaburō, having now cleanly severed all lingering attachments, "This is all that remains."

He seated himself formally and took up Konryūmaru. A scabbard wrapped in flat silk thread—a shakudo hilt carved with an ascending dragon. "Draw it closer... draw Ken'unmaru closer." No sooner had he spoken as if reciting a spell than he let out a long breath. It might not be despair-driven drinking, but young Eizaburō—having imbibed somewhere—was slightly intoxicated. "That woman! It’s better this way. This was how it had been ordained from the very beginning! Damn it all! Now there’s nothing left but to exert every ounce of my strength and reclaim Ken'unmaru! That's right. I'll do it! I’ll see this through to the bitter end!"

Under the dim lamplight, his eyes shining with fierce resolve, Eizaburō quietly stroked Konryūmaru's hilt. "—Wait." "I'll seize Ken'unmaru soon and unite them." "Thou too hast lost thy pair, while this humble one is parted from her—ha ha ha ha! What strange kinship binds us lonely souls!"

He had been standing idly in dejection, but suddenly kicked off the tatami and leapt up, already directing Musashi Tarō’s gleaming scabbard into his hand.

The blade's light blazed with a streak of cold air! "Damn you, Tange Sazen!" With a fierce blue-eyed glare, he pressed toward a corner—only to find his own shadow cast upon the wall... Had Suwa Eizaburō gone mad from being abandoned by his beloved? No! Overwhelmed by surging combat instinct, he conjured Sazen's presence there and began mimicking sword techniques alone. "Hear me, Sazen! You sent that letter claiming Ken'unmaru was stolen by fire-attired ruffians, but even this unworthy Eizaburō won't swallow such lies! Scheming cur! Mark my words—I'll come to cross blades with you soon! Ha ha ha ha!"

With dry, hollow laughter, he slid the blade into its scabbard—

But! At this moment!

Eizaburō remained unaware that a dark figure had peered through the gap in the back door, startled by his sudden drawing of the sword.

A woman, blending with the snow, had been clinging to the kitchen shutter for some time now, quietly peering into the house.

*Who?* There was no need to look again.

Her stylish figure was discernible even in the dark—Kushimaki Oto, wearing a travel-styled tenugui over her head. Startled by the sudden sword flash, she had momentarily left the door—but upon realizing it was merely an empty flourish, she stealthily returned to the water inlet and resumed peering through the gap, holding her breath. Relentlessly, soundlessly, the snow piled up.

It was the first night of snow in Edo that winter.

Eizaburō laid out the bedding and pulled the quilt over himself. A low, muffled toll—the sound of a bell announcing the hour somewhere far away. "Four o'clock?" Try as he might not to think of her—even so, blooming like a flower behind his eyelids was the face of Oto, who had left. In this snowfall—where could she be now?—memories from their target arrow days flashed through Eizaburō's mind like a revolving lantern. Today, during his absence, Taiken had come and been made aware of Oto's profound true intentions by her. Whether he found something worth considering or not, after some deliberation, he had readily taken charge of Oto's situation and left the house with her—this was something Eizaburō had no way of knowing.

As for what discussion had transpired between Oto and Taiken—and where Taiken had taken her off to—?

……Eizaburō fell asleep. Exhausted, he sank into a deep, sound sleep.

The dead of night.

The front lattice rattled noisily, and a woman's voice...

“Lord Eizaburō… Lord Eizaburō—” At the back entrance, Kushimaki Oto tensed and braced herself. “Lord Eizaburō…! Mr. Eizaburō!” The voice of a woman he tried to forget but couldn’t—low and halting in deference to the late hour—drifted to the sleeping Eizaburō’s ears. Tap-tap, tap-tap—the sound of knocking on the lattice from outside. Eizaburō initially heard it as if in a dream.

But,

“Lord Eizaburō!” At that cry—just as he thought Oto might have returned—Eizaburō, who should have resolved to have no more dealings with such a woman… yet deep within him lingered an attachment he himself could not control…

Faster than he could kick off the quilt and leap up, he stood at the earthen-floored entrance as if stumbling— “O-Oto!” He pulled open the door—and instantly, a roaring blizzard wind swept through the alleyway. A swirling tomoe pattern of six petals danced through the pitch-black night. Buffeted by the gale, the standing figure of a woman appeared to wear a white hooded cloak... A snow spirit?

As Eizaburō rubbed his eyes, the woman stepped into the light spilling from the doorway.

“Oto...? No—” “Who are you?!” “It’s me, Mr. Eizaburō.” Now that it was mentioned—indeed, this was Osayo, Oto’s mother, still dressed as she had been when slipping out of Suzukawa’s mansion. The long bundle she carried heavily must have been the unearthed Ken'unmaru sword. “It’s Osayo, you see.” “Forgive me for disturbing your rest so late at night.” “But... where is Oto?” When posed this question, Eizaburō—

“What—” he began, but couldn’t bring himself to call her “Mother.” Yet addressing her as “Osayo-dono” felt equally awkward. “No—regarding Oto, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you at length. Even so, coming all this way through the snow in the middle of the night—has some urgent matter arisen?” “Brr, it’s freezing!” Osayo shook off the snow. “Oh, please do let me in. I don’t know what Oto has done, but I’ve come about that matter with something urgent to discuss… Oh, but never mind that—I’ve brought you a fine gift. How delighted you’ll be! Hohohoho! Well done! Please do praise me.”

Talking to herself, she entered the earthen-floored entrance. Though they were mother and daughter, how could their voices be so alike! No wonder he had mistaken her for Oto and leapt up—Eizaburō, deceived by the tapping sound... He couldn’t help but force a wry smile as he— “Please, come in.” —and led the way himself—

But just moments before—!

After Eizaburō went to open the lattice door.

Sliding open the kitchen shoji without a sound and peering out from the water entrance was Kushimaki Oto, who had been hiding out back since nightfall. There lay a single short sword beneath the bedside lamp's dim glow! Flat silk binding its scabbard, shakudō hilt adorned with a vividly carved ascending dragon... Musashitarō had grabbed his sword when Eizaburō stood at the doorway—leaving only Konryūmaru behind! Oto's peering face broke into a sly grin.

Where had this enchantress holed up after spiriting Sazen away? If she let this chance slip while Eizaburō exchanged a few words with Osayo at the lattice door, she’d never get another opportunity to secure Konryūmaru for Lord Sazen! Oh! That’s it! No sooner had she thought this than she began moving with stealthy footsteps—Not a moment to lose! Seizing the moment, Oto slipped inside—the moment her hand touched Konryūmaru, she clutched it to her sleeve and retreated back through the rear entrance!

An abrupt event in the silence. Whoosh! With that, the kitchen door closed, and then the faint sound of Oto’s footsteps crunching through the snow echoed from behind.

Eizaburō ushered Osayo inside while continuing to speak loudly, completely unaware of what had transpired. “No— “You’ve braved this heavy snow to come here.” “Some urgent matter…?” “This snow is truly dreadful, isn’t it? "I fell three times on my way here from Honjo, Mr. Eizaburō." “Hah hah, well then—but you’re unharmed... Now, getting straight to your business—?” “It’s really coming down, isn’t it.” “No, from this gift…”

Old woman Osayo gasped as she unwrapped the Ken'unmaru bundle. “It’s really coming down. “It’ll pile up quite a bit by tomorrow.” Eizaburō said this earnestly, listening quietly to the snow outside as if hearing it while gazing intently at Osayo’s hands. Rustle! Rustle! The sound of a slender, elongated bundle being unwrapped— Rustle! Rustle! As layer upon layer of oilpaper and rags wrapped by Osayo’s hands came undone—all while Eizaburō, swallowing thickly, kept his gaze fixed on her movements—a sudden glint flashed before his eyes!

A section of the flat silk-wrapped scabbard! Next, the shakudō hilt of a battlefield-tachi mounting! The moment he recognized it as Ken'unmaru—the night-weeping blade whose identity needed no explanation—Eizaburō let out a strangled cry. Like a madman, he shoved Osayo aside and tore at the remaining wrappings with a vicious rip! rip! rip! Faster than shredding through paper, he snatched Ken'unmaru from within and glared with bloodshot eyes— —and fixed his gaze. No matter when one beheld it, this blade forged by Magoroku Kanemoto radiated the chilling, indomitable spirit of the Warring States era... "Hrm——" Eizaburō involuntarily groaned, then glared at Osayo beside him and inched closer.

“Oh! How did you come by this Ken'unmaru... Wh-what happened to Tange Sazen?!” “Now—tell me! Tell me that!” Overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, Osayo could only fumble in panic, utterly at a loss for where to begin. “Uh... That... um—” “Hah! Out with it! Speak clearly—clearly!” “Whose orders are behind this?” As he spoke, Eizaburō drew Ken'unmaru close and whipped his gaze toward the bed! Eizaburō’s flushed face turned deathly pale in an instant.

No sooner had he thought, "At last—with Konryūmaru back in my grasp and paired again with Ken'unmaru"—than the short sword Konryūmaru, which had unmistakably lain beneath the lantern moments before, vanished without a trace.

“Wh—?! Konryūmaru…?!” Eizaburō exclaimed and simultaneously leapt to his feet. With a clatter, he rushed forward and kicked the pillow. It can’t be! Even if he swept his scorching gaze around the entire room, how could the Konryūmaru that Kushimaki Oto had slipped in and stolen earlier possibly be lying around here! “No! It’s gone… Konryūmaru’s gone! How…?” “No... Konryūmaru’s gone!” “How…?”

Eizaburō staggered, using Ken'unmaru as a staff.

“Then... has the other sword gone missing?”

Osayo's flustered voice also did not reach Eizaburō's ears.

The dragon in his grasp had secretly summoned clouds from heaven's edge—just when Eizaburō thought Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru would finally reunite after their long separation, in that very moment he lost hold of the dragon. Having resolved to wear both as a matched pair at his hip, he now stood in a daze, bereft of speech—

And then!

His attention snapped to the back door. When he lunged outside, the kitchen’s earthen floor lay trampled with snow—undeniable proof of an intruder’s stealthy passage! “Damn you!” Eizaburō gripped Ken'unmaru’s hilt and wrenched open the oil-paper door... revealing a flurry of snowflakes swirling like scattered white petals.

Enveloping late-night Edo in a single sweep, the snow showed no sign of ceasing. Shall I call it karmic destiny—or twists of fate?

The twin blades had yet to reach the time when they would be sheathed as one to enjoy peace—a testament to their still-unfulfilled reunion. At the front gate, Ken'unmaru descended in a swirling dance, while from the rear, Konryūmaru slipped free. Ken'unmaru entered; Konryūmaru exited.

It was truly an unfathomable twist of fate, but Eizaburō finally rapped Ken'unmaru's hilt and smiled. Just imagine!

Until this very day, Ken'unmaru—the keen blade that had dwelt in the sole arm of the blade demon Sazen, satiated with the blood-oil of countless lives, its shakudō glow intensified by the sword fiend's grip—now transformed into a blade of evil-destroying power within the arm of young swordsman Suwa Eizaburō. From this night forth, Ken'unmaru would demonstrate its unique workings upon battlefields twice as fierce as before.

And in Tange Sazen's hand was Konryūmaru!

When would Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru meet and slumber in eternal repose?

Until then, it had been a turbulent vortex as unpredictable as that night's swirling tomoe-patterned snow, its comings and goings both beyond all reckoning. "By the way, Mr. Eizaburō, there's something I need to tell you." At Old Osayo's voice, Eizaburō came to his senses and returned to the sitting room.

Kushimaki Oto—who had slipped in like a night dragon to exploit Eizaburō’s moment of vulnerability, snatched away the short sword Konryūmaru, and fled—now kicked up the midnight snow as she vanished. Where in the world had she disappeared to?

Oto...

Frequenting the monster mansion in Honjo—a lone red blossom amidst verdant foliage—she had caroused with disgraced hatamoto and fallen gokenin in their gambling circles when, of all people, she fell for Tange Sazen, the one-eyed, one-armed sword demon lodging in a detached room. Though she had initially sought Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō’s help in winning him over, Genjūrō’s betrayal stoked her bitter resentment—just as she learned of Sazen’s affections for another woman, transforming her into jealousy incarnate. This culminated in that rainy night’s scheme: using Eizaburō as a pawn, she forced Sazen’s unrequited love interest and Genjūrō’s coveted Oto into a vicious clash, hoping to vent her frustrations in secret. Yet when Yayoi and Oto dissolved into tender tears as women united, not only did her plot collapse entirely— ――

Branded an outlaw by Edo's authorities, Oto was ambushed by a swarm of constables when least expected—had she vanished in a puff at the stone steps of Dairokuten Shinotsuka Inari Shrine...? Be that as it may.

Soon. Appearing to possess the supernatural powers of a demon cat—how had she slipped through that dragnet's mesh? The iron-willed mistress in white, Kushimaki Oto, had settled into a stylish hideout unnoticed and sat idly tapping her pipe across the long hibachi—but Yohachi's words upon bursting in reignited her delusions toward Sazen. Her heart's intent remained unchanged, though now it took different form. Love turned to hate a hundredfold—since this ill-fated romance could never be realized, she resolved to oppose him in all things and destroy every last part of that man... With this resolve, she had accused Tange Sazen under the detestable name of Suzukawa Genjūrō. Yet immediately regretting it, she rushed to save Sazen from peril—for Oto, this too sprang from the same unwavering devotion that had gripped her heart from the very beginning.

Love moves in many ways. For a woman like Oto, the boundary between existence and void blurred—even killing with the same hands that embraced held no distinction for her. Yet when she found herself saving Sazen instead of slaying him, keeping him daily at her side revealed not aversion but rather this truth: all her toils—remaining in perilous Edo rather than abandoning it—stemmed from Sazen alone. Thus did hag-cherry Oto deploy every wile at her disposal, straining her arts to court his favor and ensnare his heart.

Moreover, at this very moment when Yayoi—the one Sazen longed for—had vanished without a trace. Seizing this chance to expel Yayoi's phantom from his heart and claim Sazen as her own, Oto—using the snow that had begun falling at dusk to her advantage—staked out Eizaburō's back entrance and stole the short sword Konryūmaru for Sazen's sake, yet—! Where in all creation were Sazen and Oto hiding now? Oto's hideout in Asakusa? No! Oto had not returned home since that night; at her vacant residence, Drummer Yohachi waited anxiously for her return, wondering whether today or tomorrow might bring her back.

So then—where in this vast Edo were the sword demon and the female specter lurking?

Far away? Or perhaps it might be unexpectedly close. In any case, it was a place like the pitch-black depths of a cellar where morning never came and night never fell.

Darkness? That's right. A pitch-black abyss. It was a secret hideout that Oto—branded a wanted criminal—had covertly prepared long before, allowing her to leap into its depths whenever needed and perpetually elude the authorities' grasp while avoiding exposure to daylight. Though its precise location remained unknown, it lay somewhere within Edo—a burrow known to none. For Tange Sazen, now hunted by constables' truncheons, this proved an incomparable refuge in these times.

Darkness enveloped Sazen. In that darkness continued a strange life with a woman who loved him. Darkness—the jet-black abyss of impenetrable night. It was also a manifestation of their inner selves: Sazen, who had lost all reason to the sword, and Oto, who had abandoned herself completely to love. Now living under a woman's protection, Sazen paced restlessly within the cramped dark hole—less than three tatami mats in size—unaware of the heavy snow outside. Oto had not yet returned.

When they first escaped from the heavily surrounded monster mansion using Oto’s pocket pistol, Sazen— As Oto guided him through the towns deepening into dusk toward that hideout, he mused: With Genjūrō being unreliable and until Drummer Yohachi could seek reinforcements from Sōma Nakamura, he would resign himself to being sheltered by this woman for the time being. By doing so, he could blind the constables’ eyes and keep himself safe. Moreover, since no one should know that Ken’unmaru was buried behind the storage shed at the Suzukawa residence—right at the base of the chinquapin tree—this too was secure.

From these feelings, he readily acquiesced to being led by Oto... ending up in the depths of this narrow cellar-like space—its exact location unknown, like something beneath a veranda. “Hey, Lord Sazen. This place is known only to me—my secret residence, you might say. When the time comes, I’ll lure even constables here and, hohohoho, show you Oto’s ninjutsu in action. So please, stay as long as you like without any worries.”

At these words from Oto, Sazen was flustered, "My thanks." With that single remark, he surveyed his surroundings once more, but all that met his eyes was impenetrable darkness—a dim underground chamber. The low ceiling; the surrounding walls and floor all tightly covered with rough-hewn planks; nearby, straw mats, nightclothes, futons, and simple cooking utensils lying scattered about—this much became discernible even through groping in the dark. In one corner stood a crude staircase—the secret entrance through which they had just come.

Unaware that Oto herself had filed the report causing the commotion, Tange Sazen took it as truth that Genjūrō had made the accusation—now raging to storm the Suzukawa residence—but Oto restrained him, "Oh, please wait just a little longer." "I swear I mean you no harm..." As she placated him, The cramped darkness grew thick with feminine fragrance until it choked the air... How had Tange Sazen endured this existence?

Now, tonight. When sitting in the darkness, a snowy night proved especially quiet. Warming himself at the portable kotatsu Oto had brought in, Sazen lay prone on the futon—and as he remained alone like this, various memories came flooding back unbidden. The twin blades of destiny—pursuing and pursued! Entwined with that was my secret mission. Above all... the look in Yayoi’s eyes. "Have I gone rusty?" The instant Sazen let slip a self-deprecating mutter—

Tap, tap, tap—footsteps echoed across the ceiling above. The moment the mechanically rigged trapdoor at the top of the ladder stairs slid open with a whoosh, Kushimaki Oto, her entire body white with snow, came tumbling in as though falling. "What's going on? Snow?" Tange Sazen kept his eyes fixed on the darkness, making no move to rise. "Yeah. It's coming down hard." Laughing, Oto approached and nonchalantly thrust Konryūmaru—which she had pulled out from under her heavy coat—right before him. And then,

“Wh-what... what is this?” To Sazen as he questioned,

“It’s Konryūmaru,” said Oto with a strange cackle as she handed him the sword. “Just swiped it from Eizaburō’s place. This is my skill—I mean, really, no need for four or five men to come charging out over one lousy blade, eh?” Sazen gripped it in his left hand. “Konryūmaru?” he barked, his darkness-adjusted eye glaring fixedly. The moment he confirmed its authenticity, he shoved aside Oto—mid-sentence—and kicked the door open with a crash, leaping out into the night.

Kengenmaru was buried in the corner of the garden! At this realization, Tange Sazen quickened his pace through the driving snow and hastened toward Honjo with Konryūmaru at his waist.

At the same time. Along another road leading to Honjo, Suwa Eizaburō—now clutching Kengenmaru—was likewise dashing headlong toward the Suzukawa residence. Having been entreated by Suzukawa Genjūrō for Oto and as the first step of severing ties, he had dug up and brought back Kengenmaru, which Tange Sazen had hidden. In other words, this was the compensation from Lord Genjūrō for Oto! No sooner had Suwa Eizaburō heard these words from the old woman Osayo than blood rushed to his cheeks.

“Grr...! So this exchange of a sword for a woman—that scoundrel himself once proposed it to this humble one! Then she conspired with Genjūrō to steal Tange’s Kengenmaru?!” Eizaburō clenched his teeth, brushed aside Osayo’s frantic attempts to restrain him, sprang to his feet, and swiftly began preparing to depart. Though the dragon calls the cloud and the cloud awaits the dragon, it is only by seizing with skill and clashing blades that samurai can maintain their honor between them—

What manner of madness was this?! How could I shamelessly accept something an old woman had taken out like a thief? Moreover, they claimed this was the price for selling a wife. To call it outrageous was one thing, but to make matters worse, Oto had already left the house! I could not accept this as it stood. Were I to meet Genjūrō and denounce him face-to-face—yet if Kengenmaru were accepted as having been returned to Sazen's hands through improper means—then Eizaburō's manhood would be disgraced...

Having made this snap decision, he fastened Musashi Tarō and Kengenmaru at his waist and burst out into the snow-laden midnight. Leaving behind Osayo's shrill cries.

Enveloping the world in white, snow fell ceaselessly and soundlessly—snow, snow, snow. No matter what, I must thrust this Kengenmaru into Sazen's hands without delay—and then, tonight of all nights, I would make my single-handed charge! I wouldn't let Musashi Tarō at my hip remain silent! As Eizaburō ran toward Honjo, kicking up snow in his wake, Tange Sazen—gripping the Konryūmaru that Oto had stolen—was likewise hastening toward Honjo along a different path!

Sazen's state of mind was naturally different. Tange Sazen, who stopped at nothing to achieve his goals. Now that he had obtained the companion sword Konryūmaru through whatever means necessary, he was determined to dig up Kengenmaru—buried at the base of the chinquapin tree—as quickly as possible, pair the weeping blades as a set, and depart Edo by dawn for his home domain of Sōma-Nakamura—though... Tange Sazen had no need to go all the way to the Suzukawa residence’s storehouse and discover that Kengenmaru had been dug up.

The reason being… It was when Tange Sazen—having turned his face from the swirling blizzard, half-opened his single eye, and gripped Konryūmaru in his left arm—angled his body and reached the foot of Hōonji Bridge. One side was Shinzakamachi with the magistrate’s residence. The other side was the townhouses of Shimizu-chō—all equally with their large shutters lowered, sleeping deeply under the snow in the dead of night.

From the opposite direction, driven by the blizzard, came a figure hurrying at a trot. Whether Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru had once again pulled invisible threads of fate—Suwa Eizaburō bearing Ken'unmaru at his waist and Tange Sazen clutching Konryūmaru in hand—their encounter could only be called an uncanny reunion. On Hōonji Bridge buried beneath snowdrifts, the two cloud-dragon warriors nearly collided mid-stride. “Ah! Suwa... Eizaburō, isn’t it?!” As Sword Demon Sazen peered through the snowfall at Eizaburō, the latter—recognizing that voice perhaps—halted mid-step and stood waiting while Sazen approached.

“Ah! “So you’re Tange Sazen, then?!” Tange Sazen’s single eye, now locked in confrontation, visibly sparkled with unexpected joy as snowflakes struck the sword scar on his cheek, only to vanish. “Hmph! “No complaints.” “Ain’t my fault I took this Konryūmaru—don’t need some greenhorn samurai like you anymore.” “Serves you right!”

Even as the other’s hand already reached for the sword hilt, Eizaburō calmly restrained him— “Wait, Tange! Indeed, that Konryūmaru was stolen by someone—this is this humble one’s oversight. However, you too should not grow overly ecstatic. Now—do you recognize this long sword?!” No sooner had Eizaburō thrust out his hand—still mid-sentence—than Sazen saw Kengenmaru unexpectedly gripped within it. The towering rōnin staggered back two, three steps, stumbling against the bridge railing as he grabbed it for support,

“You—! How did you get that sword?!”

As the sword demon gasped in apparent agony, accumulated snow slid softly from the railing into the river below—and at that very moment, a group of figures approached from Honjo, laughing boisterously as they drew near. Tsuchiwa Sensuke and the regulars of the Monster Mansion were on their way home after their gambling den had broken up for the night. "You—!" "You—! H-how... How did Kengenmaru end up in your hands...?" No sooner had he regained his footing than Sazen glared at Eizaburō as if lunging. Eizaburō grinned.

“Do you know an old woman named Osayo—?” “Wh-what? Osayo! …Hmm, so she saw me burying it after all.” “Indeed. To begin with—this humble one cannot accept something stolen with impure motives as it is. Therefore, by first returning it to you, I trust you will kindly receive it.” A sardonic smile settled on Sazen’s cheek as he fixed his single eye on Eizaburō and kept his lips tightly sealed—but when the pure young samurai’s true intent finally dawned in his mind like the breaking dawn, he immediately burst into hearty laughter,

“Hmph! Amusing!” “Ain’t no honor in acceptin’ some wench-stolen goods.” “Gah! Only when I take ’em with this arm’ll Kengenmaru be Kengenmaru an’ Konryūmaru be Konryūmaru!” “Well said, youngster.” “If you’re serious, I’ve got somethin’ to return too.” As he spoke, Sazen thrust Konryūmaru—hidden until now—before Eizaburō. Yah! To the stunned Eizaburō, Sazen now cast a knowing smile—

“A woman’s doing. Don’t take it personal.” And so, despite having been overjoyed upon obtaining Konryūmaru and rushing out into this snowy night intending to unite it with Ken'unmaru at once—now that Ken'unmaru had somehow ended up in Eizaburō’s possession, and moreover since his opponent was offering to return it—he too, as a samurai, could only laugh with reluctant acceptance and find himself compelled to exchange the paired Heaven and Earth blades. “You and I may be sworn enemies to the end—Hmph! You’ve got your charms… But know this—the moment Ken'unmaru falls into my hands, I’ll cut you down right here. So keep that in mind. It’s a pity—but there ain’t no help for it.”

As Sazen grabbed Konryūmaru with his left arm and thrust it toward Eizaburō, Eizaburō silently accepted it—and in the same instant, returned Kengenmaru to Sazen—! Grrraaah! With a bestial groan— Uncertain who had moved first, the two instantly split to opposite sides of the bridge. An utterly mysterious bond of night-weeping blades. No sooner had the Heaven and Earth swords been swapped than, on this very same night, Ken'unmaru returned to Sazen and Konryūmaru to Eizaburō...

And now!

Through the silver curtain of driving snow, Eizaburō and Sazen locked fiery gazes upon each other on Hōonji Bridge. At the same moment he leaped back, the familiar cold blade of Ken'unmaru glinted in Sazen’s hand. As he lowered his stance, Eizaburō had already quietly and calmly drawn the sturdy sword Musashi Tarō Yasukuni from its sheath. This time for sure! while silently invoking the spirit of his late master, Onozuka Tessai. Clang!

At this moment. No sooner had hurried footsteps begun gathering behind Sazen than through the falling snow emerged Tsuchiwa Sensuke leading Sazen's allies!

“Hey! It’s been a while, Tange. Hmm. So this is where you came across Konryūmaru? The opponent’s alone—no need for backup, but I can’t just stand by. Fortunately, our forces are all here—they’ll encircle him from a distance so he doesn’t escape. Go all out!” But before these words had fully ended, Eizaburō—deeming that striking first was paramount—launched a desperate slash with razor-sharp precision, “Hyah!” With a fierce battle cry, he hurled himself forward like a stone—suddenly! Feinting an attack at Sazen before instantly pivoting right, he split one of the encircling reinforcements like bamboo—Musashi Tarō drank deep of human blood at its hilt base and clanged!

“Damn it all!” Tange Sazen—his single arm lifting Ken'unmaru high in a jōdan stance—advanced steadily from behind, the gleaming blade poised to strike like lightning. But Suwa Eizaburō deftly evaded what seemed an imminent downward slash and redirected his bloodied sword toward Tsuchiwa Sensuke, who faltered before him, pressing the assault. Take out the rabble first! That was his resolve. Tsuchiwa Sensuke, finding no chance to draw his blade, blocked with the sheathed sword—Hah! The strike connected, but as the cleanly split black scabbard halves flew apart, he involuntarily staggered back with a gasp. In one fluid motion—a leg rising almost before thought—Eizaburō kicked two nearby men into the moat below. Deflecting Sazen's Ken'unmaru with a hilt twist, he judged escape paramount now that reinforcements had arrived. White steel flashing, he plunged into the ditch with a thunderous splash.

“Tch!” A single click of Sazen’s tongue pierced the mottled darkness, carrying through the railing. In the midnight moat—its pitch-black waters churning as they bore up snowflakes—a massive whirlpool surged away.

Debates of Truth and Falsehood: The Crow and Heron Discourse

The paired blades of Sekino Magoroku - extraordinary in their ceaseless union and separation... The swords that wept at night...

Ever since Tange Sazen—swordsman acting for his lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke—had defeated rightful owner Onozuka Tessai and stolen away Ken'unmaru, Suwa Eizaburō, chief disciple of the Shinpen Musō-ryū school, had carried Konryūmaru while scouring Edo for Sazen through countless clashes of steel... After Osayo secretly took Ken'unmaru and Oto stole Konryūmaru—momentarily appearing to unite both blades—the reversal came: now Eizaburō bore Ken'unmaru while Sazen wore Konryūmaru at their snowbound encounter on Hōonji Bridge—

At Suwa Eizaburō's proposal—compelled by his strong chivalric pride—the two exchanged the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru swords: Ken'unmaru to Sazen and Konryūmaru to Eizaburō, each returning to where they had been stolen from. But... These were things that women had brought like thieves exploiting an opening—no matter what, he could not keep such tainted goods. At this moment—though returning Konryūmaru to Sazen once—Eizaburō's resolve to reclaim it twice through blade and arm... Sensing this indomitable spirit, Sazen too relinquished the sword willingly—a scene one could call beautiful precisely because both men conducted themselves as true samurai ought.

But immediately after, there unfolded a grand sword melee amidst a blizzard of blood and snow.

However, that too lasted but a fleeting moment. At this critical juncture, as Tsuchiwa Sensuke’s group appeared to reinforce Sazen, Eizaburō—judging that prolonging the chaotic swordplay would put him in peril—silently prayed for the day he would meet Sazen again, then leapt into the dark undercurrents beneath the bridge—the snow-laden Yokogawa River—escaping mortal danger. All that remained were Sazen and Sensuke’s men shouting to one another, scrambling across the bridge and both banks…

That too soon subsided.

Having lost sight of Eizaburō in the pitch-black waters, they heaved long sighs and futilely clutched their arms before dispersing in small groups.

“Hey, Ken'unmaru! As long as you’re in my hand, we’ll run into that Konryūmaru whelp sooner or later… When cloud and dragon clash—Tch! I’m countin’ on you—stay sharp.”

And Sazen, having tapped the red copper hilt with one hand nonchalantly—just where did his feet carry him—?

Thus once again.

The twin Cloud-Dragon swords bound by ill fate—the long sword Ken'unmaru had returned once more to the one-eyed, one-armed sword demon Tange Sazen. And thus, the short sword Konryūmaru found its way to Suwa Eizaburō’s waist— It was the strange and inexplicable cycle of fate—an intricate pattern that wound its way back to where it began. After pondering for a while and examining their genesis in its original state,

As the legend of the Sword's Destiny proclaims: When the twin blades remained together in one place, all stood tranquil; but once Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru were parted, it became as though an ill-fated lot had been drawn—blood would swiftly stain that ground, and a dreadful whirlwind of chaos would inevitably rise without fail.

And the sword weeps.

The separated Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru would whimper with stifled sobs come the Hour of the Ox's Fullness—that deepest night when house eaves sag three sun—their cries echoing through the darkness. The cloud called to the dragon, and the dragon yearned for the cloud—these two blades that sought and longed for each other began to whimper in unison at the stroke of midnight.

These twin blades of destined fate. Once separated, it was said these twin blades Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—cloud and dragon corresponding to stir winds and summon rains, potentially bringing cataclysmic storms or hell upon this world—remained even now in separate places.

Not only that— Yohachi of Komagata—the tsuzumi-playing pleasure-seeker—was undoubtedly racing toward Nakamura Castle Town in Oshū under Tange Sazen’s secret orders to fetch a band of formidable swordsmen. Once these dozens arrived in Edo, Sazen would plot to crush Eizaburō’s faction in one fell swoop and seize Konryūmaru. What then of Suwa Eizaburō’s forces opposing them? As for Gamō Taiken-sensei—his sole swashbuckling ally—who had bid Eizaburō an awkward farewell and left the Kawaramachi house with Oto... Where in the world could they have gone after that?

The twin swords parted once more—a new cursed lot was drawn! A mountain of rotting flesh would arise! A river of fresh blood would flow. A forest of swords rose; a plain of chaos unfolded.

And then! Across mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, inexhaustible karmic bonds shall be bound as two cold blades yearn for each other and whimper!

A golden morning came to snow-covered Edo.

Not long after that.

On a plum-blossom afternoon—at the South Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke’s official residence. Under sunlight that poured down like mist from a cloudless azure sky, the shadows of garden trees lay utterly still, and the thawed, dried earth bore neat broom marks. The verdant green of evergreens that delights the eye. The red that appeared like coral inlay must have been winter camellias; just as one could count two, three, four crimson patches, a bird let out a sharp cry and slipped through the branches.

By the deep, secluded inner garden—the tea room of Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke’s official residence. Perhaps one might call it sukiya-style—a four-and-a-half tatami room constructed in the manner originating from Higashiyama Dōjinsai.

The tea preparation area, raised alcove with framed edges, storage cabinet, and hanging shelf—all were authentically constructed.

Separated by the cut-out hearth before the utensil mat, Master Tadasuke and Gamō Taiken sat facing each other.

A faint, almost imperceptible breeze swayed the incense smoke as it drifted pleasantly. Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, his corpulent frame wrapped in a crested kimono worn casually, having just finished speaking, remained silent with downcast eyes as he stroked the water jar in his hands.

With the tea whisk, scoop, ladle, and feather broom arranged nearby, Tadasuke was entertaining his long-absent rare guest Taiken with tea. Come to think of it, now being the season of first snow and kuchikiri—the ceremonial opening—it appeared they had opened the tea caddy for the first time that day.

A silence as if abruptly severed—Tadasuke smiled with his eyes as he looked at Taiken. "My tea practice owes much to Ōguchi Nyoshinken of Osaka... In today's Way of Tea, none surpass him. Steeped in enviable artistic refinement through kabuki, kagetsu, hifumi, mawarizumi, mawaribana, danza, and sancha—these Seven Matters we call classical and elegant—Nyoshinken has transmitted them to his disciples through rediscovery of ancient ways—" Having said this, Tadasuke smiled again, but whether Taiken found the tea talk uninteresting or had something else on his mind, he turned away listlessly, narrowing his eyes against the bright light streaming through the shoji... Silent.

Tadasuke remained unperturbed. He continued speaking without concerning himself with such details. “They say water is crucial for tea—some insist on only using Kamo River water in Kyoto or Tama River water here in Edo—but this old man cares not for such distinctions. "They may not have reached that understanding yet, but fussing over water is trivial. "Take this nearby example—it's drawn from the mansion's well, yet what matters ultimately is spirit. "Hmm, the true value of tea resides in this tranquil state of mind and spirit. "What say you, my good man? Shall I pour another bowl?”

“Nah, the tea’s fine, but I can’t stand your damn lecture afterwards. My apologies.” When Taiken finally surrendered honestly and scratched his head, Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke exclaimed, “There, you see!” With that, he threw his head back and laughed uproariously—“Ah hahahaha!”—but immediately regained his composure and fixed Taiken with a piercing glare.

Silence, Taiken had come with some purpose yet found himself unable to voice it, while Tadasuke for his part largely understood what that purpose was yet refrained from broaching it himself—thus continuing a slightly awkward moment of this sort. The soft sound of Tadasuke taking a cloth and polishing a tea bowl flowed through the room, and Taiken crossed his arms with a troubled expression.

Gamō Taiken, who always came through the garden in the dead of night—one might think he had scaled the fence to sneak in today as well, but that was not the case. For him, this was unprecedented—he had boldly entered through the back gate just moments prior in broad daylight. Yet whether through some sorcery he possessed, not a single household member noticed as he stepped deeper along the shrubbery until he suddenly stood outside this tea room. His appearance remained unchanged in that officially sanctioned beggar’s guise—a physique nearing six feet tall with a poverty-stricken sake flask dangling from him, his large topknot still bound with straw.

At that very moment, Echizen-no-kami—who had secluded himself alone in the tea room, quietly listening to the sound of boiling water—startled at the human shadow abruptly cast upon the shoji and rose to his feet, “Hahaha! They’ve all turned into sleeping cats in this mansion! As you can see, I strolled right through with arms swinging wide, and not a soul tried to stop me. Thanks to that, getting an audience with you, Magistrate, was a breeze—truly humbling these days. But enough with the spiteful talk—it’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

Taiken's brash voice rang out. "Oh! You made it!" With a welcoming smile, Tadasuke looked past Taiken—then frowned slightly in mild annoyance.

Gamō Taiken was not alone. In that shadow was a young woman with hunched shoulders and bowed head... even now, she huddled small before the tea room’s entrance, prostrating herself.

Needless to say, it was Oto who had come from the house in Kawaramachi. Not only had I dragged dear Lord Eizaburō into this swamp-like abyss of poverty through my own doing, but now my very existence had become shackles hindering his efforts to retrieve Ken'unmaru from that terrifying samurai Tange Sazen and unite the famed night-weeping blades... Moreover!

When all was said and done—since everything stemmed from Lord Eizaburō having acted out of consideration for me, betraying Lady Yayoi’s heart and bringing about his own ruin—if someone like me didn’t exist, Lord Eizaburō’s swordsmanship would have grown unimpeded in strength, and he would soon have retrieved that Ken'unmaru blade to present to Lady Yayoi. And were that to happen, Lady Yayoi—being from the start the sole heir of the late master, her status and character perfectly suited in every way like imperial court dolls—whatever became of a lowly teahouse woman like me mattered not. For precisely because Oto had devoted her very life to loving Lord Eizaburō, no joy could surpass his success and happiness.

Yet while sowing these seeds through my very existence, to keep monopolizing Lord Eizaburō like this leaves obligations unfulfilled in every direction—I feel I must apologize to divine judgment itself, so utterly terrifying is this transgression.

If only I weren't here, everything would resolve smoothly. To hold is love; to release is love. Whenever I sensed Lady Yayoi's tears from that night we wept together—though Lord Eizaburō remained steadfast in his feelings—here I must first estrange myself and become loathed...

That, above all else, was for Lord Eizaburō's sake. Next came my obligation to both the sword and Lady Yayoi. Having sworn deeply that this also concerned Edo women's pride and the transient world's code of affection, Oto—clasping her hands at his retreating back after displaying such brazen acts of infidelity—had finally provoked the earnest young Eizaburō into anger through their heated argument, though the anguish in her heart proved more agonizing than swallowing boiling water.

Lord Eizaburō must surely be lamenting—"Ah! What a long nightmare I've endured!"—truly believing this change of heart of hers... Yet Oto, who had hardened her fragile heart through duty into that of a demon, found her resolve dulling at every turn. She scolded herself whenever it wavered, wanting to apologize and revert to how things were. After Eizaburō departed, she confided everything to Gamō Taiken, who happened to arrive just then, and entrusted him with deciding her future path.

Silently, with arms crossed like pine branches, Taiken had been listening—when large teardrops spilled from his eyes and dampened his knees. Flustered, he scrubbed at them with his fist, turned away, and immediately burst into loud laughter. His cheek beard rippling like waves, Taiken continued his tearful guffaw without end.

And finally, “Nah. That’s not a bad plan. “Worthy of the woman Lord Eizaburō’s staked his heart on—I’ll give you that, Lady Oto. Damned commendable resolve. “From here out, that lordling’ll pour everything into his blade—no doubt he’ll reclaim Ken'unmaru soon enough. When that day comes, we’ll talk fresh terms. Rest assured this Taiken won’t cross you. “I’ll smooth things over here and there to set you up proper. Just grit your teeth a while longer… My heart aches for both his lordship and you, but let’s clear out of this dump before he gets back.”

Thus it was decided—Oto, sobbing while bundling her personal belongings, departed the modest dwelling in Kawaramachi together with Taiken, who kept blowing his nose repeatedly, determined to leave before Eizaburō returned. Oto, her heart heavy with reluctance, and Master Gamō Taiken, laughing carefreely while suppressing sympathetic tears within—

Several days had passed since then. Like a stray dog weaving nightly dreams through Edo's streets, Oto found herself fiercely guarded by the gallant Taiken in Suwa Eizaburō's stead. This woman was a charge entrusted by Lord Eizaburō... With this thought, Taiken knew he must see to Oto's secure settlement, if only temporarily. Yet for a homeless man, this female burden had grown too heavy even for such a carefree wanderer to shoulder. Thus after much agonizing, he suddenly recalled Gamō Taiken's kindred spirit—the illustrious Edo Town Magistrate, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—

“Today I’ll take you somewhere that’ll stiffen your shoulders—keep quiet and follow me.”

Having said this, Taiken left behind the small boat at Shubi no Matsu, taking along his shabby sake flask and Oto, and entered this mansion through the back gate in broad daylight. Where could this place be... Hiding in Taiken's shadow, Oto timidly reached the inner garden's tea room. Amidst the amiable conversation between the portly, dignified lord and Master Taiken—the moment she realized this was none other than the South Magistrate himself—she prostrated herself on the ground beneath the veranda where Taiken had instructed her to wait. As she curled inward with utter desolation, her pale forehead pressed into the soil.

Inside the room, the silence still lingered— “Kuro!” Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke called out through the open shoji panels over the veranda. In the garden where sunlight danced, a large black dog sat with its front paws neatly aligned, watching with a knowing expression. A renowned dog from the neighboring Tosa domain—gifted by Lord Date Tōtōmi-no-kami of Uwajima—this was Tadasuke’s beloved Kuro, an intelligent creature. “Kuro!” “What have you done?” Tadasuke spoke to the dog again from inside the room with a relaxed expression. Kuro wagged his tail.

The spring day lingered lazily, a tranquil tableau. No sooner had the tea conversation finally concluded than it was time for the dog.

Taiken sat facing him, appearing indifferent yet silently watching Kuro... he seemed uncharacteristically a bit discontented. Though the two men inside could not see Oto sitting on the ground beyond the veranda, she faintly raised her head at the strange snuffling sound—and upon noticing an enormous black dog, one she had never seen before, sniffing right beside her, terror nearly made her cry out and leap up. But she stifled the impulse and pressed herself flat to the ground once more.

But it was a well-trained dog.

Despite there being no apparent danger, it was precisely when Oto let out a sigh of relief.

Inside the room, Tadasuke maintained a dignified posture, his slightly elevated knees aligned as he turned his gaze toward the garden. The rustle of clothing adjusting could be heard, and then— “Kuro!” “Come here!”

The Honorable Magistrate's dignified voice.

The dog, mindlessly pricking up its ears, opened its mouth as if to answer... Woof! Woof! Woof! “Ah, I see—” With a smile, Lord Echizen-no-kami swiftly cast a glance at Taiken beside him, “Come! Get up here! Kuro…”

The dog kept twisting its neck and licking around its shoulder—apparently even the divine words of the renowned magistrate held no sway over the beast’s wretchedness, for far from being obliging, it remained utterly indifferent. Nevertheless, Tadasuke remained dead serious. However beloved a dog Kuro might be, was he truly intending to summon it into the tea room...? Tadasuke sat in proper seiza posture facing the veranda and issued his command without so much as twitching an eyebrow.

“Now, Kuro! When I tell you to come up, come up!” Then, as if addressing a human: “Quickly now—get up here and come inside. “It would be troublesome if others saw you. “Once properly ascended, you shall close the rear shoji panels. Hahahahaha!” “Hmph!” Taiken, finally noticing this, leaned forward and added his voice from beside— “Kuro, ascend!” “Kuro! Enter the room at once!” Their voices overlapped... Even after Kuro had wandered off sniffing the ground disinterestedly, Tadasuke’s and Taiken’s voices continued intertwining.

“Kuro!” “Come up!” “Come up, don’t hesitate—” he said.

Oto’s breath caught in her chest.

Could it be that Lord Ōoka was clearly using the dog as pretext to summon me inside? Given how His Lordship the Honorable Magistrate—presiding so solemnly under Lord Yashiro's august authority—could never openly permit a mere townswoman like myself to share his presence, how profoundly gracious to employ Kuro through such noble words!

How deeply compassionate! Though gazing upon your noble visage might strike me blind, to refuse any further would be discourteous—so Oto thought, murmuring a silent "Yes" within her mouth. Being a woman of quick action, she briskly brushed the dirt from her hem, adjusted her hair, and timidly stepped up into the room before slapping her hands flat against the corner in prostration. Not only was she unable to look upon his face, but her vision blurred in a flash, and her hands trembled uncontrollably as she closed the rear shoji. She shrunk down into Taiken's shadow.

And then, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, paying no heed to Oto who had entered, calmly turned back toward Taiken and smiled guilelessly. “Ha ha ha!” For some reason, Taiken suddenly let out a laugh like smoke. Then, after a moment, Tadasuke likewise threw back his head to gaze at the ceiling and laughed. “Ha ha ha!” The magistrate’s astringent, withered laughter... As Oto shrank further into herself, Tadasuke rose and retrieved a Go board from the alcove.

“Taiken, it’s been a while. Allow me to teach you a game.” “How insolent! Being a Go partner for a lord is the last thing I’d want, but with you, it’s easy to team up as friends. Come!” “You speak of friendship—but private affairs remain private, and public matters are public… Do not conflate the two.” For some reason, Taiken froze stiffly. Lord Echizen-no-kami set the board before him and promptly placed two stones—one black, one white—upon its surface,

“Now，Gamō！ These black and white stones—they long for each other，a fateful bond that calls out across the board．What do you think…？”

Taiken's face wore astonishment as he groaned deeply! He looked up at Tadasuke with that resonant utterance. Click!... Two stones settled upon the board. One white—the other black. At Tadasuke's unexpected words—"This destined bond where they yearn and seek each other"—Taiken groaned again, lowered his gaze from the magistrate to the board, and resolutely crossed his arms. Behind them, Oto too found her breath stolen away—her chest inexplicably constricted.

But Tadasuke remained composed... He stared fixedly at the two stones on the board for some time before eventually turning his face toward the sunlight blazing through the latticed shoji and continuing as if uttering dreamwords.

Bright light filled the small, cozy tea room, and lingering incense smoke wreathed around the alcove pillar.

The unseasonable warmth that suddenly turned springlike these past two or three days—even sitting here, one hardly missed the hearth fire, such was the gentle heat radiating like each plum blossom unfurling.

In the depths of a silence that had thickened like congealed wax, Taiken and Tadasuke sat separated by the Go board. “Black and white—it can only be called a strange bond…” “But if these two stones are separated like this?” With a listless air, Tadasuke reached out and moved the stones apart, corner by corner across the board.

Taiken, remaining silent, took the go stone container and abruptly shook it violently. The sound of countless stones clashing echoed noisily through the room. "Hmm," Lord Echizen-no-kami closed his eyes. "It is, so to speak, disturbance and calamity—" "And what if they're brought together like this?"

While saying this, Tadasuke arranged the two stones tightly together.

Taiken smiled faintly and quietly set the go stone container down. Then, placing both hands properly on his knees, he looked directly at Tadasuke. “First—perhaps like this.” “Hmm! An image of calm propriety and harmony? I see. Interesting.” “But—” Taiken suddenly thrust his upper body forward, glaring up at Tadasuke. “How do you know?” And then— Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke shrugged his shoulders contentedly and let out a booming laugh. “Go! Go! Taiken—we speak of Go! Only Go!”

“Ah, right. It was Go after all. Go matters, Go matters—seems I’ve stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong. But even so…”

“Gamō!” Though his voice remained low, Tadasuke’s tone had taken on a resonance as cold and piercing as ice. “Let me tell you—I know everything. From tenement quarrels to the secret schemes of senior councilors—nothing escapes this magistrate’s hellish ears. Now then, let us turn to Go. Come—let us begin a game.” “Indeed.” Though he nodded gravely, Taiken continued staring fixedly at the board, remaining utterly motionless.

Once again, a wordless discipline——.

Though this was nothing new, Gamō Taiken found himself struck anew with awe and reverence for his formidable friend Ōoka Tadasuke's vast knowledge and meticulousness, his head bowing of its own accord despite himself. Throughout all ages and across all lands, those who had held the office of magistrate were beyond counting—yet none could have surpassed the character and talent of Tadasuke, who now occupied the weighty position of Edo South Magistrate after gathering unto himself the complete trust of the eighth shogun Yoshimune... It took a person to judge a person. This truth Gamō Taiken felt with visceral intensity, struck by reverence welling from his heart's deepest depths. Enveloped in this fearful awe, even the ever-bold lay priest Gamō Taiken now found himself immobilized as if bound by metal—a state of utter paralysis he had never before experienced.

The renowned lay priest Gamō Taiken of the streets involuntarily stiffened.

Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke broke into a genial smile. "What troubles you, Gamō? Do you mean to strike your colors without battle? Come—let us begin." "A Go discussion might yet yield some wisdom or two—such is its nature." "Hahahaha!" Tadasuke clacked the go stones in challenge. Then unexpectedly, he began murmuring as if to himself: "Lord Tōshōgū once instructed magistrates thus: 'When those who judge hold themselves too high, the people neither approach nor confide, leaving good and evil indistinguishable.'" "The character for judgment combines sand and unseen stones—wash it with water, and all stones' sizes are revealed as soil flows away." "If they remain unseen, there is no washing." "Thus magistrates affecting sage airs can neither judge nor investigate—so it is said." "A magistrate's duty proves troublesome indeed! Hahaha! You must grasp this, Gamō."

Gamō Taiken, for the first time since being born into this world, bowed his head before another person.

Before the Go board, Ōoka Tadasuke continued speaking to no one in particular. It was his heart that sought to subtly convey his intentions during this soliloquy.

“On another occasion, Lord Tokugawa Ieyasu declared to his retainers: ‘Those who lead men in these times gravely misunderstand when they presume victory can be won through military strategies devised while sitting on camp stools—wielding command batons to direct troops without dirtying their hands, believing mere words can triumph in war. A true general cannot defeat enemies by observing his allies’ napes from behind… Though this was military instruction, a magistrate’s duty in times of peace is precisely this legal battle against malevolence." “Therefore, if the magistrate—commander of this righteous army—merely sits upon his camp stool, waves his command baton to direct others while keeping his own hands clean, and postures with empty words alone, he will achieve nothing.” “Rather than wasting time looking at the backs of people’s heads and pontificating on laws, one must advance several steps to the front lines and discern the enemy’s malice—in other words, throw oneself into the midst of the populace.” “Making the people’s hearts my own heart—intimately listening to their voices—no, rather, this Tadasuke himself is already one of the people… The consummate excellence of benevolent governance resides here—well, this Tadasuke has always believed so! Hahahaha! Oh—!” “This too is a Go tactic!” “Now, Gamō—I’ve known everything since time immemorial. Not only have investigations reached every last detail, but arrangements are already in place for each matter. So rest assured—”

“Rest assured—shall we have a game of Go?” “Indeed.” “Rest assured and let us play Go.”

The two quickly exchanged glances and simultaneously burst into laughter, but Taiken immediately turned serious, "But while we're leisurely playing Go like this, that big fish in your net—it's secure, right?" "There's no need to worry about it escaping for now." "Is that so... However," said Taiken, pointing to the two black and white stones on the board, "if these stones don't both return to our side before the opponent gets restrained, we'll be in trouble here."

“Therein lies the tension between private affairs and public law. This magistrate’s inner conflict resides precisely within that balance. These two stones...”

Tadasuke reached out and pulled the two stones apart to either side. "This is the current state of affairs. Shall we leave it as is for now and stand by to observe?" "Hmm. Sooner or later, I'll show you exactly this."

Through Taiken’s hand, the two stones became one again. “I see.” “But for now—”

Tadasuke drew a black stone toward himself and placed another black one beside it with a click. "This one belongs here, you see." "In that case, I'll make this move here." As he spoke, Gamō Taiken arranged a white stone alongside the white group and forcefully placed it down, then looked at Tadasuke. "Hmm!" Tadasuke crossed his arms. "But Taiken, black has its own allies." With a clattering noise, he grabbed the black stones, spread them out across the board, and completely encircled the original black stone.

"I ain't surprised. Not one bit surprised." Gamō Taiken smiled and immediately took one white stone, adding it to the white group. "If you're so inclined, shall we try this? No objections to a little assistance, I presume..." "Hahaha!" Tadasuke laughed. "Perhaps it's my imagination, but the stone you just placed seems slightly soiled, Tengaimujū—you eccentric one! Hahahaha!" "Well, I'm impressed, I must say! Does it look that filthy even to your eyes—?"

With that, Gamō Taiken pulled his head back and scratched it, "That may be so, but the stone you initially claimed as your own—truly a bold move… or rather, no, it should be about the stone’s placement." "You're losing here—hahaha! The right flank's crumbling."

“Oh! “That’s right.” “The pot calling the kettle black, is it? Then how about this?” Tadasuke said this, took out a chipped black stone from the bottom of the stone container, and placed it in the center of the black group. “This defective stone—its name, location, and lineage have all been cleansed. If washed with water, the soil will flow away, and all aspects of the stones—their size and nature, good or evil—shall be revealed... Now then, Taiken, how do you propose we proceed?”

With a tone that pressed like an advancing army, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke spoke through Go-stone metaphors. Precisely because he was Magistrate Ōoka, and precisely because Gamō Taiken was his close personal friend, they now separated public duty from private bonds while twisting them into one—building bridges of tactical warfare between two minds that knew every secret—as the feints and truths of their crow-and-heron deliberations unfolded relentlessly. Oto, hidden in Taiken’s shadow, held her breath, though she understood little of it, wondering what would happen.

Last evening, in the bustling throng of Asakusa's year-end market.

The forged letter that Tange Sazen had Tsuzumi no Yohachi send to Suwa Eizaburō... When Eizaburō dropped it on the road and Magistrate Tadasuke picked it up, he instantly detected through first inspection that the writing had been done with a left hand. Speaking of left-handed writing—the left arm. What naturally came to mind was the left-armed crossroad slasher in reverse kesa—the perpetrator who had been spreading the scent of human blood throughout the capital at that time. Moreover, the letter’s contents spoke of something moving secretly in the shadows!

Having obtained this lead, Tadasuke ordered his retainers and personally took action; from the circumstances surrounding the struggle over the twin swords Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru to the romantic schemes intricately entwined with them, he had now thoroughly investigated everything. While the crimes of Ōshū rōnin Tange Sazen and the brazen evil acts of Suzukawa Genjūrō—a hatamoto with a 500-koku stipend assigned to minor construction duties stationed before Honjo Hōonji Bridge—were indeed grave matters, if he were to expose these now, Taiken and Eizaburō—who were currently fired up to confront them—would likely lose their momentum; moreover, he might have to officially name these two men in court proceedings due to their sword-related entanglements.

Moreover, behind Suzukawa Genjūrō stood Aoyama Bizen-no-kami, superintendent of minor construction groups—unlike apprehending common thieves, bringing Genjūrō into the legal net would require first establishing proper channels with this authority. As for Tange Sazen, being under the command of Sōma Daizen-no-suke, a legitimate non-allied daimyō from Nakaura in Ōshū, even someone of Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke's stature as Edo Town Magistrate could not act rashly.

Thus, while Magistrate Tadasuke had intended to have Suwa Eizaburō somehow retrieve Ken'unmaru from Sazen's grasp and then deliver a crushing blow upon those vile creatures in one fell swoop, his position as magistrate prevented him from rashly meddling in personal affairs—leaving even the formidable Tadasuke caught between public duty and private obligations, somewhat perplexed as of late—.

Just at that moment,

No sooner had his sworn friend Gamō Taiken stormed in like a whirlwind than Tadasuke—with a glance at the woman hiding in his shadow—instantly recognized through physiognomy manuals that she was none other than Oto, the "human arrow" who had previously petitioned landlord Kizaemon of Taharamachi 2-chome for a missing persons search. Since Oto had been cohabiting with Suwa Eizaburō, wielder of Konryūmaru, even when her whereabouts became known, he had deliberately left her undisturbed! He had intentionally kept Kizaemon uninformed—so why had she now come here with Taiken? Tadasuke found this mildly perplexing.

Such was the state of affairs. Such was Ōoka Tadasuke—his prodigious memory grasped even the most trivial matters of the common folk, and within his mind he perpetually folded away each ripple of the ceaseless tides: the ebb and flow of men and women across the vast ocean of this fleeting world. Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, Magistrate of the Southern Town. With discernment akin to a god of subtle truths, having fully tasted both bitterness and sweetness in human affairs while seeing through good and evil with unclouded clarity, he wielded a mystically unfathomable investigative gaze that carried a terrifying intensity bordering on the demonic.

And then—!

Suddenly, what flashed into Gamō Taiken’s mind was the matter of those five palanquins that had abruptly appeared when he and Eizaburō once stormed into the haunted mansion in Honjo—palanquins that had seemed to know everything from start to finish. Five fire-attired warriors swift as the wind! Even now, their true identities remained unknown—but that old man who had been their leader! As this realization struck him, he somehow sensed that Tadasuke had discerned everything. Gamō Taiken raised his face from glaring at the Go board and flashed a sharp grin at Tadasuke.

However, Tadasuke did not return that smile. "Hey, Gamō!" He kept his gaze fixed on the board as he asked, "What do you mean to do with this game?" "I'll pursue it to the bitter end!" "Until I unite these two stones of fate!" "That does sound like you."

Tadasuke muttered quietly, took a single black stone from the board, and with a flick diverted it toward the edge. “Now then, Taiken—here lies one running to summon reinforcements.” “How about it? How about it? What do you intend to do?” “What countermeasures will you take against this?”

“What?! Reinforcements? Who’s going where…?” Taiken blurted out, shoving aside the Go board as he leaned forward, while Tadasuke click-clacked the stones against the playing surface.

“Taiken! “Go, Go—but now, first, the direction where the messenger for reinforcements is heading…”

“Hmm.” “That direction…” “Well then—roughly speaking, the northern direction.” Having declared this, Tadasuke shot a sharp glare at Taiken. A single stone raced ahead to summon reinforcements—and that direction was north! At Tadasuke’s words, Gamō Taiken snapped sharply and glared at the board. Indeed, a single black stone—removed from the black formation by Tadasuke’s hand—appeared to hasten on a solitary journey toward the corner of the Go board.

Is this not the figure of Yohachi of Tsuzumi—who even now journeys to the castle town of Sōma-Nakamura Domain in Ōshū, bedding down night after night on grass as he works to summon a swarm of swordsmen for Sazen’s cause? “Now! What will you do? What do you intend to do?” Tadasuke urged this while looking at Taiken. Staring fixedly at the stone arrangement, Taiken remained motionless. Even Oto, who had been shrinking back in the shadows, found herself unwittingly drawn into the deadly serious stratagem hidden beneath this Go match. Forgetting herself, she peered from the side, watching and listening with rapt attention.

In appearance, it remained nothing but a leisurely and cultured battle between black and white stones...

Clouds must have veiled the sun’s visage—the sunlight that had been streaming through the shoji screens dimmed abruptly, filling the room with an unseasonable chill akin to clear mountain springwater. Oto shuddered and hunched her shoulders. “Taiken—they say a novice’s schemes… well, you know how it ends.” “What do you mean to do with this stone?”

A voice tinged with faint sarcasm from Magistrate Echizen-no-kami.

But Taiken did not respond. The way his large knees shifted restlessly—as if stirred by poverty—was indeed the very picture of deep contemplation. Thereupon, Tadasuke abruptly took out a handful of black stones and arranged them around the stone that was said to be going to seek reinforcements.

“Behold.” “They’ve successfully gathered their forces just as planned and now attempt to return.” “What say you to this countermeasure?” “Hmm! No matter.” “I’ll settle it thus.”

No sooner had he spoken than Taiken took one of the white stones at hand and placed it with a click into the center of the new black formation. Tadasuke tilted his head,

“Ah. “So you’re heading there directly.” “Exactly. “Thus on their return journey—we’ll thin their ranks as much as possible. “First, we’ll pick them off one by two whenever opportunity arises—”

While saying this, Gamō Taiken removed two or three black stones from around the white one he had just placed. “By doing so, I intend to reduce them to their original state by the time they return.” “Splendid! That’s excellent!” “Excellent!”

Tadasuke slapped his knee,

“We must pursue them posthaste and cut through those hard-earned reinforcements… Above all, we cannot allow these reinforcements to reach the enemy’s main castle. As the proverb goes—the many against the few—for even a battle won could become a loss. But will it truly go so smoothly?”

“What do you mean?” “Regarding your current tactic—securing their return route to gradually slaughter the reinforcement unit—” “That depends entirely on this stone’s skill. This stone! This stone! This—your so-called tarnished stone!”

When Gamō Taiken struck his chest in a flash of insight and laughed, Ōoka Tadasuke too allowed a gentle smile to form as he remarked, “A most reliable stone indeed.”

He glanced briefly at Taiken’s face, then— “If we speak of the north... the road is a single path.” “Should we depart immediately, we’ll catch them without trouble.” “A northern journey to Araya—ideal for bloodshed.” “But mind this crucial stone—let there be no misstep.” “Needless worry!” Having declared this, Taiken gathered the so-called reinforcement-stones—the black cluster—into his palm, then snatched two white stones and thrust them into the black formation at the board’s edge—sweeping all away in one motion.

On the board remained two stones—one black, one white—perfectly aligned at the center. “Enough! Understood.” Tadasuke tucked his hands leisurely into his sleeves. “As for my part beyond that—I’ll handle what remains. Until then, you must aid me in uniting these two stones.” The Go discussion ceased abruptly. In the pale midday stillness, Kuro—his beloved dog—could be heard howling somewhere beyond the garden.

How Ōoka Tadasuke could know with such clarity—as if pointing to his own palm—about the reinforcements gathered around Ken'unmaru's gang while remaining stationary was strange, if one found it strange. Yet given Tadasuke's current manner of speaking, there was no doubt that someone from the Honjo Monster Manor had set out for Sōma-Nakamura Domain to seek swordsmen reinforcements.

“Then, right now—let’s go!” When Gamō Taiken stood up, Ōoka Tadasuke halted him with a glance.

“Gamō! You’re forgetting something...” A swift gaze was directed toward Oto. Gamō Taiken acted clueless.

“Traveling light is paramount—Ha ha ha! I’ll leave this luggage in your care for now!” And in that instant—leaving behind Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, who wore a thoroughly perplexed wry smile, and Oto, shrinking under her sense of unworthiness—the garden-facing shoji screen had already swallowed Taiken.

Northern Country Travel Diary

“Boss! Return horses! Take a ride!” “Take a ride!”

As a nasal voice and drawn-out bell sound reached his ears through the reed screen of the roadside tea house, a young, spirited traveler who seemed every inch an Edo native set down his half-drunk tea bowl and turned around. Clad in a striped kimono with arm guards and leggings, wearing a travel coat and single sword at his waist—his signature hat tossed onto a nearby bench—he looked every bit the notorious moneylender who might have betrayed his domain in some scandalous dispute. Yet one look at his face revealed the undeniable truth: this was none other than Yohachi of Asakusa Komagata, the streetwise "Ani-utazutsumi."

This guy was supposed to be lazing about under watch at Kushimaki Oto's hideout, but one morning he suddenly remembered the crucial task Lord Tange had ordered him to do—This won't do! There's no way I can just keep lounging around here all pleased with myself! Being a fellow whose very nature was to act on impulse—quick to step forward and quicker still to leap into action—he took advantage of Madam Oto having vacated her hideout since last month and the timely fair weather to hurriedly tighten his straw sandal cords, thus setting out on this journey to Ōshū-Nakamura.

A shadow for company—a most agreeable travel companion…

No matter how much Lord Tange was rushing, it wasn't my concern anyway. I'd make sure to blow through all this travel money I'd been given in the most entertaining ways possible—and on the return trip, I'd get to swagger into Edo as the samurai group's official guide! There was no sweeter deal than this. Plus, since nobody knew squat about my trip to Nakamura, there was no worry about Eizaburō sending pursuers after me—ah well, an Edo native's leisurely diversion this would be. Might as well take it real slow.

With this mindset, he made no particular effort to quicken his pace even when hurrying, and after lingering at inns along the way, found himself arriving at Koganei in Yashū just past noon. The town of Koga was the domain of Doi Ōi-no-kami—a fief yielding eighty thousand koku—located sixteen ri from Edo. He had departed Koga that morning, passed through Nogi, Mamada, and Oyama, then after a long stretch of two ri arrived at this Koganei. Consulting his travel guide revealed the distance from Edo to Nakamura as seventy-eight ri—meaning Yonokō's journey still stretched far ahead—but with his mind set on sightseeing, he made no effort to quicken his pace. And so while the sun still hung high, he plopped himself down at a tea shop and began holding forth about Edo to the old proprietor.

The sun beat down fiercely on the white highway. Despite having steeled himself for bitter cold as he journeyed north in midwinter, today felt almost warmer than Edo itself. Even so, a bitingly cold wind blew sand and dust into the air, and the dumplings touted as local specialties grated against the tongue with their gritty texture. Groves with a slightly different character, houses, the darkened surfaces of distant fields, the unfamiliar words of children swarming by the roadside...

Edo natives are Benkei at home but lose all mettle when traveling—or so the saying goes.

Yohachi was no exception in this regard, and though he found himself growing increasingly uneasy, he did his utmost to steel himself. “Travelin’s fine an’ all, but for a true-blue Edo native like me—step one foot outside the shogun’s capital, an’ the grub an’ women drop so low it’s downright unbearable!” “Even if the dames go blind from scrubbin’ their faces with shit water—you! What’s this slop you call food?!” “Oh?” “That so?” “Tch!” “Don’t ‘that so’ me!” “This dumplin’s half-baked! Who could choke this down?!” “Callin’ this a local specialty? What kinda joke is that?!” “Hell—in Edo, even stray cats’d turn up their noses at this swill!”

“Well, well! The cats round here don’t eat many o’ these dumplings either.” “What the hell! Don’t screw with me! Hey, in Edo, you know—ain’t nobody even heard o’ such slop. The soybean-flour rice cakes from Kikyōya Yasubei under the big enoki tree at Denbōin of Kinryūzan Sensōji Temple—they’ve moved shop now an’ are thrivin’ like crazy. At the corner o’ Umamichi Third Block’s entrance—’tween Kintai-en an’ Nijūken Tea House, see? Mark my words, ya hear?” Putting unrequested effort into advertisin’ Asakusa rice cakes, he was holdin’ forth alone when—

“Boss! How ’bout some horses? I’ll do it cheap for ya!” called out the horse handler again. Yohachi’s patience had reached its limit,

“What?!” “Horses?” “You damn fool! What’s with the horses?!” As Yohachi wheeled around with his sharp retort, his face went deathly pale. From the tea shop across the two facing storefronts, a bizarre man stood staring fixedly in their direction! A familiar beggar-like figure clutching a cheap ceramic flask... Having successfully pawned off Oto’s custody onto Tadasuke, Gamō Taiken was just stepping into the garden when Tadasuke called out to halt him.

“Here, Gamō! Something has fallen here.” When he turned back to peek into the room, there were several koban coins where he had been sitting! Tadasuke—having perceived Taiken’s dire circumstances—had tossed them out without being asked, intending to discreetly provide travel funds. A thoughtfulness so profound it could bring tears... Neither spoke. Gamō Taiken merely lumbered up, handed over the gold, roared with laughter, and left again—no bow, no courtesy. Between these two kindred spirits flowed something as simple and natural as the wind.

And then.

While Oto remained prostrated, Gamō Taiken left Magistrate Ōoka’s residence and, without stopping by Lord Eizaburō in Kawaramachi, departed Edo that very day to embark on his northward journey.

It was said that someone had set out as a messenger seeking reinforcements for Ken'unmaru and was now hurrying straight toward the northern provinces—but who could it be? He had likely not yet reached Sōma, so if I overtook him and saw his face, there could be no doubt. Moreover, depending on the opponent's nature, there were countless strategies to employ—and so every time a figure appeared ahead on his path, Gamō Taiken single-mindedly quickened his pace.

The bustle of the highway held a quaint charm, with travelers coming and going. But Master Gamō Taiken, having no fixed residence, might as well have been traveling day and night even while in Edo. Therefore, even as he now left the capital, he had no preparations to speak of—only his threadbare padded coat, as worn and unchanging as a sparrow that has settled in for winter, and his ever-present one-shō sake flask as his sole traveling companion—.

A narrow back road.

To call it poetic might sound elegant, but Taiken felt restless. He drove his legs—already more robust than most—to their limits, pressing onward to cover over ten ri in a single day.

Ōshū Highway. Two ri from Edo was Senju. Another two ri brought one to Sōka. Then through Koshigaya, Kasukabe, and Satte came last night's stay at Kurihashi. Having departed Kurihashi at dawn and passed through Nakada and Koga's castle town, he came barreling straight down the main highway to this Koganei. At the outskirts of the post town, he tried to briskly pass straight through without stopping. Suddenly from a tea shop came voices incessantly hawking "Edo! Edo!" as if peddling the city itself. When Gamō Taiken idly glanced toward the commotion, he saw a townsman he recognized vigorously holding forth.

Huh?! The moment he tilted his head slightly, the first thing that came to mind was the man who had snatched the purse from Suwa Eizaburō’s bosom and run off beneath the Furisode Ginkgo tree at Shōkaku-ji Temple’s gate. This was one of Honjo Suzukawa Genjūrō’s lackeys—a man whose name he also knew…Tsuzumi no Yohachi! Though he had instantly recognized him, Gamō Taiken feigned ignorance and took up position near the entrance of the tea shop across the way—neither hiding nor peering about—openly glaring this way as—

The moment Yohachi—having just barked at the horse handler—turned around and noticed the unexpected presence of Gamō Taiken, he gasped and wilted like greens sprinkled with salt.

The man who had been so fearsomely spirited just moments before suddenly crumbled into incoherent mumbling, astonishing the tea shop proprietor. "What's wrong? Did your belly start aching or somethin'?" Pressed by the proprietor's pestering, Yohachi seized the opening: "Huh? Nah... 's nothin'." "No—my gut's killin' me! It's 'cause you fed me these shitty dumplings!" "You're the one keepin' on badmouthin' my dumplings! Even though you scarfed down three whole plates yerself..."

Grimacing and groaning, Yohachi darted a glance! Shot another glance! When he glanced back, there across the road sat Master Gamō Taiken upon a camp stool, calmly settled with unblinking gaze fixed this way. Yohachi felt as though his back were searing, restless beyond endurance. Like a frog stared down by a snake—of all people, why had that most troublesome man suddenly popped up here?! This has turned into a real mess! For a moment, Yohachi was shocked nearly out of his wits—but well, the road ahead was still long. He resolved to shake them off neatly somewhere before even reaching Utsunomiya,

“Gramps! “Here! Payment for the tea.” “I’m leavin’ it right here!”

As he stood up energetically, as if waiting for that very moment, Gamō Taiken too appeared to rise from his seat at the tea shop across the way.

A chill ran down his neck, and Yohachi nearly froze in his tracks. It was precisely that sensation—walking down a desolate path with a fierce dog snapping at his heels. His spine went rigid; it felt as though his hip joints were about to come undone. He couldn’t break into a run, nor could he bring himself to look back—staggering half-dead, Yohachi let his feet carry him wherever the highway led.

Right behind him came Master Gamō Taiken, swinging a one-shō sake flask in one hand, his face—which seemed to sprout from his beard—wearing a smile as he followed at a leisurely pace. A bizarrely absurd pair in procession. There they processed endlessly along the sun-drenched Utsunomiya Highway—when the front quickened its pace, the rear followed suit; pauses and surges maintaining their inseparable bond—a sight that might have struck observers as highly amusing. But for Yohachi himself, it meant literal drenching sweat and a mind utterly worked into frenzy.

It was utterly unnerving. If he had kept even a little more distance while following me, then I—Komagata’s Yonokō—might have mustered some clever way to shake him off. But pressed this close, practically stepping on my heels, I couldn’t think of anything at all. And that too. "Hey!" Or "Oi!"— If he’d at least said something, it’d have been manageable. Then I could’ve found a way to respond—"Oh! Well now! The beggar lord himself—what an unexpected encounter! Hmm, where to?"— It wasn’t that Yohachi couldn’t smoothly produce such retorts—in truth, he had two or three such exchanges prepared in his mind—but being followed in oppressive silence by someone he already feared left Yonokō utterly helpless, feeling like a living corpse.

The ghostly Yonokō and the Yama-like Gamō Taiken ambled along the lone path through the fields in single file.

Departing Koganei and passing through Shimoishibashi, they traveled two and a half ri to Utsunomiya... swept along the main thoroughfare amidst the bustle of people and horses. Though dusk was deepening, Yohachi couldn't bring himself to take lodgings with such company. Having passed through the town, he took to the night road and began quickening his pace.

This was bad! Still he kept right on tailing me. Silent as a shadow, he pressed close from behind, looming over me as he followed. Yohachi was thoroughly at his wit’s end—if he so much as tried to glance back, he felt a fist might come flying his way the instant he did. Once when he squatted by the roadside to retie his sandals, Gamō simply stood calmly beside him and waited. Yohachi of Komagata fame was left utterly exasperated, as though he’d shouldered a massive burden.

Two travelers pressed on in silence.

Midnight in Shirasawa. Ujiie. Kitsuregawa—the castle town of Lord Sama-no-kami of Kitsuregawa. Having pushed himself to walk recklessly through the night, the hues of dawn began to stir around Mount Saku upon the utterly exhausted Yonokō. His legs became like sticks. His vision blurred. Yohachi, now like a wolf driven to the brink, thought that if Gamō were to say even a single word to him, he would immediately surrender and spill everything, turn straight back to Edo—or perhaps even dash off anywhere right then and there—when...

Gamō Taiken remained utterly unperturbed. Every now and then, he would tilt the cheap sake flask to take a swig while murmuring a passage from a Noh chant under his breath.

The bright moon hung over the mountain ridge as if forgotten, and the day promised to be splendidly clear once more. In the pale lavender morning mist, the crowing of chickens indicated nearby dwellings, while at the edge of distant fields lined with cedar groves, sunrise clouds burned crimson. Far beyond lay mountain ranges still clutching remnants of snow. When a sudden whinny sounded nearby and rustling came from the grass ahead, Yohachi stopped in surprise—whereupon two or three grazing horses poked their muzzles through the vegetation in unison.

“What the hell! “Scaring the life outta me! “Shoo! Move, move! “Shoo—!”

When he realized they were horses, Yonokō suddenly puffed himself up with bravado—so ridiculous it must have seemed—

“Ha ha ha ha…”

Behind him came Gamō’s laughter. Yonokō finally turned his tear-streaked face around and let out a scream. “Sir! “Master! “You’re cruel, hounding me like this—come on, they say a journey’s best with company, and life’s best with kindness.” “How about we have ourselves a little consultation?”

Yohachi bent slightly at the waist and rubbed his hands together like a street vendor accosting a customer. “Consultation… What’s this ‘consultation’ you speak of?” The refreshing morning light gradually crept up the tattered figure of Gamō Taiken, who stood blocking Yohachi’s path and looked down at him. Yohachi stroked his neck, scratched his head, and restlessly moved both hands about. “Heh heh heh! Really now, Master—Sir—no, Lord—though that sounds odd—but with you stubbornly following me like this, I can hardly walk proper-like.” “Enough already—let’s settle this matter here and now, and I’ll reconsider my position, sir.”

"Settle it?... Though I should clarify—I don't recall ever tailing you." "First off, you're the one always standing in front of me—I can hardly walk like this." "Just where exactly are you headed?" "Heh heh heh, you're joking." "This isn't a laughing matter—I'm asking where you're going." "Well... "Well... actually, Matsushima—uh, sightseeing in Matsushima." "Matsushima, ahh Matsushima, Matsushima..." "Sightseeing in Matsushima as spring approaches—quite the lofty position you've attained."

“Oh, it’s nothing so splendid.” “No, splendid indeed. Leaving worldly dust far behind to cleanse one’s heart and spirit in nature’s exquisite beauty. That mindset of yours is truly admirable.”

"I'm honored." "Nah, save your deference. I'm headed to that very Matsushima myself. Seems you're eager to have me tag along." "Huh? So... uh... Master—you're going to Matsushima too?"

“Indeed. It’s a place worth seeing at least once in a lifetime, I tell ya.” “Tch! There’s no helping it. Yohachi also gave up. I’ll be your splendid escort.” “Now now—I did address you as Yohachi. What was that greeting just now?” “Oh, it’s nothing—about my situation—would it be all right if I accompany you? Yes, I’ll come along for sure! Matsushima or wherever—if it’s come to this…” “Ah, now now Yohachi—just follow quietly.”

And so.

Yohachi with his sulky face and Gamō Taiken—who stifled a laugh to adopt a stern expression—had begun walking side by side in a peculiar fashion, which was all well and good, but their bizarre pairing made peasants heading out early on errands to Sakuyama-town startle and step aside. “Master! When did you leave Edo? You’ve got quite the brisk pace there!” “Ha ha ha ha! When I heard you were headin’ to Matsushima, I up and decided to tag along myself. You’re the fast one—were your parents couriers or somethin’?”

“Can’t keep up with ya, Master.” Walking while somehow maintaining appearances— Yohachi of Tsuzumi secretly thought to himself. This guy’s too much to handle. If he made any clumsy resistance here and now, it’d only make this persistent nuisance latch onto him like a tick, leading to even more troublesome complications. Thus, he resolved to keep humoring the man for the time being, then slip away deftly in Fukushima—the town where they’d branch off sideways from the Ōshū Main Highway toward Sōma.

Gamō Taiken too harbored his own scheme. Having heard that someone from the Suzukawa faction in Honjo had departed to summon reinforcements to Nakamura, he wondered—who could this messenger be? Racing to catch up in high anticipation of major developments, he found himself rather disappointed upon discovering it was Yohachi of Tsuzumi—a man who couldn’t even cross swords with him as an equal opponent. Capturing such a man would prove meaningless; slaughtering him would be tedious. Deeming it unworthy to even face such a foe, he instead resolved to accompany Yohachi all the way to Sōma-Nakamura, intercept him while guiding dozens of swordsmen back to Edo, and—after so long—fully wield his skills to build a mountain of corpses in a grand bloodbath. It was this very resolve that let him maintain an utterly carefree demeanor.

“Here, Yohachi—fill this tokkuri flask.” “Here, Yohachi—exchange the coins while you’re at it.” “Here, Yohachi—push from behind; this slope’s wearied me.” “Yohachi! Yohachi!” Master Gamō Taiken barked incessantly, driving Yohachi of Tsuzumi like a beast of burden. Resigned to avoiding his master’s wrath, Yohachi obeyed each command with mechanical subservience. Ōtawara—castle town of Lord Ōtawara Hida-no-kami. 11,400 koku.

Shirakawa Barrier—the castle town of Abe Harima-no-kami. 100,000 koku. Nihonmatsu—Lord Niwa Sakyō-dayū. 100,700 koku.

This place lies sixty-six ri from Edo.

And so, it was on the evening of the eighth day since departing Edo that they entered the town of Nihonmatsu—said to be four post towns away from Fukushima. As he browsed the inns lining both sides of the street, Yohachi suddenly noticed that Master Gamō Taiken—who had been walking right beside him until moments ago—was nowhere to be seen! Yohachi of Tsuzumi—perfect! Seizing the moment, he suddenly leaped into Yanagiya and the lantern-lit inn before his eyes. “Welcome—you’ve arrived quite early.”

Two or three maids raised their shrill voices in unison.

The town of Nihonmatsu. Traveler's inn for people from various provinces, Yanagiya's front second floor. Having just finished washing his feet and come up, Yohachi of Tsuzumi was shown to a dimly lit room and immediately began finding fault. Being sharp-tongued was standard fare for an Edo native... And since he found himself on this journey, that innate tendency to spit venom at every opportunity—fueled by unvented irritation and a self-serving sense of entitlement—combined with his conviction that he'd deftly shaken off Master Gamō Taiken, left Yohachi of Tsuzumi thoroughly pleased with himself,

“Tch!” “Is this the best room you’ve got? Some cheap dump?” “You’re making a fool of me!”

With that, he glared around the area and made no move to sit down. The maid who had guided him here was well-prepared, “If you were more generous with your lodging fees, there are plenty of fine rooms available over there.” At this, Yohachi was left speechless, “Well, of course that’s how it is. That’s how it’s gotta be—this world runs on money, don’t it? Ahahaha!” Yohachi of Tsuzumi was such a noisy fellow who couldn’t rest unless he was talking nonstop—and now that the troublesome nuisance called Gamō Taiken was gone, he grew all the more cheerful and gabby.

When asked whether he wanted his meal or bath first, he spouted self-indulgent nonsense about wanting to eat while soaking in the bath... leaving the maid so exasperated she retreated downstairs. Later, after changing into the inn's livery, Yohachi leaned against the flimsy second-floor railing—a decorative barrier in name only that threatened to snap under his weight—and peered down at the street below. Lonely yet bustling—it was precisely that hour when travelers scrambled to secure lodgings, their raucous solicitations rendering even this Ōshū Highway town hurried as dusk fell.

Dirty white walls. A stretch of low-eaved tiled roofs. Noren left forgotten at the entrances of faded townhouses; oil-paper doors blurred with lamplight. Horse dung and pebbles... What sort of wares could they be peddling? The Wada-ya shop with its boldly painted signboard; wide-fronted houses that seemed like local long-established businesses—all these things jumbled and overgrown, pressed together in the encroaching twilight, creating a truly bone-chilling vista reminiscent of a withered grove of scrub trees... A desiccated way station.

Yohachi, uncharacteristically recalling such lines and feeling somewhat wistful, wondered: What had become of that Beggar Master? He must be in a panic searching for this Yohachi right about now—serves him right! Just as he exulted inwardly, the sliding door facing the corridor opened and someone entered. Yohachi started at the clerk's polite greeting: "My apologies, but might we ask you to share your room?" When Yohachi turned around, he saw a single poison peddler from Echigo shouldering his wares pushing his way in.

This left Yohachi somewhat displeased, but even so, the maid brought in his evening meal and attended to him. “Hey Miss, ain’t there any cheap eats hereabouts?”

“If it’s rice you want, I’ll serve it for you.” “Wait! This ain’t the meal! I said mugwort cakes! Hahaha! How ‘bout them mugwort cakes, eh?” “We have no mugwort cakes, but persimmon rice cakes are our local specialty.” “Quit laughin’ at me! Swap out mugwort cakes for persimmon ones and that’s it? That ain’t no help! This place don’t understand proper Japanese—how pitiful. In that case, Missy, what say we sneak out tonight, eh?” “Huh?” “How ’bout it?”

“Huh?! “I don’t know.” “What—you think there’s something I don’t know? A looker like you’s rare even in Edo.”

“Hohoho, I’m hardly worth such flattery—if you go around spouting such sweet nothings, that woman won’t let it slide.” “What’re you talkin’ about?!” After finishing his meal while spouting his usual brand of idle chatter, Yohachi requested a masseur—declaring he’d take a quick dip in the bath first—then slung a hand towel over his shoulder and shuffled into the corridor in his straw sandals. Just then, from some room came the unrefined twang of a shamisen... In evening’s drizzle over Asaji Moor, two or three cries of wild geese—bitter sorrow of one who waits in vain for word.

And just as [the verse] reached that point, the meddlesome Yonokō covered his ears, “Scram!” Shouting, he ran down the dark back staircase—the entrance turned out to be a bathhouse where a clamor of voices echoed. A mixed-gender bath... While not quite something Kunisada would paint, even so, the sight of naked figures like bodhisattvas twisting into various poses visible through the thick steam had Yohachi utterly delighted.

"Whoa-ho! 'Everyone, sorry ’bout this!' With all the dashing vigor of an Edo native, he went leaping in!"

Along with the sound of a familiar Noh chant, a single mugwort-shaped topknot floated listlessly in the corner of the cramped bathtub. Ha! No sooner had Yonokō thought this than he merely dampened his body and tried to slip through the women unnoticed—but he was too late. “Ha ha ha! Been waitin’ for ya!” With a voice like shattering pottery, Master Taiken surged upright from the bathwater, forcing Yohachi into an awkward crouch at the washing area.

“Oh! Master, is that you? I was actually quite worried about what might have happened to you. Well, well… I’m glad to see you’re safe and sound, eh heh heh…”

“Ain’t this quite the greeting for folks who ain’t met in ages.” “Oh no, not at all! Just now out front of Yanagiya—I thought I spotted you, Master, but then you vanished like some magic trick! Agh—” “Thought you could sneak in here quiet-like, did ya? Not so fast! Figured you’d come crawling here too—that’s why I got in first.” “You’ve got a real talent for pullin’ these shoddy tricks. Ain’t that enough to scare a man?”

“No need to be surprised. “You must be disappointed. “Anyway, once you’ve warmed up a bit, come out and scrub my back.” “Aye. Right away.” Though he answered thus, all vigor he’d possessed upon entering had vanished somewhere. Yohachi slumped dejectedly, floating his neck in the whitish murky water as he glanced around the area once over. Yet even the snowy-white surface meeting his eyes brought him no heart’s ease at all. At both the back and entrance, fish oil lamps burned dimly, casting light upon countless figures—a throng of men and women of all ages like the Five Hundred Arhats.

Perhaps because it was the final bath, there were many women. Graceful women sat with raised knees smoothing their topknots; young girls clung to corner panels; middle-aged women occupied small buckets to lay out arrays of toiletries; babies sneaked into gaps to taste bath powder—mothers discovering and scolding them—no—it was utter chaos! A clamor of high-pitched voices rose with the steam... Through this milieu flowed flattering banter and the curved elegance of feet being dried—Yohachi, soaking his chin contentedly in the water while idly scanning about,

“Come now, Yohachi—get out before you’re done stewing and scrub me down!” Here it began! Having no choice but to comply, he adopted the manner of a proper bathhouse attendant and began scrubbing the broad back vigorously— “If you scrub like that, it’s just ticklish and unbearable—put more back into it!” “More! More!” Yohachi strained until his face turned crimson, huffing and puffing, but Taiken showed no sign of noticing and kept urging him to scrub harder and harder. The result left Yohachi dizzy and unsteady—which was one thing—but appearing every bit like Beggar Master’s servant, he suffered endless scorn from the gathered female guests.

Moreover, just when he thought he'd finally finished scrubbing—"Yohachi! Fetch more hot water! Yohachi! Massage my legs! Yohachi...!"—it reached the point where even a dozen Yohachis wouldn't have sufficed. When Master Taiken got out first, Yohachi—finally released from his duties—returned to his room not rested, but utterly drained instead!

Master was in the back parlor downstairs.

Moreover, since his roommate—the poison seller—seemed to be sleeping soundly and likely wouldn’t suspect anything, he suddenly resolved to prepare his still-steaming body for travel—a terrible fellow who, as a parting bonus, had tucked the poison seller’s tobacco pouch into his waistband—Tsuzumi’s Big Bro, who wouldn’t rise even if he fell—intending to pass through the four post stations of Nihonmatsu, Hatchōme, Wakamiya, and Nekochō that very night and turn onto the Sōma Highway from Fukushima by morning. With all preparations perfectly in order, he was just about to slip quietly out of the room when—

“Good evening. Is the massage service requested here? I apologize for the lateness.” The masseur Yohachi had ordered at dusk arrived, and at the sound of his voice, the sleeping poison seller mumbled and stirred.

In a panic, Yohachi instantly slid open the edge of the shoji screen and slipped out into the corridor—feigning sudden blindness with poor timing—while still hearing faint protests behind him. Of course he stiffed the lodging payment altogether, then leapt down from the eaves to the rear alleyway and finally breathed a sigh of relief! Master Taiken remained unaware of the details, seemingly in the midst of a deep slumber.

This time—this very time—I’ve splendidly outwitted them… Yohachi began walking with an involuntary smile of satisfaction. When he glanced back, the faint light from the inn illuminated willow branches on its signboard, and the night breeze felt pleasant against cheeks still warm from bathing.

Through the silent heavens and earth lay five ri and seventeen chō to Fukushima’s castle town.

At the edge of Iinoyama's peaks, the moon hung low—a night when stars seemed to rain down.

Bloodbrush Ledger

The moat's water lay dark and still beneath pine shadows. In blackness thick as spilled ink, beyond faintly pale stone walls patterned like tortoise shells and groves that rolled like storm swells, the castle keep's roof pierced the night sky. Wooden clappers marking the hour echoed through distant air, their lingering tones seeping across fortress grounds.

As a tozama daimyō commanding sixty thousand koku who reigned supreme over the northeastern coastal reaches, Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke's ironclad stronghold stood embodied in Nakamura Castle's outer fortifications.

Cold stars twinkled in the wind; the deep night's frost bit with piercing severity.

The townsfolk and castle dwellers alike fell asleep, and an utterly dark stillness spread limitlessly...

Thud! Startled by something, the sleeping waterfowl took flight low across the water with a splash! —Staggering unsteadily down the main approach lined with trees, he clattered onward! With a clatter of two or three steps across the drawbridge's planks, a single shadowy figure attempted to press into the castle. Several guards took notice. Instantly scattering outward, they leaped forth and crossed their six-foot staffs into a Y-shape, pinning him down precisely at the bridge's center. In Awa Province, this became the secret technique of Kaiensokame and Hayashi Suruganokami—the Kaiensryū staff method of Seaweed Entanglement.

“Who goes there?!... Insolent cur! Stand down!” Though sharp in tone, their voices—lowered out of consideration for the late hour—resonated all the more terrifyingly.

“Guh!” Answering without truly answering, the man plopped down to his knees as he was pushed back... Tsuzumi no Yohachi sat there disheveled, gasping for breath. No wonder. After abandoning Master Taiken in Nihonmatsu late last night, he had sprinted five ri through mountain paths to reach Fukushima by dawn, then cut eastward to cross the Miharu River at Funaji Town, raced four and a half ri along the zigzagging Sōma Highway in a frantic daze, passed through the 10,000-koku domain of Tachibana Izumo-no-kami, and desperately run another five and a half ri through nighttime mountain slopes… Now, having finally arrived at this Sōma-Nakamura, even the indefatigable Yohachi lay utterly spent like laundry wrung out and slapped down.

A full day and night without food or drink along fifteen ri of treacherous roads—though Yohachi would claim it was to fulfill Sazen’s orders, in truth he was terrified of Master Taiken— Yet no matter how many times he looked back, neither shadow nor form of the master could be seen. However, as the Willow Inn incident made clear—where Taiken might outflank him through any route and materialize unexpectedly at any moment—Yohachi had driven his bony shanks onward with single-minded determination, glaring sidelong at the courier station’s rest area as he pressed forward. Yet Taiken had apparently remained unaware of Yohachi’s escape, snoring loudly in the Willow Inn’s back parlor, for not a whiff of him had reached Yohachi by the time he arrived at this Nakamura.

He had splendidly managed to slip free of that full nelson hold. Even if getting caught by this Tsuzumi would've been child's play, Yohachi quickened his pace all the more, maintaining a constant half-run as if pursued by the unseen Taiken.

And now. Yohachi collapsed with a thud, hands planted in the middle of the drawbridge.

“Water… Have mercy… water…!” “I-I’ve come as a messenger from Lord Tange Sazen of Edo.” “P-Please... just a cup of water...” Hearing this, the guards exchanged startled looks. Though unaware of the particulars, since this messenger from Tange Sazen—about whom they had been strictly ordered by their group leader to immediately grant him hospitable entry to the guardhouse and report upward should the absconded Sazen ever return, even if it meant excommunication—had now arrived, the guards collectively permitted Yohachi into the castle grounds. At once, one among them relayed the message through multiple channels to the night-duty officer.

From the senior official to the tea attendant, from the attendant to the page through proper channels—and then into the ears of Lord Daizen-no-suke. “Summon him immediately!”

This set off an unusual flurry of activity within the castle grounds. Having been temporarily granted a bonfire to warm himself, Tsuzumi no Yohachi—still in full traveling attire—received his summons. Following an attendant who carried a flaming torch through a garden where tree shadows stood vivid against the light, he wound his way past thickets and ponds, through landscapes so elaborately designed they seemed to transport one into the very precincts of an imperial palace. It might be called a dreamlike nightscape... Just as the dazed Yonokō, peering around bewilderedly, suddenly emerged from a thicket onto a wide lawn.

When the young samurai leading the way barked "Hey!", Yohachi hastily bowed his head. Looking up, he saw a brightly lit veranda far ahead where two or three figures stood in clear silhouette, small as beans. Though still quite distant, they now switched to sliding steps. The bone-piercing cold of night framed this sudden audience. Near the veranda threshold lay Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke—thick night robes piled high around him, chin propped on a pillow as he sprawled prone—a portly, irritable man of about fifty with a receding hairline and twitching mouth corners that contorted sideways whenever he spoke.

He had a broad head and large eyes... The corners of his mouth twitched incessantly, and whenever he spoke, his entire face contorted sideways. True to his reputation as a famous eccentric, he had bound his large tea-whisk hairstyle with crimson thread and now lay rolling up the sleeves of his white silk nightclothes around his fingertips, incessantly scraping earwax only to blow it away with a puff. But his eyes remained fixed piercingly on Yohachi as he approached. The candelabra's light blazed brilliantly, casting a hundred and eight shadows that danced across the gold-leafed sliding doors like scenes from some ancient tale.

Sōma Daizen-no-suke—the sword-obsessed lord who had first stirred the whirlpool of chaos around the twin blades Ken'un and Konryū as master to the sword demon Tange Sazen—now granted audience from his bedding in the dead of night to Tsuzumi no Yohachi. Having received Sazen's secret message, he stood ready to swiftly devise countermeasures in response... What could this mean—that an urgent messenger had suddenly arrived from Sazen, who had remained silent since departing for Edo? He had immediately ordered his bedding moved closer to the edge, but reasoning that any proxy arriving empty-handed must bear ill tidings, the short-tempered Daizen-no-suke grew increasingly agitated as he waited for Yohachi—clicking his tongue repeatedly—

Before him spread a vast garden. When the light from this bedchamber appeared as a small square floating in the distance—looking like a lantern-lit boat in a box—Yohachi felt his chest pound at finally gaining audience with the Lord. But come now—just some country daimyo, nothing to fear... Steeling himself with false courage like this, he repeated the message he needed to deliver under his breath. Avoiding the stepping stones while bowing deeply, he slowly and carefully advanced toward the presence. Just as he thought he had reached the proper distance and prepared to prostrate himself far across the way—

“Tsk! Closer!” “C-closer! C-come here!” A voice like a barked command rang out. Daizen-no-suke said. “T-t-t-t... T-Tange Sazen... fr-from... you’re the messenger from Tange Sazen?!” “Y-yes, my lord.” Yohachi—inadvertently drawn in and stammering—looked up sharply to see the large-framed lord’s face break into a faint smile, as though deeming him some dear fool.

This approach—confronting them with raw Edo bravado—was the only way. Yohachi had already grasped the essence of the matter. Simultaneously, Daizen-no-suke surveyed his surroundings,

“M-Men! This is a private discussion!” “This is a private discussion!” “Withdraw! Leave us!” When he barked out rapid-fire commands—though the darkness made it hard to see—the chamberlains and senior retainers who had been lining the corridors on both sides, down to even the pages inside the room, withdrew without making a sound, vanishing as though erased. Urging Yohachi along and taking him to just below the veranda, the young samurai guide also hastily withdrew.

Afterward.

Sōma Daizen-no-suke and Tsuzumi no Yonokō now faced each other in complete privacy. Daizen-no-suke had only his head protruding from the futon, while Yohachi lay prostrated against the ground below.

The bizarre meeting was first initiated by Daizen-no-suke. “H-here... th-this... T-T-Tange... is he unharmed?” “Why, ’tis my first honor to meet your lordship.” “Er, this humble one hails from Edo’s Asakusa Hanakawado—no, wait, Komagata’s Tsuzumi no Yohachi—though everyone calls me ‘Yonokō’ with such fondness...” “Shut—shut up! Shut up!” “D-d-damn you! Who asked for your name?” “Yessir.” “T-t-t-t—I’m asking if Tange is unharmed!”

“Ah. “That’s right, my lord. Truth be told, for a lowly wretch like me standin’ before your lordship, there ain’t a soul as untouchable as that one neither, no sir.” “Wh-what are you babbling? Y-your gibberish makes no sense to this lord!” “Well now, we’re talkin’ ’bout that swordsman’s skill, ain’t we? Even if every last swordsman in Edo came at him together, they couldn’t scratch Lord Tange—or so the rumor goes! ’Course, that’s just us common folk jawin’… But a sharp-eyed lord like yourself must’ve heard the tales too, eh? Heh heh heh… Pardon my cheek.”

What, how, and all that—carried away in his own fervor, Yohachi babbled excitedly, seizing this moment, while Daizen-no-suke peered down at him in bewilderment, “K-K-K… Have you lost your mind?”

He was about to speak when Daizen-no-suke—ever sensitive to cold—caught the night breeze at his collar and let out a tremendous sneeze—Hack-shun! Startled by this, Yonokō stared blankly.

As Yohachi gradually regained his composure, he edged ever closer beneath the veranda and began recounting, piece by piece, the orders he had received from Tange Sazen! Sōma Daizen-no-suke, who had been listening silently, saw his large face twist visibly before his eyes. His eyes flew wide open, but as agitation seized him—rendering him speechless—his upper lip twitching incessantly as he leaned forward from his bedding.

Meanwhile, on the other side, the light flickered strangely.

—The cursed night-crying blades of Seki no Magoroku... Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru.

Beginning with Tange Sazen breaking into Onozuka Tessai's Shinpen Musō-ryū dojo in Akebono Village last year and skillfully making off with the great Ken'unmaru sword, Yohachi rattled off all subsequent developments without omission or order—the appearance of masked firefighter-attired groups, Suwa Eizaburō wielding Konryūmaru unexpectedly gaining Gamō Taiken's assistance, compounded by Suzukawa Genjūrō—the Honjo hatamoto to whom Sazen had entrusted his affairs—proving utterly unreliable, resulting in matters not proceeding as planned. Though Ken'unmaru remained in Sazen's possession, the two swords still being separated signaled gathering storms, leaving Sazen currently more in a predicament than not... After explaining all these matters in his own words, he went "Ahem!" and slightly composed himself,

“Now then, my lord... At that point, Lord Tange said to this Yonokō here: ‘Well now, Yonokō—what in blazes should we do here? What would thou do?’ So then, since I was consulted like this, I strained my meager wits and made a proposal—‘Lord Tange,’ says I. ‘Ah, Lord Tange—you should proceed in such-and-such a manner.’ ‘Request reinforcements from your home province... Yes!’ ‘Brilliant idea!’ ‘That’s perfect!’ And Lord Tange caught on quick. ‘Yeah, that’s good.’ ‘But then, who will go as the messenger?’ So it came to pass that—if Tsuzumi no Yonokō here could be of service, what greater fortune could there be?—and I leaned right back like this, gave my chest one good slap—when lo and behold! ‘Yohachi, will you go?’ ‘Why Lord Sazen, once this Tsuzumi has taken on the task, even if I’m ground to dust in fire or flood, you can rest easy as if aboard a great ship—Oh, then I’ll leave it to you, Yonokō.’ ‘Oh, ’twas nothin’… just joshin’! Well now, so then—I went dashin’ down the Ōshū Highway… Ahh, wore me clean out.”

…… "But milord—there's something so strange and inexplicable here! That beggar master called Taiken—how in blazes did he sniff out my trip to Nakamura? When I think on it, even I can't make heads nor tails of it—ugh! “’Twas just a casual stroll into Koganei, see—then wham! Got saddled with this blasted load outta nowhere. No—truly!” “——” “But wait— “Rest assured, milord—I’m Komagata’s Yohachi, I am. “At the Nihonmatsu post-station up ahead, I shook him off neat as you please. “At that time too—you’d best imagine I went to the bathhouse… Ugh! What a shock—there were milord’s own naked women swarming about, and right in their midst sat that Taiken beggar bastard, smirkin’ away like he owned the place!”

“…………” “Well now—Yohachi’s efforts bore fruit after all! Beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ so—but Lord Sazen himself declared he’d settle accounts proper-like! Though truth told—ain’t no call for thanks comin’ my way neither! Wasn’t worth half that much fuss! Heh heh heh heh heh!” “…………”

No matter how glibly Yohachi spoke, Daizen-no-suke merely grunted and remained as silent as a rock until now, but— Daizen-no-suke—whose overwhelming emotions choked his throat into speechlessness—now seemed to have finally shaken off the shock and unease Yohachi had brought. His bloodshot eyes rolled wildly as he leaned forward to press his inquiry. “S-So... T-Tange says he wants reinforcements?” “Right. He wishes to request a group of skilled swordsmen.”

“K-K-K... You... You’re saying you’ll guide us back to Edo?” “Right. “It is so.” “Uu—Wh-Wh-When... when do we depart?” “Huh—we’ll depart first thing tomorrow mornin’.” “Lord Tange is waiting, and with time being of the essence…”

“Hmm!” Sōma Daizen-no-suke gave a firm nod, simultaneously casting sharp glances to either side,

“Th-This!” “Ta-ta-ta! Who goes there?!”

To the dojo of Tsukigata Gunnosuke—who reigned over neighboring provinces’ swordsmanship circles with the razor-sharp winds of Tsukigata Ittō-ryū—located on the outskirts of Sōma-Nakamura Domain’s castle town, crest-adorned lanterns streaked like arrows through the dead of night.

To Tsukigata Gunnosuke came an urgent summons from the castle. What could this be? Without delay, Tsukigata Gunnosuke changed his clothes and was immediately rocked in the awaiting palanquin to proceed to the castle.

And then, when he was promptly ushered into the lord’s bedchamber— There sat Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke, having cast off his nightclothes without a moment’s sleep this late hour, rigidly absorbed in silent meditation—while Yohachi had already been deferentially escorted to a lower room to rest… That night—how much did Sōma Daizen-no-suke disclose to Tsukigata Gunnosuke, and what orders did he issue? The obstinate lord—decisive yet stammering—spoke only these words:

“C-could you... b-bring thirty killers—those who relish slaughter—d-down to Edo?” “The particulars will become clear when you arrive.” “Th-This concerns T-T-T-Tange... Funashita Sazen’s reinforcements.” “I implore you—even should we act openly, none within these castle walls shall suffer.” “A-And th-this... th-this demands your personal intervention, Gunnosuke.” “S-Select th-thirty battle-tested brutes with your own eyes—reinforcements already approach. Thirty men—combined with those you choose—must depart for Edo at dawn’s first light.” “You grasp this? Swear your unequivocal acceptance.”

“Thirty men—only those excelling among the killing corps. Understood.” “Understood—though I know not the particulars, I share a bond of particular closeness with Lord Tange… Even absent Your Lordship’s command, we would have dispatched reinforcements at necessity’s call—yet to be graced with your august words and entrusted thus, the Gunnosuke school considers this an honor beyond our station.” “Hmm.” “Th-Then... w-withdraw and make the arrangements promptly.”

“Hah! I have already culled the fiercest swordsmen from among my disciples to fulfill your will without fail—pray set your august mind at ease, milord...” “Hmm, t-ta-ta-ta! Th-those steadfast words... I—Daizen-no-suke—find myself most gratified of late!” Even Daizen-no-suke—for all his sword-blinded infatuation—might have recognized his impotence had he known that Ōoka Echizen, South Magistrate of Edo whose name now thundered even in this northern backwater, covertly sheltered Konryūmaru’s faction through his bond with the enemy Gamō Taiken. Fearful of future calamity, he might have cleanly severed his delusions then and there, burying them amid his torment. Yet this Daizen-no-suke—who could not fathom Ōoka’s involvement in the twin blades’ dance—having already seized the greater Ken’un now agonized over the lesser Konryū alone. Bound by the legend of “two blades drawing each other,” to withdraw and abandon his quest was something his ingrained monomania—that obsidian stubbornness—would never permit.

The form of one who had risked his life for something now nearly within grasp—only for an unforeseen obstacle to arise… If it is true that romantic passion between men and women burns all the fiercer when thwarted, then it must be said that Sōma Daizen-no-suke’s heart—obsessively fixed upon the night-weeping blades—was precisely such a flame.

It was a hell of congealed desire—the very domain of a rakshasa—that could not be measured by worldly reason. The hellish flames coiled so thickly around the blade—viscous and flickering as they rose... As the candlelight wavered faintly, Sōma Daizen-no-suke moaned like one afflicted with a raging fever.

“Ah! “S-Sazen! D-D-Done well! “Do not release Ken’un! “Do not release it! “Soon—G-G-Gunnosuke arrives with reinforcements! You—command alongside him and k-k-kill! Kill them all! Slaughter without restraint! “No matter! “N-No matter! Hmm!—What’s this?! “F-F-Fireman’s garb! You wretch—who are you?! “T-T-Tear off that mask!” “Ungh!” “Rend that mask away!” “Grhh…!”

And.

The lamplight dim, Sōma Daizen-no-suke sank deeply into sleep once more within the pale-lit room—after all, this was a phantom of the transient world, a demon transformed in life by obsession with cursed blades.

The ebbing night.

Outside the castle walls, somewhere, the first rooster’s cry.

Before long, as the morning sun’s shadows began to dance upon the old pine by the moat.

At the edge of Nakamura Town, within the Tsukigata Ittō-ryū dojo of Tsukigata Gunnosuke, a strange selection ceremony to dispatch [individuals] to Edo was being conducted.

Tsukigata Ittō-ryū... Now, as for that— In the age of Tenshō and Bunroku. In Shimōsa Province's Katori District, Iinashina Village, there was Yamashiro-no-kami Ienao Nyūdō Chōisai—reviver of swordsmanship who had taken the name Tenshin Shōden Shintō-ryū. Among Ienao's disciples was a master called Morooka Ichiwa, who resided in Hitachi Edosaki and fell gravely ill. While his three senior disciples—Negishi Tokaku, Iwama Koguma, and Tsuchi Doro-no-suke—nursed him, Negishi Tokaku grew weary of caregiving. Abandoning his ailing master Ichiwa, he went to Bushū Province to become an artisan, proclaiming his own school which he reformed and propagated as Mijin-ryū.

However, The remaining Koguma and Doro-no-suke never neglected their ailing master’s care. After Ichiwa’s death—having always disapproved of Tokaku’s conduct—they resolved to join forces and settle their deceased master’s grudge through a single duel. Having secured official oversight from the Hojo family, they confronted each other at Edo’s Ryogoku Bridge, where Koguma shoved Negishi Tokaku from the bridge into the river below, thereby fulfilling their long-cherished ambition. Negishi Tokaku had fled his master Morooka Ichiwa and first surfaced in Odawara of Sagami Province. This Tokaku, by all accounts, stood towering with hair like a mountain ascetic’s, eyes sharp as demon horns, and a fearsomeness akin to an icy blade—perpetually wielding mystical arts. People called him a tengu shapeshifter; none ever witnessed where he laid his head at night.

He spread word that Atagoyama’s Tarōbō would sneak to him night after night to impart secret techniques and ultimate truths—and thus he named this school Mijin-ryū. Afterward, he went to Edo and gained many disciples among daimyo and minor lords, but three years after Morooka Ichiwa’s death, his fellow disciples Iwama Koguma and Tsuchi Doro-no-suke drew lots to determine who would go to Edo to slay Tokaku, and Koguma was chosen to ascend to the capital. Doro-no-suke remained in the province and, without delay, visited Kashima Myōjin to dedicate a written petition. Respectfully submitted before the sacred treasure of Kashima Myōjin: The essence of this humble petitioner Tsuchi Doro-no-suke’s resolve lies herein—that the deceased spirit of my swordsmanship master Morooka Ichiwa has disciples sworn to vengeance... Should I fail even once in a thousand [attempts], I shall return alive to this shrine, cut my belly crosswise before the deity, spill my entrails, stain every divine pillar vermilion with this evil blood, become a malevolent spirit for all eternity, and transform these sacred grounds into wilderness—a den for wild dogs—and so forth...

Bunroku 2, Year of the Snake, September, an auspicious day: Tsuchi Doro-no-suke... a truly ominous and forceful writ. While this petition likely inspired no particular divine awe nor produced any extraordinary spiritual response, Iwama Koguma had indeed emerged victorious in the duel at Ryogoku Bridge—though accounts of the match's particulars varied so wildly across historical records that no means remained to clarify the truth. There could be no doubt this had been a major incident that stirred great controversy in its time, as evidenced by both the testimony of Iwasawa Uhyōe-no-suke—a magistrate's official who witnessed events from the bridgehead—and by an elderly samurai named Takayama Bungo-no-kami nearby who twice declared "Ah, Tokaku has lost!" even before combat commenced—a pronouncement that aroused suspicion. When later questioned about his prescient words, Bungo-no-kami explained: "Koguma held a wooden sword in his right hand while stroking his head with his left—how could Tokaku possibly prevail?" Tokaku responded "Very well" while stroking his cheek beard. This revealed the mark distinguishing superior from inferior. Moreover, Tokaku faced toward Edo Castle as he swung his sword. How could victory possibly be attained? This had been fate's foretold omen—

Anyway. At that moment, Koguma was pressed against the bridge railing by Tokaku and appeared to be in grave danger—but how did Koguma, the skilled sumo practitioner, manage it? He seized one of Tokaku's legs and hurled him into the river below, simultaneously drawing his short sword and roaring "Bear witness, Hachiman!" as he slashed the railing... This sword scar reportedly remained clearly visible until Ryogoku Bridge burned down in the great fire of Meireki 3, Year of the Fire Rooster.

Now. To quip that "bad guys perish"—well then, did this mean Negishi Tokaku’s Mijin-ryū swordsmanship had been splendidly reduced to dust and washed away down the great river? Not so. In Volume 2 of Gekiken Sōdan, in the section on Mijin-ryū: Since Mijin-ryū frequently appeared in martial arts chronicles, it seemed Tokaku’s offshoot school had been practiced even into recent times. As stated—“Even now, [Mijin-ryū] may linger in remote regions, though its name goes unheard in Edo…”—Tsukigata Shōgen, ancestor of Tsukigata Gunnosuke, after departing from the Mijin-ryū school founded by Negishi Tokaku, relocated to the northern reaches, established his own distinct style, and proudly christened it Tsukigata Ittō-ryū through relentless assault.

The current dojo master Gunnosuke had long been hailed as one of the Tsukigata school's dragon and tiger alongside Tange Sazen. In contrast to Sazen showing signs of diverging from the school's teachings to forge his own path, Gunnosuke had entered the lineage through marriage with the late master's approval as one upholding the orthodox Ittō-ryū tradition. A swordsman who combined hard and soft techniques, he faithfully transmitted Mijin-ryū's essence while growing ever more unshakable with age—now a titan dominating the northern provinces. Change and Impermanence Adaptation Through the Enemy —the words known as the Three Secret Strategies passed down through the sword school. That was enshrined as a large inscribed plaque by the founding master, Shōgen—this being the Tsukigata dojo.

The ebbing night….

Though winter training had ended, the indescribable exhilaration of predawn chill drawing heated sweat still lingered. Young samurai from the castle town came crunching frost columns underfoot in an unbroken stream, until the great hall—capable of holding fifty tatami mats—was rapidly filling with people. Sōma stood as a major domain in Kitahama, renowned for its martial austerity. And given that their lord Daizen-no-suke cherished blades with fanatical devotion, while Nakamura Town might have lacked refined appreciation for snow, moon, and blossoms, its very air blazed with martial fervor.

As the Sōma Jinku folk song says. "A man who lies down and waits for good fortune"—this vulgar saying appeared to hold no currency among samurai, for here they were, filing through the dojo gates one after another since dawn.

The clatter of bamboo swords resounded.

Shouts of exertion. The sound of boards being stomped. It continued for a while, and just when it seemed to have stopped a bit earlier than usual,

"All of you," came Kagami Bōnosuke's barrel-chested roar, "there is now a message from Master. Be seated in solemn silence—" At this command from the chief instructor, the disciples jostled shoulder-to-shoulder as they sat down. But when Tsukigata Gunnosuke slowly emerged through the opened cedar doors at the front, the entire hall gasped—"Ah!"—involuntarily crying out in astonishment. Such was his appearance. He stood garbed as one resolved to embark this very moment on a vengeance quest—attire proclaiming imminent departure.

A short-sleeved kimono with bold vertical stripes, split-satin hakama trousers, a white cloth-twisted belt bearing his beloved sword laid across it, feet secured in black waraji straw sandals, hexagonal iron reinforcements running thick through the hakama's ridges, and here and there a wooden sword staff studded with wart-like protrusions—an antiquated yet overwhelmingly imposing ensemble…

Such was his appearance— Now that Kagami Bōnosuke had announced there was a message from Master, the assembled disciples—having stiffened formally—must have solemnly wondered, "What could this be?" Despite all holding their breath, Tsukigata Gunnosuke—who had now appeared with unruffled composure—firmly closed his mouth and briefly surveyed the hall. After giving Kagami Bōnosuke a subtle nonverbal cue, he strode purposefully toward one wall—only to halt abruptly directly beneath the plaque where the words of the Three Secret Strategies danced in bold inkstrokes.

There, the disciples' nameplates hung in a horizontal row.

The first entry was, needless to say, Chief Instructor Kagami Bōnosuke. Second Seat: Santō Heishichirō. Third: Gō Genpachi. Fourth: Okazaki Hyōe. Fifth: Akiho Samanosuke. Ōya Ukon. Tōdō Kumesaburō. Inui Manbei. Kadowaki Shūri. Below that were over two hundred more. Each disciple, taking even one or two raised nameplates as their greatest motivation, never neglected their daily training—but now, beneath these ranked nameplates stood the swordsman Gunnosuke. No sooner had he abruptly thrust out his arm than—while the disciples stood dumbfounded—he began flipping over the nameplates one after another from the start... rehanging them face-down until his hand halted at Komatsu Kazuma’s position roughly one-seventh down the row.

Of the two hundred nameplates, those at the beginning showed the yellowish-white wood grain on their backs.

When one counted the number of reversed nameplates—from Kagami Bōnosuke to Komatsu Kazuma, exactly thirty—. Unless they were being excommunicated, there was no reason for their dojo nameplates to be reversed!

As the thirty top disciples and all the swordsmen in the hall fell silent,

Gunnosuke suddenly bellowed. "These thirty individuals—I hereby declare your excommunication effective today!" Over the heads of those who had erupted into chaos at his unexpected words, Gunnosuke's voice—even more unforeseen—rang out crystalline once more.

“No—wait! Wait! I too shall excommunicate myself!”

The Hour of the Rabbit (at dawn).

The dawn drums of sixth hour mingled with sunlight—Boom! Boom! —as they echoed through Nakamura Castle's wooded grounds.

Samurai of peculiar attire left the town in twos and threes as if fleeing, avoiding prying eyes, and hastened along the frost-dampened road toward Kashima, the foremost inn to the southwest. Each and every one of them was a young and robust samurai in his prime—and none others. They were all uniformly clad in mouse-gray cotton-lined kimono and pale yellow hakama, wearing old-style gaiters called ashigatatsu—their ostentatious appearance now akin to a grand Kashima departure for war. The ones terrified were the peasants along the road and the early-morning travelers,

“Aghhh! Hey, Mr. Jirosaku of Nitta! Rush out and take a look!” “It’s started—a battle’s broken out!”

“Agh! What province’s forces are they, eh?” “Look there! They say it’s Lord Honda Etchū of Izumi, the neighboring domain!” Amidst all this—with some putting on know-it-all airs—the commotion grew wilder… Until Tsukigata’s swordsmen were mistaken for the vanguard of an advancing army. Such was their attire, their resolve to die, their ironclad determination never to tread their homeland’s soil again. But why were they being driven to Edo while holding back their strength? To save their sworn brother-in-arms—the one-eyed, one-armed Tange Sazen!

That was all well and good—but what was Sazen involved in, and how had he come to face such imminent peril? Thus—what cause were they allying with Sazen to oppose? Who was the enemy? Why did Sazen fight at all, and why must they reinforce him to deploy this slaughter-blade formation in Edo, a place they knew only through rumors? When it came to these crucial points, from their leader Tsukigata Gunnosuke down to every last man, they were all equally shrouded in a literal pitch-black cloud of ignorance.

However! None of that mattered. The mere news that they could march into Edo and kill freely had already sent these northern roughnecks into rapturous fervor. Whether by fortune or misfortune born into an age of peace—no matter how much they honed their skills, they could only wield bamboo swords beneath the dojo's roof... Even when occasionally grasping real blades, what they cut were straw dummies or at best the living torsos of prisoners—the limit of their experience. These young warriors—raised by Komagane's howling winds and ocean waves that gnawed at rocks—had been lamenting their idle muscles when suddenly granted their first glorious stage: a chance to spray blood as they pleased. Every last one now stirred with eyes ablaze, caught in frenzied commotion.

A murder-for-hire group operating on commission. The uncouth men from the northern provinces who had spawned the blade-wielding freak Tange Sazen formed their ranks like beasts starving for fresh blood, squared their shoulders, and kicked up the dirt of the highway as they marched on. From the gloomy gray heavens and earth to the skies of Azuma, where the capital birds cry... Had there been someone to gaze upon them from afar, following their marching path, a white cloud of dust would have risen where they trod. Along the bare red slope of the mountain pass between rows of pine trees, the tips of their drawn swords would have glinted like flashes in the sunlight.

And so.

The excommunicated Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō, Todoroki Genpachi, and thirty other swordsmen; their master Gunnosuke, who had excommunicated himself to lead them; and the foremost members of the Tsukigata Ittō-ryū school—together, they numbered thirty-one warriors. Sōma-Nakamura—shrink down and let us pass! The demon’s lair is Tsukigata’s, ...Even to the innocent singing voices of children, the band of swordsmen exchanged knowing smiles—their guide being none other than Yohachi of Komagane's elder drummers. But poor Yohachi-san, having been continuously intimidated of late, now cut a somewhat dejected figure maintaining a stubborn silence.

First, he couldn't understand the language well. "Hey! You from Edo? Edo's one big place, ain't it?" "Well... Indeed, it's such splendid weather, heh heh heh." "Once we reach Edo, first thing—get us some women. You lot!" "I must humbly beg your pardon for this most inexcusable state of affairs." "Bwahahaha!" Bungling and utterly like this—every time they opened their mouths, mutual understanding seemed precarious. With nothing but rugged men in pale yellow linings—never before seen in Edo—clustering rowdily about, one's very life would be endangered if provoked. Adhering to the adage "let sleeping gods lie," Yohachi endured his discomfort in silence and took the lead once more, guiding them along the Mito Highway through Kashima, Hara-machi, Odaka, Takano, Nakatsu, Kumagawa, Tomioka...

From here to Kido lay two ri of uphill road.

At first, Yohachi had been taken down to Oshimogata to rest at leisure—but then, early in the morning, the night-duty samurai shook him awake. Having been told, "The reinforcements are ready—to the dojo on the outskirts of town..." he accompanied them as guide and went to the Tsukigata residence— On the vast wooden floor, thirty excommunicated men alone remained seated in a circle, in the midst of receiving orders from sword master Gunnosuke to enter Edo. A sham eastern campaign—there was no other way to describe it. With preparations piled upon preparations, this massive undertaking forced Yonokimi of Tsudumi to first extinguish his very soul.

Without understanding why, it was a commotion worthy of marching to war—with this sudden departure, some adjusted their waraji straw sandals while others, before they'd drawn even an inch closer to Edo, were already unsheathing swords with a "Hah!" "Hah!" Some swung their blades experimentally, creating a chaotic tangle of bodies scrambling over each other—and witnessing this, Yohachi secretly thought:

"I didn’t think it’d be this bad—they look tough enough, but good grief, they’re nothing but a bunch of damn country bumpkins!" Hold on! What the hell is with their outfits! The palace guards aren’t rushing to a daytime fire in Yoshiwara—so cut the nonsense already! I was about to say... but wait! Surrounded by this many brutes, even if that beggar monk were to leap out at us anytime and anywhere, our return journey would be perfectly safe—though I’d have to thoroughly lecture them about fixing their attire before we entered Edo. Until then, I’d guide these country bumpkins along the way. "Well, it’ll make for a good story at least."

Having resigned himself, he had come out together with the group—but for Yonokimi, an Edo native who prided himself on refinement, parading through Nikkō's winding highways as if leading some costumed procession proved utterly mortifying. Even now it was bad enough—he could only imagine how unbearable the embarrassment would grow as they neared Edo. No matter how this played out, he'd been saddled with one hell of a thankless job! And so Yohachi of Tsudumi muttered endless complaints under his breath... wedged between hulking shoulders at Kido post town's uphill entrance, he stomped his reluctant feet forward step by step—whether from premonition or not—.

For the return journey, they changed their route to the Mito Highway. Their plan was to travel from Mito in Hitachi Province through Fuchū-Tsuchiura and emerge into Edo at Shinjuku.

Since this route ran in a completely different direction from the Ōshū Main Highway, there was little reason to fear encountering Gamō Taiken—whom they had left behind in Nihonmatsu. Even if by chance they did meet again, now being on this path meant Yohachi wouldn't bat an eye.

From Tomioka to Kido. Between them lay Koishizaka—a two-ri slope. It was a splendid view. The highway snaked along the mountain, one side a sun-dappled hill planted with saplings, the other a sheer cliff as if sheared off by a blade. The towering summit of a giant cedar tree standing in a pitch-black gorge reached down to their very feet. At its bottom came the faint rustling sound of a small stream winding through the valley. Before them Mount Fudō's ominous form stood like a folding screen blocking the way, while in the far distance, turning one's gaze, lay Mitsuhata no Saki. At Funao Beach, the waves cresting toward Hirakata—every grain of white sand and every green pine lay within pointing distance—.

It must have been wildfire smoke—a distant white haze billowed forth, cleaving through the blue cliffs. “Magnificent view!” “Magnificent view!” The Tsukigata swordsmen halted their march, shouting in unison.

Just as one might expect, the Tsukigata swordsmen came to a halt and bellowed, “Splendid view!” “Splendid view!” they shouted in unison. “Townsman! Come here! What’s that white thing over there?” “Come here!” “What’s that white thing over there?” “Well... As for that white thing, now what could that be—Ah! Isn’t that the path leading down to Sekita?” “Isn’t that the path leading down to Sekita?”

“I see.”

“Hey townsman! Does Edo have places this high?” “Heh heh, I don’t think there are.” “Right… Hey there!” When the vanguard called to the rear guard, “What the—?!” they came rushing up. “Nakamura Castle’s in sight!” “Alright then, everyone line up for final respects.” “Let’s pay respects.” So they turned toward Sōma’s castle—faintly visible through mist—and offered brief farewells… After silent prayers, they resumed walking,

"Oh, it’s nothing. Once we pass here, we’ll soon be descending to Hirono Village." Yohachi of Tsudumi, despite this being his first time on this path, pretended to know it as usual and turned onto the protruding Yamahana trail—but no sooner had he done so than Yohachi’s face twisted in panic. Gyah! He let out a strange cry, but even those who had rushed to the front froze in their tracks the moment they caught sight of it—as if to say, "This is—!"

On the white, parched soil of the road lay a grotesque figure splayed out spread-eagled! His disheveled hair brushed against the road's soil, revealing a cheap sake bottle serving as his pillow... But lo and behold! The Appearance of Master Gamō Taiken! Yohachi, his face paling, grabbed Kagami Bōnosuke's arm with a trembling hand and whispered two or three urgent words. Bōnosuke's eyes widened in understanding—"Hmm, I see"—and with a firm nod, he relayed the message to their leader Tsukigata Gunnosuke.

And then— Tsukigata Gunnosuke’s right hand rose high, “What the hell is this?!” “He’s dead drunk!” “Trample over him and move on!” he abruptly silenced the encircling sword fiends who had been shouting such commands.

The silence plummeted. An ominous aura!—they thought upon seeing him, and already two or three were frantically working to free their swords from their scabbards.

But—! In the stillness before the storm, Master Gamō Taiken did not move a muscle.

A faint, guttural snore reverberated through the depths of their ears—the audacious Master Gamō Taiken had truly fallen asleep. From his grimy rags protruded sturdy limbs splayed carelessly, while upon his half-open-mouthed, vacant sleeping face, the late afternoon sunlight danced fiercely. A great sage and a great fool—truly childlike was Gamō Taiken. Surrounded by this scene, Sōma’s swordsmen could only exchange glances, while Tsukigata Gunnosuke and all the rest remained silent, their eyes fixed on Taiken lying at their feet.

The Eccentric Sage Taiken—who showed no signs of waking......

He. After spending the night in Nihonmatsu Town and learning of Yohachi's escape that very night—knowing full well their destination would be Sōma-Nakamura—he immediately outflanked them, racing through pathless wilderness past Iino, then via mountain trails through Kawamata, departing from 50,000-koku Iwakidaira under Andō Tsushimanokami, retracing in reverse the same highway used by Sōma's party until today when he approached this Kido Pass crossing from Hirono Village. Gamō Taiken—who slept wherever drowsiness struck him—had been ascending with sunlight blazing on his back when sleep overtook him, and now lay sprawled across the mountain slope in the midst of deep slumber.

Just then! This unexpected encounter... Tsukigata’s sword column gripped their sword pommels and stared intently—! "It begins!" Yonokimi—having grasped the situation—quickly scurried to hide behind the others. But just as one might think Taiken lay there snoring loudly in blissful slumber, utterly asleep... that was not the case! Far from it—all this time he had been slightly opening his eyes, attempting to gauge their numbers from the feet encircling him while maintaining the perfect appearance of deep slumber. Master Taiken—feigning sleep like a cunning raccoon dog—suddenly let slip a murmur disguised as somnolent muttering.

“Ah, Yohachi! You’ve brought back quite a haul of clay dolls as Matsushima souvenirs.” “But regrettably—each one’s so crude… Hmmph—they’d never pass muster in the capital, I tell you…” Without waiting for him to finish speaking—now! Gunnosuke’s call was the signal. Whoosh! As the circle expanded, Akiho Samanosuke came flying in—raising one leg to kick the one-shō sake bottle Taiken was using as a pillow—but was it that he acted faster, or that Taiken—who in an instant feigned grabbing and hoisting that leg to abruptly rise—was slower?

However, it was all over in an instant. In that split-second opening—Ah! By the time people realized what was happening, Samanosuke’s body—like a ball tumbling down a massive, sheer cliff face—plunged into the mist of the mountain gorge and vanished instantly. All that remained was a wisp of dust swirling upward in a thin plume, while at the cliff’s edge where Samanosuke had fallen, a single stalk of nameless weed gazed into the valley as though in mourning. But—

But the astonishment did not end there. The Tsukigata group, recovering from their momentary shock and immediately turning their gaze back to Taiken, found themselves confronted by the sight of the Beggar Master standing there with Samanosuke’s familiar beloved sword drawn—somehow seized unnoticed—his half-closed eyes staring blankly. The Water-Moon Stance of the Jigen-ryū’s innermost teachings…. Moreover, had he—in that split second—cut down Samanosuke? A single drop dripped from Taiken’s gleaming blade! Drip. And the crimson liquid dripped down, pooling in the dirt of the road—or so it seemed.

Gamō Taiken let slip a ghastly smile. With each glint and flash of Tsukigata's warriors drawing their swords, the mountain sun cast white reflections upon blade tips and collars. "You there! You’re the one who’s been trailing this townsman from Edo’s outskirts—no mistake about it!"

And Tsukigata Gunnosuke stood bolt upright before Taiken and rebuked him. “…………” Gamō Taiken remained silent. His beard swayed in the wind. “You bastard! Will you not answer?!” Gunnosuke began to speak, then lowered his voice. “Now—the foe who slew our comrade Akiho Samanosuke... prepare yourselves!” And—! Those ice-needle words had barely ended when—Now—! The Tsukigata circle expanded further—some positioning themselves with the valley at their backs, others scattering across the hill—while the remaining men swiftly aligned their blades to block escape routes along both sides of the mountain path.

And with that! Okazaki Hyōe, who had assumed the orthodox Ittō-ryū’s Chūseigan stance—perhaps deeming it cumbersome—abruptly broke from his stationary position and charged straight forward, “Hyaah!” He released a gut-rending battle cry and swung downward in a mighty strike! Alas, Master Taiken—smeared in a blaze of blood like an immovable statue... when in an unexpected instant—! A phosphorescent line gushed vertically—gash! What intercepted Hyōe’s extended blade was Gamō Taiken’s mighty sword—a technique from Jigen-ryū called "Carp Ascending the Falls," akin to deflecting cascading torrents with a single swift sweep.

The instant! Hyōe, parried by his own force, unintentionally stumbled forward—Tat-tat-tat! He came lunging in as if to grapple. At that moment, Taiken held his ground—discarding his sword as if to grapple—only to instantly twist his hips with devastating effect. Okazaki Hyōe, reeling from the impact, planted his hands and tasted dirt. But without a moment’s delay, Taiken now faced Monwaki Shuri head-on, with one swordsman flanking him on each side—the three forming a triangular spearhead of blades as they launched their assault.

Crisis! That said, it would be more accurate to call it the Gamō-ryū rather than the Jigen-ryū—so thoroughly had the gallant Master Gamō made the founder Jigenbō’s swordsmanship his own. In that critical moment, he exuded an aura of seizing the initiative, luring them with a provoking call— “Come on!” And—! Had he been lured into this opening, or had some gap as slight as a feather caught his swordsman’s eye? Before the right-hand swordsman—his throat choked with killing intent—could withdraw in silence, a one-handed thrust extended in a straight line!

Perceiving the sword's wind mere inches away, Taiken no sooner leapt backward than—Crunch... Slice!—he split open the thrusting swordsman who had bitten into emptiness before his eyes, cleaving him cleanly like bamboo. A wet hand towel—grasped with both hands and shaken violently into the air—let out a sharp snap! It emitted an uncanny, almost living sound, precisely as people say occurs when severing a human body with a blade. Like freshly wrung cloth struck against stone, flower-like blood spray scattered in all directions. From the white gash that yawned open like a gaping mouth, dirt-smeared viscera spilled forth as though a toy box had been overturned...

A flash! Gamō Taiken cast his gaze upon the gruesome sight. “My apologies.—Namu Amida Butsu.” True to his reputation as a notorious eccentric, no sooner had he killed than he chanted a Buddhist prayer and grinned—then immediately closed in on Monwaki Shuri, who stood facing him with a long sword stained in bloodlust. The blade shadows of midday roared out in unison. As Tsukigata’s forces tightened their formation with a grinding intensity—Jiriri, jiriri—they erupted in a burst of chaotic halberds that swallowed Taiken’s form there and then. If it were night, sparks would flash and glitter.

The acrid iron stench of blood hung thick in daylight—guttural shouts colliding with dust clouds kicked up by scrambling feet, sweat droplets scattering like jewels, blood rivulets snaking across dirt... All coalesced into an aura of carnage that writhed across the mountainside for over an hour. Initially, Yohachi of the Tsuzumi perched on a tree stump crowning a gentle slope, affecting airs as an aloof spectator—but gradually his nonchalant pose crumbled. He began flinging whatever lay within reach—stones, dead branches—toward Taiken’s figure, succeeding only in escalating the chaotic skirmish and vexing his own allies.

At last. Given this situation—the narrow space and poor footing proving most disadvantageous for their superior numbers—they under Gunnosuke's command suddenly sheathed their swords with a clatter. Their intent was twofold: to draw Taiken out to the expansive plain below the pass where full maneuverability would be possible, and to advance even one step closer to Edo. Like an avalanche toward Edo, they rushed down.

“Buddha’s mercy!” “We’ll be done for if we lag!” And Yonokō too kept moving as though tumbling forward—

Taiken made no move to pursue them. With a self-satisfied grin, he sliced off a piece of rolled paper from his pocket and produced a hand-bound notebook. Clamping the frayed brush tip between his teeth, he surveyed the area. Two corpses lay splayed like freshly caught tuna. Adding Akiho Samanosuke—who he'd cut down at the first gorge—today's tally of prey came to three. Master Taiken dipped his brush in a corpse's blood and scrawled a "3" in his ledger.

When departing Nakamura, the Sōma-Tsukigata Group—led by Gunnosuke and including Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō, Todoroki Genpachi, and twenty-seven others totaling thirty-one members—had lost three men in the sword combat at Kido Pass: Akiho Samanosuke and two others, reducing their number to twenty-eight. Nevertheless, guided by Yohachi, they had repeatedly lodged at inns along the Mito Highway until this evening when they finally arrived at the entrance of the Iwashi-ya Inn in Sukegawa. Since Kido, Taiken’s trail had abruptly gone cold, and no matter how often they looked back, there was neither shadow nor trace of him to be seen—thus the Tsukigata group found themselves harboring a peculiar mix of relief and disappointment.

At that time, the unfavorable terrain had prevented us from acting as we wished, but given sufficient space, we would have cut down one or two of those beggars in an instant! And so thinking, they all desperately hoped he would appear at any moment—yet whenever they waited, Gamō Taiken proved as elusive as the hototogisu cuckoo, never showing himself. Thus they had come this far without the Tsukigata Ittō-ryū of the Northern Provinces and the Jigen-ryū transmitted through Chichibu ever crossing blades again...

Sukegawa: forty-one and a half ri to Edo.

The spacious earthen-floored area of the Iwashi-ya Inn.

Clamoring boisterously, the Tsukigata group members immediately rented out both upstairs rooms outright—some rushing down to the bathhouse to wash off travel grime, others shouting "Sake! Sake!" above all else, still others mischievously chasing maids—the inn already seemed ready to collapse from the commotion the moment they arrived. After all, with twenty-eight young, rowdy warriors—their journey charged with martial aura—the uproar and recklessness were truly beyond description.

The commotion grew so intense that the innkeeper came out to formally inquire about their origins and destinations, but Chief Instructor Kagami Bōnosuke intercepted him, smoothly explaining they were merely pilgrims en route to Kompira—thus masterfully deflecting suspicion and sending the man packing.

After that, Having let their guard down, the group propped fifty or sixty long and short swords in a bundle within the alcove. Before them sat Tsukigata Gunnosuke sprawled in the place of honor, surrounded by his men arranged in a perfect circle. Soon sake cups went flying—neighbors' side dishes were snatched—arm wrestling and shin-kicking contests began... Poetic chants devolved into their signature Sōma folk songs, then escalated to playful quarrels and outright brawling—what a raucous, drunken spectacle! During travels, formalities naturally fell away—and given that these were young men after all, whether he viewed their antics with leniency, resignation, or perhaps sheer disbelief, Gunnosuke made no move to restrain the disorderly gathering. Instead, he smiled faintly to himself—"Let them have their fun"—as he sipped his drink in small, deliberate sips.

Before they knew it, the conversation turned to Taiken.

"He's got strength, but he's no master swordsman. When he shows up next, I'll split him clean in two!" "Hey you lot! Quit yappin' and watch the show!" "What nonsense you spout! I'm tellin' ya, the speed of his technique's downright terrifying! When Okazaki got dodged and went sprawlin' on his hands—how pathetic was that?!" "That is indeed the case." "Well now, seeing as he's exactly that sort of violent beggar, watching him truly makes this humble one's heart pound something fierce—but ah, with all you strong gentlemen gathered here, Yonokō's been restin' mighty easy these days, sirs."

“Exactly!” “Damn right!” “Stay out of this, you townsfolk—no matter what happens!” “Well now, that’s precisely the reassurance I needed—n-now, now, a cup for you sirs!” “While I humbly offer warmed sake, arranged side dishes, and service from this lowly townsman, I must apologize for the crude ministrations of us common folk—but please do have another hot cup, sirs.” “Whoa there! …My apologies!” And then even Yonokō had pushed his way into their midst and was smugly continuing the exchange of sake cups when—!

*Creak!* A noise rang out from the attic!

The sun had just set. Moreover, with this banquet raging below, there was no way rats would venture out—and besides! The movement felt far too heavy for a mere rodent. Just as they all fell silent in unison, stopped eating and drinking, and instinctively looked up at the ceiling—!

Crack! Crack! Crack!

With a crack, the center of the quail-patterned ceiling board split open—and a single thick, hairy shin thrust down with a thwip! Dangling down at length. The Tsukigata swordsmen stared up in stunned silence, mouths agape—but before even a cry of "That's him!" could escape their lips, they broke formation and stampeded toward the sword bundle in the alcove. Meanwhile, the mysterious figure in the attic—revealing from his legs to his waist and lower half—poised to leap down into the center of the room at any moment!

Speak of the devil and he appears—Master Taiken made his unexpected entrance. As for Yohachi?… A glance revealed his fleeing speed to be unmatched under heaven—he had already curled up and tumbled down the staircase. A memorial clash for Akiho Samanosuke and two others! Resolved to finally defeat him this time, the Tsukigata Ittō-ryū disciples—with Gunnosuke and Bōnosuke at their head—fanned out their cold blades across the grand hall. Advancing from all directions toward Taiken in unified staccato steps, they halted abruptly upon closing in, their stillness as profound as a mid-autumn lake under moonlit silence.

As evening deepened, an indoor sword fight.

Light being their greatest lifeline, the moment Taiken appeared, some quick-witted soul shoved the candlesticks against the wall and lit a row of hundred-measure candles, filling the space with daylight-like brightness.

Amidst this, sword shadows quivered like fish scales—yet still had not erupted. Gamō Taiken stood planted in the central clearing, still clutching the cheap sake bottle in his left hand while the sword seized from Samanosuke dangled loosely at his right side—his half-closed eyes hovering between dream and wakefulness as he maintained the Jigen-ryū Suigetsu no Kamae stance as always... There existed an expression—"as if it fell from the sky"—but here it manifested literally: a swordstorm that truly seemed to have rained down from the heavens. How had this Gamō Taiken, who now descended abruptly through Sukegawa Iwashi-ya’s ceiling, managed to conceal himself and track the Tsukigata group all this time?

The Tsukigata group's bewilderment was justified—despite all their precautions, they had failed to notice being tailed... For Gamō Taiken, this rural samurai who had chased deer through Chichibu's deep mountains and played with monkeys in his youth, though self-taught, had mastered a peculiar ninja-like stealth technique that adapted to shifting circumstances. That was precisely why he could come and go like the wind through even Magistrate Tadasuke’s heavily guarded Edo residence day or night—let alone tracking a large group along roads rich in natural cover, which for Taiken might have been as effortless as breakfast or a midday snack.

And so. Having lagged slightly behind the group and blended into the crowd to sneak up onto the Iwashi-ya inn’s rear roof, he now slid down precisely into the heart of that banquet. Near Gamō’s feet lay a single corpse—vermillion-stained hands clawing at empty air in eternal stillness. It was the corpse of Ōyaku Ukon—struck by a horizontal blade-sweep the instant his attacker leapt down, cleaving his torso clean through. The startled defeat sent Iwashi-ya Inn's lodgers, innkeeper, maids, and wide-eyed patrons into panicked disarray—with swords drawn like a forest, the situation became uncontrollable. Fearing collateral damage, they all scrambled to flee into the street, though some in their extreme confusion grabbed kittens mistaking them for money belts, or carried charcoal baskets thinking them balanced poles... No—it was nothing less than the bedlam of a fire scene.

Mistaking the commotion for an earthquake, a woman had rushed naked from the bath and now wandered aimlessly with just a towel around her waist—noticing this, that cunning rascal Yonokō, who had already secured all his belongings and hoisted out his drum, swiftly dashed over to drape a raincoat about her shoulders and thrust footwear at her; amidst the pandemonium, his efficiency stood out—truly, this scoundrel remained ridiculously helpful whenever women were involved.

Sure enough, when the woman’s presumed husband came rushing over with her companion, shoving Yohachi aside with a thud before even offering thanks, it became both the Komagata brothers’ crowning blunder and an utterly preposterous farce given the timing.

But let us set that aside—

In the front second-floor training hall. Taiken, who had been gauging their resolve, suddenly lunged! Flinging the 1.8-liter sake bottle he held, Todoroki Genpachi on the right instantly parried with his blade's spine and split it with a crack!

From this erupted a storm of blades and blood. Gamō Taiken charged in without uttering a word, swishing through to split the enemy's circular formation left and right, then immediately executed a sparrow-reversal counter-strike—flinging his blade tip against Komatsu Kazuma's chestplate at close range. Unable to endure, Kazuma—Thwick!—arched backward as his long sword flew out in a pale streak and plunged into the tatami with a sickening crunch. The instant! Taiken rolled sideways—clang!—crossing blades with Tōdō Kumesaburō. As steel met steel, he simultaneously raised a foot and sprang! Kicking down a nearby foe while feigning an assault on Gunnosuke, Taiken seized the opening to plant his back against the wall in a Nio statue stance... Once more lowering his sword with body erect, half-closed eyes entranced in detached calm—the Jigen-ryū Suigetsu kamae gazed into midnight's abyss...

Once again, he assumed the Immovable Posture. While the sword tip quivered like a wagtail’s tail, Tsukigata’s sword wall held back, poised to strike at the perfect moment. What met the eyes of the people standing in the street, clamoring noisily, was— On the second-floor shoji screens, human figures and shadows fluttered wildly like crows...

Thud! In the blink of an eye. The burly warrior who shattered one shoji panel and came lurching forward to tumble out onto the veranda corridor was none other than Inui Manbei—a man renowned within the Tsukigata sword school.

But in the same instant came a pursuing slash! A sharp blade's long flash—no sooner had it extended through the torn shoji than the sword's tip was instantly soaked with fresh blood, "Agh... Urk!" Manbei clutched his shoulder and crumpled over the railing in two, frantically trying to support himself—but how could his obese frame endure such strain? His critically injured upper body went over the railing—Thud! Thud! Thud! After flipping two or three times against the eaves, he plummeted headfirst with a thunderous crash into the panicked crowd now scrambling back with cries of “Agh!”—

“Gah… Regret—!” “Damn it all!”

Those two or three cries spilled from his lips as death throes; he lay long upon the earth, unmoving. The clashing blades on the second floor seemed to have reached their violent peak—stomping footsteps, the groaning clash of iron against crude metal, murderous intent chilling hearts and guts, sword auras... jeering voices, the sounds of objects being hurled! In an instant! With a violent crash, the shoji screens rattled as dark stains scattered diagonally and rapidly spread—whether from Gamō or the Tsukigata group, it appeared another man had been cut down.

The crowd gathering moment by moment at the roadside out of morbid curiosity could only cry, "Look there! Look there!"—utterly helpless to intervene beyond exchanging shouts. The women covered their faces and plugged their ears each time a blood-curdling scream tore through the air, yet still refused to retreat. What in the world were the magistrate and inn officials doing while feigning ignorance of this sword fight? For in this not-particularly-large village, even they could not have remained unaware. Yet they intended to mobilize only after the situation settled and danger passed; for now, they procrastinated with excuses—"We must prepare ourselves!" "Gather more men!"—buying as much time as possible.

Hence, in such a massive commotion, the magistrate’s lanterns still hadn’t appeared…

Soon. A member of the crowd raised a frantic voice and— “Fire! Ah!” he shouted.

Indeed! This was no ordinary fire—in an instant, it erupted into a fierce dance of raging flames. It seemed to have begun when someone kicked over a candlestick, its flame catching on a sliding door. Like a serpent's tongue, the fire's tip lashed across shoji screens, devoured tatami mats, and within moments roared through the roof—smoke surging skyward, flames crawling across the ground, embers scattering like rain—all whipped into frenzy by scorching winds until Iwashi-ya's towering headquarters had fully transformed into a great burning vessel. An ill-timed northwest gale.

Townspeople fled in panic with household goods on their backs, voices screaming over one another, the thunderous crash of beams collapsing—amidst an earth and sky brighter than daylight, flames roared in hushed stillness! Fire! Fire! Treading upon the earth like yellow-leaping hot sands beneath the shadow of raging flames, a group of figures—using their swords as canes and shielding the wounded—fled far from the inn, making a desperate escape toward Hitachi Province.

Though defeated again in tonight's melee, the Tsukigata swordsmen of Sōma-Nakamura Domain nevertheless edged closer to Edo with each step. Resting at a roadside shrine to tally their numbers, they found—aside from Yohachi the drummer who had fled unscathed—four dead among their twenty-eight: Ōya Ukon, Inui Manbei, Komatsu Kazuma, and Satomura Kyōzō. Of the remaining twenty-four, three more complained of difficulty walking from severe blade wounds and burns... With forty ri of mountains and rivers still separating them from their Edo destination, this diminished force already weighed heavily on Commander Gunnosuke's heart, a desolate emptiness spreading through him far too soon.

Shading one's eyes to gaze into the distance revealed Sukegawa’s sky blanketed in fiery clouds, while the clangor of alarm bells from nearby villages carried on the wind――. To presume that even Master Taiken at the heart of that scorched earth would have been reduced to a mere handful of ashes... was utterly unthinkable!

Just as the Tsukigata group was resting along their journey, the immortal Taiken darted through the blazing interior of Iwashi-ya like a single spark,

"Ah! "Here lies another one dead! "That makes three... no—with the one who fell on the lower path, tonight's haul comes to four, I wonder? "Ha ha ha!" Amidst flames licking at his eyebrows, the unflappable Taiken rummaged through his robe and produced a volume of his Bloody Pilgrimage Ledger. Dipping his worn brush into Komatsu Kazuma's fresh wound to gather blood—

At Sukegawa Inn: four people. He dipped his brush thickly as he wrote, and alongside the Buddhist prayer, a verse rose in his mind: "Early spring—four crimson demons by tamed fire... Namu Amida Butsu"

Thus reduced to twenty-four members, Tsukigata Gunnosuke's group left Sukegawa behind with Yohachi the drummer guiding their way, reaching Ishigami that very night. They spent the following full day resting at an inn—leisurely tending wounds and maintaining swords—before departing Ishigami at dusk. Entrusting their path to the darkened mountain trail, they passed through the slumbering castle town of Mito in Hitachi under Lord Chūnagon's domain, until approaching the gorge where a tributary flows into the Tone River—the Kurakawa Valley—when......

Rain.

And wind. The mountain roared mightily, its echoes resounding through the gorge and shaking the trees—a midnight tempest. "Damn, this is unbearable!" "Blasted storm this has turned into." While saying this, they made preparations to cross the water. The crack of whips pierced the silence as they solemnly crossed the night river.

It was a wide riverbed. Black stones lay piled upon each other, their age-old moss making footing treacherous. The sound of water washing over gabions echoed through the sodden depths of the night. To the right stood Mount Tsukuba, towering in the distant storm-wracked skies. To the left, beyond the dark expanse of Bandō Tarō—the Tone River—the town lights of Uchida Tonomo-no-kami's ten-thousand-koku castle town on the opposite bank of the Kogai River flickered faintly—and further still, scattered house lights of Katori and Tsu no Miya dotted the darkness like fishing fires. Toward those lights raced the narrow, shallow waters of the Kurakawa River, gnawing at jagged rocks as white foam blossomed and surged onward.

Roar.

Horizontal raindrops in the roaring wind.

“Listen up! Form up tight to cross!” “It’s shallow but the current’s fast! Don’t let it sweep your feet! Hey now—all of you, watch your step coming through!” Shouting warnings back and forth, the twenty-four remaining Tsukigata reinforcements—their legs buried halfway to the thigh in icy water, hakama hitched high—grasped each other’s hands and leaned on shoulders as they stepped across the riverbed stones, reaching midstream when...

Santō Heishichirō, who had been leading the way, found it. Santō Heishichirō came to an abrupt halt mid-river, spreading his arms wide to restrain the comrades following behind. The group peered ahead where their sword-gripping hands were poised—"Another ambush?!"—but found nothing. There was only a single round object floating on the surface of the black river water—something resembling either a pumpkin or a festival decoration ball—neither moving nor drifting——. "What's that? That’s…" "Just a basket washed downstream. Nothing to worry about."

“It’s just a clump of debris! Ha ha ha! Lord Santō’s getting spooked by rumors—this is rich, I tell ya!” Even so, they paused warily for a time to observe—but indeed! Like the Taira mistaking waterfowl’s wings at Fujikawa (though they were no Heike), this proved mere cowardice! With a burst of derisive laughter, they began picking their way through the current once more! Suddenly, Yonokō the drummer began trembling violently, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. ……No wonder……!

A voice could be heard.

"Ah there you are, Yohachi! Been waitin' for ya!" "Prime bathwater this is." "Scrub your back proper now—rinse it clean!" So it went— What might've been dismissed as storm tricks or water-murmur illusions became undeniable when a shout surged from the riverbed—clear as day—making Yohachi and all Tsukigata's men... Ah! They kicked off from the rapids' edge, scattering through the river's midst like startled ducks.

"You won't come?! Then I'll come to you myself!" At the same instant— The round mass that until moments ago had appeared as mere river-washed debris rose effortlessly from the water—and there stood Master Taiken, naked as the day he was born! Did the man have nine lives? Unbeknownst to all, he'd circled ahead—Master had been lying in wait since nightfall in the Kurakawa's currents, casually performing his ritual bath with theatrical flair.

A complete ambush! What’s more, having been shown Taiken’s superb swordplay through repeated encounters and now thoroughly demoralized, they proved no challenge at all. Chasing after shadows scattering like spiderlings, Taiken cut down two men in the river amidst the spray. Monowaki Shuri and one other. Meanwhile, as Gunnosuke—driven by the storm—gathered the remaining forces with Yohachi at the forefront and raced along the Mito Highway toward Edo, Taiken retrieved his blood ledger along with his clothes from a small shadow along the bank and boldly inscribed two more names with his blood-stained brush.

Now, were one to peruse Taiken’s cherished blood-stained ledger of slaughter along the journey— On the surface were darkly clotted bloodstains and the six characters of Namu Amida Butsu. Then beginning with three at Kido Pass, four at Sukegawa lodging, and two at Kurakawa River—and thus by the time they reached Edo— At the entrance to Kasama—another one. At Wakashiba Field—three. At Matsudo’s highway five ri from Edo—another one. With the blood-stained ledger bearing fourteen names tucked in his breast, on the evening when Gamō Taiken—warrior-philosopher of the streets—finally returned to the capital after long absence, the Tsukigata group now reduced to seventeen members and drummer Yohachi still glanced over their shoulders as they melted into the bustling city now beginning to light its lamps.

Kogoi no Mori

Looking at the *Buei Yūkan Shiryaku*, in its section on March affairs——

Willows and cherries intermingled beneath the capital’s spring-burgeoning skies—a brocade unfurled across blossoms so exuberantly fragrant that even the untamed wilds in all directions seemed transformed into gardens of aromatic ponds. Swallow winds fluttered through the air as bees and butterflies clung to blossoms. Wearing straw sandals and carrying flowering branches, they floated boats and gathered clams. At this very hour, cultured gentlemen dashed to and fro, finding no respite for leisurely sightseeing. This followed the old lunar calendar, but in any case, when March arrived, it brought the coming of spring that could not help but stir people’s hearts.

The third day was the Peach Festival. The Doll Festival. White sake.

The fourth day.

In Edo's western reaches, at Aoyama's Marishiten Grand Kagura performance... This drew a tremendous crowd. The precincts of Marishiten at Aoyama Chōjagamaru. When and by whom the deity had been enshrined remained unknown; the principal image - a sacred statue crafted by Master Chigyō - drew throngs of worshippers each year on this day who sought its awe-inspiring divine favor, creating such bustling crowds that people jostled one another.

The hall stood surrounded by abundant trees on all four sides, known as Kogoi no Mori. Truly befitting the season, it was ideal festival weather for the flower-viewing month.

Deep within rice paddies encircled by samurai estates lay Kogoi no Mori—a forest that normally stood isolated like a lone island. But today, even people hobbling on canes from distant downtown districts had come, their voices blending with the clamor of street performers and vendors into a swirling mirage of heat and sound that seemed poised to rise like shimmering air...

In the forest. Surrounding the dilapidated hall, the crowd swayed and jostled with not an inch to spare.

A village sumo match was underway. As Kimura-someone—the referee in paper-made ceremonial attire and crown—stood ready, and the announcer with his shrill voice strained his yellowed throat toward the azure sky, the bout between Ōtotsuyama and Tenryūgawa commenced. To this, Kyōgakuin's wild monks and local companions joined in spontaneously, and thunderous applause and laughter swirled into a vortex. In one corner, a beautiful woman of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, attired like a shrine maiden, was busily gathering a crowd; listening to her spiel: "Behold! This is the giant serpent that long dwelled in Nokogiriyama of Awa Province, ravaging crops and terrorizing people and livestock for years. "And this toad here hails from Izu's Dejima Jikkoku Pass, located southeast of Edo via a sea route spanning several tens of ri... The serpent is named Obiemon, and the toad goes by Iwadayū." “Step right up!” "Now then! Let the battle between Obiemon and Iwadayū commence with a clash of fangs!"

And there, indeed, was what must have been Lord Obiemon of Awa—a gaunt bluish serpent coiled once around the white-skinned woman’s neck like a scarf, its raised head turned toward the spectators with drowsy, half-closed eyes. At the woman’s feet lay Iwadayū the Toad—not overly large—bound by a rope; each time it tried to scrabble free with an air of boredom, it was yanked back. When the woman took the snake from her neck and lowered it to the ground, both Obiemon and Iwadayū—well-versed in their trade—assumed a temporary stance of mutual glaring before Obiemon suddenly coiled around Iwadayū and began constricting. At this moment, Iwadayū did not panic in the slightest and opened its mouth to let out a guttural croak—probably,

“Big bro, it’s a fixed match anyway—go easy on me, yeah?” This was likely the gist of it. Finding the spectacle thoroughly uninteresting, the crowd stared not at the crucial snake-and-toad fight but rather fixed their gaze on the beautiful woman managing the performance; she appeared to harbor designs of eventually producing some dubious remedy to foist upon them later. Over there, peep shows featuring Southern Barbarian-style paintings drew children near, while here, mechanized dolls enacting moral tales of hell and paradise moved to bells’ plaintive tolling.

A swashbuckling swordplay show. Just as the human wave erupted into chaos and began dispersing, four or five thoroughly drunken rowdy men from some household—catching sight of a woman—started rampantly horsing about as they drew near.

Pressed by the crowd and breaking into a half-run without true intent to flee, a single young samurai dashed into an empty lot beside the hall. His freshly shaven pate gleamed blue-black, his impeccable attire complete with the paired long and short swords at his waist... But that face! Even for a woman, one might call them desirable—these were unmistakably feminine features! Though her attire and form had changed, was this not unmistakably Yayoi—the very one who should have been missing—now the adopted daughter of Tsuchiya Tamon of Kōjimachi Sanbanchō?

She stood arrayed in the dignified attire of a young samurai at this Aoyama Chōjagamaru festival! Yayoi—who had adopted her late father's surname to call herself Onozuka Iori while disguised as a man—gazed absently upward at the painted signboard displayed there: a sideshow by a Chinese swordsman named Ryū, admission five mon for adults and three for children— "Step right up!" The ticket taker wrenched his brine-roughened voice.

Parting the straw mat hung on the plank fence, Onozuka Iori's Yayoi passed through into the sword manipulation sideshow, where a packed crowd filled the interior, stifling human breath grazing her temples. The five-mon admission fee wasn't particularly expensive, but the sole performer was Liu—and though grandly billed as a "sword manipulation" spectacle, his actual act amounted to nothing more than his usual knife-throwing routine. Given that the sword tricks primarily drew male spectators—with women and children few enough to count—fearsome rōnin could be spotted here and there among them.

Yayoi, fully disguised as a samurai, pressed through the crowd without hesitation and emerged at the front. The barker rattled off his spiel—"Now presenting this Liu, a Chinese performer born in Tenjiku's Mount Toriyama"—spouting nonsensical claims before withdrawing. Immediately replacing him appeared the Chinese knife-throwing master Liu upon a makeshift stage two or three shaku high. At Yayoi's first glimpse—and that of the entire audience—an ambiguous cry halfway between curiosity and terror escaped them as the entire hut let out a low rumble.

Liu the Chinese performer.

At first, everyone thought he was a monkey. No—though too large to be a monkey—this was what the world called an Issun-bōshi? A head far too serious-looking for the body of a seven- or eight-year-old child sat atop a magnificent tortoise-shell-like hump reminiscent of stacked lunchboxes, with his entire body—from head to torso and limbs—covered in jet-black, shaggy fur. A flat face with cold narrow eyes, a squashed nose, and thick lips—thrusting forward this inhuman visage with his waist bent double and the tips of his long arms dragging along the ground... Appearing exactly like a scarlet-faced demon from paintings from the moment he emerged, he naturally stole the spectators' courage; Yayoi nearly forgot her male disguise, almost letting out a cry of astonishment as she covered her eyes.

A monster rarely seen! A frightened child, off to the side! The child burst into tears as if ignited; Liu looked that way and grinned.

Since Liu seemed relatively good-natured, the crowd also felt somewhat reassured; those who had been slightly on edge now began to inch back toward the stage area. "Conceived from the congealed evil blood of a Tang dynasty palace maid and born prematurely, this Taiyu here—though you see him as a monster—is thirty-nine years of age this very year! "Liu!... Hey now—" It was all well and good for the showman to make his announcements from the sidelines, but since he was both calling out and responding to himself, there was no need for anyone else to manage it.

At that, the monstrous Mr. Liu—using a tap on the wooden block as his cue—stood up and moved on to his performance. On one side of the stage stood a wooden board; pressed flush against it stood a girl of twelve or thirteen. Liu—gripping dozens of glinting daggers—took position about five meters from the girl, blades reversed with their spines clamped between his palms, poised to strike! With a bizarre cry, he unleashed what our land calls the rare art of shuriken!

Glistening threads flew horizontally—release! The blade pierced the girl’s head—or so it seemed! The sword's edge grazed past her body and embedded itself in the board, but before the astonished spectators could finish their sighs of relief, two—three more blades flew swiftly from Liu's hands. Drawing white streaks through the air like stray arrows—thunk! thunk! thunk! thunk! thunk! In rapid succession they struck—neck, underarms, arms, torso, legs—each blade plunging into the board mere hairbreadths from her flesh from head to toe. This time the crowd exhaled awed admiration, forgetting even to applaud.

With each dagger he flung—"Yah!" "Yah!" Liu shouted as he swung his long arms wildly, his black fur rippling and squat frame bouncing like chestnut burrs being flicked away— In mere moments, he had enclosed the girl's outline with gleaming blades, like a carpenter hammering nails. Before the stunned crowd, the girl quietly stepped back from the board—her spread-eagled form now sharply etched into the wood by the swords' perimeter.

Though done for profit, this was truly an awe-inspiring divine skill! When the girl and Liu briefly joined hands and bowed slightly, the audience—who had been holding their breath—finally seemed to notice and sent up a great cheer. But Yayoi, seemingly already resolved to some course of action, tightened her face with firm determination and hurriedly pushed through the crowd as she exited the hut. A narrow path stretched from behind the hall into the depths of the forest.

Shortly thereafter.

In a grassy area slightly off the path—having deviated from that narrow trail—beneath cedar groves so dense they cast darkness even at midday, two silhouettes clustered tightly together while whispering about something.

“Well then, your shuriken skills are so extraordinary that I’ve gone to the trouble of summoning you here. My request is none other than—” The one who spoke thus—though affecting a man’s voice—was unmistakably Yayoi’s Onozuka Iori. Responding to this, another person—

“Well now you! Saw through this Tang performer’s disguise at first glance—sharp eyes for one so young! Hariti of Inaridani herself would bow to that… Heh heh heh. What do you say?” “Well then, why don’t we get straight to this story of yours? Y’see, I’m Sanshō no Magotarō—the homeless vagrant from Kōshū. Peppers may be small, but they pack a punch!” “Hey now, once I’ve heard the full story, y’know—I might just be game to lend a hand after all.” The man spoke in a low muttering tone yet wielded crisp Edo dialect… He was that Chinese performer called Liu Taifu who had just now intoxicated the audience with strange swordplay at the sword manipulation spectacle hut.

So then. The true identity of Liu the Chinese performer was Japanese through and through—none other than Sanshō no Magotarō, the homeless drifter from Kōshū, exactly as he had proclaimed himself. Now while this Magotarō was indeed a hunchbacked dwarf, having cast off that magnificent black fur costume and scrubbed away his stage makeup, he appeared merely as an odd-looking man—not particularly the sort to make one's hair stand on end. Yet this revelation brought its own unease—his diminutive, flattened form held a peculiar eeriness. Moreover, considering how this same figure became a peerless master when wielding shuriken, one could only nod in agreement that he indeed embodied the saying "Sanshō no Magotarō"—a pepper may be small, but it burns fierce—without contradicting its truth.

Magotarō of Kōfu birth—a dreadful cripple who possessed innate mastery of shuriken—had been purchased by a carnival showman to perform as Liu the Chinese performer. While traveling through various provinces and having pitched a booth at Chōjagamaru for today's festival to gather coins, he was summoned when a young samurai from among the spectators approached the ticket booth claiming to have business. What had compelled her to conspire with such an eccentric performer? In any case, as Yayoi watched Magotarō—Liu—emerge wiping sweat after his act, she couldn’t suppress a smile at seeing her suspicions confirmed precisely as anticipated.

Having removed his fur suit and now squatting before them, Magotarō appeared utterly different from Liu the performer—for as Yayoi had discerned from the start, he was indeed a Japanese rogue. A body just over three feet tall that looked like a document box strapped to him, with a grotesquely large face disproportionate to his small limbs... But! Give Magotarō a dagger! Even a bird soaring through the sky would instantly plummet to earth; even a fish darting through rocky crevices would in a moment turn belly-up on the water’s surface.

Magotarō pompously crossed his small arms and strained his ears intently. Yayoi was fervently revealing something—at times as if making an earnest plea, at others as if doggedly persuading—her manner shifting between entreaty and exhortation. The utter impostor Magotarō and Onozuka Iori—Yayoi in male attire. What topics were discussed during that time, and how they unfolded— No—more than that, what hidden path of events had lurked behind Yayoi’s sudden appearance today in Kogane Forest, clad in the disguise of the young samurai Onozuka Iori?

At this juncture, the narrative briefly turned back to follow Yayoi's path thereafter.

...It was the dawn of memory—when she had been led by Kushimaki Oto to Eizaburō's residence in Kawaramachi, spent a night with Oto in tears like rain, while outside, rain resembling both women's tears hung soundless and mist-like in that remembered dawn. The dawn of memory?

That's right. From that day onward, Yayoi as a woman ceased to be—her anguished realization of unrequited love gave birth, in place of death, to the ghastly yet beautiful figure of Onozuka Iori, a handsome man now newly emerged into being.

What of these birthing pains?

The memories continued to unfold―

Love weakens the strong and strengthens the weak.

From that drizzling night onward—just as fragile Oto had abruptly strengthened her resolve and begun showing disinterest toward Eizaburō—so too did strong Yayoi revert to a vulnerable maiden, she who had been crushed by tragic love, refusing an umbrella as she trudged alone through the rain, soaked to the bone, leaving Kawaramachi's back alleys behind—

The Kanda River's current had swollen from the night's rain. Rumble-crash! The water's surface washed against the stone embankment of the shore and shattered in the predawn darkness.

Yayoi had stopped at the midpoint of Asakusa Bridge and leaned absently against the railing to peer below. The undawned sky. The morning of Great Edo—still not roused from slumber—was bitterly cold with a desolate sleet that seeped into one's bones. A demon took hold. Shall we say...? At such times, the shadow of death is suddenly cast upon the soul of one who harbors sorrow. On the bridge, invisible death with black wings drew near Yayoi.

He whispered enticing words into Yayoi's ear. Yayoi heard the patter of raindrops and the river's current as voices extolling death's sweetness. Death pointed again to the water's depths below her.

There, instead of the swirling muddy currents, Yayoi beheld an eternal spring paradise blooming with flowers in riotous profusion. The lightness of a heart contemplating death—that very lightness simultaneously compelled an immediate resolution. The rain lashed against Yayoi's face, which she abruptly raised. But she was no longer crying. From Yayoi's slightly parted lips, the names of her deceased father and Eizaburō escaped like a sigh...and in the next moment, she removed her footwear. She glanced around furtively. She pressed her hands together in prayer— "Father! Yayoi will join you now!"

With that single cry! At the very moment Yayoi, embraced by Death’s dark wings, attempted to hurl herself from the bridge railing—!

In life, all manner of coincidences are nothing but inevitability.

When events occur, they do so with a reason they should occur... It would be right to say this case was precisely that.

At that very moment, five mountain palanquins—their poles aligned in perfect formation—raced across the bridge like a sudden gust and vanished. Ten brawny palanquin bearers—each nearly six feet tall—squatted down with a powerful thud, marched in perfect step, swung their carrying poles like dancers, and crossed Asakusa Bridge in the blink of an eye!

When they looked back, Yayoi’s figure was gone! So she had finally leapt into the Kanda River and vanished into its foam!

But wait—

One of the palanquin bearers must have noticed Yayoi in peril and, even as he ran, scooped her up with one arm before roughly shoving her into one of the palanquins. Yayoi had already lost consciousness—a truly split-second maneuver. The proof lay in what followed.

And so, that morning, the five palanquins returning from the raid on the Honjo Suzukawa residence let out a sharp "Heave-ho!" With their shouts echoing through sharp turns, they raced past rows of merchant houses whose large gates were just beginning to open—and after running for roughly a quarter-hour, when the bases thudded against the ground, five figures in fireman attire emerged from within. There in their midst, cradled gently in the arms of their silver-haired, ruddy-faced chief—an old warrior—lay Yayoi's limp body.

But who were this band of five who had spent the drizzly night in sword combat and fled with the dawn like wind demons? And where had they now settled? ...it was a certain sunlit thicket shade overlooking nearby Aoyama Chōjagamaruko Koi no Mori. The fireman-outfitted men who sought to overturn heaven and earth had now become Yayoi’s lifesavers. What discussions had transpired in that time remained unclear, but from that same day onward, Yayoi—having severed all ties to her past by cleanly cutting off her flowing black hair—adopted both the name Onozuka Iori and the appearance of a refined youth, coming to dwell in a peculiar house inhabited by five samurai and ten rough men as the object of their reverence.

The manipulative strings of fate—could these too be pulled by the shadow of the separated Ken'un and Konryū blades? Before long, Yayoi's abandoned footwear was discovered upon Asakusa Bridge, leading to the natural conclusion that she had thrown herself to her death. Her adoptive father Tsuchiya Tamon resigned himself through tears, and on the newly added mortuary tablet in the Tsuchiya family altar were inscribed Yayoi's secular name and the date of her disappearance... Indeed! Yayoi was dead. But the transformed Onozuka Iori lived on, unknown to others.

Iori of the living Yayoi—having just finished discussing some matter in Koi no Mori forest—glanced at her companion the dwarf. Tokutaro the Peppercorn leered with unmistakably lecherous eyes，his gaze undeniably fixed on peering into the plush whiteness of Yayoi’s chest．Startled，Yayoi reflexively rose to her feet． Under Tokutaro’s scorching gaze，Yayoi—unusually flustered—swayed upright amidst the grass and hastily adjusted her collar．Now Tokutaro let his strange eyes roam from her pale wrist deep into her sleeve，and though he too had risen，his head barely reached the height of her obi．．．

“Heh heh heh, Milord—I never said I’d gobble you up now, did I? No call to get all creeped out sudden-like.”

“Hmm.” “No—it’s nothing. I’m simply feeling restless.”

Yayoi assumed as masculine and imposing a posture as she could manage, "So, how about it? The job is as I’ve just explained—would you be willing to join forces with us and lend your strength?" "Is that so?" Kōshū Mushuku Sanshō no Tokutaro tilted his head as if pondering some intricacy—perhaps considering various thoughts within—but his aberrant gaze still crawled caressingly along the sleek curve of Yayoi’s torso down to her hips without relenting, causing Yayoi to grow even warier as she...

"It may be unreasonable, but I ask this trusting in your chivalrous spirit—please wield your exquisite shuriken techniques freely for our faction's cause..." "Heh. "For a proper swordsman like yourself to speak so kindly to this humble Tokutaro—why, I'm truly blessed! Heh, let me show my gratitude right here." "No, no—if thanks are owed, it should be I offering them. "What say you? I would be most grateful for your prompt answer."

“Well now—it’s strange comin’ from my own mouth, but what they say ’bout the parents’ sins visited upon the child… y’know? Everywhere I go, folks point fingers just like you’d expect. This body’s a wreck in anybody’s eyes—though ’fore you here, I s’pose even a messed-up human’s got some use if you look hard enough.” “Look here—since I was a brat, I’ve had a knack for throwin’ things. What you love, you master, heh heh heh. Might sound like I’m shootin’ my mouth off, but when it comes to this shuriken business o’ mine? Unrivaled under the sun. Ain’t nobody walkin’ this earth who can outdo me—not now, not ever.” “Why, everyone under the sun—”

“I am well aware.” “It is precisely because I am aware that I kneel before you and make this entreaty.” “Well... about that...”

“Tell me, Mr. Tokutaro—with such swordsmanship at your disposal, to don that beast pelt and masquerade as Chinese Ryū before crowds, pandering to women and children—is this not squandering your talents? Have you never considered it a waste?” “Hold! Time out! With respect to your words—that garb ain’t no beast’s hide! ’Tis a custom-made prop—a black horse’s tail affixed with animal glue, see?”

“A horse’s tail! Ha ha ha ha ha—that’s even worse!... Well, setting that aside, I absolutely must secure your assistance here. This is my earnest request—I desire your swordsmanship skills. What say you?” “This is troublesome—can’t handle being pressed so sudden-like, Milord. For this humble one, it’s like birds takin’ flight right from under your feet—all unexpected-like.” “Please find some way to accommodate this…” “It’s impossible, see—I’m tied down to this sideshow booth. Can’t even control my own body.”

“Run!”

Yayoi whispered urgently and glanced around warily to avoid being noticed.

Beyond the hall, festival clamor surged—but here, slightly removed from it all, lay still and deserted, not a soul present. Fluttering down, fallen leaves alighted upon both their shoulders. “Heh heh heh heh—no need to tell me that! I’ve tried escapin’ time an’ again, see? But hide wherever this cripple might—they spot me quick an’ drag me right back...”

“Very well! If you are determined to side with us, there will be no need for further words. I shall shelter you properly.” “So—’bout this job o’ mine—the assassination work you mentioned—” “Quiet! You’re too loud!” She glanced about before continuing in lowered tones. “In exchange, you may claim all the gold and silver you desire...” “Nah—hold your horses ’bout rewards.” His lips twisted in a sly grin. “There’s just one thing this humble one wants.” The pact was sealed—but as Peppercorn Tokutaro slipped from the forest shadows under Yayoi’s guidance, his aberrant gaze clung to the curve of her waist like creeping ivy. Tongue darting across cracked lips, he nodded to himself in dark satisfaction—a gesture lost on the young woman striding ahead, her masculine guise unbroken.

To the hollow shell now devoid of its tayū, the voice of Chinese Ryū’s shuriken hut gatekeeper desperately gathered crowds, unaware of the vacancy...

Here were two.

As they pressed through the dimly lit narrow path, a modest thatched roof surrounded by a hedge in the forest's shadow came into view. An old samurai stood alone at the entrance, holding up a forearm toward them.

“That’s the house.”

Yayoi raised a white finger.

Relentless winter rain.

The first to notice a human-like shape flickering in the garden's tree shadows was Hōbō Sen’nosuke.

It was around the fifth hour of the night.

At the Monster Mansion before Honjo Hōonji Bridge—Suzukawa Genjūrō's residence—the master Genjūrō and Tange Sazen had superficially restored their relationship, with Genjūrō once again honoring Old Osayo as his true mother while continuing to gather his usual patrons for nightly gambling sessions as before. Then, a few days prior, Tsuzumi no Yoki arrived guiding seventeen swordsmen reinforcements led by Tsukigata Gunnosuke from Ōshū Nakamura-Sōma Domain. Since then, they had been toasting to their battlefield exploits, all members indulging in heavy drinking that dissolved day and night into mud-like drunkenness and rainbow-hued fervor—and tonight too, from earlier in Sazen's detached room came boisterous noises and clamor of voices from a banquet in full swing...

Amidst the commotion, Sennosuke stepped out to the restroom for a moment. Having taken care of his business along the bamboo-wet veranda, he was on his way back. As he used the washbasin through a gap in the one remaining closed wooden shutter, he casually glanced toward the thicket ahead. Though there was no wind, the striped bamboo leaves rustled and swayed—and there, a black shadow lurched upright. A child!—At first glance, it could be mistaken for one, but with its long arms limply hanging to the ground and back hunched forward in a stoop—whether trick of the mind or not—to Sennosuke, it seemed almost simian, and he nearly let slip a cry of astonishment.

But now—you’re some monstrous apparition! Just as Sennosuke secretly steeled himself, the small figure vanished like smoke without leaving a trace. Strange things do happen, Hōbō Sennosuke thought as he tilted his head in puzzlement—but bringing up such a tale at a drinking gathering would only invite dismissive laughter, making him sound cowardly instead. Even after returning to his seat, he said nothing about the bizarre shadow figure he had glimpsed in the garden.

In a room suffocating with alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke.

Newly arrived and still treated as honored guests, Tsukigata Gunnosuke, Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō, Todoroki Genpachi, Okazaki Hyōe, Tōdō Kumesaburō, Yamauta Ukyo, Natsume Hisama, and all seventeen Sōma swordsmen were seated in places of honor. Among them crowded Yoki the Drum-Bearer—flaunting his achievements—along with Suzukawa Genjūrō acting as host and Tange Sazen the resident swordsman. Between them lay rice, fish, vegetables—a bustling array of colors like viewing a scattered sushi platter.

And liquor.

The bony crimson face blazed like seething light through a torn paper lantern—indeed worthy of the Monster Mansion's name. It was a scene of arrogant lawlessness in the night. "Hey Genshū! No—Genji! Oi Suzugen! That 'Gen' character... spit it out!" "Hah hah hah hah!" The sword fiend Sazen—elated by the reinforcements' arrival—drew Ken'unmaru close while fixing his eye on Genjūrō and thrust forth a cup with his left hand. "Drink! The victorious army's dawn breaks with heaven and earth made one. When I say drink—you drink!"

“Hmm.” “A fine occasion.” “As you see—I drink.” Genjūrō offered a half-hearted reply tinged with discomfort. Yet Sazen, his tongue nearly too sluggish to form words, bellowed— “Hey—Yoriki Suzukawa! Listen!” “Lord of Hōonji! I’ve cast off that Yayoi girl for good! From now on, I’ll devote myself wholly to settling this business of the night-wailing blades. You too—prove yourself a true comrade! Abandon Oto and lend me your arm till this ends!” “Every quarrel between us till now sprang from that Oto’s scheming to drive us apart!” “That’s why I’m done with her—this time for certain!” “No—done already!” “What need has a cripple like me for some painted harlot?!” “Hah! Enough said—enough!” “So then, Genjūrō—you’ll set women aside and stake your swordarm on this, eh?”

“Needless to say! If you claim to have forgotten not just Oto but even Yayoi, then I too—as a samurai—shall resolutely sever my heart from Oto and, though unworthy, lend my aid to this sword struggle over the Cloud and Dragon blades...” “With those words alone, I feel heartened as though I’ve gained ten thousand allies.”

And Tsukigata Gunnosuke interjected there, "Now then—concerning this beggar who styles himself Taiken or some such—"

Thus, as rumors of Gamō Taiken—rehashed time and again since their arrival—and tales of that blood ledger which had plagued them with its appearances everywhere once again came up, "If I may say before all you honorable guests—when it comes to that beggar bastard, he's like dried-out goldfish..." Yoki leaned forward with a smug look. "What's this about dried goldfish?" Someone asked.

Someone asked.

“Well... “You can’t boil it or grill it—it’s downright useless.”

At this, a storm-like roar of laughter shook the gathering—but amidst it all, Genjūrō and Sazen did not laugh. Their probing gazes met fleetingly, then immediately darted apart.

Kushimaki Oto's treacherous scheme—born from Tange Sazen's lovelorn heart turning toward Yayoi and her own resentment toward Lord Suzukawa for breaching their mediated agreement—through which she devised various stratagems to sow discord between Sazen and Genjūrō.

For this reason, there had been a time when Sazen and Genjūrō found themselves at odds, and Sazen—harboring vengeful intent toward Genjūrō—left the Honjo residence to spend a dissolute night with her at Oto’s hideout. However, as this affair had originated not with Sazen but with Oto herself, once he had fully known her, he found himself unable to sustain any interest in her—an inevitable outcome. And so—

On that snowy night when the Ken'un and Konryūmaru blades had each ended up with different owners, Tange Sazen—after losing sight of Eizaburō beneath Hōonji Bridge in the dead of night—once again returned on those very feet to Monster Mansion. There he conversed for hours with its master Suzukawa Genjūrō. When it became clear that Genjūrō had not been the first to lodge complaints, nor had the unearthing of Ken'unmaru been anything but Osayo’s sole doing—when Genjūrō argued he bore no involvement whatsoever—the strong yet simple-minded Sazen, concluding all prior matters had been his own misunderstanding, restored his former sentiments toward Genjūrō and resumed dwelling in the detached cottage within the estate grounds as before.

After first lodging complaints herself and later rescuing Sazen—using that debt to spend a night with him while fulfilling her stubborn lust—the madam Kushimaki Oto now found herself cornered. With the authorities’ eyes glaring fiercely upon her standing in Edo, she had no choice but to retreat to that familiar hole—a dark underground chamber where she now lay alone, steeped in memories of Sazen. But this Oto—having once possessed Sazen—would she truly remain silent now?

Meanwhile, Sazen and Genjūrō— With the winds of official scrutiny blowing pervasively against them and gnawing anxiety that the constable’s jitte and arrest ropes might come flying at any moment, they once again exchanged vows of steadfast mutual aid—whereupon Genjūrō resolved to let Sazen continue hiding within his estate as before.

Now.

Tange Sazen—the one-eyed, one-armed swordsman—distorted the sword scar on his right cheek into a sardonic smile. For the sake of the Cloud and Dragon blades, he would cleanly sever not only his attachment to Oto but even his illicit longing for Yayoi—the girl he was supposed to have obtained alongside Ken'unmaru from the very beginning.

In response, Genjūrō— In that case, I too shall cast aside Oto and together pour all our strength into the wailing swords! Genjūrō had declared this resolutely— Words are words.

But hearts lie deeper. Putting aside Oto for now—could Sazen truly abandon Yayoi? Could Genjūrō ever forget Oto...? Struck by mutual suspicion in that instant, both men instinctively sought to gauge each other’s true intent—their sharp gazes clashing like steel. In that moment, Genjūrō saw Yayoi reflected in Sazen’s solitary eye; Sazen perceived Oto etched across Genjūrō’s face. Yet it was Genjūrō who suddenly grinned upward— “No—I’ll account for all that’s passed until now. "My deepest apologies—being so consumed by Oto that you must’ve deemed me spineless. Henceforth, Genjūrō shall become your right arm..."

“Ahahaha! Offering to be my right-hand man when I’ve only got a left arm—that’s rich coming from you, Genjū!” “Ah, that was merely a figure of speech—you mustn’t take it unkindly and dwell on it.” “Nah, far from minding it—there’s no room for such standoffish formalities between us. I’m downright grateful for that, y’know.” “Don’t you agree, Mr. Tsukigata?” When questioned, Tsukigata Gunnosuke—who had been engrossed in rumors of Taiken along with Yoki and others—flustered by the sudden inquiry,

“S-s-s-such is indeed the case!” “I-I-indeed, just as Lord Tange says—” When Tsukigata answered with uncharacteristic stuttering, something about his manner of speech seemed to remind Sazen of his lord Daizen-no-suke, "You must have been waiting impatiently—or rather, I must apologize for all these delays." while steeling himself into uncharacteristically stiff, formal speech, "Ah! Ken'unmaru weeps in the night! "It calls to the dragon and weeps. “Hey now! Can’t you esteemed folk hear this voice?”

As he stroked the battle sword with his left hand and swept his bloodshot single eye over the entire assembly—

In the days when his father Uemon served as Senior Inspector—a position requiring castle attendance—they maintained horses and grooms, yet even then employed only two maids. Now that the current Genjūrō had fallen to kobushin status while still keeping two servants, the constant inspections from kobushin overseers made such formalities troublesome. Though Osayo held maternal standing, under these circumstances she had to work like any common maid. Old woman Osayo brought heated sake in a kettle.

It was this old hag who stole Ken'unmaru! Yet Sazen kept silent in Genjūrō's presence, swallowing the accusation whole.

Held back the group that erupted in cheers upon seeing the sake, Sazen—

“War council! We’ll need strategies against those five fire-attire bastards too—let’s finish this discussion first, then we’ll have another drink.”

The moment he finished speaking—! Dohō Sensuke reacted in a flash— No sooner had his complexion changed than a silvery streak—a gleaming blade—suddenly came flying from the depths of the darkened garden as if alive, straight toward Tsukigata Gunnosuke’s chest…! In the midst of this drinking revelry—how bizarre! A single dagger tore through the air from the garden, streaked toward the lamplight in an instant—thunk! [The dagger] lodged upright into Tsukigata Gunnosuke’s chest—or so it seemed in that instant! Crack! With a crack, what spectacularly shattered was none other than the large earthenware cup that Tsukigata Gunnosuke had been about to bring to his lips.

The flying blade shattered the sake cup into fragments, drenched Tsukigata Gunnosuke's upper body in liquor, grazed the shoulder of his thin kimono with its residual momentum, and plunged into the tatami mat behind him. In an instant, a frozen silence enveloped the room. No sooner had this thought occurred than—"Roar!" With a collective roar of terror, they all sprang to their feet, swords in hand.

And then,

"What sorcery! What fiend?!" Along with Sazen—who struck Ken'unmaru's hilt and barked a command—they all simultaneously assumed defensive stances toward the garden... The night only deepened its oppressive darkness, shadows of trees clustering blackly beneath what might have been mist—hazy air drifted without purpose under lanterns' residual glow. Just the usual, utterly unremarkable sight of a wild garden.

An instantaneous occurrence that defied categorization as either suspicious or strange. They couldn't discern from which direction the short sword had come flying…… With their pent-up vigor finding no outlet, somewhat deflated yet still maintaining combat readiness, they aligned their elbows against their sword hilts in unison—! As they kept peering intently into the garden area— “Well, everyone—I refrained from mentioning this earlier for fear of ridicule—but there was a child-like figure of about seven or eight in that area over there.” “Indeed, just now when that dagger came flying, this humble one distinctly saw something stir…”

At Dohō Sensuke's murmured words, A child—given the circumstances—evoked an uncanny terror in the dead of night. In that very instant, the inhabitants of this haunted house found themselves shuddering against their will, every hair on their bodies standing rigid.

Once again—Whizz! With a growl, a single dagger came flying through the air from one corner—this time plunging into the throat of Yamana Naiki, third from the right among those facing the garden, with a sickening crunch of grinding bone before they could even react. Eeeeeek...! Naiki, emitting a rasping breath like winter wind through treetops from his torn windpipe, appeared to claw at the empty air before him for two or three seconds—then instantly slipped in his frantic attempt to brace against the gushing sea of blood, still halfway drawing the sword at his waist as he plunged headlong into the garden. With a smack, his nasal bridge struck a stepping stone, and he immediately fell unconscious.

Some time before this...

In the darkness-floated detached room, frost pillars' white flowers momentarily bloomed in fierce competition as the band of northern swordsmen with drawn blades surged like an avalanche—leaping from the veranda and charging with battle cries toward the garden corner from which the dagger had come. But—! When they rushed to where they believed the assailant must be—nothing! Only damp night air heavily pressed upon the earth, with no trace remaining in any part of the garden of the child-like figure Sensuke had reported earlier. Huh? As the group kept their drawn swords lowered and glanced around restlessly, something occurred nearby—

“Hmph, heh heh…” A muffled chuckle laced with implication lingered in the shadows. “You—was that your laugh just now?” “Nah. You’re the one who laughed.” “Wasn’t it you?” “Wrong.” “Who then? Who laughed?” Amid their clamorous cross-examination—! A black simian figure burst from a grass clump less than two ken away. Its elongated arm swung—phosphorescent glow trailing like a meteor’s tail—as another dagger ripped through Natsume Kyūma’s flank where he stood at the forefront, hurling him backward to the earth.

“Bwahahaha!” Leaving his laughter behind, the small shadow darted away. “A fiend!” Just as the group surged forward to pursue, the three who had remained inside—Sazen, Genjūrō, and Gunnosuke—shouted in unison to recall them. And then—at their command—the rain shutters of the entire detached cottage clattered shut. When Tange Sazen wrenched free the small dagger that had initially flown in to shatter Tsukigata’s sake cup from the tatami, they saw it was a sharp blade over five sun in length, with a single paper twist fastened near its hilt.

Before eyes gleaming with curiosity, Tange Sazen straightened the paper twist and read aloud: "You twenty shall become targets of my shuriken in turn." A threatening missive sent by some unknown assailant alongside a killing blade! "Hmph! Putting on airs with this nonsense!" Sazen spat out a bitter laugh. In the sudden silence's depths, he began counting heads—adding two slain to Tsukigata group's seventeen, making nineteen with Genjūrō and Yohachi—until finally pointing at himself to complete the twenty.

Yayoi and Magotarō, looking like a monkey handler with his charge, were fleeing far behind them from Suzukawa's mansion.

A mole from the fire brigade gang! This was the idea that had suddenly dawned upon everyone at Rian Cottage. But even so, the shuriken techniques of that mysterious figure—who resembled neither child nor wild ape—were fearsome enough to raise goosebumps even on the skin of Tange Sazen, the peerless one-armed swordsman known as the Demon Blade. However, the sword technique known as shuriken— The technique called shuriken—or Divine Mystery Sword—fundamentally derives from the essence of the teji principle in Japanese swordsmanship. Teji refers to discerning through the void principle the positioning of enemy swords and spears, then wielding one's own weapon in accordance with that void principle to operate within established kūri—striking without striking, thrusting without thrusting, parrying without parrying—which is described as the mindset of writing the characters of the enemy’s sword trajectories in the void.

Thus it follows that when a sword emerges from teji's hand-within-hand principle, we call it shuriken—though this profound truth of swordsmanship becomes formidably complex, imbued as it is with Zen insights. For shuriken—the Divine Mystery Sword—does not refer exclusively to the mere technique of flipping and hurling small blades three or four sun in length. The same principle applies to swords and spears wielded without release—no matter how much one trains solely in blade-throwing techniques, the essence lies in striking according to teji's void principle. And thus, the virtue of kūri lies solely in enabling one’s mind to perceive opportunities and act with swift precision—as they say—and as this makes clear, to reach the level where one can fell a man with a thrown shuriken requires more than mere technical skill in hurling blades. While mastery of technique remains essential, such skills constitute mere fundamentals; to ascend to true mastery, one must grasp kūri's principles and master teji's methods. In other words, unless one develops spiritual readiness before technical mastery and attains the secret depths of swordsmanship’s essence, it would be impossible to establish a school through shuriken throwing.

However, as for that thrower just now...? A gust of bloody wind whirled up, instantly snuffing out two lives' flames—as this masterstroke revealed, the perpetrator—be he demon or phantom—proved himself a consummate master of both blade and spirit. Precisely because he was the Blade Demon Sazen—a man who embodied the sword’s spirit in his very being—he had swiftly gauged his opponent’s skill. "The world is vast indeed... Hmm! Was a master of this caliber lurking here?"

Even now—transcending ally and enemy—Sazen felt a genuine urge to smile! A second time— "You twenty men shall become targets of my shuriken in turn." Rereading this threatening missive, Sazen somehow became convinced that his left sword and these shuriken were fated to clash in a shower of sparks at some imminent opportunity. In the dim lamplight's shadow, he raised his face—that single eye gleaming—blazing with hostility and hatred as he glared upward.

Whether he had discerned Sazen's intent or not, Tsukigata Gunnosuke—who never startled easily nor acted rashly—contrary to his usual absent-minded demeanor, resolutely pursed his lips and met Sazen's gaze. No sooner had they arrived in the capital than Tange Sazen, in lieu of formal greetings, relayed a full account of the sword-clashing turmoil. Thus, the Tsukigata disciples—who had been eagerly awaiting the day they would cross blades with Eizaburō's faction and the fire brigade gang—found themselves all too soon losing two comrades to a mysterious dwarf. Amidst faint unease yet with a renewed surge of murderous intent coursing through them, the time for secret deliberations swiftly shifted to a midnight chamber centered around the triangular council of Sazen, Genjūrō, and Gunnosuke.

The outcome.

What manner of secret stratagem had arisen—using Ken'unmaru as bait to draw Konryūmaru near? ...this ranked second in their concerns.

There, it was Suzukawa Genjūrō.

As for Genjūrō—who had sat through the council with arms folded in silence—had he truly been racking his brains alongside the others over their grand scheme to unify heaven and earth, just as appearances suggested? So went the doubts— Absolutely not!

"I have resolutely put the matter of Oto out of my mind!" No sooner had he made that grand declaration—before the words had even dried on his tongue—than his entire being became dominated by the persistent knot that had never left his heart: those fifty ryō he had promised Osayo days ago yet still not delivered... The very funds needed to sever Oto from Eizaburō. Genjūrō—who had been pretending to piously tilt his head in contemplation during their discussions—now declared he had some inkling about tonight’s shuriken incident. With this clever excuse, he ignored their attempts to stop him and departed his monster mansion. Behind him, the group in the detached room continued deliberating under cold lamplight, while Genjūrō alone wandered the dark night streets in perplexed indecision. Upon his shoulders—beyond bearing just midnight’s dew—lay the crushing weight of desperate fundraising, heavy enough to break his back.

The blackness of that night was Genjūrō’s very soul.

Through Iriechō's thoroughfare—pitch-black as if painted over—Genjūrō shuffled aimlessly in his straw sandals, hands tucked in kimono sleeves, putting on airs of a Hatchōbori samurai while broodingly burying his chin. Though he had come out intending to escape the crowd and organize his thoughts, this late at night he had neither destination nor anyone left to approach—for none would now readily comply with Genjūrō's talk of money.

He hung his head in perplexity. Groaning "Fifty ryō... fifty ryō" in his heart, Genjūrō walked along the riverbank. The clock tower loomed against the night sky, while the forest of Lord Tsugaru Etchū's mansion in Minamiwarisuidō stood silent and blacker than ever before.

From somewhere drifted the scent of plum blossoms. An early spring night's aimless wandering. Yet for Genjūrō—a five-hundred-koku hatamoto now cornered over fifty ryō in gold—there remained no room for poetic sentiment. Utterly consumed, he wandered through the darkness, agonizing over possibilities while expanding his aimless path. Turning at Hanamachi's corner came the third bridge spanning Tatekawa River. Crossing it, he drifted from Tokuemonchō to Gokabori and into Fukagawa district—pulled as by an invisible thread.

Oto’s translucently pale face and golden-yellow koban coins flickered before Genjūrō’s eyes like alternating phantoms. His pretense of respecting old Osayo for resembling his deceased mother had been a tactical maneuver—like felling the mount before engaging the general. Having finally secured Osayo’s cooperation and reached the point where fifty ryō could openly sever Eizaburō’s ties to Oto through her mediation, this sudden obstruction in procuring the funds now struck him as akin to entering a treasure-laden mountain only to emerge empty-handed. The more Genjūrō dwelled on it, the more his own inadequacy tormented him, until scorching frustration seared through his very bones.

As for Sazen's sword battles—they no longer occupied any corner of his thoughts. There existed only money—fifty ryō! Fifty... For Suzukawa Genjūrō—a hatamoto with five hundred koku stipend—to find himself incapable of procuring such a trifling sum seemed truly inconceivable; yet given his chronic profligacy—having long since exhausted all his pre-paid domain income, compounded by gambling debts in every quarter—there he stood: the utterly destitute Suzukawa Genjūrō in informal robes, silver-mounted swords tucked carelessly behind him, crossing Onagigawa Bridge while absently humming a Noh chant—when suddenly he recalled his uncle Kumai Kurōemon of Azabu Gaizenbō.

Four years had passed since borrowing fifty ryō from him, but Uncle Kumai was after all the head of audience chamber attendants—with many perquisites at his disposal, he managed funds skillfully. If he went begging, perhaps the uncle could somehow produce another fifty. Right—maybe I should try shamelessly paying a visit. No! Stop it—stop! Come to think of it, there was that time last year before Bon when he'd gone to squeeze out twenty ryō from him. That time, though the effusive flattery and lavish hospitality were fine enough, right in the midst of reception that damned uncle had declared: "Now Suzukawa—last year my stipend suffered flood damage and was completely wiped out—all two hundred koku of it." "But well—with an official stipend of two hundred bales—I somehow managed internal and external expenses... though under such circumstances, my finances remain truly strained." "And regarding that fifty ryō borrowed some time ago—since demanding full repayment would trouble you—might I humbly request just half...?" he'd pressed with excruciating politeness, soft as silk strangling one's neck. Caught in this vise, when Genjūrō then falteringly tried to broach borrowing another twenty ryō himself—"Ah yes—in that case I shall procure and repay the sum shortly"—he'd fled home sweating buckets, cutting matters short.

Ah, being preempted and gently defeated like this was unbearable. That uncle from Gaizenbō... What an impossible old bastard he was... —so Genjūrō. He—who was himself denounced by all relatives as a faithless wretch, human dregs—set that aside. Ah, had he known it would come to this, he should have been more diligent in observing social obligations from the start—showing face during New Year visits and summer-winter courtesies, keeping thresholds low at every household. But now realizing this, it was too late—the festival had already ended.

Ambushed by unseen blades... every avenue blocked.

It was when Suzukawa Genjūrō—utterly perplexed and having lost his very soul to fifty ryō—emerged into the Ofunategumi alley of Aikawachō near Eitai, crossing Chidorigahashi Bridge from Sendaihori like a marionette in motion.

A moonless night was dark as lacquer. Suddenly encountering a bow-shaped paper lantern ahead—its light staining Matsugawa’s stylish brushwork—someone exclaimed: “Whoa!” “Master, there’s a lot of dog shit here.” “Ah, it’s fine. Won’t tread on any.” Two men who appeared to be townsmen approached... Genjūrō—before fully realizing his own actions—pressed his back against the earthen wall on the opposite side, silently ripped off the sleeve of his rat-gray underrobe with practiced quietness, pulled it over his head for an instant mask... then wiped his sweaty palms against his clothing and spat! He moistened the peg of his sword.

An unlicensed pleasure quarter… if one could even call it that.

Edo's discerning patrons sipping shallow drinks and humming verses within four-and-a-half-mat rooms—this was Tatsumi no Sato. Fukagawa. Amidst willows cloaked in shadow and blossoms bathed in light, sizable pleasure houses lined the streets around Nakamachi, Dobashi, and Omoteyagura—further along stretched Urayagura, Susotsugi, Chōsuke, and such. As all know—the world of Master Kyōden's later Karakuri Bunko. At the geisha house called Matsugawa beneath the turret there. There had been a young, beautiful woman who had recently taken up residence at Matsugawa through formal arrangements. With both her appearance and temperament being beyond reproach, after four or five days of discussions with carpenter Ihei—acting as her guarantor—an agreement regarding her indentured service had finally been settled that day. The woman took the name Yumehachi and departed from Matsugawa, while carpenter Ihei received the payment that night and returned moments earlier together with a young man named Shinsuke.

Thus emerged Yumehachi—the newcomer among the haori-clad women from Matsugawa beneath the turret.

This Yumehachi was none other than Suwa Eizaburō's wife Oto—or rather, Oto of the Atariya—who, buffeted once more by the floating world's turbulent currents, had taken up this unfamiliar left-lapeled guise as her temporary name.

The barefooted elegance and unyielding pride of Fukagawa's famed haori-clad geisha... Yet the circumstances that led Oto to sink to this station were in fact as follows.

It was:

Oto, who had trampled her own love to leave Eizaburō behind for Yayoi and the Ken'un-Konryū swords, wandered through Edo's streets under Gamō Taiken's protection—until Gamō presumptuously foisted her upon Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami and departed on a northern journey in pursuit of Yohachi. After this, Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke— Though Lord Ōoka covertly supported Konryūmaru out of allegiance to justice and camaraderie with his revered friend Taiken, and though he knew this Oto was the wife of Konryūmaru's warrior Suwa Eizaburō, he could not retain an unfamiliar young woman within his estate given his household retainers' presence.

That said, Tadasuke was not one who could bring himself to expel someone with no home to return to. Moreover, this was an important charge entrusted to him by Taiken. And so, even the esteemed Magistrate of the South found himself at a loss regarding this beautiful package. After much pondering, he suddenly recalled Master Carpenter Ihei of Nihonbashi Ginchō—the very man he had summoned for estate repairs at that very moment. Master Carpenter Ihei, having formerly served in an official capacity for the South Magistrate, was an elderly man who—though a commoner of lowly status—enjoyed Tadasuke’s deep trust as a subordinate. Now having returned his jitte to devote himself fully to his original trade as a carpenter, he frequented households including the Ōoka family and Lord Dewa’s estate, handling all construction matters—a reputedly steadfast man. Concluding that Ihei could be safely entrusted with Oto’s temporary custody, Tadasuke promptly visited the construction site within his own residence, summoned Ihei to a secluded spot, and explained his request.

Master Carpenter Ihei, having accepted the Magistrate’s command without a second word, immediately took Oto and returned to his home in Ginmachi. Having unexpectedly been granted an audience close to Lord Ōoka himself—where she answered various inquiries to the best of her knowledge regarding the Ken'un and Konryū affair, Tange Sazen's faction, and Suzukawa Genjūrō's activities—Oto withdrew from his presence together with Ihei, her very personal circumstances now laid bare before the magistrate and leaving her in fearful awe, yet—

After returning home and taking a proper look at Oto, Ihei was astonished by her beauty so rare in this world. At the same time, he reasoned that while letting her idle about wouldn't be improper, it would only make her feel constrained—rather, becoming a geisha for a while might help lift her spirits... Consulting with his wife, he proposed: Since they were fortunately acquainted with Matsugawa under the turret through guild connections, why not take Oto as their foster daughter and have her stay there temporarily? If it was merely a contract with no obligations for nighttime services—leaving no physical blemish—and if amusing days continued, surely her mind would find welcome distraction... With this reasoning, he suggested to Oto:

The more they tried not to make her feel constrained, the further their consideration reached—yet another's home only grew more uncomfortable. Oto, whose position had felt increasingly constrained day and night, thought that if she were to boldly become a geisha here—firstly meeting more people and thus hearing more gossip—it might provide some clue to Lady Yayoi’s whereabouts that had so preoccupied her these days, while also serving as both defense and pretext against the lord of Honjo who pursued her... Yet how grief-stricken Lord Eizaburō would be if rumors of this reached his ears!

But even that cold rejection layered atop abandonment proved the most opportune boat to cross troubled waters! From this bittersweet mix of laughter and tears—taking carpenter Ihei as her guarantor—she had indentured herself to Matsugawa with a sum of money: this was Yumehachi-Oto. And so tonight—

And so tonight—

For the first time, Yumehachi—the haori-clad geisha—emerged from Matsugawa beneath the turret. The indenture money—which steadfast Ihei kept as preparation for her eventual exit from the profession—saw him borrow a lantern bearing Matsugawa's insignia, take his young apprentice Shinsuke in tow, and return across the river to Ginmachi—all past the Hour of the Ox on a moonless night. The relentless winter rain pattered on until midnight. When Yumehachi Oto escorted Ihei to Matsugawa's gate, even Tatsumi's sleepless castle—that northern quarter which typically rivaled its namesake's vivacity—lay wrapped in profound slumber. The melodies of strings and song had ceased, leaving only a damp silence that seeped through the night mist to saturate the surroundings.

As soon as they stepped outside, Ihei pushed Yumehachi back. “No—Miss Oto... Or rather, it’s Miss Yumehachi now, isn’t it? Ha ha ha! We’d best part here—this night wind cuts to the bone.” “Wouldn’t do to catch a chill.” “Now don’t stand on ceremony—get yourself inside.” “Mind you come straight to me if anything weighs on you.” “You’re no desperate woman driven to geisha work—you’re Lord Ōoka’s entrusted charge. Quit whenever you please.” “The proprietress here—as we discussed—won’t force anything unreasonable... Just refuse any engagements that don’t sit right. Treat this as convalescence—keep yourself pristine and enjoy the leisure.” “This ain’t common geisha service—stand tall.” “Ah, nothin’ worth frettin’ over.” “Good days’ll come ’round again soon enough.”

“Yes. I have no words to thank you for all your kindness from beginning to end.” “Hold on! Let’s have none of that stiff formality. I’ll report properly to Lord Ōoka’s honor, mind you—Oto, it’s ’cause I judged you’d be fine that this old carpenter decided to entrust you to a place like this. Not that there’s any slip-ups hereabouts, but with all the fools in this world, I’m just double-checking—listen close now. I’m beggin’ you—make sure there ain’t no strange misunderstandings about this.”

“Yes. That’s already…” “That’s right—wouldn’t be you if you didn’t say that. I was also greatly relieved by that. But I tell you, the more I look, the more beautiful you are. Ah—somehow leavin’ you behind’s startin’ to weigh on me again. If I were ten years younger, I might even try courtin’ you—though I’d hardly measure up—Ha ha ha ha!—Enough of that!”

“Shinkō! What’re you standin’ there gawkin’ at Miss Oto for? You’ll be droolin’ like a damn fool! It’s oafs like you that make her life hard wherever she goes!” He burst into raucous laughter before turning back to Oto. “Now then—about this money. This here’s your indenture payment through and through, but since I’m your guarantor now, I’ll hold onto it for safekeepin’. Just holler if you need any.” He patted the money belt at his waist. “Lord Ōoka himself trusts me with this—got Lord Dewa’s construction funds bundled right here with yours—” His apprentice Shinsuke chose that moment to butt in.

“Oh right! Come to think of it, we did visit Lord Dewa earlier today before coming here.” “About those thirty ryō in koban you got at the construction site—is that from the Retired Lord’s coffers?” “What’re you blabbering about?! This contract’s two thousand three hundred ryō.” “We’ll get an advance of a thousand ryō soon enough.” “Can’t front the carpenters’ deposit without that.” “Huh? That’s one fancy construction job!” “Then what’s that thirty ryō for?!”

"That was from unpaid wages left over from New Year's work that got settled." “Look here—the circle-enclosed 'Wa' crest—Lord Matsudaira Dewa-no-kami’s official seal’s stamped right here.” With that, Master Carpenter Ihei tucked away both the koban bearing Lord Dewa-no-kami’s seal and Oto’s indenture money into his pocket, bid farewell to Oto, had Shinsuke carry the lantern, and set off back to Ginmachi—but...

Dejectedly alone, Oto passed through Matsugawa's gate and made her way to her room. Tears that would well up at her altered appearance now flowed all the more tonight as her thoughts raced through past and future—she, the proper samurai daughter of Wada Sōemon, a former retainer of the Sōma domain, reduced by some cruel twist of fate to becoming a mere geisha! Even as this relentless self-mockery welled up within her, yet when she considered it—she who until just recently had been working at a water teahouse—what real difference did it make that Oto of Atariya had now become Yumehachi?

Her eyes traced hazily after the cherished visage of Lord Eizaburō. And Mother Sayo at Lord Suzukawa’s residence. Oto—who had collapsed into a seated position—noticed the night’s chill and hunched her shoulders as the thought surfaced unbidden: Ihei and Shin must have crossed Eitai Bridge by now—just as—

Boom! Boom! Boom! Banging on the front door hard enough to splinter it,

“Mr. Matsugawa!” “Miss Oto!” “It’s terrible—agh!” “The Master Carpenter…!”

It was the maddened voice of Shinsuke! Shinsuke was in such a babbling, panicked state that he couldn’t form words. As his lips quivered uncontrollably and he kept making chopping gestures with his hands as if cutting something with a sword, the Matsugawa household member and Oto restrained him from both sides, pressing for answers— Just one phrase! “The master carpenter... The master carpenter was killed in that side alley—!” With that, Shinsuke slumped against the Matsugawa’s latticed entrance and went limp, as though he himself had been killed.

Urging the corpse-like Shinsuke onward to lead ahead, Oto’s Yumehachi and Matsugawa’s male staff flew through the air to rush to the scene.

And—!

Master Carpenter Ihei of Ginmachi lay on his back on one side of the dark road, his legs having slipped into the gutter, clutching small gravel in his hand as he writhed in agony.

The location was behind Fukagawa Aikawa-chō, which leads out to Eitai Bridge, beside the Ofunategumi estate—a dimly lit area even during the day, where passersby were few.

The wound came from a single slash. From the left shoulder down below the breast—a clean cut... There could be no doubt the assailant was a samurai of consummate skill. Beneath a faintly whitening sky, Oto and the others stood encircling Ihei's gruesomely transformed corpse on the road, voiceless and paralyzed——.

Just moments ago. “Well then, Miss Oto—next time I’ll come as a customer. "I’ll at least help keep your incense burning." “Ha ha ha ha ha! Ah, my apologies there.”

Master Carpenter Ihei walked home side by side with Shinsuke, laughing heartily in his usual gruff voice. That voice still lingers in my ears, yet now he's been reduced to this state! ...And Oto, in the very midst of this shock, found the ephemeral nature of this fleeting world permeating her heart with profound poignancy. What about missing items? When one of the men searched the corpse's pocket, sure enough, the wallet was gone! The large old imported calico wallet—into which he had placed both the thirty ryō of Lord Dewa-no-kami's construction funds and Oto's indenture money that had been entrusted to him, hung heavily from his neck by its cord—that very wallet had been stolen.

Master Carpenter Ihei was not one to harbor grudges that might invite a sneak attack; thus it was confirmed—just as all had suspected from the first instant—that this had been robbery, a violent crime targeting money. Gone were both the thirty koban stamped with Lord Matsudaira Dewa-no-kami’s circle-enclosed 'Wa' crest and the payment Oto had received for selling herself as Matsugawa’s Yumehachi! Had the assailant known it was Ihei? Or had they discerned he carried a fortune through the dark night as he began his return—or not—?

What Shinsuke—now finally regaining some semblance of composure—managed to stammer out through trembling lips was as follows. “When I came there with the Master Carpenter—using a lantern I’d borrowed from Matsugawa to light our way—this samurai pressed against the wall suddenly loomed out and shouted, ‘Halt!’” “By the lantern’s glow, I saw he wore a black mask and gripped his sword’s hilt.” “A tall man in plain kimono.” “The Master Carpenter being who he was, he stopped silent—but when I tried fleeing in terror, that samurai went ‘Yah!’” “As he shouted and drew his blade, the mask slipped off from the motion.” “I instinctively looked—but darkness hid his face.” “Yet with those thin sideburns and small topknot like a Hatchōbori official, when I cried ‘Master Carpenter! An official!’, he planted both hands firm on the ground.” “Then the official rummaged through his things—declared it suspicious to carry such coin by night—said he’d hold it till morning and ordered us to court. No name, no rank—just tried walking off with the purse. When we yelled ‘Thief!’ and raised hell—” “That’s when I saw steel flash.” “Then—ah!” “As I bolted, I heard the Master Carpenter’s soul-rending cry behind me—after that, just scrambled back to Matsugawa’s in a daze and roused everyone—”

This was all that Shinsuke had to say.

Indeed, the lantern they had brought out lay half-burned and fallen, covered in dirt.

However, no matter where they searched nearby, they found not only no trace of the dislodged mask but nothing resembling any clue whatsoever. This slashing robbery by a high-ranking official... The ripples would only expand from here. When Shinsuke ran to inform Nihonbashi Ginmachi, Ihei's wife—who had been anxiously awaiting her husband's return—came rushing over with several young men in tow.

After people from the local guard post came and took the corpse away for the time being.

Rain in the predawn darkness. Oto immediately set out with Matsugawa’s male staff, hiring a street palanquin to rush to Ōoka Echizen-no-kami’s residence in Soto-Sakurada, lodging her complaint without regard for disturbing his sleep. The unseasonal cold rain that began to fall as dawn approached—its clamor beating against the palanquin’s roof—sounded to Oto like the string music of the pleasure district she had grown accustomed to hearing these days, a ceaseless downpour that deepened the sorrow and anguish within her clouded heart.

An urgent matter for Lord Ōoka! Though a woman, Oto had been permitted through successive gates—she abandoned the palanquin several blocks ahead, tucked up her kimono hem, went barefoot, and clattered across damp earth in frantic haste toward the rear gate,

"Who goes there at this late hour? What business brings you here? ……Oh! Looks like a young woman..." The gate guard peered out suspiciously. "Yes. The matter is urgent—it’s an emergency petition." The flustered Oto desperately raised her voice like this, and the guard inside the gate grew even more ferocious: "Silence! Shut your mouth! If it’s an emergency petition, come to the magistrate’s office after dawn! You should know the Southern Office—at the foot of Sukiyabashi Bridge!"

With the guard on the verge of sharply snapping shut the small peephole in the concealed gate, Oto was nearly in tears— The guard had his reasons too. An emergency petition—what was known as a direct appeal. At the front of the South Magistrate’s Office, rows of benches stood lined with petitioners and their counterparts arranged in neat lines, but when the summoning gate visible beyond them opened, people came stampeding in barefoot. Guards would then refuse to accept any petitions submitted directly, telling them to go home while pushing them away. They would charge back in once more. This time, the guards would bark that any petitions required written documents with an accompanying witness, roughly thrusting them out the gate a second time—persisting through this, on the third attempt they would leap into the compound and cry out, "If I leave this gate now I'll be killed immediately!" The authorities, deeming this no trivial matter since human lives were at stake, would finally accept the petition there, seat them on a coarse straw mat, and have a young Hatchōbori apprentice inspector bring two rice balls with pickled plums as sustenance. They had to devour this immediately like starving men and demonstrate through their ravenousness that they had come without eating breakfast for their urgent cause. The duty officer observing through narrowly opened shoji screens at the petition office would report the situation’s gravity to the magistrate, leading to the petitioner’s summons for the first official inquiry... These were the established procedures and techniques for emergency petitions that anyone versed in legal affairs of that era needed to know.

Needless to say, these were all extralegal protocols of the bureaucracy—

But now, however. When Oto knocked on the magistrate’s gate and declared it an emergency petition, the guard—finding this seductive woman ill-suited to such formal grounds and feeling both perplexed and inconvenienced by the situation in the rain—was about to promptly withdraw into his post.

"Um... This concerns someone known to Milord..." Oto began to say, "What? Are you putting on airs of having insider knowledge?"

“No. It is not I. Master Carpenter Ihei, who does work for this household, has been cut down by what appears to be Hatchōbori officials in a highway robbery—” “Wh-what?! That Ihei...?” Startled—for the guard himself knew Ihei well—he immediately relayed the message through Ibuki Daisaku, the chief retainer waiting in the adjacent chamber, despite the late hour.

“Oh, that old carpenter?” “That’s—!” Startled as well, Daisaku—though His Lordship was likely asleep—gently slid open the boundary fusuma to first check his condition, intending to request an audience if he was awake, and then startled—! he had done just that. The magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—whom he had assumed to be sound asleep—sat upright with perfect posture, warming his hands over a lacquered brazier, and moreover, separated from him by this very object, there sat a long-haired eccentric man arrogantly sprawled in a wide cross-legged stance.

Ibuki Daisaku, aghast—before he could even grab the spear he always kept at hand during night watch for emergencies— "You insolent wretch!" A flash—aimed straight for the man’s chest—shot forth. The Cultured Crimson Art Peddler The suddenly thrust spear tip—the eccentric hero Taiken forcefully deflected it against his chest.

“Wahahaha! Sneaking in dozens of times through the dead of night—I’d never been spotted before, but tonight you’ve splendidly caught me red-handed!” “Ahahaha!” At the same moment Daisaku stood dumbfounded, Tadasuke’s voice collided with him head-on. “Hold back, Daisaku!” “This is my close friend—though his name cannot be spoken, he undertakes vital duties as a secret agent for the inner palace!” “Would you dare thrust a real spear without warning?” “Withdraw!”

Long ago in Ise Yamada, Tadasuke had fabricated Taiken as a Chiyoda spy and concealed his true role from retainers—now here he stood again, an Ōoku secret agent! At Tadasuke's quick-witted deception, Gamō Taiken—the ronin philosopher and remnant Takeda partisan hostile to the Tokugawa—stroked his faintly amused face in the candlestick's shadow. Meanwhile, Daisaku—oblivious to their history—mortified by his blunder, dropped his spear with a clatter and prostrated himself on the spot.

“No—that is—I did not know when he had arrived, and moreover, given his rather unusual attire here, I... though it was rude of me, took him for a suspicious character...” “Hmm… Did he appear as such to your bleary eyes?” Tadasuke too was suppressing his laughter. “Yes!” “You may call it unusual attire, but that is precisely due to his role as a covert agent. Even you must adopt quite varied disguises depending on the time and investigative circumstances, I should think.”

“Yes! Truly, my deepest apologies.” "You should have given proper notice before pointing a spear at someone conversing with me—what a reckless fool you are." “I humbly beg forgiveness... and that you might make amends with the guest as well.” “Lord Echizen, if matters stand clear now, isn’t that enough? Just remember this face hereafter and request your pardon—wouldn’t you say?”

Taiken smoothly played along while containing his amusement. "Be more careful henceforth."

Tadasuke said tersely, “Do you have some business? Speak.” “Ha,” Daisaku finally recalled Oto’s appeal and shuffled forward on his knees, “Your Lordship, that Ihei has been cut down by highway robbers and met his end.” “What? When you say Ihei, do you mean the carpenter Ihei? And how did that news reach your ears so swiftly? Has the plaintiff come, huh?” “As Your Lordship commands.” “A woman, I presume?” “Yes, indeed a woman.” “But how did Your Lordship…”

“Lord Echizen has the divine eye that sees a thousand leagues.” “And yet here I’ve been at your side all along—seems you still don’t notice.”

Taiken interjected. Daisaku bowed his head deeply in genuine contrition. "I am most humbly obliged."

Tadasuke grinned mischievously.

“Summon her.” “Huh?” “Have that woman brought here.” “Yes!”

Daisaku was about to stand when Tadasuke’s words stopped him. “Shall I demonstrate by guessing the identity of this woman who has come to file a complaint? First—a young woman, a rare beauty wearing what they call a haori, styled like a Fukagawa geisha—wouldn’t you say?” “To be frank, I myself have not yet met her either, but according to the intermediaries’ account, it does indeed seem to be as you say—” “That is correct.” “Bring her here.” As the increasingly fearful Daisaku hurried off to summon Oto, Tadasuke and Taiken exchanged glances and chuckled quietly.

Taiken had just returned from his journey with the blood ledger when he once again slipped through the garden that night as was his custom and began recounting how he had cut down the Tsukigata group while securing the road from Sōma. Meanwhile, Tadasuke had entrusted Oto's custody during Taiken's absence to a master carpenter named Ihei who frequented the premises, and Ihei was now explaining to Taiken how he had registered Oto as a geisha under single-contract at the Matsukawa establishment in Fukagawa by presenting her as his own daughter. Though Ihei had fallen to an unforeseen blade before he could report to Lord Ōoka, how had Tadasuke come to know Oto's subsequent movements in such detail? The comings and goings of this woman Oto—a crucial married figure entrusted by Taiken—though such matters might seem trivial for a magistrate, he had never neglected them even after transferring her to Ihei's care.

The omniscient Lord Ōoka... When he had discreetly dispatched an attendant to investigate Ihei’s circumstances, he learned that Ihei—thinking idleness would dampen her spirits—was trying to have her work nominally as a geisha to pass the days more quickly. If she were merely attending banquets, that would be acceptable. Since it was the doing of steadfast Ihei, there could be no mistake—Tadasuke had known this from the start but feigned ignorance. Now, just as he was conveying this matter to Taiken—this appeal—.

When they fell silent, the faint sound of rain could be heard. "Dawn Rain." Just as Tadasuke began to hum a fragment of poetry, Oto crouched like a bright flower suddenly blooming upon the threshold.

"Is that Oto-dono?" "Oh! Master Taiken is here too!" To the startled Oto, Tadasuke quietly turned his face, "It seems like rain," he calmly said something else.

“It’s terrible! Master Ihei has been killed by highwaymen!”

“Hmm. I just heard.” Taiken leaned nonchalantly against the armrest. “When did this happen?” “Um… Just now…” “The location?” “In Fukagawa’s Aikawa-chō—if you come from this direction, right after crossing Eitai Bridge—behind the naval unit compound, on a desolate street.” “Hmm. And what was stolen?” “Yes, um,” said Oto bashfully, “the money I earned from selling myself, and then about thirty koban coins that I received from Lord Dewa or someone...”

“Well, well!” Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, who had been listening with his eyes closed, suddenly seemed to recall something and burst into booming laughter.

“Lord Dewa’s money or something? Then there should be an official stamp. The 'wa' character within a circle. They’ll surface soon. Tracing them back to their source would make them easy to uncover. We’ll circulate notices to money exchangers within and beyond Edo and have them record it in their ledgers. Good! ...Now regarding the perpetrator—I presume no one witnessed them?”

“No, but…” At this critical moment, Oto forgot even the presence of the esteemed magistrate before her, the words flowing so smoothly that she herself was astonished.

“Hmm. But... when you say that, are you claiming there was some eyewitness?”

"Yes, Shinsuke, who was accompanying Master Ihei—" “Now then, who is this Shinsuke?” "He goes by Shinsuke and serves as an apprentice carpenter." “According to Mr. Shinsuke, it seems the other party were officials, but…” “What nonsense are you saying?!”

Suddenly assuming a dignified posture, Tadasuke raised his voice in a somewhat reprimanding tone. “Superior officials?” “Yes.” “Silence!” “――――” “Though I may be unworthy, as Echizen serving as magistrate, there exists none under my command who would engage in such ill-conceived conspiracies to undermine others! Did these men explicitly claim to be officials?” “Well, um—they never stated it outright from the beginning—but they certainly appeared official-like, and later according to Shinsuke’s testimony, those individuals did make such claims.”

“Imposter officials, perhaps?” When Taiken interjected from the side like this, Tadasuke glared sharply in that direction, “This is unbefitting even of you. Only if they had declared from the start—‘We are superior officials’—could one properly call it deliberate impersonation. But as we just heard, if they remained silent initially—? According to Lord Echizen’s deduction, this was likely simply someone whose demeanor could be mistaken for an official. Hmm—perhaps their masks slipped off, or their faces were unwittingly illuminated and seen. Fortunately, being aware that they naturally resemble officials, and given how Ihei and that Shinsuke were thoroughly convinced they were officials, they must have abruptly adopted an official demeanor when pressed in that moment.”

“Ah!” Oto herself was being informed by Lord Ōoka so thoroughly that, “That is exactly as you say. I forgot to mention this earlier—they were wearing masks at first. When those came off and their faces were seen... they appeared to be officials...”

“That must be the case. If their masks had sufficed, the culprits wouldn’t have needed to adopt an official’s demeanor. Precisely because their faces were seen and they were perceived as officials, they must have exploited their natural resemblance to authorities. Hmm—this confirms their deeds were committed by someone long accustomed to maintaining an official’s appearance! Their target was the gold coins! Ah—so we have someone disguised as officials, driven by financial desperation to slash and steal... Who could it be? Gamō—do you have any leads?”

At the corners of Tadasuke's eyes—now turned toward Taiken—fine wrinkles formed amiably. “Official… you mean a yoriki?” “Precisely. That they belong to Hatchōbori’s supplementary officials goes without saying.”

“A samurai resembling officials ambushed them— Hold on…”

Taiken tilted his head, and what he immediately recalled was a daytime incident from last autumn in front of the Shōkaku-ji temple gate at Okura-mae!

“Ah! That’s it!” As Taiken opened his mouth to speak, Tadasuke abruptly raised his hand to stop him. “Do not speak the name! They too are direct retainers—until solid evidence is obtained, it would be cruel to disclose names. Everything remains between you and me in our hearts, yes? We understand!” As Oto stood bewildered like a fox-tricked bystander, Tadasuke and Taiken suddenly burst into loud laughter together.

Although it was spring.

Still chilly in the early morning….

Dewdrops on the rain-washed garden trees glistened in the morning sun, while through the crisp air flowed the scent of grass growing thick and deep. A plop sounded in the pond as water splashed, and the scarlet carp's tail seemed to leap into view.

Along the veranda of the mansion with undrawn rain shutters, remnants of night lingered ambiguously. Between the stone lanterns beyond, Tadasuke paced back and forth—hands clasped behind his back in garden clogs—inhaling and exhaling deeply the smoke-like, refreshing pale violet morning air, his figure faintly outlined against the scene. His customary morning stroll. The distant streets were just beginning to awaken to clamor. Piercing sunlight had already started crimsoning the rooftops' peaks, while village sparrows' chirps now filled the ears completely.

But Tadasuke’s heart was too clouded with darkness to welcome this new day alongside the morning sun and sparrows.

Carpenter Ihei’s violent death—. That would not leave his mind. A single townsman had been struck down by a wicked blade and met a violent end……yet something clung obstinately to Magistrate Tadasuke’s breast that could not be dismissed as merely that.

――I was too late. ――An oversight. Tadasuke thought deeply to himself. I had long anticipated that someone would eventually commit such an act and had discreetly kept watch... Yet failing to swiftly make arrangements and apprehend them was, time and again, my failure. I have no excuse! I had heard various unsavory rumors and there were numerous instances of negligence in household governance—with those alone, I could have easily suppressed them!

Indeed, on gambling charges alone, could I not have arrested him? Yet I—still waiting just a little longer with folded arms until they actually broke the law... During that time, the violence finally reached an innocent passerby, turning that kind old man into a victim beneath the blade. I wronged Ihei! One might say this Tadasuke killed without lifting a hand—though whether such words hold truth remains unclear. Ahh... It was a mishandling... Tadasuke, who spared no effort in self-reproach, alone scrutinized every corner of his heart under strict light—toward any knot casting the slightest shadow, endlessly rebuking himself, bowing before the Path of Law, trembling with remorse—when,

This black dog—beloved companion frolicking joyfully at Tadasuke’s feet—remained oblivious to the noble magistrate’s anguished torment as he who ought to maintain solemn dignity. “Kuro,” he said, “I was a fool. “A complete fool. “Because of that... one man became mere rust upon a blade and perished. “Is that not so?” Kuro wagged his tail cheerfully and looked up... Woof!

“Ah, you think so too?”

Woof! Awoo, grr-woof! “Hahahaha—are you insulting me? Go on—heap more scorn upon me! ――When a magistrate presumptuously plays the wise man... Ugh! No—it was indeed my failing.” Was Tadasuke truly so tormented by the death of a mere craftsman that he could not refrain from retroactively condemning his own responsibility for it—? To those watching nearby, his suffering was painful enough to wince at. Even flaws too minuscule to be called flaws—so long as he sensed them within himself—Ōoka Tadasuke could not help but endlessly pursue himself, counter them, and rebuild anew.

That cold blade-like discernment that permitted no compromise of himself or his duties—this was what Tadasuke now turned upon his very being. The sincere heart of a renowned magistrate who so deeply agonized over the life of a common townsman... This must indeed be called the most sublime embodiment of the human spirit.

Tadasuke being Tadasuke, Echizen being Echizen—there was no other reason than this. “Hey, Kuro! The killer of Ihei—who shared his bento with you—is already as clear to me as if seen reflected in a mirror. Rest assured. I shall soon have them bound with arrest ropes in the interrogation area... But first, until those gold coins stamped with the ‘wa’ character within a circle surface, we must bide our time... All will be revealed when those Dewa coins speak—”

Tadasuke, unaware that Kuro had already run off, continued speaking insistently; yet Kuro—terrified by something—had dashed into the thicket beyond the pond and was now barking as though set ablaze.

It seemed she had finished preparing the washing-up and come to greet him, for he could see a young maidservant approaching from far across the garden.

Tadasuke, to save the maidservant the trouble of walking, already briskly started walking this way.

“Um... Master—”

Just as the morning sun's shadows began dancing across the shoji screens, Oto—having just exited Lord Ōoka’s chambers—followed behind Taiken as they arrived at a narrow garden path along the pond, where she hesitantly called out. As usual with the cheap sake flask in one hand, Taiken slowed his pace and turned around.

Oto came to a stop. “Master!” “What’s this?” As he answered, Taiken the lay priest saw Oto’s figure for the first time in the fragrant morning sunlight. He stepped back, looking her up and down as if struck by fresh astonishment. There in Taiken’s gaze stood not the Oto swathed in bandages from that shabby Kawaramachi hovel, but Sister Yumehachi of Tatsumi no Sato’s watchtower district—the very heartland of Edo’s elegance and verve. She appeared even more striking than when seen by lamplight: from her clean neckline to shoulder slope, pale face with perfectly arranged features—indeed, upon closer inspection she remained unmistakably Oto. Yet from coiffure to cosmetics, kimono draping to posture, she had transformed into a flawless Fukagawa geisha. So complete was this metamorphosis that even familiar passersby would surely fail to recognize her.

Perhaps exhausted from the night's ordeals and cares—two or three stray hairs hung against her faintly pale cheeks, her faded crimson lips evoking the allure of a morning-after parting. Her large eyes, subjected to Taiken's intense gaze, found nowhere to rest and grew slightly moist. Warmth deepening with each rainfall.

The magnolia flower endured the raindrops after the storm, tormented yet persisting. Such delicate things clung like ivy vines to Oto's slender figure as she stood pensively with an air of loneliness. Captivated by this alluring beauty, Taiken gazed at her intently as though observing some rare curiosity—and realized. ——She has become a geisha...?!

This too must have come after much agonizing deliberation—exhaustively pondering how to position herself—but to become a geisha! That was quite the bold move. Moreover, to protect herself from Genjūrō's henchmen. One part of it must be a strategy to further exasperate Eizaburō and make him give up in weariness—Umm, might as well make it interesting! But still...

Abruptly, Oto raised her face. Bright eyes were moist with dew.

“Master! O-Oto has ended up in such a state... How embarrassing—” “Nonsense! Far from shabby—you’re splendidly beautiful! Ugh—no sarcasm here! I’ve been genuinely admiring you this whole time—Hahahaha!” “You and your wicked tongue...” “But listen—no matter where you go or what you do, you’re Lord Eizaburō’s wife! Don’t forget that! On his behalf—no, on my own authority—I’m making this demand: Even if this geisha work’s your trade... Should anything improper occur... Even if Lord Eizaburō forgives it... This Taiken won’t! Keep that carved in your bones!”

“Oh Master, there’s no need for you to say such things—Oto understands full well.” “If you’d only understood that much, I wouldn’t have had to say anything—”

Taiken suddenly lowered his voice, “Lady Oto, do you have any messages to convey?” “Yes.” Oto was on the verge of breaking down in tears… “As for me, I shall endure forever, so please… Lord Eizaburō—” “Hahahahaha! Lady Oto, don’t go making this old man cry now, hahahaha!” Taiken forced a laugh and turned his face away. To his ear came Oto’s murmurs—low and intermittent—as though pleading something.

Unable to catch her meaning, Taiken bent at the waist and brought his face close to Oto’s, listening while nodding repeatedly for some time— Before long, his bearded face broke into a smile as Master Taiken leaned back with an air of utmost satisfaction. “Ah! “I see, I see! This calls for celebration! “That’s the best news… Wahahaha! “I’d tell Lord Eizaburō quick-like, but that won’t do yet. “But well done, Lady Oto! “Bravo, bravo!”

And then, peering at Oto—who had turned red as fire—Master Taiken alone was making a great commotion. "A boy or a girl?" "Oh Master, such things—"

As Oto hid her face in her sleeve and bent forward, Taiken cracked his gnarled fingers, “One month… two months… three months… Four… Five… Six…” “Ah! Master, I can’t bear this!” At the moment when Oto, having turned bright red, cried out, the black dog that had left Tadasuke’s side came bounding over and, in some misguided impulse, suddenly began barking furiously at her feet.

In the early years of Kyōhō.

In the early years of Kyōhō, people began selling red-painted pictures called beni-e created with brush-applied crimson pigments. These became so renowned as Edo’s specialty—even called Edo-e—that they spread widely to Kyoto, Osaka, and other provinces, with numerous beni-e vendors walking the streets to sell them. Simultaneously, works called urushi-e—created by applying gold leaf over ink and coating it with glue for luster—were cherished alongside beni-e. Then in Meiwa 2 [1765], an Edo block carver named Kinroku devised registration marks on printing blocks by imitating Chinese color printing techniques, producing for the first time polychrome prints requiring four or five impressions. Contemporaries universally praised these works, their beauty likened to brocade—thus bestowing the name nishiki-e ("brocade pictures"). This marked both the advancement of Japanese printmaking and the genesis of nishiki-e, though these developments came later.

During the Kyōhō era, the master craftsman Okumura Masanobu took up the brush for beni-e and established his own school.

And now.

When observing the customs of those beni-e sellers—a notable feature of Edo at that time—their heads bore the cropped male hairstyle. A tomesode kimono was fully dyed with scattered-lantern patterns bearing labels like "Kyōmachi" and "Shinonome." This was paired with a showy kosode patterned with waves and plovers or some such design. They carried a wooden box boldly labeled "Elegant Crimson Figure Paintings" horizontally on their backs, with merchandise paintings hung behind the box and numerous beni-e dangling from poles held in their hands. Atop these boxes—equipped with everything from rainwater barrels to lattice doors and eaves, hung with noren curtains dyed with "Miura," while side walls displayed model pleasure quarters labeled "Yoshiwara"—they carried their wares in such a manner that one would want to call them Onnosuke, themselves figures straight out of those very beni-e paintings—

In later years, these beni-e sellers became primarily associated with apprentice onnagata and those engaged in peculiar trades around Yoshiwara—their main occupation now firmly established—and though such tendencies had already begun emerging somewhat by that time, still during the Kyōhō era, compared to male prostitutes practicing side businesses, beni-e sellers remained merely ordinary picture peddlers who walked about selling newly introduced, rare color-printed artworks.

That said. After all, it was a business of peddling pictures on the streets, catering to women and children. These were effeminate men who seemed to have oozed forth from oil jars—their very visages proclaiming their vanity—parading through towns in costumes replicating the Elegant Crimson Figure Paintings down to the last detail, sauntering leisurely about; it was never a profession that five-foot men would willingly take pride in. Society had grown weary of prolonged peace; people slumbered in complacent ease—and so it was that such male-female-like trades began to appear. These elegant beni-e sellers, newly emerging at that time, were now quite commonly seen here and there along the thoroughfares…

The morning after the rain had cleared.

Upon leaving Lord Ōoka’s residence in Soto-Sakurada, Gamō Taiken and Oto were met by sunlight so radiant it felt unseasonably hot for spring—blazing down as water vapor rose from roads, buildings, and vegetation to envelop the towns in a haze resembling thin mist. The sky over Edo was azure. The jumbled noise of the town starting its day swirled upward while carts returning from the riverbank raced away vigorously. A Fuke monk from Ichigatsu-ji Temple stepped over mud puddles and approached as a spear-carrying fellow crossed from the opposite side.

At the townhouses, apprentices were sweeping earthen floors; a daughter could be seen drawing well water; the sound of dusting cloths, the aroma of miso soup— A morning town where hearts swelled with warmth. Taiken and Oto—discussing various matters along the way—made their way from Kofukubashi Bridge through Kurayashiki to Nihonbashi. This side had the official notice boards, across lay the vegetable market—Nihonbashi where the castle and Mount Fuji could be seen.

When they reached the end of the bridge, Taiken suddenly— “You said the place you’re staying is Matsukawa under the turret. “Well, in due time you’ll have your chance to meet Lord Eizaburō again, so keep your spirits high… Oh! “And above all, take care of your body—it ain’t just yours alone now. Don’t go overdoin’ things, ya hear?”

And with that—having said his piece—he drifted carefree across the bridge, large sake flask in hand, and vanished among the passersby. “Oh my! What an impatient man, as always!”—Oto, now alone, watched his retreating figure for a moment with mild exasperation before abruptly quickening her pace. Resolving to stop by Ginza on her return route to offer condolences, she hurried from Kayabachō through Konnyaku Island and across Ichinohashi Bridge toward Ihei’s house.

Now she was Yumehachi Neesan, the gallant elder sister. Dressed as if returning from an engagement, she was about to pass through the lattice door of Master Carpenter Ihei's house—now in great commotion with its mourning notice posted—when... Oto glanced toward the town across the way and gasped, reflexively pulling back one foot from the earthen floor.

A young beni-e seller walked alone, his picture papers fluttering in the morning breeze... a peaceful scene on the streets of Edo. Shadow play “Lord Eizaburō! You’ve returned at the perfect moment.” “Before ya come in—on those very feet o’ yers, I’d like ya to go pick up some red beans.” Gamō Taiken’s deep voice resounded from the dark depths of the house as if hurled. “Red beans…”

Instinctively echoing back the question, Eizaburō—who had just returned home—set down his load by the threshold. In Kawaramachi's back alleys—what one might call the underbelly of the floating world—Suwa Eizaburō dwelled in austere solitude. It was the evening of that day when Oto and Taiken had met at Lord Ōoka's residence before parting ways at Nihonbashi. Tonight too—perhaps because the lamp oil had run out—the room remained unlit despite full darkness having fallen. Taiken seemed to be raising only his head from his permanent bedding as usual, his voice emanating from some low place.

...he was telling him to go buy some red beans. Eizaburō lowered the beni-e wooden box by feel, then peered inside once more and inquired.

“Red beans—?” “I can readily obtain them, but for what purpose do we require red beans?” Then Taiken chuckled low in the darkness. “Ahahaha! Need you ask? We’re cooking celebratory rice!”

“Red rice?” “What have you recalled now… But without a steamer, red rice would be impossible, would it not?” “Now, now—when I say ‘red rice,’ I don’t mean ceremonial rice. “It’s just red rice. “You just add red beans, see?” “Oh!” With a light gasp from Eizaburō in the earthen-floored entryway and Taiken inside the house, their exchange continued through the darkness. “Oh ho! So Your Excellency Taiken desires red bean rice—could this be for some auspicious occasion?”

“Well then—I simply recalled a trivial personal joy of mine and thought to celebrate with red rice together with you.” “If you’ve no objection, I’d have you join me.” “From today’s beni-e earnings—splurge a bit on red beans!” “Splurge!” “Wahahaha!” “Well now—though it pains me to carve into our meager profits—since it’s none other than your request, Master…”

Eizaburō too adopted a jesting yet put-upon tone, “Especially since it concerns your celebration, Master, it should naturally be a joy for this humble one as well.” “Consider it done!” “Red beans—just a bit! Tonight, Eizaburō will treat you splendidly with special grandeur!” Laughing, still in his stylish beni-e seller disguise, Eizaburō headed out to the main street with a pouch of coins in hand… off to buy red beans for Taiken, with whom he shared the house. For Taiken? It was not.

Earlier that morning, Taiken had been told by Oto that she sensed she carried Eizaburō’s unborn child—and now, through this secrecy, he likely meant to subtly have Eizaburō prepare celebratory red rice in advance. As floorboards creaked and groaned with Eizaburō’s receding footsteps, Master Taiken sat up with a mischievous smile. Hmm! He’s finally gone to buy the beans, he thought. Though revealing this might bring him joy, while he still resents Lady Oto from the depths of his heart—and because doing so might only deepen his anguish—I suppose I’ll stay silent. Let him celebrate unknowingly. “Well then,” he declared to himself, “if that’s settled, time I started on my part—the rice cooking.”

Muttering to himself, he struck a flint and lit the nearby lantern.

By that yellowish dim light, the back tenement’s male household was hazily illuminated... Beyond mere disorder and austerity, it was a state of clutter so utterly indifferent to tidiness that one could imagine vermin thriving there—exactly as people say such places look. After Oto left the house, Eizaburō had been cooking alone when Taiken—having returned from his journey to Sōma—slumped heavily into their midst, thus plunging their mornings and evenings into utter chaos that defied all expectation.

Scraps of paper, tattered cloths, bowls with chopsticks, and half-eaten plates lay scattered without space to set foot—a broom stood upright in a mortar, undergarments covered a small rice bowl, while a rotten stench of dust permeated from the pillars through the tatami mats across the entire room, vividly narrating the two men’s slovenly and slipshod lifestyle. By the hearth, Master Taiken began clumsily washing rice, repeatedly recalling— "Hmm! How auspicious! "This here’s cause for celebration!"

While heartily celebrating alone, Taiken suddenly noticed the beni-e box at the entrance and— “Oh! Looks like you sold quite a lot today.” “How grateful...” Eizaburō seemed to have bought the red beans.

Footsteps were approaching through the alley. An early moonrise... The fully settled hues of dusk drifted like haze, yellow beams of light from oil-paper doors here and there spilling onto the street.

The sound of a distant bell sank into the far sky, and the town where poor people lived was hushed from early evening. The tataki carpenter couple, the amma masseur, the umbrella-mending rōnin, the rauya seller—and that rauya seller’s wife nearing fifty, who at night would don thick white makeup and a kimono with red lining, cover her head with a hand towel, and go out somewhere. When this occurred, the rauya seller would carry a baby wailing as though aflame and make rounds through the tenement begging for milk... This area deep within the alleys of Kawaramachi had never known the touch of brilliant sunlight, perpetually damp and reeking with stagnant moisture.

Now, Eizaburō—on his way back from buying red beans—as he tried to enter the alley and was bathed in the light from the corner liquor store, felt his legs falter with that familiar startle. His own figure!

A shameful disguise unseen outside the shadowy world of Yushima’s kagema or among Kabuki youths… For himself as this stylish rouge-picture seller—even if merely a temporary livelihood to hide from society—how could Suwa Eizaburō, the Divine Transformation Musō-ryū swordsman who made his name at Onodera Tetsusai's dojo in Nezu Akebono Village, or Suwa Eizaburō born as the true younger brother of Ōkubo Tōjirō of the Shoin Guard—how could he remain unashamed? No matter what! No matter what... he constantly restrained himself. But as he walked this lonely path through the desolate early spring twilight—where exactly would this road lead him now? What would become of his own fate? Dark thoughts that naturally overwhelmed him entwined around his mind and body like invisible spider threads, and he could do nothing to resist them.

He had severed ties with Lady Yayoi because of Oto. He had been disowned by Torigoe's brother Fujijirō. Now he had parted from Oto as well, and moreover, the Ken'un and Konryū swords that had sparked the incident still remained separated. Everything was against him. True darkness—such sensations would rise murkily within him, and during those mornings and evenings when he found himself enveloped in a listless state akin to a derelict boat stranded on some desolate shore, Eizaburō had thought countless times of abandoning all worldly matters to enter the Buddhist priesthood—but.

The sole support who bolstered this young Eizaburō—whose youth left him deficient in tenacity—and unceasingly encouraged him from his side was none other than Master Gamō Taiken, now both friend and teacher. After Oto had departed, Eizaburō lived alone in the Kawaramachi house with only memories of her for company. Having become convinced that her heart had long since withdrawn from him, he lamented her faithlessness and cruelty for a time—yet of late had resigned himself completely. Though he ought now to devote his entire being solely to the Ken'un and Konryū swords, he would even cast aside that resolve at times, vaguely entertaining thoughts of abandoning everything to become a commoner... That he could lapse into such musings suggested, paradoxically, how profoundly Eizaburō's heart remained bound to Oto.

Of course, there was no other way for things to be. Was it not Oto—she with whom he had exchanged vows, sacrificing all worldly honors and prosperity? Though he knew not where she was nor how she fared, it was only natural that thoughts of Oto lingering deep in Eizaburō's heart would not fade. Far from fading—as days without meeting her accumulated—what occupied Eizaburō's heart day and night were Oto's remembered countenance: her mannerisms, her way of speaking—Ah! That time she had laughed while saying such-and-such... Yes yes, and that other occasion when she lay ill with a slight fever...

And so Eizaburō, even as he walked outdoors, driven by the passionate flames of longing for Oto—appearing every bit the handsome, elegant beni-e seller from a painting—hung his head deep in thought as he trudged along the dark back-alley lanes.

But! This handsome beni-e seller! None could have known that this man—who became a master of Divine Transformation Musō-ryū when drawing his blade, who by day concealed within his carried paint box Konryūmaru, the night-weeping sword forged as a ceremonial battlefield weapon and severed counterpart to Sekino Magoroku's rare creation—now let his keen eyes subtly search among passersby for Ken’unmaru, its twin, and the one who bore it. The two swords that wept when separated... This was none other than the fate of Oto and Eizaburō—parted and weeping through the nights. A predestined strange bond. Eizaburō felt this.

A bond ordained by fate. This was what Eizaburō felt in his heart.

In the midst of silent contemplation, he reached his house's entrance; stopping the foot that had begun to step inside, he suddenly peered into the darkness beyond the alleyway. Two black shadows were retreating hurriedly as if fleeing. One appeared to be the retreating figure of a young samurai. But what of the other shadow that seemed its companion? Was it a child?... Or some kind of wild ape? Eizaburō jolted involuntarily! He rubbed his eyes. Two human figures—one large, one small! The moment he saw one vanish like smoke and the other crawl away along the ground, Eizaburō abandoned his stance to give chase and instead entered the house.

The smell of rice boiling over. Gamō Taiken’s loud voice. “Whoa there!” “I’m cutting takuan here and can’t free my hand!” “Hurry up and take off that pot lid!” As soon as he returned, Eizaburō joined in to help. After the two men made a frantic effort, the red beans finally cooked through, resulting in something that resembled red rice. In the midst of kitchen tools and bedding strewn about haphazardly, the two men promptly sat down to their evening meal.

The dim light of the andon lantern...

In silence, they took up their chopsticks. When Eizaburō suddenly noticed, Gamō Taiken on the opposite side sat formally with closed eyes, seemingly muttering incantations. Ah—he must be praying over the celebratory red bean rice we cooked tonight—Eizaburō thought, but he didn’t inquire. Taiken too remained silent as he immediately began eating. Taiken felt thoroughly satisfied in his heart, regarding this as a preliminary celebration for Oto—that once Eizaburō consumed this red rice, whether aware or not, they would soon be united in body.

They finished their meal in continued silence. Cleanup was Eizaburō’s responsibility. Taiken used his arm as a pillow and plopped down right there.

And while half-consciously listening to the sound of Eizaburō washing bowls and plates at the water spout, he lay alone, turning various thoughts over in his mind. The world had fallen deathly quiet as the breath of night crept in with stealthy grace. Gamō Taiken…. He—having returned from his northern journey with the blood ledger of his killing pilgrimage tucked in his breast, having loosened his straw sandal cords at Eizaburō’s Kawaramachi residence, and having shown that ledger to recount all—now warned that Tsukigata Ittō-ryū’s swordsmen of Sōma Domain had entered Edo and established their stronghold at Honjo’s monster-infested mansion, making it certain that Sazen would soon lead their faction to attack. Thus he urged Eizaburō—still suffering like an unbridled colt torn between love and duty, anchorless in heart—to tighten his obi and rouse himself to great exertion.

At the same time,

As a stratagem to blind the enemy's eyes and strike at their unguarded flank, it was Gamō Taiken who had suggested to Eizaburō this disguise of an elegant beni-e seller. When Taiken prepared the miso, Eizaburō would polish the rice. When Eizaburō drew water, Master Gamō would take up the broom. Yet their sweeping of square rooms in circles—their cleaning but a token effort—left their dwelling resembling a den of outlaws, with bedding perpetually laid out and tools and dust scattered unchecked. Thus while Eizaburō peddled his wares by day, Gamō Taiken did nothing but sleep between summoning tofu vendors from his futon and haggling over Kinzanji miso... Until this house in the Kawaramachi tenement became something of a local curiosity.

The fair-skinned, rosy-cheeked handsome youth Eizaburō had by now grown accustomed to his beni-e seller disguise; every day, he would wander the streets of Edo with an ornate wooden box on his back, avoiding Ken’unmaru’s gaze while probing its movements.

“Ah! What a pretty beni-e seller you are!” Eizaburō had grown accustomed even to such indecent words—flung at him in passing by flirtatious downtown girls and alluring widows—no longer feeling the initial outrage or self-mockery.

But wait!

Just as Master Gamō Taiken at home lay all day beneath his futon with undivided attention to devising extraordinary strategies, so too within Eizaburō—the gentle beni-e seller of refined demeanor—had there recently accumulated a surging combativeness that was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. The short sword Konryūmaru in the box on his back! That would soon become the means to draw Ken'unmaru. Thus over the strange life shared by Master Gamō Taiken and Eizaburō, days had piled up without incident—!

That was this morning!

In front of Master Carpenter Ihei's house in Nihonbashi Ginza, Oto caught sight of Eizaburō the beni-e seller…… but Eizaburō passed by without noticing.

The elegant beni-e seller Eizaburō and the geisha Yumehachi—Oto—between these two whose forms had changed for one another, it was Oto alone who wept.

Now... nearing midnight at the Hour of the Boar. Taiken abruptly sat upright as though recalling something, "Lord Eizaburō, follow me without a word."

And with that, he alone had already briskly stepped out to the doorway. When Eizaburō—now fully embodying a rōnin’s bearing—emerged from the path with Taiken, Musashi Tarō Yasukuni and Konryūmaru crossed at his hip, the moon hung high in midair while upon the ground behind him, two shadows—one large and one small—once again followed without visible movement. “Hey there, Mr. Iori—we ain’t lettin’ ’em kill nobody tonight, right?” The smaller shadow—Ryū the Peppercorn Dwarf—scurried to catch up while murmuring in a hushed voice.

It was Ryōgoku Hirokōji—a thoroughfare devoid of passersby. The moon alone was white, and the town slept in navy blue. On the far side of that bright thoroughfare—so illuminated one could count every pebble—Gamō Taiken and Eizaburō walked side by side, casting long, slanting shadows. They appeared small yet distinctly visible. Without taking her eyes off their retreating figures, Yayoi—as Onozuka Iori—glanced at her companion Ryū, the Peppercorn Dwarf, and answered. “Right! Of course we mustn’t kill anyone—and neither side should sustain injuries.” “With those shuriken of yours, it would suffice to frighten them appropriately.”

Ryū, the Peppercorn Dwarf, stroked the dozen-odd daggers lining his sash while grinning slyly. Moonlight warped across his face. "That's a difficult request, I must say. If you'd just let me finish 'em off in one go, that'd be no trouble at all. But tryin' to scare 'em without leaving a scratch... this here's a bit of a..."

"That’s precisely where your skill comes into play." Even as she spoke these words, Yayoi kept her gaze fixed on the two figures ahead—so intently focused that she failed to notice the Peppercorn Dwarf beside her tilting his head with a sly look, as if sensing some hidden significance in this situation.

From Yonezawa-chō to Yagenbori, the two ahead walked side by side. Moonlight white and night dew. Behind them, Ryū the Peppercorn Dwarf and Yayoi also followed along the eaves of shuttered townhouses, alternating between visibility and concealment—but whether reassured by the late-night emptiness or not, neither Gamō Taiken nor Eizaburō looked back even once, their stealthy pursuit paradoxically half-open and leisurely. It must have already passed ten-thirty. The moon, piercingly bright at its zenith, had begun tilting slightly eastward as the masseur's flute drifting through distant streets trailed thinly before fading away.

Because his legs were short, Ryū, the Peppercorn Dwarf—who tended to lag behind—slapped his sandals noisily as he came up beside Yayoi. “Where’re those bastards headin’, eh?” “Hmm… The direction seems to be Tatsumi.” “Tatsumi? Heh, that’s fancy.” “Is that so? I suppose if the direction is Tatsumi, that makes it stylish.” “Don’t play dumb. If you’ll pardon my bluntness, Milord here’s puttin’ on such a damn manly act. Hey, it’s strange to just abandon a girl like that. I bet you’ve got no shortage of sinful tales to confess, ain’t ya? Walkin’ the night roads in silence ain’t clever. Confess your carnal sins, confess them… Peppercorn Dwarf, I’ll listen with utmost respect, heh heh heh...”

“Fool! Keep walking in silence!” “Shut up and keep walking!”

“Huh? What do you mean 'such a thing'? With that manly act of yours, you're still—women! What the—! That’s strange!” “Wh-what’s weird?” In Yayoi’s voice, a sense of caution was already stirring. The Peppercorn Dwarf scoffed a laugh. “No, nothin’ like that… It’s just, see, Milord here’s got a womanly scent about ’em. So that’s why, maybe, the girls don’t come flockin’ around—hahaha! Just my intuition, though.”

A fierce light glinted from the corner of Ryū (the Peppercorn Dwarf)'s eye and leapt toward Yayoi's profile. Yayoi opened her mouth wide and yawned. "Look! Those bastards are finally entering Fukagawa! Now, let's pick up the pace a little." "Hastening is all well and good, but what exactly do you intend to accomplish by trailing them like this?" "From here on, do exactly as I say."

When they quickened their pace, sure enough, Gamō Taiken and Eizaburō were already approaching the area beneath the renowned fire watchtower in Yamamoto-chō on Eitaiji-monzen Street. In this late hour of the night, where were they headed? —Where could they be going? Even if he harbored suspicions in his heart, Eizaburō did not ask any questions, and Taiken likewise made no attempt to speak—thus, from the moment they left Kawara-machi until arriving there, they had come all this way in complete silence. Willows cast shadows, flowers bloomed bright—the renowned sloping alleyways.

Eizaburō frowned slightly in annoyance as Master Taiken—clad in tatters like a destitute sake jar yet moving with knowing composure—ambled ahead, leading the way. Unaware of their purpose, Ryū—who had been led by Yayoi out of that strange house in Aoyama Chōjagamaru Koimori since dawn, staked out Kawara-machi through the evening hours, and now followed behind—continued lagging slightly as he trailed along with her. Issunbōshi incarnate—a hunchbacked, long-armed Kōshū rōnin dubbed the Peppercorn Dwarf—found himself unaccustomed to these circumstances and kept glancing about restlessly.

Having witnessed Eizaburō's uncharacteristic appearance—disguised even as a beni-e seller—earlier that evening, Yayoi found herself overcome with profound anguish. From March twenty-first through April fifteenth came Fukagawa Hachimangu's mountain opening ceremony. Both festival visitors and women alike whirled about like frenzied lion dancers. This phrasing played upon the lion heads paraded from Botan-chō during the ceremony—but regardless of wordplay, Fukagawa's mountain opening stood at that time as one of the grandest and most bustling events in Edo.

During this period, viewing of the head priest's garden was permitted. The bettō resided at Daieizan Eitaiji Kongōshin-in. Modeled after Kamakura's Tsurugaoka Hachimangu, it was named Tomigooka Hachimangu—a shrine famously known for having two teahouses on its grounds that served meals... Now, this being the height of the mountain-opening garden viewings—when daytime crowds were expected as a matter of course, while nighttime drew those seeking both the moonlit scenery and glimpses of beauties come to admire it—people naturally formed unbroken processions that flowed endlessly from nearby districts and all corners of Edo: men and women, young and old.

Lanterns between the trees wove a magical interplay of light beams, and under the residual glow of scattered bonfires, people's faces glowed red. Craftsmen hiding in the tree-shadows to startle companions; a retired person carrying a gourd; a shop owner pacing back and forth as if composing poetry; a group of young samurai parting through the human tide with their shoulders; town girls swaying left and right, jostling and laughing as they approached... Voices calling names, sleeves fluttering, restless footsteps drifting through the dim gloom—

It was an evening of bustling crowds, where even the night mist seemed gentle—as if seeing another dream within a dream. At that moment, the moon rose. Though it was still early for a mist-laden night, a silver-white veil pressed down upon the earthly realm, and the people renewed their intoxicated murmurs all the more...

At that moment through the crowd came a stylish figure hastening while holding up the left hem of their kimono. Needless to say—it was the haori geisha. Clad in sleek Edo-fashion refinement so crisp it might drip water, women in the throng exchanged knowing glances—even men craned their necks to watch her departure. With nimble handling of her trailing hem, she cut across the shrine grounds and slipped through a restaurant's entrance, leaving a sultry voice lingering behind. This was Yumehachi of Matsukawa beneath the watchtower—summoned by the Haori Geisha Office and now proceeding to her banquet engagement...

Immediately after, a box carrier followed, shouldering a shamisen box. This was a sham box carrier; what was called a shamisen box resembled a carpenter’s toolbox while simultaneously appearing like a spare sword case. An atotsuke referred to a container samurai used during travels to store alternate blades.

With the mountain-opening festival as lively as any celebration, the seats were packed. "Oh my! Miss Yumehachi of Shingao, the customer has been waiting eagerly since earlier, eeeehhh, they're growing more and more impatient now!"

Having been told this, Oto of Yumehachi was shown to a room on the front second floor facing the garden pond. Voices and sounds wove a tapestry that swayed across the road directly below. In some distant room, someone was clapping their hands repeatedly as if calling for more sake. Oto, kneeling in the corridor, slid open the shoji— “Yo! You came.”

At the customer’s slightly accented, hoarse voice—which somehow felt familiar—she faintly raised her lowered head and looked into the room. A compact, chic little parlor. One of the townspeople sitting close to a slender, delicate lantern—a man in his fifties with a sturdy build and dark complexion—Kajiya!... It was Kajiya Tomigorō. “Oh!”

"Huh?!" This was their voices overlapping.

The customer was Kajiya Tomigorō—that detestable man! Even as this thought crossed her mind, Oto/Yumehachi found herself unable to either rise abruptly or steel herself to enter properly. Fidgeting awkwardly at the threshold, she froze—for when [Kajiya], having come secretly seeking entertainment, summoned a geisha only to discover it was none other than the Oto of old, it was he who became truly astonished.

“No way! Miss Oto, ain’t ya? What’s happened to you? Mr. Kizaemon was jawin’ about it nonstop too. Had no damn clue you’d turned geisha round these parts. Huh? Since when’s this been? You split from Lord Eizaburō? ...C’mere already. Been ages!” “Sanmachō-san, was it? Truly—it has been an age since last we met. You remain unchanged—”

Even as she spoke, Oto was thinking of finding some excuse to leave—but Tomigorō had already melted into a lecherous grin, “Enough! Cut the formalities—cut ’em!” “Rather than that, Miss Oto... you’ve become so beautiful...” Under Kajiya Tomigorō’s lecherous, intently staring gaze, Oto felt her neck and shoulders shrinking more and more—.

“In war, provisions come first.”

“Exactly. Once we’ve packed a hefty load here and set out, the timing should be just right.” “What of it! The opponents are just a pretty boy and a beggar—what’s there to worry about? With this many of us charging in, we’ll crush them in one go—no doubt about it! Come on, let’s have a round to our pre-victory celebration…” “Excellent! Excellent!” “Tonight we shall achieve our long-cherished desire with Lord Sazen—” Oto jolted—and instinctively held her breath. The final words seized her ear as something immovable.

In truth, various voices had been coming from the neighboring room since earlier—likely samurai from some clan who had drifted in for reckless carousing—but Oto, more preoccupied with her current customer Kajiya Tomigorō before her eyes, had paid little heed to the adjacent room's conversation. Yet as the initially hushed whispers gradually grew louder, she found herself unwittingly straining to listen!

...She heard someone say the opponents were just a pretty boy and a beggar. "Ah—so it’s—!" She strained her ears further—just as someone uttered, "Tonight we shall finally achieve Lord Sazen’s long-cherished—" Hearing this, Oto in this room nearly let slip a cry but barely suppressed it, forcing herself to advance toward Kajiya while crafting a smile.

But her ears remained intently focused on the neighboring room!

Tomigorō did not notice. From the start he had been infatuated with Oto and lying in wait for any opportunity; now faced with her having become Yumehachi of the haori-clad geisha and grown all the more alluring, Tomigorō was already beside himself with delight. “Ah, “Ah, life’s about falling seven times and rising eight. Take Wada Sōemon—that Ōshū rōnin—his daughter was born to proper samurai stock yet ended up a geisha. When I think on that, you must’ve had your share of troubles too, but—well—that’s where endurance comes in.” “You know, keep at it like that and even unexpected buds might sprout.” “But y’know, you ditchin’ Mr. Eizaburō was one helluva good move.” “I ain’t thinkin’ this is someone else’s business—always jawin’ ’bout you with Kizaemon ’n’ his wife.” “Hey now, Miss Oto—you’re a damn fool.” “With looks like yours—an’ I don’t mean offense—what’re you plannin’, hidin’ with some pretty-faced useless second son? If you’d just wake up now ’n’ cut ties, there’d still be ways to make somethin’ of yourself... Hell, every gatherin’ these days’s all ’bout you.” “But well—just like I figured—you weren’t a fool through ’n’ through.” “Breakin’ things off with Eizaburō ’n’ earnin’ your keep through haori work—gotta say that’s praiseworthy.” “Hahahaha—gettin’ restless, eh?”

“Yes… Well, thanks to you, I’m getting by bit by bit.”

“That’s good enough. Work hard and make things easier for your mother, will ya? Speaking of which—how’s your old lady been? Heard anything from her? Any word from her?” “Yes.” “Not yet—” “At the Honjo estate?”

“Yes.” Maintaining her composure as she conversed with Tomigorō, Oto—her entire being transformed into ears—kept her attention focused through the sliding doors. In the adjacent room, a group of fifteen or sixteen men surrounding Ken'unmaru were gathered, loudly discussing something and laughing boisterously. “In that case, post lookouts at the alleyway entrance…”

The voice speaking seemed to be Tange Sazen’s, but it then dropped to whispers and became inaudible. They appeared to be huddled in secret council—when abruptly, a breathless stillness descended.

Suddenly! “Right!”

The one who nodded grandly and burst into laughter was—though Oto did not know it—none other than Tsukigata Gunnosuke, leader of the Tsukigata faction. In fact, the group that had coincidentally gathered at the shrine grounds' traditional restaurant on this mountain-opening festival night, exchanging drinks while awaiting the turning hour...!

Centered around the one-eyed, one-armed sword demon Tange Sazen, the remaining Tsukigata disciples were preparing to launch a large-scale assault on Kawaramachi from midnight until dawn, aiming to seize the Konryūmaru. Suzukawa Genjūrō had already departed with Tsuzumi no Yoyoshi in tow, heading toward Eizaburō in a scouting capacity—but as for how much trust Sazen could place in this Genjūrō, even the fellow conspirator found himself uncertain. As the alcohol took effect and the blacksmith Tomigorō was beginning to grow rowdy, Oto skillfully managed him while desperately needing to find some way to send advance warning of this assault to Kawaramachi! As she was turning over a thousand thoughts in her mind, Kajiya Tomigorō—oblivious to everything—remained in high spirits,

“Miss Oto, what’s got you thinking so hard?” “Huh?” “Why don’t you just come out and say you’ve fallen for me? C’mon, scoot over here a bit.” A black hand lunged for Oto’s obi. Startled, she—

“What?! What are you doing?!” The moment she sprang to her feet! From the street below came the sound of a familiar Noh chant... “Ah! They’ve stopped—over there!” Having said this, Yayoi—Onozuka Iori ahead—looked back at Ryū behind her and pointed.

It was the grounds of Fukagawa Hachimangu on the night of the mountain-opening festival, where the crowds had begun to thin out.

The desolate stillness nearing halfway through the ninth hour... From their house in Asakusa Kawaramachi, Yayoi and Ryū—who had been following Gamō Taiken and Suwa Eizaburō—infiltrated the Betto Kongoin Temple's garden, maintaining distance while alternating between visibility and concealment. When they abruptly realized that Eizaburō and Gamō—who until then had been striding purposefully ahead—came to a sudden stop bearing grave significance, they too hastily hid themselves within the tree-shrouded darkness and fixed their attention on the scene— At the facade of a certain restaurant, Gamō Taiken and Suwa Eizaburō stood motionless; their eyes remained locked on the second floor where luminous lights cascaded downward, refusing to budge.

An unsettling presence!

Realizing this, Yayoi and Ryū likewise raised their eyes to gaze at the second floor directly ahead. A night where moonlight dissolved into a pallid atmosphere, thick with the fragrance of lingering spring festivities. In that faint dimness, the second-floor room of the traditional restaurant—its paper shutters tightly closed—stood out distinctly, illuminated by the lights within.

The tightly closed shoji screens of the two adjacent rooms on the second floor... resembled a festival dance float on a ceremonial night. And upon them, shadows were cast—a shadow play. In the left room... a large group of samurai-like men clamored boisterously, apparently deep in their cups, their enormous shadows mingling chaotically as flying sake cups flitted about like crazed butterflies. And then—!

On the shoji there, a single slender shadow appeared. The sound of others clapping could be heard. Then, as if matching the resonant voice reciting poetry, the standing shadow seemed to begin performing a sword dance—indeed, the sound of bare blades being brandished and footsteps stomping on tatami mats could be heard! The reason Gamō Taiken and Suwa Eizaburō, looking up from the road below, had involuntarily come to a halt was—! That shadow—one-armed, single-sword... “Lord Eizaburō, what do you make of that?”

“Master Taiken!”

The two men continued whispering rapidly while still gazing at the one-armed, tall warrior's sword dance flickering across the shoji screens——Suwa Eizaburō, filled with fighting spirit, unconsciously gripped his sword hilt tighter, unable to suppress the battle tremors coursing through his body. Perhaps resonating with the sword spirit of Konryūmaru, its counterpart, came the rapid clattering of the tsuba—kata kata kata—a finely trembling metallic rattle! The tsuba hummed deeply.

Swords yearned for swords, blades called to blades—it even sounded as though the short sword Konryū now wept in the night. But soon,

This time, to the small room on the right... The vivid projection of a man and woman's dark silhouettes—in an entirely different sense—startled Gamō Taiken and Suwa Eizaburō, then Yayoi and Ryū who hid some distance away—Ah!—could not help but cry out.

Two human shadows were projected onto the shoji as if drawn in ink, clear and distinct. A man and a woman. Perhaps out of consideration for the late hour. Voices could not be heard. Yet the shadow of a woman—her obi loosened and figure disheveled—could be seen darting right and left, her hem in disarray as she evaded what appeared to be a man acting brutishly in pursuit, the scene visible as clearly as a shadow play, as if one could reach out and touch it.

In the neighboring hall, the slender left-armed sword dance now reached its climax...

Therefore, this group seemed unaware of the commotion in the next room, and seizing this unexpected opportunity, the man's shadow pressed ever closer to the woman's shadow. A hand grasped her shoulder. She dodged. He tried to grab her from behind. She crouched and twisted away—the shadows drew near, parted, then drew near again like a game of tag. As Eizaburō and Taiken stood on the street directly below the second floor, silently gazing up at the shadow figures dancing across the two adjacent shoji screens, Yayoi and Ryū too—from a distance—kept their eyes fixed on these two men and the shadows above.

When she realized demons were in the adjacent room... Yumehachi—Oto—wanted to avoid raising her voice as much as possible. But...! Her mind grew frantic.

She had to find a way to warn Kawaramachi about Ken'unmaru's secret tonight before disaster struck! Though her mind raced wildly, she resolved that under these circumstances, the only path was first to calm the enraged blacksmith, then seize that moment to slip away and flee toward Asakusa. But! No matter how she batted away Kajiya Tomigorō's lustful arms, they kept stretching toward her. Oto, driven to desperation, thought—if only there were witnesses here to create a diversion!

While fleeing, she slid open the veranda's shoji screen on the second floor—and in the sudden flood of lamplight appeared Oto's figure, her formal kimono disheveled and cheeks faintly flushed... Then—her eyes met Eizaburō's.

In an instant! Eizaburō began moving. “Master Taiken! To stop for such indecency—tsk! What a disgusting sight we’ve been shown. Now wherever you may go，I shall accompany you.” With that!

Simultaneously. *Snap!* A sound came from the second floor……Oto had already closed the shoji. Eizaburō—bathed in the sudden flood of light from the second-floor veranda—no longer wore his daytime guise as a beni-e seller but had reverted to his true rōnin appearance. Yet for Oto, with each accumulated day of separation, he remained none other than Suwa Eizaburō: the lover she could never forget, even in her dreams. Lord Eizaburō and Master Taiken! Oto, startled upon seeing them—her heart overwhelmed by shame at her own disheveled state—had already closed the shoji the instant she realized, but it was too late.

Gamō Taiken and Eizaburō had naturally recognized Oto, but even to Yayoi—who had been watching from a slight distance—the geisha who vanished in an instant from the second floor was unmistakably Oto at first glance. A coincidence—if you could call it that. It was a truly unexpected encounter.

It was the midnight hour of a moonlit night where countless blue moths seemed to fly with intermingling wings.

The place was the precincts of Fukagawa Tomioka Hachimangu Shrine, where the bustle of the mountain-opening festival had departed.

A band of light streamed through the semidarkness—bloomed like some yellow flower only to vanish in an instant…and there were faces looking up and down. Once—no, until now—they had been Oto and Eizaburō, secretly bound by a love that would have driven them to mutual destruction. Here was a love most pitiable in this world—Oto, bending her affections to societal duty, and Eizaburō, compelled by male pride and swordsman’s honor to feign ignorance of his own heart’s depths—.

At first, Eizaburō had felt profound shock at Oto’s utterly transformed state. Yet paradoxically, it seemed he had already fully anticipated her present circumstances in some corner of his mind—allowing him to swiftly recover from that astonishment. But with this recovery came a new tide of pity for Oto that welled up to drench his heart, and he could not suppress the heat rising unbidden to his eyes. However, his indignation was greater.

To think she would stoop to becoming a geisha—not only disgracing herself but smearing mud across this humble one's very face! As this thought struck him, Eizaburō—unaware of Oto's true intentions—could do naught but force a pallid, bitter smile in the grip of sudden fury.

And so...

“What an indecent sight we’ve been subjected to. Ha ha ha ha!” Ptui! He spat and tried to stride away—but Master Taiken, who had discerned Oto’s situation, continued staring motionless up at the second-floor shoji where shadow plays still lingered. Eizaburō found himself compelled to swiftly return his gaze to the second floor he wished not to see—! How dare this happen! The shadows of a man and woman in the small tatami room were brazenly projected as two distinct figures. Oto was leaning seductively against a man—and before he knew it, Eizaburō flushed crimson! He felt blood rushing to his head and swallowed a dry gulp, his voice warping with distortion.

“Let us depart, Master Taiken!”

But Taiken remained motionless. As Eizaburō’s eyes were drawn once more to the second floor, Yayoi and Ryū on this side also saw the shadows on the shoji growing increasingly intimate. As for Oto of the household— Knowing that Sazen’s gang in the adjacent room was devising a secret plan to seize Konryūmaru, it was dangerous for Eizaburō to linger in this area. However, sending him back to Kawaramachi would be even more dangerous—the only solution was to make him leave this place as soon as possible, then immediately pursue him to inform him of tonight’s ambush… To achieve this, she would first feign compliance with Kajiya Tomigorō to put him at ease, then seize an opening to escape—having devised this plan, Oto suddenly emerged with feigned submission,

“Oh, Mr. Mimamachi, hohohoho, let’s stop this now—this game of tag.” As she threw herself into Kajiya Tomigorō’s embrace and pressed closer, Tomigorō gathered Oto into his thick, short arms—their shadow swelling hazily large upon the shoji screen. The same shoji screen’s shadow—yet between Eizaburō gazing up from outside and Oto within gazing upon herself, which of them found it more painfully bitter?

Chronicle of Skulls A long flash! Like a white serpent dancing in moonlight, the blade suddenly shot forth—in the blink of an eye! The one who soundlessly arched backward and collapsed onto the road was Hōshōji Saburō—the lone vanguard of Tsukigata Ittō-ryū who had taken point. Though Saburō had been renowned throughout Sōma domain and beyond as a swordsman of formidable prowess, overwhelmed by this seized opportunity he could not withstand even momentarily. A pool of jet-black blood rapidly spread across the shrine’s earthen grounds, and after clutching gravel with two or three beast-like groans—there he remained. The moon’s mischievous glow illuminated his deathly pale face as mortality crept ever closer.

Not a moment's pause!

Just now—as Ken'unmaru Tange Sazen and his entourage, having freshly exited a nearby restaurant en route to Kawaramachi, had not yet crossed halfway through Hachiman’s garden—the sword’s gust came slicing in from the flank like a hurled stone. Though these were men who courted death, even they had their courage shattered by this sudden assault, freezing mid-stride with a collective “What—?!” As they stopped in their tracks almost in unison, lowered their stances, and peered into the faint darkness ahead... Suwa Eizaburō stood bathed in moonlight from his shoulders.

He spun the wakizashi Konryūmaru across his back to sheathe it, then diligently wiped his beloved sword Musashi Tarō Yasukuni—still wet with Hōshōji Saburō’s living blood from being drawn moments before—against frost-wrapped straw bundling nearby azaleas. A whisper flowed into Sazen’s ear, calm yet resonant with indifference. “Lord Tange—have you obtained Ken’unmaru?” “Hah! No—Konryūmaru remains here!” “Now—will Cloud envelop Dragon, or Dragon summon Cloud? Dawn lies distant still.” “Tonight we’ll leisurely cross blades till morning—till morning—”

While muttering to himself like this, Eizaburō assiduously wiped the blood from his blade with straw. The realm of no-mind... Within the Divine Visionary Style—the realm of self-abandonment and ego dissolution considered both supremely profound and excruciatingly difficult to attain—Eizaburō had unexpectedly arrived at this very night. What catalyst had guided their sword spirits thus far? That was none other than the shadow play Oto had staged while swallowing her tears.

If thoughts linger unresolved, the arm grows dull. In Eizaburō’s case, it was precisely that. For he who had abandoned everything to pursue Oto—even after being left by her, regardless of his words or surface demeanor, there remained in the depths of his heart a piercing yearning for her—yet on this very night, merely seeing Oto in her geisha guise would have sufficed to make Eizaburō renounce all thought of her entirely. Then came that brazen amorous tangle with a man—it was through those shadows of the man and woman, black and large upon the second-floor shoji, that Eizaburō felt for the first time here as though awakening from a long night’s dream.

After all, Atariya's Oto was indeed Atariya's Oto alone. What's so strange about a teahouse waitress who beguiles men for a living becoming an even more alluring geisha?... Thinking this, Eizaburō no longer cared who the man in those shadows might be. He—having suddenly severed all lingering attachments—now marshaled every fiber of being toward seizing the Heaven and Earth blades, fighting spirit and sword intent awakened anew from the very depths of the soul.

The vigor of the Divine Visionary Style directly transmitted by Onozuka Tetsusai—which he had nearly forgotten—now revived within him. This Eizaburō was no longer the Eizaburō of recent days, but once more the youthful swordmaster Suwa Eizaburō who had proclaimed his might at the dojo in Negishi Akebono Village during days of yore.

Before him now was no Oto, no self, no world—only the favor of his deceased master and the surging blood of battle intent. Thus, through the Cloud and Dragon sword formations, the reborn Eizaburō would now be able to freely demonstrate the secret principles of the Divine Visionary Style... But?

What had become of Oto? She—forcing herself into familiarity with Kajiya Tomigorō while suppressing revulsion as though caterpillars crawled down her neck—pressed drinks on him until confirming Taiken and Eizaburō had departed. No sooner had they left than she urgently sent a young servant from the establishment to summon Taiken back alone, hastily informing him that Sazen’s faction was holding a banquet in the adjacent second-floor room and preparing to storm into Kawaramachi imminently. Thus, when Tange Sazen and Tsukigata Gunnosuke’s group—judging the time right—had left the restaurant and taken barely forty or fifty steps, Suwa Eizaburō—who had been lying in wait since earlier in the votive lanterns’ shadows—appeared in an instant and cut down Hōshōji Saburō at the vanguard with an iaijutsu strike.

The night deepened beneath the moon—

Sazen and the Tsukigata group, as well as Eizaburō, remained silent.

Gamō Taiken must have been lurking somewhere nearby. In the distance, two figures—one large, one small—moved from tree shade to tree shadow.

Plop... The sound of night dew striking tree leaves. In the desolate depths of night—at Fukagawa Tomioka Hachiman Shrine, an untimely cold light bloomed like a grove of flowers: Tange Sazen, Tsukigata Gunnosuke, Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō, Todoroki Genpachi, Okazaki Hyōe, and Tōdō Kumesaburō—the Ken’unmaru faction—who scorned their opponent as nothing more than a lone Suwa Eizaburō, intent on slaughtering him in one fell swoop to claim Konryūmaru—the clang of sword guards rang clear through the moonlit air. The sky was bright, and the land was hazy like a dreamland...

Beneath a skin-chilling breeze, mid-spring hues that could not but stir someone’s heart drifted through the air, while somewhere in a distant town—perhaps where a fire had broken out—the faint, drawn-out toll of a fire bell carried through the night.

Spring’s quiet night deepened. Yet this was merely that ominous stillness preceding a tempest. Having departed Honjo’s monster mansion at dusk to storm Kawaramachi and ambush Eizaburō’s faction by dawn, they had shared drinks at this traditional restaurant until considerable time had passed—Well then, shall we depart?—such was their manner. Toothpicks dangling from their lips in tipsy nonchalance, the Ken'un faction had just sauntered forth when their advance was abruptly checked—compelled to halt momentarily, caught wholly unprepared.

And yet—! Suwa Eizaburō had already cut down a man the moment he leapt out.

They say "without even showing his draw"... and this was precisely that instance.

While conversing loudly in twos and threes as they walked along Kongō Shin'in's garden path—it was just as Hōshōji Saburō at the forefront reached a thicket. A black figure suddenly leapt forth—a flash of icy steel—and before one could tell where it had struck Saburō, he was already tasting dirt. In his place now stood Suwa Eizaburō, gripping Musashi Tarō whose blood groove gleamed vivid. No sooner had they registered this than Sazen and Tsukigata's forces—recovering from their shock—halted dead in their tracks! As they stopped, they all drew gleaming blades in unison—mottled moonlight glinting like scales across patches of forged steel.

Naturally formed a half-moon formation! From behind them, Sazen’s hoarse voice shot forth like a specter. “Oh Konryū… Coming to meet us just as we were about to set out—this must signal your luck’s finally run dry. Though true enough as you say, the summer night remains young… Shall we make this a night of unreserved slaughter?” As he spoke, Sazen yanked off the sleeve of his single arm, and the familiar women’s undergarment beneath floated into view under the moonlight.

A defiant smile twisted the face marked by a prominent sword scar near its eye. The storm broke! Eizaburō remained silent. He simply held Musashi Tarō—now wiped clean of Hōshōji Saburō’s blood with frost-thickened straw—quietly before him in the Divine Visionary Style’s Flat Blue-Eye stance. Thud! Tap! Tap! With two or three steps—discarding footwear to tread upon grass—the longswordsman advancing before Eizaburō was Todoroki Genpachi, third-ranked practitioner at the Tsukigata dojo.

Genpachi. A Hirataka boat guard official whose sword techniques displayed both breadth and depth, he stood in his prime nearing forty—the peak of mature mastery. With his burly frame slightly slumped, he gripped the hilt as gently as one wrings a damp cloth. “Come! Ummph!” The thunderous provocation echoed. Swish! Feigning a thrust by lowering his hands, the veteran swordsman launched a full-force kick toward Eizaburō’s head! As the blade arced down in a white flash—Eizaburō pivoted at the hips. Clang! Blue light scattered—no sooner had he deflected the strike than Musashi Tarō whirled back in a wheel reversal, thirsting to bite into Genpachi’s left shoulder.

But Todoroki Genpachi instantly released his left hand and intercepted with the pommel. And then—!

In that instant—a one-handed strike of divine opportunity! A phosphorescent flash roared through the air with a whoom, aimed at Eizaburō's exposed flank. Had this been a bamboo sword, it might have ended with just a single strike to the torso. But these were real swords against real swords... The onlookers watching believed that in mere moments, they would see Eizaburō's upper and lower halves rent asunder. And yet—Clang! With a clang, Eizaburō deflected Genpachi's blade and immediately pressed in, relentlessly pushing against the sword guard.

What a sight! A stir of excitement swept through the half-moon formation. Clang! The sword guards remained clenched together, not budging an inch. Suwa Eizaburō and Todoroki Genpachi. Amidst the group’s intense scrutiny, for a time the two appeared locked in a stalemate—their strengths evenly matched— Clouds emerged.

The moon's shadow wove myriad patterns upon the earth.

At last—! What opening had he seen? Genpachi suddenly— "Grh..." A cry! This served as both his kiai and feint—appearing to charge forward with every muscle concentrated in his sword arm while actually releasing tension with a soft exhalation as he retreated several steps in a drawing motion. This constituted an invitation tactic. Eizaburō, being no ordinary swordsman, did not dare pursue Genpachi as he withdrew. Unmoving. And so. Having opened a gap between them, the two merely split the moon's white light with their sword tips before resuming their motionless standoff.

The wind died, and dripping dew heralded tomorrow's clear weather.

A desolately intense martial aura in the dead of night... Tsukigata Gunnosuke and the northern domain's reinforcement samurai formed a perfect circle with their drawn gleaming blades—a forest of blue eyes, utterly motionless with explosive fighting spirit.

Sazen was positioned behind the sword formation together with Gunnosuke.

Not a single soul dared make a sound. Choked by the explosive killing intent that seemed ready to burst forth, none in the group had any room left for words.

The spring night's moon cast its white light upon the multitude of blades creaking to a halt within the faint glow. Suddenly!

The instant that icicle-like sword flashed its glistening silver scales through vertical space, Genpachi—perhaps deciding this stalemate would never end—suddenly raised his blade into high overhead stance... then swung straight down toward Eizaburō's forehead. Crack! Musashi Tarō caught it near the hilt; then, with a screech, the sword slid against steel, momentary pale blue sparks coloring the faint darkness of the night sky. And—! Up until this moment maintaining defensive posture, Eizaburō—whether awakened to fiercer combat resolve by the metallic scent striking his nostrils—indeed abruptly shifted to offense: Musashi Tarō Ankoku's divine late-career blade, that sword which had earned renown throughout Tōkai when he forged this new weapon, suddenly assailed Genpachi. No sooner had he feigned pursuit of the recoiling foe than—with instantaneous pivot—his horizontally slashing edge struck true. The one who momentarily faltered, using his sword as staff before collapsing mondori-style onto the earth, proved to be Wakamatsu Daitarō—a warrior of Tsukigata's sword school.

Though Daitarō—having been chosen to venture to Edo's outskirts for life-and-death combat—was by no means an unskilled swordsman, against Eizaburō, who now surged with momentum, he ultimately stood no chance.

Daitarō—struck by a heavy blade at the hip joint—slammed into the earth with his full weight. That marked his end. The instant they witnessed this—! The fired-up Tsukigata sword formation surged! With a collective roar to mince Eizaburō alone, phosphorescent flashes scattered wildly as they engulfed him—yet Eizaburō slipped through their net. He delivered a thunderous body blow to the nearest attacker while simultaneously whirling to face Santō Heishichirō, who now sought to strike him with an overhead slash!

“Hrah!” A one-handed thrust! “Hmph!” Heishichirō swung away swiftly and grinned. “Not bad at all… Come on!”

With quiet breath, Eizaburō already returns to hira-seigan.

A cloud grazed the edge of the moon.

The first light of dawn crept in. A cloud covered the edge of the moon. Within Fukagawa Tomioka Hachimangu's shrine grounds, Suwa Eizaburō confronted the Ken'unmaru-wielding group while making Musashi Tarō execute a lethal dance of chaotic blades; slowly lowering his sword into a low stance and disregarding all others encircling him, he mustered blood-seeping resolve toward his formidable enemy Santō Heishichirō. "Hah!" Heishichirō responded with a flawlessly timed strike, maintaining chū-seigan stance while wearing a faint smile.

“Hah!”

And then—at that moment. Eizaburō, having pretended to take the bait on purpose—suddenly! Setting Tarō Ankoku into motion toward Heishichirō's right flank! —— and in that instant, a silver flash darted diagonally as Eizaburō attempted to flip his blade upward beneath his opponent’s armpit. But—!

Santō Heishichirō was a core member of Tsukigata Gunnosuke's school—the renowned swordsman of northern provinces—serving as second-in-command to chief instructor Kagami Bōnosuke; together with Kagami, Santō, and Todoroki, they formed Tsukigata's Three Crows. Though Eizaburō excelled in divine metamorphosis dream swordsmanship through Onozuka Tetsusai's teachings, he had yet to coat his blade with Heishichirō's lifeblood... or so it seemed—for Heishichirō instantly perceived Eizaburō's sword motion and retreated one step with a snap! No sooner had he struck the incoming blade tip with his hilt than he executed a sideways flip! He struck downward—and in that instant when he seemed to have split Eizaburō mid-air like a sliding shoji door—the staggering Eizaburō desperately deflected Heishichirō's blade with his sword tip, narrowly escaping death. Transmitting the fierce impact through Musashi Tarō—now quivering like a silver platter—he swung the blade in a wheel-like arc,

“Grah!” With a roar, he charged diagonally into the very heart of Tsukigata's blade formation. Chaotic melee— High in the sky, a wind seemed to be sweeping across.

The clouds raced swiftly across the sky, moonlight alternately brightening and dimming... With each shift, it enveloped the crowd of swordsmen brandishing gleaming blades in the treetop clearing—now rendering them small and vivid against light, now plunging them into uniform darkness—as if a stage curtain were opening and closing. The swordsmen moved like beans crackling in a searing pan. They clashed and slashed through entanglements only to split abruptly left and right—trampling grass and scattering leaves—until this very ground became the proving arena where Shinpen Musō and Tsukigata Ittō-ryū tested their supremacy.

The clangor of clashing swords bore a sharp cold sensation—one that pierced through the eardrums and raced down the spine. The shouts spread through the rescue-hastening night air like frost pillars, their advance-and-retreat creating gusts of wind—a ferocious fighting spirit sufficient to slaughter the faint-hearted instantly now swelled like smoke, crawling across the earth. The dust of battle filled with darkness...

Hidden in the shadows slightly removed from the vortex of blades, there had been a woman observing this swordfight since earlier. Needless to say, it was Oto—or rather, now she was Yumehachi of Matsukawa, the haori-clad geisha. She— She had feigned compliance with the bothersome patron Kajiya Tomigorō—offering him drinks while pretending to yield—then slipped out during the commotion to recall Taiken and preemptively report Sazen's schemes for tonight's countermeasures. Yet even now, watching from here, only Eizaburō fought alone; Master Taiken she was counting on still had not shown himself.

Indeed, for now Lord Eizaburō alone seemed to be holding his own in combat—but after all, here it was one against many. What would become of this? And forgetting herself entirely, Oto watched anxiously—!

Despite having ambushed them here and launched a surprise attack when they emerged—making Eizaburō fight alone—where could Taiken possibly be hiding…? As she kept watching— Eizaburō, growing impatient now, peered through the thicket of blades toward their rear—there stood two figures using fully sheathed swords as canes, quietly conversing while elegantly observing the battle with detached composure: Tsukigata Gunnosuke and Tange Sazen. “Ken’un! “Th-there you are!”

With a shout, Eizaburō leapt up and struck, brandishing Musashi Tarō—the blade that had bitten into the flesh and scraped the bones of several Tsukigata men—straight ahead! Just as he was about to strike, Hanyū Sen’nosuke advanced into the middle of the line. “You! Dare to obstruct me?!” “What nonsense are you spouting?! Come on, bring it!”

The moment Sen’nosuke stood directly facing Eizaburō and closed in—! A laughter like a cracked bell boiling up from the grass at his feet caused the nearby Sazen to turn. “Hahaha! You’re putting up a good fight!” “You’re holding your own!” “Looks like I don’t need to step in after all.”

“Hmm.” Having apparently identified the voice’s owner already, Sazen spoke with uncharacteristic solemnity. “You’re that beggar monk? What’re you muttering about over there?” Unnoticed by all, Master Taiken—who had slipped through to position himself near the group and had been lying with a one-shō sake bottle pillowed against the grass roots—now rose slowly to his feet while laughing. Was this too part of his self-styled, self-proclaimed bizarre ninjutsu?

Despite having hidden in the thicket alongside Eizaburō to ambush Sazen’s group, the moment Eizaburō leapt out and cut down the vanguard’s Hōshōji Saburō, Taiken had stealthily circled behind the enemy without anyone noticing—yet rather than striking from the rear or exploiting weaknesses, he now lay sprawled in the dewy grass nonchalantly spectating this scene of carnage. This was not betrayal toward Eizaburō. This was indeed Master Taiken’s unique disposition—as evidenced by how he now stood before the dual brilliance of swordsmanship: Tange Sazen, the one-eyed, one-armed blade demon who had swiftly drawn Ken’unmaru from its sheath, and Tsukigata Gunnosuke, who had retreated a step with his hand gripping the hilt of his greatsword. Yet Master Taiken merely smirked, his beard twitching.

“Calling me a ‘beggar monk’ misses the mark slightly—while I may indeed be a beggar, I am no monk. You’d best mind your tongue more carefully from now on.” “You spout such nonsense! I’ll silence that wagging tongue of yours right here and now—you’d best believe it!” “Hohou! That’s music to my ears! This should be interesting!” Gamō Taiken declared boldly, holding a cheap sake bottle in one hand and half-closing his eyes. He appeared to stand there vacantly—his body present while his mind wandered far away... but that was not the case.

Though he held no sword, the positioning of his body and distribution of his gaze perfectly embodied the orthodox stance of the Jigen-ryū Suigetsu school— Having already seen three of their comrades cut down by Eizaburō—whom they had dismissed as a pale-faced weakling of an Edo samurai—Tsukigata’s group found themselves increasingly overwhelmed by Musashi Tarō’s razor edge. Then emerged the owner of the blood ledger that had tormented them along the road from Sōma—that elusive bearded man who slipped through grasps like mist—causing the remaining members to grow restless. Perceiving this shift, Tsukigata Gunnosuke—leader of the reinforcements—whooshed his three-foot Frost-Cleaver through empty air with a frustrated growl, then roared across the chaotic battlefield loud enough for all to hear.

“Tsukigata Gunnosuke shall face you.” “Now, prepare yourself…”

Then Taiken. “Preparations? What?” “I need neither preparations nor anything.” “Strike from wherever you like!”

Bravado. He still did not move a muscle. “In that case…” Tsukigata’s voice vanished mid-sentence as—simultaneously—a white streak like fish scales racing upstream shot straight toward Taiken’s chest! The instant it seemed certain to strike—!

What shattered with a crash was Master Taiken’s beloved one-shō sake bottle—and in that same moment, Taiken slipped swiftly beneath Gunnosuke’s arm and struck at one of the nearby Tsukigata men with a thwack! No sooner had he kicked his opponent than he snatched up the greatsword knocked loose by the momentum, immediately settling into the ponderous, statue-like stance of the Jigenbō Anpaku Suigetsu school’s founding master.

Gamō Taiken, the street-roaming exile who never wore a sword, appeared intent on felling foes with their own blades as was his custom—this swordless swordsmanship, if achievable, might well be the pinnacle of martial arts. With dawn's first light came the Tsukigata's uproar.

It was once again the voices of shock and admonishment at this beggar having taken up a blade. However, Taiken being Taiken,

Suwa Eizaburō’s deeds tonight bordered on divine intervention— He had first cut down Hōshōji Saburō, then forced four more men to collapse upon the earth; far from growing weary in this prolonged sword battle, his pale face now bore a faint smile as he added an icy hue to his murderous gaze—his divinely inspired techniques growing ever more razor-sharp. "Hyah!" Whirling his sword, Eizaburō had just circled Musashi Tarō’s blade tip in an arc before his current opponent Hanyū Sen’nosuke when— “Urgh! Have at you!”

A shout! Before the clash could conclude... Without even a moment to brace himself, that single strike—slashed vertically and horizontally—found Sen’nosuke's vulnerable spot, splitting open his right shoulder with a sickening crunch as Sen’nosuke, “Agh! It huuurts—!”

The left hand he’d thrust out to staunch his shoulder now bore a wound so deep it reached his wrist. In the moonlight, Sen’nosuke regarded his own shoulder—gaping open like a mouth—as something slightly wondrous. But in the next instant, he felt Eizaburō’s blade pierce his vitals once more—and in that burning agony, realized he was drawing his final breath. A fresh metallic tang of blood hung sharply.

That was the moment! From out of nowhere flew a single dagger—and at that very moment, as Okazaki Hyōe was about to strike Eizaburō, it pierced his throat...!

Like a fierce bird cleaving through the air, a single small sword slammed into the jaw of Okazaki Hyōe—poised mid-leap! It sank in with a sickening crunch. In that instant! Several streaks of blood scattered through the darkness; Hyōe's tensed strength drained instantly. As he made two or three flailing gestures like a marionette with severed strings, he collapsed heavily to the ground and arched backward. An ambush at the most unexpected moment! And these were demonic shuriken—utterly unblockable in the dim night!

Instantly flashing through everyone's minds like lightning was that dwarf—monkey-like in appearance—who had suddenly materialized in Honjo Monster Mansion's garden late one night and within moments had slain two or three Tsukigata swordsmen with his throwing technique...

“You shall each become targets for my shuriken in turn—” The menacing words still clung to their vision… And now, without warning, a dagger streaked in from an unknowable direction, effortlessly killing yet another distinguished comrade who had taken up his sword—as if struck by a stray arrow. In that instant, the Tsukigata swordsmen forgot even Eizaburō and Taiken, recoiling equally in shock and terror.

The fact was! The mysterious shuriken master, unsatisfied with merely felling Okazaki Hyōe, now seemed intent on displaying his supernaturally refined skills throughout the deepening night—second blade, third blade—each piercing through moonlight with a whizz! Whizz... whizz! An uncanny sound trailed long through the air between the trees. No sooner had they registered this than— At that very moment, Tōdō Kumesaburō—who had been surveying the area with drawn sword to locate the dagger's source—took a hit to his flank. Kumesaburō doubled over, clutching his wound with a guttural "Ugh!" With one thunderous groan that echoed horrifically through the night, he collapsed supine onto the earth. His legs kicked skyward twice, thrice... then he clawed at grass roots before stiffening—and succumbed to convulsions.

And then—! The next shuriken came flying toward the Tsukigata group as another wave of panic spread through their ranks! This time, a phosphorescent flash—leaping like a river fish—grazed Kagami Bōnosuke’s temple and thudded! For when it embedded itself in the tree trunk behind them, there—the remaining Tsukigata warriors, having finally recovered from their brief moment of shock and clustered together—let out a collective "Waah!" As they shouted and scattered in all directions, the booming voice of their leader Tsukigata Gunnosuke—who seemed to have grasped the danger—resounded forth with a single command, shaking the dew from the tips of the leaves.

“Get down! “Get down!” “Press your bellies flat to the ground!” “Scatter quickly… Quickly!” Having finally devised a countermeasure, the Tsukigata group—though in panicked disarray—now sprang into action! Like spiderlings scattering, they leapt to hide—in an instant, all seemed to lie belly-down across the earth. Across Hachiman’s grounds, no standing figures remained visible; only blood soaking the grass and a stench billowing pointlessly from corpses shadowed the moon’s face. For a moment, the battleground appeared to return to an ordinary spring night.

The silence of that tumultuous night cut through to the bone.

Especially at night... Within this eerie ceasefire hung a tension that made one think it would be better to be drenched in blood than endure it.

The early dawn.

Eizaburō and Santō Heishichirō were. Taiken and Tsukigata Gunnosuke were.

And as for Tange Sazen—they too, it seemed, had been forced to cease their battle before this shared enemy—the mysterious flying blades—for nowhere could their standing figures be seen; they must have all lain flat in the grass as if by prior agreement——.

Indeed, those shuriken were undoubtedly targeting not only Sazen and the Tsukigata group but Eizaburō and Taiken as well. The reason being that those small blades had flown perilously close to Taiken and Eizaburō not just once but twice—three times even—with one even striking the scabbard of Eizaburō’s Musashi Tarō sword at his waist and knocking it loose. Against these unfathomable projectiles, even Eizaburō—who had just begun to find his rhythm—and Master Taiken—who should have feared nothing under heaven—found themselves at a loss. In that critical moment, they too dropped flat to the earth alongside their Tsukigata adversaries.

Tange Sazen too must have been crawling somewhere... The hushed night air carried hues of approaching dawn as the moon hung low, gradually losing its light. What rose slightly above the ground here and there were the corpses of slain Tsukigata warriors. Above them, a gentle breeze from the crimson eastern sky rustled leaves—their sound like a dirge of skulls. Would the night end while this ceasefire persisted? Just as Oto peered anxiously from her tree shadow, two figures—one large, one small—hurrying through morning mist like white smoke entered her vision.

A monkey handler and a small monkey... Rubbing her eyes, Oto wondered if she was dreaming.

Cherry Blossom Calendar Asukayama. Those planted during the Kyōhō era reach their peak splendor around the seventh day after Risshun. Oji Gongen Shrine. The same shrine around the seventy-seventh day is best. There are five or six old trees. The double-layered blossoms exude a rich fragrance.

Sumida River. Similarly, around the sixty-fourth and fifth days after Risshun are deemed best. Due to its waterside location, the view is particularly splendid.

Gotenyama. Around the seventieth day [after Risshun], they flourish. The fine scenery of the distant misty seaside of Bōsō is most excellent. Ōi Village. Around the seventy-fifth day [after Risshun], they flourish. In Shinagawa, there are two locations: Raifuku-ji and Saikō-ji.

Kashiwagi Village. At Yotsuya's edge, before Yakushido Hall—there stood one called Uemonzakura. Their peak bloom occurred around the same time. Kinnōzakura. The grounds of Shibuya Hachiman Shrine. Around the same time was best.

An excerpt from the renowned Eastern Capital Blossom Almanac: Chapter on Cherry Blossoms.

Now—it was the season of blossoms.

The sky was dull and overcast. Dust... and rain.

With each rain came more warmth, they said.

They began to bloom. No—they were in full bloom.

They had already scattered—this transience, they say, being the very essence of cherry blossoms' existence—yet in bustling places like bathhouses and barbershops, rumors of flowers blossomed before the sakura themselves... Such was one afternoon. “No—finally, I managed to get Lord Kumai Kurōemon, uncle of Gaizenbō, to advance me fifty gold coins, so I’ve settled that matter.” “I must apologize for causing you so much concern with my current financial difficulties.” “But, well… Now that we have the severance money ready, I must ask you to deliver it to Eizaburō at once and obtain the divorce letter… Genjūrō humbly requests this of you.”

“Oh! My lord, there’s no need for such formalities!”

“Ha ha ha! You think this imprudent?” “Well, in truth—you who mirror my own mother in the flesh—now becoming Oto’s guardian as well... To bow before one who shall be this humble one’s irreplaceable retired matriarch—what strangeness could there be in that?”

“Oh hohoho, I suppose that’s true… But regarding those fifty coins—are they indeed confirmed?”

A quiet voice leaked faintly through the shifting edges of clouded spring sunlight on the veranda's shoji. Honjo Hoonji-mae—the inner chamber of Suzukawa Genjūrō, a 500-koku kobushin-iri hatamoto whose residence was nicknamed Monster Manor. As the sound of Teisaiya’s metal fittings leisurely crossed the bridge and faded away, within the walls of a nearby samurai residence, smoke from leaves burned since last autumn drifted white and lingering to the very edge of this room. Spring stretched long—a quiet residence.

Though far from possessing a scholar’s bright window and clean desk, had this man—Genjūrō, a direct retainer under the Tokugawa shogunate—at least set up a scripture desk facing the garden to read books or, failing that, attempted to compose even a single verse on poetic paper, one might have credited Lord Suzukawa with some refinement. But no—this lord’s idea of “books” extended no further than gambling ledgers, and he never touched a brush except to record debts. Thus, no matter how the spring sun dappled across his rust-stained garden, or how cherry petals torn by faint breezes drifted onto tatami mats, not a shred of poetic sentiment stirred within him. Today, as ever, he had summoned old woman Osayo—long since ensnared in his schemes—and now prattled on about fifty gold coins and divorce papers, matters utterly unseasonal for spring. It seemed Genjūrō had finally begun weaving his strategy to claim Oto.

And so between them lay fifty gold coins—yamabuki-colored, to use an elegant turn of phrase—forged from Sado's soil through human greed, their coppery stench thick in the air as they sat neatly aligned. Would Suzukawa Genjūrō's vulgar obsession, blazing like wildfire, inevitably engulf even Oto in its flames?

In the field before the estate, the song of a skylark vanished into the clouds... Yet absorbed in their haggling—to buy or not to buy—the pair seemed not to hear it. Genjūrō leaned forward with a self-satisfied look and lowered his voice. “Now! Madam Osayo—take these fifty gold coins and obtain the divorce letter from Eizaburō as promised. How about it? You wouldn’t possibly refuse...” “Perish the thought of refusal! In that case, my lord—yes, I shall take custody of these fifty gold coins.”

Unaware of anything, Osayo—dazzled by the glitter of the gold coins—began picking them up one by one, counting softly under her breath, but—! On each and every one of them, stamped with Lord Dewa’s official seal—a circle enclosing the character *wa*—Osayo had of course failed to inspect them thoroughly, and even Genjūrō himself noticed nothing at all. Blood-stained gold coins! The golden surfaces bearing Carpenter Ihei’s deathly visage!

As each coin was greedily clutched in the old woman's hands, from the annex where Sazen and Tsukigata lodged together came a *Thud!*—followed by laughter that surged like an avalanche before vanishing.

In the stillness of the room came faint clinks of gold... When Osayo touched the coins harboring vengeful spirits, one might have expected her skin to blister... yet nothing occurred. Unaware of Lord Dewa's circular 'wa'-character seal stamped on each piece—ignorant as Buddha himself—she simply finished counting all fifty gold coins like any ordinary currency, then turned solemnly to face Genjūrō. "Yes. "Fifty coins exactly." "My deepest gratitude." "With this, Oto's situation shall finally be settled—even at my age, I may live comfortably now. One might call this the starting point of our mother-daughter ascension. I shall go at once to..."

“Ah, I want you to do just that.”

Genjūrō was in excellent spirits. “What? No wallet? Here—take this one.” “Take it with you.” Though people would later recognize this moment as what the world calls fortune’s end—the tipping point of luck—Genjūrō’s mind now overflowed with single-minded obsession for Oto, leaving no space for thoughts of future evidence or consequence. He casually pulled out his own wallet, shook its contents free, slipped in the fifty gold coins, and passed it to Osayo. She carefully tucked it into her day-night obi,

“Well then, I’ll dash off―” As she was about to rise, Genjūrō restrained her lightly,

“In any case, fifty gold coins these days are first and foremost a significant sum. For the record, I’d like you to write a receipt until you return with the divorce letter from Eizaburō...”

Osayo, who thought this reasonable, then borrowed brush, paper, and inkstone to write the text exactly as Genjūrō had dictated— First, she began writing: *"Concerning the submitted written pledge..."* and finally set down her brush. The wording was as follows. *"Concerning the submitted written pledge..."* *The sum of fifty gold coins.* The above has been duly received as stated herein. I hereby pledge my daughter Oto to Your Lordship as a lifelong concubine; this document serves as proof thereof. The son-in-law Eizaburō hereby accepts the aforementioned gold coins in full, with no breach whatsoever. This document is hereby prepared for future reference as per the above matters.

*Kyōhō* 4, Fourth Month, 11th Day.

Oto’s Mother:　　　　　Osayo Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō

Honorable Retainers Osayo, who had drafted this affidavit, now held the gold that Genjūrō had stolen by murdering Master Carpenter Ihei—some portions being construction payments from Lord Matsudaira Dewa-no-kami’s office, while the bulk comprised the sum for which her daughter Oto had sold herself into geisha service under her haori-clad identity, altogether totaling fifty ryō. With that in hand, she hurriedly departed from Lord Suzukawa’s residence in Honjo.

The moment she stepped out from under the roof, it was the height of spring she had forgotten.

The early summer scent already entwined through every corner of the town, and a somehow festive flutter of joy suddenly grazed old Osayo's chest. Was it the faint melancholy of her childhood—that memory—which stirred even the uncertain emotions of the old woman hastening through sunlit streets? This too must be spring's lingering chill. Osayo—honest to a fault and simple as could be—traded her daughter's virtue for this bloodstained gold, already envisioning in her mind's eye the fragile final peace that would unfold from it. Her footsteps quickened of their own accord.

Having left Honjo, she then directed her steps toward Asakusa.

Amid sparse houses, vacant lots spread out; pale red crabapple blossoms harboring lingering dawn dreams wove noontime shadows into purple, while beneath them, dandelion flowers scattered the tranquility of the long day like yuzen patterns—before one knew it, spring had arrived everywhere. A south wind blew. Here and there, cherry blossoms bloomed—cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms— When she realized, today was the Yoshino Flower Festival.

A nostalgic feeling.

Such things surged relentlessly into Osayo's very being, and she stood dazed for a time by the roadside.

Where to go?... she wondered. I know Mr. Eizaburō's house in Kawaramachi - after all, I once dug up a sword and took it there myself - but barging in with this divorce business right from the start felt wrong. For one thing, even if we don't know where Oto is or what she's doing now, everyone says she's definitely not in Kawaramachi...

Hmm! Having written the pledge in exchange for gold and secured the lord’s agreement was all well and good—but where should she go first, and whom should she consult? As she pondered, Osayo seemed to strike upon an idea; nodding repeatedly to herself, she resumed walking.

Dazzling sunlight danced thinly and painfully on the shoulders of the old woman worn down by worldly hardships.

When the hammer strikes vigorously, blossoms scatter...

This was no mere hammer—but each time they swung the heavy mallet in the workshop, refining the crimson-hot metal, snow-white petals would flutter down from the solitary cherry tree near the earthen entrance, trembling in time with the reverberations. Clang-clang! Clang-clang! And the sound of the first hammer.

This was the front of Kajiya Tomi—blacksmith Kajiya Tomigorō’s shop in Asakusa Mikkōchō. “Hey, Yoshikō! Heat that spot a bit more—make sure the back side’s properly done!” Evidently pressed by urgent contracted work, today Tomigorō had his apprentice Yoshikō running about while he himself remained as full of complaints as ever, paying no heed to the cherry blossoms. “Ain’t the bellows weak?” “The red ain’t spreadin’ enough!” “What the hell! You stuff yourself with food—now get your act together!”

And yet, even so—just as he, unusually standing in the workshop himself, had become completely blackened— "Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. Tomigorō." When an overly shrill woman's voice abruptly sounded from the bushes, Kajiya Tomigorō paused his hammering and glanced toward the entrance. There stood Granny Osayo—widow of Lord Wada Muneemon, the masterless samurai from Oshū Sōma whom he and Kizaemon, the Tabara-chō landlord, had assisted in various matters—peering in with an oddly smirking grin,

“Well now!” Startled, Kajiya Tomi exclaimed, “Well if it isn’t Granny Osayo!” “I must offer my deepest apologies. I have done nothing but receive your kindness without repaying even a ten-thousandth of that debt, constantly consumed by my own affairs and neglecting to pay proper visits. Moreover, today I’ve come bearing yet another urgent request.”

“Mmm, mmm.” “Well, well, ya came all this way, huh?” “I’m in the middle of work right now and can’t even greet ya properly, so just go on back inside without mindin’ the mess… Though ya know it’s a cramped little hovel.” “You can come on in, but mind ya don’t go straight out the back—it’s a cramped place, see? Just park yourself somewhere halfway decent and wait, ha ha ha! Nothin’ to fret over—I’ll finish this up quick. Been a while—got plenty to talk about and news to share.” “Come on, no need to stand on ceremony—”

At just the right moment，the mother of his beloved Oto had arrived． Tomigorō—who instantly resolved to disclose Oto’s recent circumstances to this Granny Osayo，persuade her first，and thereby claim Oto for himself—was thrown into commotion as though sweet rice cakes had rained from heaven．

“Hey, Yoshi! We’ve got a guest today, so I’ll let you off early.” “Put in a little more effort to finish up, then clean up properly afterward.” With a hiss, Tomigorō plunged the fiery-hot iron into water. After washing his soot-blackened hands and face, he came to the six-mat room at the entrance where Granny Osayo—already small in stature—sat shriveled even smaller, squinting her eyes.

There. After Tomigorō sat heavily cross-legged beyond the long brazier and Osayo lightly pressed down the offered zabuton cushion with her knee—exchanging another round of silent apologies and formalities— “Mrs. Osayo—” Kajiya Tomigorō began solemnly. “How about it? Have you come to your senses yet?” Lowering his voice, he continued: “I’ve been talkin’ ’bout you every time with Tabara-chō and our Oshin. If I had a fine daughter like that, I’d be livin’ in comfort wrapped in silks—easy as wavin’ a fan! But you went and handed Oto over to some lazy whelp who can’t even work proper—not only lettin’ her rot away, but draggin’ yourself into mansion servitude at your age! Me and Oshin—we’ve been sayin’ how pitiful it is, what a damn fool thing you’ve done.” “But hey—young women heat up quick and cool down faster. Oto-bō here cut ties clean with Mr. Eizaburō ages ago! Now she’s…”

Osayo suddenly leaned toward Tomigorō—who had begun speaking only to fall silent—as if clinging to him. “Huh? I’d had an inkling about it, but… so you mean Oto has completely parted ways with Eizaburō—and now where is she? What’s she doing?” “Mrs. Osayo!”

Dulling the gleam in his eyes, Kajiya Tomigorō suddenly turned distant. “While living in the same Edo, as a mother, you don’t know your own daughter’s whereabouts or how she lives—Mrs. Osayo! Don’t you think you’re heartless?” Before Tomigorō, who had indignantly crossed his arms, Osayo felt as though she had reclaimed a mother’s pure heart, free of ulterior motives for the first time, and became aware of tender tears—long forgotten—welling up for Oto. At this sight, a faint smile broke across one cheek of Kajiya Tomi, as if to say “Got him!”

Osayo quietly blew her nose. “Ah! Now that you mention it… what about Mrs. Oshin?”

Osayo raised her face and asked. Tomigorō retorted dismissively. "What? The wife? She went to the bathhouse earlier." "That explains why I couldn't see her shadow." "It's truly wonderful that both of you remain in such good health." "Nah, nothin' so wonderful about it." As Kajiya Tomigorō answered in a bitter tone, his wife Oshin—who had just returned from the neighborhood bathhouse via the back alleys—unthinkingly tried to enter through the rear door when an oddly solemn voice drifted through. Huh?! Who could that be? Peering through the torn shoji screen revealed Osayo—mother of Oto, whose awareness of Tomigorō's secret infatuation had long been sensed—prompting silent wonder: What could this unusual visit mean—?

Oshin remained squatting by the water inlet, listening intently... completely unaware of this, Kajiya Tomigorō. “They say wives and tatami mats should be changed often. Ha ha ha! No—this is just a joke. But getting back to our earlier discussion—about where Oto has been living and what she’s been doing these days, Osayo… truth is, I don’t actually know either.”

Osayo had reddened the rims of her eyes before she knew it. "But Master—just now—didn't you speak as if you knew everything?" "I beg you—" "Ha ha ha! Depending on how things go, I might not be entirely unwilling to talk... But for now, let's say I haven't swallowed a drop yet." "But since we're speaking plain—if you want me to deliver your message proper-like—I might just bare my shoulder here. Old-fashioned as it sounds... Might even arrange an honorable mother-daughter meeting......"

“Boss—what exactly is this ‘message’ you mentioned?” “Heh heh heh! What’s with that stone-faced look! When you corner me straight on like this, you’re puttin’ me in a tight spot, y’know?” “――”

“Well, enough of that.” “Let’s set my business aside for now—since you’ve gone to the trouble of coming all this way, you must have some important matter to discuss?” “Let’s hear it right now.” When told this, Osayo—unaware that this very Kajiya Tomigorō had long harbored feelings for Oto and was now the only person who had uncovered the fact that Oto, going by the name Yumehachi, was working as a geisha from the Matsugawa establishment in Fukagawa—simply began to recount haltingly the purpose of her visit today, seizing the opportunity now that she was asked.

It was certainly commendable that Eizaburō was such a gentle man, but when you got down to it, he lacked initiative and had no prospects for the future. Especially since Tomigorō was right—if Oto and Eizaburō had indeed cleanly parted ways—then now, at Osayo’s place of service in front of Honjo Hoonji, Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō, a five-hundred-koku hatamoto, had become deeply infatuated with her daughter and once tried to confine her in his mansion to make her his own; but he stated that if she cleanly severed ties with Eizaburō and gave her daughter to him as his lifelong mistress, he would secretly treat her as his wife and, in that case, take care of this Osayo as a five-hundred-koku retired woman until she closed her eyes. Though it was somewhat disloyal to Eizaburō, there was simply nothing to be done about this. Moreover, since they had already separated, it wasn’t as if they were splitting green wood, and in this world, she supposed it was the way of the times to prioritize one’s own comfort first. “Given this, it’s rather difficult for me to approach Eizaburō directly—so though I know it’s inconsiderate to ask while you’re busy, Mr. Tomigorō—what do you say? Here are fifty koban coins bestowed by his lordship. With this amount, not only will it cover repayment for the money Eizaburō fronted for you earlier, but there should be no grounds for him to raise further complaints.” “These fifty gold coins are exactly as they are here in this purse.” “Using this as severance money, would you not go and persuade Eizaburō to comply…?”

Tomigorō remained silent.

The pale shabby outskirts' silence pressed down upon midday streets.

The disciple Yoshikō seemed to have started another fight with the pawnshop apprentice across the way—their shrill voices spilled into the main street—but Oshin, hiding in the kitchen, acted as though she heard nothing, waiting solely for Tomigorō’s response inside the room alongside Granny Osayo, who hung her head and held her breath. So to speak, they were rivals in love—Genjūrō and Kajiya Tomigorō.

When Granny Osayo asked Kajiya Tomigorō—the blacksmith—to act as the severance envoy for Lord Suzukawa—to deliver the money and settle the matter—he flatly rejected her request without a hint of consideration. —contrary to expectations. On the contrary，he leaned back sharply and struck a dramatic pose，slapping his chest with a resounding thud. “Consider it done!”

he readily agreed. Oshin, who had been eavesdropping, saw the flames of jealousy that had flared up at her husband’s words about handing Oto over to Genjūrō subside slightly, her expression seeming somewhat relieved—but when he agreed more readily than expected, it was Osayo who instead grew startled, “Huh? “Then that…?” When pressed with a question, Master Tomigorō nodded even more magnanimously.

“Understood, Miss Osayo. I’ve come to fully grasp your heart’s intent. Ah yes—they say there’s no greater truth than a parent’s devotion to their child. Fine words indeed! What you mean is—you don’t want Oto sufferin’ any more hardships. You’re set on handin’ her over to Lord Suzukawa somehow, makin’ her station even a mite more comfortable—puttin’ your own affairs second, if I take your meanin’. That’s how it must be… Hmm… Parents truly are a blessin’, ain’t they! Why, Miss Osayo—here I am at my age, finally understandin’ a parent’s love myself. Ahhh—like cranes in burnt fields and nightingales singin’ through the dark—”

Tomigorō began spouting phrases that sounded like they might have been lifted from some temple sermon—though everything he said came out backwards. Nevertheless. Lured by that tearful tone, Osayo instinctively bowed her head—and even Oshin at the back entrance, mistaking her rag for a damp hand towel after returning from the baths, wiped at the corners of her eyes. Given it was late afternoon on a spring day, the whole tragicomic scene felt particularly ill-timed...

A lukewarm wind stirred up dust and enveloped the house.

The world seemed to yawn...a drowsy, listless melancholy. Osayo raised her reddened eyes. "So you're saying you'll go to Kawaracho, hand over the money, and obtain the divorce letter from Mr. Eizaburō for us?" "You bet! Just like you said—the world ain't all straight and narrow. What's more, it's Mr. Eizaburō—the man who got driven out without even being able to feed his own wife. Sure, he's got his own reasons and other things to worry about—but I ain't got no ear for whatever circumstances he's got. I'll head straight to Kawaracho now, butter up Mr. Eizaburō, get him grinning and writing that divorce letter—so you just leave it to me, no need to fret none. Oshin'll be back any minute now, so take your time chatting and rest easy."

“Truly, I’m always acting so selfishly—never contacting you unless I need something—and now here I am making such an outrageous request—” “Ah, it’s fine! Don’t say such things—we’re both acting in our own self-interest here.” “I’m deeply grateful.” “What the—?! It’s about time the old lady comes back… Damn it! What’s she doing? Polishing her damn face like some Binzuru statue till the skin’s about to peel off—”

Hearing this, Oshin quietly muffled her footsteps and went outside again—but when she came to her senses, she realized she was still gripping the pestle she’d been holding while waiting earlier, intending to storm in and brandish it if the conversation took a turn that forced her out and brought Miss Oto in—and she let out an involuntary “Ah!” Suppressing the urge to burst out, she chose the perfect moment to clear her throat—“Ahem!” With a single, casual cough,

“Oh! Could that be a guest?” Deliberately feigning haste, she rushed up and slid open the shoji door with a clatter,

“Oh, Miss Osayo! What a rare visit!” Beaming Oshin—now that her husband would likely give up on Miss Oto—immediately began entertaining Old Osayo who had brought up the matter, without even letting her sit down. “Oshin. Bring out that haori over there… Well then, Miss Osayo, I’ll be off to Kawaracho for a bit.” “Oshin, Miss Osayo can hold her liquor.” “In the evening pour a bottle—on my way back I’ll stop by Uojin and pick up something decent—”

“Take care.”

Tomigorō—seen off by Oshin and Osayo as he left his own blacksmith shop in Mikkamachi, resolved never to approach his home again—nonetheless felt a lingering reluctance tug at him. At the street corner, while shouting at the apprentice Kichikō to cover his scolding exit, he stuffed the fifty gold coins into his pocket and vanished swiftly in a direction opposite to Asakusa Kawaracho, as though fleeing.

Not long after that— Kajiya Tomigorō, having left Mikkamachi, walked along a street with few passersby, sinking deep into thought. From time to time, he reached into his breast pocket. The pocket bulged warmly with a wallet containing fifty gold coins—a sensation that couldn't help but set Tomigorō's heart racing, this man who in his post-middle years had lately grown prone to listlessness. From ten ryō onward, heads begin to roll.

Fifty ryō was, of course, a large sum. But more than the money itself, what made Kajiya Tomigorō endlessly envious was that very gold's ability to purchase Oto's very flesh.

It was said that the lord of Honjo had handed Granny Osayo these fifty gold coins and told her to use them to cleanly obtain Oto from Eizaburō. That Lord Suzukawa—a notoriously impoverished hatamoto of ill repute—had managed to procure such a sum as fifty ryō was the foremost mystery; but even so, for Tomigorō, Osayo—blinded by her own greed—choosing of all people to bring this negotiation to him amounted to nothing short of a godsend.

Perfect! Understood! Having not only slapped his chest grandly to reassure the old woman but even listed off parental gratitude to make her shed a few tears, Kajiya Tomigorō had left home pretending most virtuously to act as a divorce mediator—yet from the very beginning, he had never considered properly negotiating with the other party and leaving behind the fifty gold coins. When Osayo suddenly visited—his wife Oshin happened to be away—he resolved to finally bring up the matter of wanting Oto: if she would consent to being his mistress, then a mistress she would be; but if she refused to enter his household on those terms, he would immediately find fault with his long-wearying old wife Oshin and drive her out, then install Oto in her place. Thus he planned to entreat Osayo, addressing her as "Mother," to mediate this arrangement. Now then—though I alone knew this—Miss Oto was currently working as a geisha named Yumehachi from Fukagawa under Matsugawa’s establishment. If [Osayo] wished to meet her, I could arrange it immediately—with this, I intended to spill everything and place her in my debt, then plead to take Oto for myself. But just as I was about to do so, when I heard the purpose of Granny Osayo’s visit, it turned out Lord Suzukawa had already made the first move—not only offering fifty gold coins in severance money right here, but even a five-hundred-koku retirement stipend for a woman—and the old woman seemed utterly swayed. Damn it all! No matter how hard I tried to intervene now, facing a hatamoto as my opponent meant this was hopeless from the start.

If I stayed silent and did nothing, even without going myself, that old woman or someone else would settle the matter—and Lord Suzukawa might come to view Miss Oto as some geisha-house prize flower. That Oto—Suzukawa or any other river—I wouldn't let them buy her with money! Having worked himself into a fierce resolve, Master Blacksmith Tomigorō concluded that preventing Oto's transfer to Honjo required absconding with these fifty gold coins himself. This way, Osayo couldn't return empty-handed to the estate—and since none but he knew Oto's whereabouts, Lord Suzukawa's grasp would never reach her—

Right. Using these fifty gold coins as travel funds, I should slip away from Edo for now? There's no way I'll let that fossilized lord Suzukawa do as he pleases with Miss Oto!

He had grown thoroughly weary of his wife Oshin. Tomigorō resolved to vanish completely and live it up on his travels while the gold lasted—for such was the way of base men: what he couldn't obtain himself, he wouldn't let others take either. His claim about going to Kawaracho with the money had been a brazen lie; having deceived both Oshin and Osayo, he'd rushed out intending to leave his home vacant for some time—but now that the moment had truly come, walking through town and pondering, he found himself utterly unable to determine where on earth he should depart.

And so, Kajiya Tomigorō sauntered aimlessly on foot when, before long, he suddenly hit upon the idea of the Ise pilgrimage—something he had yearned for since childhood but had never once undertaken. "Right! That's it—I'll make a pilgrimage to Ise and play it off in style." Having resolved thus—a thoroughly unscrupulous man—he appropriated the fifty gold coins that Suzukawa Genjūrō had stolen after murdering Master Carpenter Ihei, unaware they bore Lord Dewa’s circular “Wa” seal stamped upon them. Without delay, he hailed a street palanquin and had it rushed to Rokugō’s ferry crossing. Beyond the river lay Kawasaki; switching porters at each post station like a courier in haste, he jolted through the night—reaching the foothills of Hakone Pass by dawn’s first light, determined to greet the morning sun.

“Hup!” “A palanquin!” “Hurry up! I’ll pay extra for drinks! Get your shoulders in sync—heave-ho! Let’s move it!” “Move it!” “You’re not moving!” The hasty old man was indeed a character; leaving behind Edo’s spring clamorous with cherry blossoms, he barreled down the Tōkaidō with a booming “Off we go!”, thundering toward Ise.

Water-Fire Secret Document

An indigo twilight hung faintly over the bamboo grove, and on each and every trunk, the lingering light of the western sky glowed crimson.

In the faintly cold wind, it was a moment of heartrending desolation, as if watching spider threads shimmer silver.

Castle West, Aoyama Chōjagamaru. At the edge of Koigoi Forest... In the thicket's shadow stood a single-story house surrounded by a token hedge, its thatched roof sagging from years of habitation—a precarious structure that seemed to murmur of lives cloaked in secrecy. At Naka Forest's fringe—into this long-vacant dwelling—there had recently drifted about twenty men of obscure origins. They came and went without pattern, their days and nights passing in hushed obscurity.

Originally likely built as a retirement residence for a wealthy samurai family, this was an elaborate dwelling down to its woodwork, layout, and furnishings that came with the house—yet having long been left unmanned and ravaged by foxes and raccoon dogs, compounded by its current residents being a gathering of men of uncertain origins who neither cleaned nor maintained it, the place reached such extreme dilapidation and disorder that one might well call it a haunted house…

In the dirt-floored entryway of this single house—not Adachigahara yet evoking its aura—five palanquins, ill-suited to their surroundings, were neatly lined up and set down.

And. On the wall above them hung five sets of fireman's gear—the mysterious abode of that five-man fire brigade. Under the white-haired elder—whom one would sooner call a senior than a leader— Four stalwart warriors moved as limbs. Ten men—each nearly six feet tall and muscular—normally handled cleaning, water chores, and house security, but could instantly transform into palanquin bearers when mobilized. Moreover. To Yayoi—disguised as Onozuka Iori, who had joined the group midway—and further to Bean Tarō, Master of Exquisite Shuriken from Kōshū’s vagrant wilds, whom Yayoi herself had recognized for his rare skills and recruited, the forest-shadowed hideout now housed seventeen members in total; yet despite this, lively days continued unabated within.

A mysterious group positioned between Tange Sazen and Suwa Eizaburō—equally targeting both—aiming to seize Ken'unmaru from Sazen and Konryūmaru from Eizaburō to unite the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru swords into one!

Could this prominent old man be called the incarnation of Onozuka Tetsusai? That even Yayoi had severed her black hair to join this five-man group—even recruiting an eccentric like Bean Tarō to prepare for battle—and was now steadily advancing their cause remained a secret matter; much like the true identities of the old man and his cohorts, it defied all external comprehension, regardless of what understanding might exist between Yayoi’s disguised persona Iori and the quintet.

Who was this white-haired old man with a youthful countenance? And what of those four spirited warriors who served him? What thoughts filled Yayoi’s heart as she moved among them in male disguise? What had become of her grief-laden yearning and unrequited love for Eizaburō?

All these things must be the pale blue flames enveloped in fireman’s gear—the smoldering sparks of secret affairs that would soon blaze forth and reveal themselves.

Over the dwelling of the five-man fire brigade group—elusive as sudden squalls—and Yayoi and Bean Tarō, the setting sun of Musashino now cast its bloody hues. In the distant grove of mixed trees echoed the discordant cawing of crow flocks; across the ground stretched long shadows of slender bamboo trunks; from behind came the creak of a well pulley drawing water, the smoke of a kitchen hearth, the bustle of meal preparations—amidst the mundanely sorrowful and hurried rhythms of this fleeting world, the atmosphere hummed restlessly, welcoming yet another evening.

Twilight.

Crimson. ……The first star begins to gleam.

At that moment, as evening deepened and a cold wind rose, two shadows crouched in the bamboo thicket by the back door. Yayoi and Bean Tarō. As if continuing some conversation, Bean Tarō began to speak without looking up. Looking closer, he was indeed sharpening a dagger. Bean Tarō had laid out several daggers meant for assassination shuriken on the ground and was diligently honing the blades with skillful hands, deftly splashing water from a nearby bucket as he worked. The small blades lay against the indigo-black sky... they seemed to smile from the heart, dreaming of blood.

A small blade lay supine, casting the sky’s hue into indigo-black… …it seemed to smile from the depths of its heart, dreaming of blood. “Ah, Iori-san—those two—scaring them off like that was more than enough.” “Heh heh heh, everyone was scared shitless and cowered down, I tell ya.” As he spoke, Bean Tarō held the small dagger up to his nose, glaring at the blade with a grimace, but still seeming unsatisfied, “Tch!” “Damn thing!” He resumed scrub-scrubbing the blade against the whetstone, but upon hearing “those two,” Yayoi suddenly turned her gaze away—and in that instant,

“Lord Iori! Lord Iori! Is Lord Iori not here?”

From the back, the old man’s voice came. “Right. Since we’ve taken down a fair number of the Ken’un faction, that should suffice for now… As for that red-painting peddler samurai and the beggar—intimidating them like that is enough. No injuries allowed.” As she got up and said this hurriedly, Bean Tarō tilted his head with a slightly suspicious expression,

“Hah! Is that how it’s gonna be? I just don’t get it.” And just as Yayoi was about to speak again, the old man’s voice—which had been calling out persistently—now rang out even more shrilly.

“Lord Iori! Is Lord Iori not here somewhere?”

Without even pausing his hands from sharpening the shuriken, Bean Tarō warned.

“Iori-san, the boss is callin’ for ya.”

Yayoi nodded and entered the house. She proceeded to the inner study.

In an eight-mat room devoid of any furniture-like items, where water-like twilight seeped quietly from every corner, an old man sat formally in its center upon a faded crimson rug. His silver-thread-bound white hair and waterfall-like white beard framed a long face with fine luster, which he held upright while sitting formally with both hands on his knees, layered in a brown-crested kimono over a solid navy Kai silk sleeveless robe. Were he to don a red short coat, he would resemble nothing so much as a senile celebrant of the character "喜" in festive garb—an utterly ordinary benevolent old man who might as well have been a decorative figurine.

Now, whoever he might be, this old warrior—having kept four fire-clad combatants and ten ruffians firmly under his command while personally charging ahead into the Kenkon sword conflicts—spoke volumes through his hawk-like piercing gaze, tightly pressed lips, and shoulders-to-arms musculature hardened like forged steel; one glance revealed he was no ordinary elder. Yayoi perceived an eerie chill lingering about his surroundings—weathered like an ancient pine tree—even in the twilight,

“Ah… did you call for me, sir?” Yayoi, who had entered, involuntarily shuddered slightly as she edged closer to the silent old man and took her seat before him.

Dim. The adjacent room was now an interior nearly pitch-black in darkness. When she saw the old man’s face floating dimly white like a sacred mirror there, Yayoi looked around as if noticing for the first time. “Oh! Has the lamp not yet been lit? My deepest apologies for this clumsiness… I shall bring it at once.” Yayoi—by nature, when appearing before this old man who knew her origins—even though she was supposed to be Onozuka Iori, would always revert to her true female self, her very words becoming simply those of Yayoi so naturally that even she found it strange.

Having devoted herself around the clock to consciously comporting herself as a man, even this brief shedding of her armor to return to her true self as a woman could not help but stir a bittersweet ache in the depths of Yayoi’s heart—so poignant it brought tears. The old warrior did not open his mouth. But as though he had perceived Yayoi's inner turmoil, the razor-like coldness in his gaze gained a touch of gentleness, until even his bluntly uttered voice—though still brusque—revealed a vein of paternal affection toward her, like that shown to a child.

“No lamp needed.” And, unusually, a faint smile quivered ever so slightly in the darkness. “Even in darkness, conversations can be seen through.” “Hohoho! That is indeed so.” The young samurai Iori laughed as the girl Yayoi. There, a strangely peculiar allure rippled through the air. “And regarding that matter you mentioned—?” “—What might that be?” Then, the old man sank into deep thought for some time, “Lord Iori! No—rather, Lady Yayoi… Tell me, has anyone yet realized that Iori is Yayoi?”

Gasp! Seemingly startled, Yayoi suddenly hunched her shoulders and reverted to her male guise as she—

“Apart from you, sensei—who have known from the beginning—and your disciples, there should be no one who knows.” “Hmm. What of that ape-like Bean Tarō?” “Ah—on what grounds would even he suspect me? Needless to say, he firmly believes me to be a man. But why do you ask such a thing tonight of all nights?”

The old warrior’s knee inched forward an inch or two.

“I merely asked because I was somewhat concerned. It’s nothing serious.” “But Lady Yayoi, while there must be no oversights, be sufficiently cautious to avoid being captured…”

As Yayoi nodded, as if waiting for that signal, from the bamboo thicket at the rear came Bean Tarō's self-proclaimed vocalist singing voice. The slope shines bright. Suzuka is cloudy. At Tsuchiyama in between, the rain falls. Up and down the winding path go the packhorses— My, what splendidly re-dyed reins! Though mere muleteers, they sing out loudly Guided by bells, the Omuro-bushi song The slope shines bright. Suzuka is cloudy. At Tsuchiyama in between, the rain falls. Yes! Clang, clang, ka—. Into the house beneath the darkening forest shadows, Bean Tarō's voice—singing in a lively tone as he alone sharpened shuriken—rolled through like a stream.

He appeared to be sharpening them on a whetstone in time with his song, keeping the rhythm, and his voice was filled with strength.

It was a cheerful singing voice—ill-suited to the turtle-backed dwarf—that carried rustic charm through his throat hardened by Edo-style training. At Tsuchiyama in between, rain falls. "It's ill-timed rain," "Stay the night and go on your way." "The master's pine cones—" "Touch them and they'll fall." "Yes, yes... you know?" When Bean Tarō's intermittent singing voice abruptly ceased within the dark density of spring night's silence, the old warrior and Yayoi faintly met each other's gazes and smiled.

As if recalling something, the old man said. "There is but one reason I have summoned you."

“Yes.”

Holding her breath, Yayoi stiffened slightly. Now, what was he about to say in this evening’s moment when this person was absent…… That was something Yayoi found herself not a little concerned about at this juncture——.

The master of this house—ancient as pine and cypress that had endured a thousand years—. As far as Yayoi had been able to ascertain since coming here and sharing their daily life— The old warrior... His name was Tokiwa Kanemitsu. A native of Mino, he had left his homeland due to certain circumstances and now humbled himself in Edo with the sole purpose of obtaining Sekino Magoroku’s night-crying long and short swords as a pair——. What reason drove their relentless pursuit? Moreover, what relationship existed between the four warriors and the ten large men?—From this point onward, all other matters were naturally kept tightly sealed by them, and since Yayoi too felt deeply indebted to the group’s chivalrous code, she had to refrain from any attempts to investigate the truth from within.

However. The agreement established between Kanemitsu and Yayoi was that they would first combine their efforts to unite the Konryūmaru and Ken'unmaru swords, after which Kanemitsu would formally return the matched pair of long and short swords from his possession to Yayoi—the surviving child of the late Onozuka Tetsusai.

Thus. The five palanquins that appeared everywhere like the wind, targeting both swords, and Onozuka Iori’s Yayoi—enlisting Bean Tarō’s aid—stood ready to assist them. If their goal had been solely to reclaim Ken'unmaru from Tange Sazen, that would have made sense—but why did they seek to seize Eizaburō’s Konryūmaru as well? And why was Yayoi cooperating with them? Was Yayoi intending to turn against Eizaburō out of vengeance for her unrequited love? It was not!

Even for Yayoi, they were the group of five to whom she owed a debt of gratitude. Since they would temporarily unite the two swords and promptly return them to Yayoi thereafter, she hoped that day might come even a single day sooner. While employing Bean Tarō to primarily stalk Sazen, Eizaburō for his part sought to secretly seize Konryūmaru while ensuring no harm befell its vicinity. In other words, Yayoi was merely taking advantage of the Kanemitsu group’s proposal—but would Bean Tarō truly grasp her true intentions and act as she hoped?

Those who use poison must first take care not to be affected by it themselves. Bean Tarō... already seemed to harbor secret doubts about Onozuka Iori’s character. Indeed, as old man Tokiwa had said, it was crucial for Yayoi to remain undetected. But Bean Tarō was Bean Tarō.

Tonight.

Tokiwa Kanemitsu opened his mouth, and here for the first time began to speak of all the secret vows he had sworn to himself.

As night fell, the desolation grew even deeper. As Yayoi listened intently to Kanemitsu’s every word, a great surprise spread like ripples across her face, visibly widening.

Now, what is this tale of Tokiwa Kanemitsu—the old warrior who lived in obscurity? The story returns to the past, spanning from the Bunmei to Eishō eras. The tale of Tokiwa Kanemitsu—the old warrior who lived in obscurity, leader of the five fireman's-attire palanquins—is as follows. In the distant past spanning from Bunmei to Eishō——. In Mino Province at that time, the one praised as an unrivaled master among renowned swordsmith families was Izumi-no-kami Kanesada. All swordsmiths of superior blades valued dignity alongside practicality and utility. The longsword forged by Izumi-no-kami Kanesada exhibited a blade where the steel’s texture was finely forged with robust clarity, its temper line profoundly vivid. Within its youthful elegance lay an ōmidare pattern that harmonized Mino-school grandeur with Bizen-style motifs—a craftsmanship deemed superior-grade in its era.

Mino Province, Seki Village. The so-called Seven Seki Schools were these: Yoshisada Kenkichi, Naratarō Kanetsune, Tokunaga Kannen, San’ami Kanetaka, Tokiwa Kanehisa, Yoshikane Haha, and Muroya Kanenin—the descendants of these seven branched out across the Five Provinces and Seven Circuits from Mino and Echizen onward, numbering approximately a thousand branches in total. All bore the character *Kane* in their names, preserving traces of the seven schools—yet— Kanemoto, who bore the name Seki no Magoroku, also belonged to this Izumi lineage. Magoroku was a creator of masterwork blades. The swords he forged featured extremely narrow temper lines, often displaying small tortoise-shell patterns of three cedars alongside straight grain textures. When it came to the second-generation Kanemoto known as Seki no Magoroku, his blades were celebrated throughout the land as supreme great masterwork blades among Shintō swords. Yet after Seki entered the Shintō period, their standing declined considerably. During the first Magoroku’s era, however, the prosperity of the Seki school could truly be called unprecedented and unparalleled. Among the countless master smiths emerging from their ranks—Shizu Saburō Kaneuji, Kaneshige, Kanesada, Kanemoto, Kaneshige [another], Kanekiyo, and the first-generation Kanemitsu—stood out as exceptionally skilled artisans. Others like Kanenaga, Kanetomo, Kaneyuki, Kanenori, Kanehisa, Kanesada [another], Kanejira, and Kaneshige [again] were all deemed master craftsmen. Generally, Mino blades were characterized by soft grinding resistance—their essence markedly distinct from Bizen swords.

The first-generation Seki no Magoroku— When forging his signature great masterwork blades, he secretly employed the culmination of his life's work: the dual aspects of fire and water known as large and small martensitic crystals alongside blade edge patterning—a crystallized secret born of blood and tears, devised through half a lifetime's labor. As for the art of sword forging, when it came to details and finishing touches, these were matters of oral tradition unique to each school—some aspects kept secret even from disciples—and thus differed between them, making it impossible for outsiders to easily surmise their methods. Yet the fundamental techniques remained largely uniform, that is to say……

The fundamental rules of sword forging in Japan. First, iron had its production locations determined since ancient times. The Inga iron of Hōki—referred to as Chigusa—was ranked first; next came the Dewa iron of Iwami, which was used for the edge. There were also types such as Nanbu hei iron and Nanban iron, but due to their strong tenacity, they were employed primarily for the base metal.

In forging, there are two methods. For old sword forging, they relied entirely on layered oroshi-gane steel—a practice that essentially ended with smiths like Magoroku. As for new sword forging methods, while Masanori, Ōmura Kato, and the Musashi Tarō school’s shinjūgo-mai kōfuse technique emerged, only two methods have been widely preserved: oroshi-gane and shintō-gitae. Now, consider the Inga iron of Hōki. To forge this into a blade, one must first prepare charcoal, clay, and ash as essential materials—the charcoal cut to uniform size with all powder removed.

Clay too had its places of origin. The clay from Fukakusa-yama and Inari-yama in Yamashiro was considered finest. The ash was made from burned straw. Water—clear and cold—was prized. It was filtered using clear sand and fabrics such as habutae. Then. This process was called *heshi*, where flat striking reduced the steel to prepare the sword’s base metal. This was also known as water striking. Next came stacked heating.

This involved pouring a thick solution—prepared by kneading clay with water—over the forge’s hearth and using bellows to heat the iron. That was what was referred to as small heating.

Ōwakashi involved coating the iron's circumference with straw ash before inserting it into the fire to heat until incandescent. Once cooled, it was forged. Using three coordinated strikes of their hammers, they removed it from the heat and hammered it to create straight grain patterns in the steel's texture. When properly cooled, they proceeded to the martensitic forging process. Martensitic forging served as the consolidation process. The steel pieces that had been separate until now were consolidated into a single sword form through this method, then moved to suberi. The suberi process corrected irregularities in the base metal, flattened the edge's angular corners, and brought out the ridge line's definition.

Forging—also called sensuki—involved using a file for the first time to finally perfect the form.

Next. They would add curvature and proceed to the most crucial hardening process—though both the curvature techniques and hardening methods were secret traditions passed down through each school, resulting in vast differences in luster and depth. The soil required for this was deemed to be that of Kurotani—a fact known to all. This curvature and hardening process. Naturally, this stood as a vital stage in a sword's creation—through it blades would be distinguished as sharp or dull, and smiths' skill as masterful or mediocre would be determined—yet...

But even more critical than that was the next step—the temperature control of water during quenching, also known as blade patterning.

Blade patterning...the meticulous stage in sword forging. First, fill the water tank about seven or eight parts full with clear water; light a fierce fire in the hearth; then adjust the water’s coldness and warmth according to the four seasons—this was why it bore the name “temperature regulation.” Spring—the water of February fields. Autumn—the water of August fields. Doing likewise proved crucial. Once preparations stood complete, the master smith would quietly immerse the blade—uniformly crimson from habaki collar to bōshi tip—into the water. This became where souls were instilled; for here, through water temperature and handling alone, everything—the blade’s sharpness, dignity, and ultimate success or failure—would be decided. Thus craftsmen cleared bystanders and prayed single-mindedly to the gods.

Thus, once the blade patterning was completed. After correcting bends with a coarse whetstone and sending the tang to a grinding workshop for initial polishing, they then used files to shape the nakago. After completing this tang, they further refined the polishing, used a drill to bore peg holes, inscribed the signature, then placed it into either a shirasaya or formal scabbard—and thus, at last, the blade broke free from its forging process—but!

Herein lay the secret tradition of Seki no Magoroku’s dual water and fire techniques— One pertained to fire: the essential techniques of *ōwakashi* (large heating) and *kowakashi* (small heating) during stacked heating.

The other pertained to water, and that involved subtle water techniques during blade patterning. Indeed. In the art of sword-making, where blades are tempered through water and fire, the secret techniques devised by Magoroku—who imparted the unique essence of his school into those elements—must have been truly difficult to obtain, even if one amassed however much gold and treasure. The secret application of water and fire.

It was none other than this:

The slight know-how when stacking individual iron bodies, pouring a type of slurry over them, and burning—the tradition of *kowakashi* (small heating).

Next, at the critical moment when they cast the iron—now coated with straw ash—into the blazing fire, how the bellows were used... This was the method of *ōwakashi* (large heating).

This was Magoroku’s mastered fire technique. The water technique: The water technique was nothing more than slight adjustments in water temperature and angle when submerging a rough blade—already given form—blade-first into the water. This was Seki no Magoroku’s self-devised technique of water and fire. If such techniques could be easily mastered merely by hearing them described or listening to explanations—well, then no effort would be required at all. But far from it! For this was Seki no Magoroku’s divine revelation—a swordsmithing epiphany he attained only after a lifetime of struggle, realizing it on his deathbed through a fleeting moment of clarity. Thus, those who wish to reach such heights of skill have no path to comprehending these secrets except to retrace with their own bodies the precipitous road Magoroku himself had gasped through—so it has long been recounted among the Kanemitsu smiths bearing the “Kane” character, scattered around Seki in Mino Province.

If that is so.

The secret techniques of water and fire forging that Magoroku, head of the Seki Shichiryū school, had mastered—were they callously buried in his grave upon his death?

Nay! Greatly, nay! Though many of those called master craftsmen and geniuses in this world remain stubbornly devoted only to themselves—and though Seki no Magoroku was not entirely free from such tendencies—he, being a prodigy who founded his own school, would never commit the folly of taking his hard-won methods into death's dark realm as his alone! Even if he had no intention of confining them to his lineage, how could one so versed in Japanese swordsmithing's grand tradition act with such idiocy? Surely, somewhere, by some method, Magoroku's secret techniques of water and fire must have been passed down to this day... was what anyone would think.

In fact, they remained exactly as they were. “Where?!” “The Water-Fire pair—now separated!” As Old Man Tokiwa finished speaking...

“Huh?” It was Yayoi who instinctively leaned forward into the darkness. “Then—that Water-Fire technique of Seki no Magoroku still exists in this world?” “Precisely!” Though invisible in the gloom, the old samurai seemed to nod deeply. “As I just explained—Magoroku’s techniques of large heating and small heating, along with his secret blade patterning method, have been preserved as paired secret documents. This much is irrefutably clear.”

“My! Though I don’t know where such important documents are located, you must have already obtained them by now.” And Yayoi, recovering from her momentary surprise, quickly reverted to her ordinary feminine demeanor.

“Ah ha ha ha! “No—”

Tokiwa Kanemitsu, who had suddenly burst into loud laughter, abruptly thrust his face forward and lowered his voice as he— “Therefore, regarding the whereabouts of those Water-Fire Secret Documents…” “Yes?” “And their location…?” “As I stated earlier, they exist as paired documents.” “Paired documents?” “Precisely—a split document.” “One alone holds no purpose—only when two unite do they form a complete text. That is to say, they are divided into two sheets: the Water scroll and the Fire scroll. Though separate pages, the text flows continuously between them.” “Meaning unless one aligns both sheets and deciphers them together, even possessing either scroll alone would never allow satisfactory mastery of the Water-Fire forging technique—such is their design.”

Yayoi quietly tilted her head. “...So you mean?” “Can you not grasp this? Ah—but you’re young, born in peaceful times... and a woman besides—” “What?!”

“Ah! Well, ha ha ha! There’s no one eavesdropping… At any rate, it’s natural you wouldn’t know, but during the Warring States period, many were versed in this method of composing secret missives. When dispatching envoys through enemy lines to distant lands, they always employed this brushwork technique.” “That is—”

As he began to speak, Old Samurai Tokiwa appeared to start writing characters on the tatami with his finger. Along with his voice, a faint rustling sound reached Yayoi’s ears.

The pitch-black room.

Before they knew it, the two found themselves in the very center, facing each other at close range.

It would likely rain tomorrow... The heavy air of the spring night hung warm and damp, and neither moon nor stars cast their light upon the peak of Kogoi Forest visible beyond the garden. The silence—broken by Tokiwa Kanemitsu’s words. According to that, A matching pair... a split document—this referred to— It was a method of battlefield correspondence wherein one would write a phrase from the beginning on a single small sheet of paper, embed another phrase in reverse between the lines starting from the end—so that both texts together first formed a coherent meaning—then tear the sheet down the center into two halves, having each half carried separately through enemy territory.

Thus. Even if one of the two messengers fell into enemy hands and had a fragment of the letter seized, unless the enemy obtained the other half as well, they could read no coherent text from it. As long as they dispatched the two separately, this split-document correspondence method was considered a nearly secure means of communication at that time. It was likely this that Seki no Magoroku conceived—the written document through which he bequeathed to posterity the secrets of his Water-Fire forging techniques had thus been split into two parts as a matching pair.

He—Magoroku—... When he lay upon his deathbed and knew his heavenly time drew near, he distanced others from the sickroom, sat upright alone in solemn silence, quietly took up brush and paper, and with needle-tip fine characters upon a slender strip— First, water is the essence of blade patterning.

That is, when immersing a heated blade into water— he wrote these instructions, and simultaneously began composing text from the end of the same paper, making it read from left to right between the lines of the initial characters... First, fire pertains to large boiling and small boiling. That is, when layering the base metal— And so, upon this single narrow sheet of paper, he inscribed the dual esoteric teachings of water and fire; then splitting this paper down the middle into two, he separated them into distinct fragments—the first beginning with the Water section and the latter separate sheet expounding the Fire passage—and decided to leave them in the world as separate entities.

It was then that Magoroku—before falling ill—took up the recently completed long and short camp swords he had crafted, removed the hilt of the long sword forged from shakudō alloy with its scattered-cloud engraving, rolled the latter half of the fire scroll into its tang core, and likewise securely concealed the former half of the water scroll within the hilt of the short sword carved with an ascending dragon. The Water-Fire Secret Document, imbued with the master craftsman’s fervent dedication. The Water Secret and Fire Secret—that which should never be parted—were severed into two. Water settles in low places; fire ascends to high places. Therefore.

Water was the dragon; fire was the cloud.

Thus it was. Thus did Seki no Magoroku’s Water-Fire matching pair—Ken’unmaru, housing solely the fire techniques of great and small boiling, and the companion short sword Konryūmaru, imbued with the water art of blade patterning—become two blades of cloud and dragon bound by an iron chain of karmic fate, destined never again to part. A single piece served no purpose—only when two united did they form one secret code. Yet even after tearing this ancient document down the center into two fragments, the old craftsman’s dying blood coursed through every character on both pieces, binding the entire text into a single living stream—the crystallization of supreme artistry and toil.

As if that weren’t enough! A matched pair of blades—split into cloud and dragon yet inseparable—the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru. That these blades—forged by the dying sword's spirit—each contained one half of the Water-Fire Secret Documents! Rightly so! Heaven and Earth... For as long as they exist, Ken'unmaru of Fire and Konryūmaru of Water—the cloud calls to the dragon, and the dragon yearns for the cloud—are fated to yearn for and draw each other near.

Once more came recollection of the legendary tale binding the swords. While kept together in one place, the twin blades brought no harm—but let Ken'un and Konryū be separated even briefly, and cloud would call to dragon in mutual resonance: blood would spill, flesh would scatter, turbulent upheaval erupting until they inevitably unleashed a vortex of steel—a living hell wrought upon this world. That this held truth, none knew better than Yayoi who had witnessed it with her own eyes—yet beneath the legend of night-weeping blades lay not merely karmic causality between cloud and dragon, but indeed this buried history of secret matching-pair documents.

It was said that when separated, the twin blades would whimper and cry out for each other in the depths of the same night—but perhaps those mournful cries were being wrung from the Water-Fire Secret Documents themselves, torn asunder into split texts, each hidden within their respective hilts. It was Seki no Magoroku’s very flesh and blood—refusing to relinquish his devotion to sword forging even at death’s brink—that now stirred into action. Who could call it impossible!

And so— The Ken'un and Konryū blades—long and short swords each concealing their halves of the Water-Fire matching documents within their hilts—passed through generations under shifting constellations and changing fortunes. After passing through many hands across unknown eras, they became inherited treasures of the Onozuka clan, ancestral house of the Shinpen Musō-ryū swordsmanship tradition. By the time of former master Tetsusai’s generation, they lay safely stored at a dojo in Edo’s Akebono district, permitted for temporary wearing solely during the annual grand tournament as ceremonial prizes.

However. It was the renowned sword collector Sōma Daizen-no-suke who developed a covetous obsession with these night-crying blades. And now, obeying his lord’s command and stirring up sandstorms across Edo’s streets was the one-eyed, one-armed sword specter Tange Sazen… and opposing him, Suwa Eizaburō. With Ken’unmaru, the mastery of fire now rested in Sazen’s grasp. With Konryūmaru, the art of water flowed at Eizaburō’s hip. As matching scroll and blade remained sundered, Magoroku’s soul beneath the earth found no respite—it rose to the surface, shaping these violent storms and torrential rains…

But no—! Since Magoroku had applied the sword mountings, they appeared never to have altered their configuration; even now, the twin blades remained in their original camp sword style. Were one to secure both swords with utmost haste and remove their hilts, Ken'unmaru—the greater blade—would surely yield the split document’s latter half on fire techniques, while Konryūmaru—the lesser blade—would beyond doubt disgorge the former portion detailing water methods. At that time, Magoroku had taken a paper strip one sun wide and over a shaku long, filled it horizontally like a scroll with alternating lines of water and fire secrets written from both margins in minuscule mosquito-leg script, split it down the middle, tightly wound each fragment around a sword’s tang, then refitted the shakudō hilts over them.

And at the same time. He had not forgotten to make preparations against the potential scattering of the documents. Separately, he drafted a document recording the principles of water-fire sword sealing, stored it in his cherished file box, and only then—finally relieved—sank into eternal slumber, yet— That was his intention. Should any number of his descendants—or any later smith who aspires to and achieves mastery in sword forging—reach the level of handling Magoroku’s file, they would thereby prove themselves worthy to view the written instructions within that box and, furthermore, to excavate the Water-Fire Secret Documents from the two swords’ hilts without objection.

Such was Magoroku’s design—yet though many generations passed under countless stars and frosts, and though numerous descendants emerged from the Seki Shichiryu school, none had yet reached the level of handling Magoroku’s file to discover the separate documents. Thus, the Water-Fire Matching Documents Sword Concealment Ritual remained unknown even in dreams. Even so, among the swordsmiths of Mino Province, it had been whispered like an ancient folktale that Seki no Magoroku—founder of Seki—likely possessed his own dual secret techniques of water-raising and fire-raising. Yet none had ever reached the level of mastering the ancient-style files Magoroku had personally used. Thus, the file box remained dust-covered and unopened long after his death, even to this day. Though it was acknowledged that the Water-Fire Secret Scrolls existed as split tallies rolled into the cores of the night-crying long and short swords, Magoroku’s separate authentic note within that file box never found its moment of discovery—and so, atop the noble methods of past and present, the seasons flowed vainly away!

So then, would even the master craftsman’s meticulous care come to naught, leaving the Water-Fire Secret matching documents to decay in vain within the sword hilts…? At that moment when it seemed— Having devoted half his life to perfecting the art of sword forging until his skills matured, he who finally opened the box to handle Magoroku’s cherished file was the aged samurai born into the Tokuin family—legitimate heirs of Seki—who had borne the name Kagemitsu for generations: master of a solitary house in the shadowed woods of Kogoi and leader of five fire brigade palanquins. This Tokuin Kagemitsu was indeed a direct descendant of Magoroku.

Before old man Tokuin—who had there for the first time revealed his lineage and declared his name—Yayoi sat in the pitch-black room and involuntarily straightened her collar. "In all endeavors, I have heard that the toil of mastering an art commands reverence. "That these night-weeping blades should harbor such vital documents and bear such karmic bonds—neither my father nor I, nay, not a single soul among generations of the Onozuka house could have conceived this. "Truly, the twin swords of cloud and dragon must remain eternally inseparable. "I comprehend this fully. "Then shall I too—though my strength be meager—redouble my efforts henceforth to reunite these twin blades and restore them to your hands without fail ere long."

“No! No!” “Preposterous!” Kagemitsu seemed to have frantically waved his hands in such protest. The dark air quivered and struck Yayoi’s face. “No—even were my ancestor their forger, these blades now belong solely to the Onozuka house! I would not dare lay a finger upon them.” “Yet the Water-Fire Secret Documents of Magoroku hidden within those Ken’un and Konryū hilts… those alone I must claim!” “Though it cost this old bone his very life!”

“Absolutely! Iori shall comply.” As the conversation grew more serious, Yayoi once again saw inherent femininity gradually fade away from her demeanor—reverting with practiced ease to masculine speech patterns cultivated through daily repetition over these past days.

The low voice of Tokuin Kagemitsu—descendant of Seki no Magoroku—continued like the sound of fluttering insects. "What say you of how new swords fail to flourish in this age?"

Suddenly, the old man blurted out like this and raised his eyebrows. "They say signs of benevolent rule have spread to every corner of the land, and the world progresses day by day—yet swordsmiths alone cannot compare to the masterpieces of old." "To declare that our nation's proud master smiths now show signs of decline here would be no exaggeration." "I must take action!" "Unless one either delves into ancient methods' secrets or breaks his bones forging a new path, swordsmithing itself shall perish—so I resolved, laboring without rest even in sleepless nights. Yet my meager talent remains meager; shamefully, I've not reached creating my own style. Still, somehow I came to wield our founder Seki no Magoroku's file. Suppressing the blood surging in this aged breast for a day, I finally deemed it time to dust off that file box—"

"Huh...?" "And then—it emerged! It emerged! A document written in Magoroku’s own hand—beyond any doubt—has appeared! It declares how the secrets of water and fire are sealed separately within the Ken’un and Konryū blades as matching tallies! Lady Yayoi—you must understand my joy and astonishment at that moment!"

“……”

“There is no need for me to recount what followed.” “When I had my disciples scour all directions to investigate, I learned that those long and short swords were now—ah—in the possession of your father’s household, the Onozuka family of Akebono Village in Edo’s Nezu district. In haste, I gathered four top disciples, selected the most robust among my swordsmiths to disguise as palanquin bearers, and rushed to Edo’s heart. But by then, as you knew, that Tange wretch had already separated the two blades through his lawless acts—whether the blades thirsted for blood or whether the water and fire within them inevitably brewed storms—regardless! Into such turmoil did we arrive from Seki Village in Mino Province.” “That we have since come to share our daily lives in this manner may indeed be called a strange twist of fate, but I dare not dismiss it as mere coincidence—this too must be the work of the water-fire spirits, that is to say, the guidance of our ancestor Magoroku.”

The old man abruptly fell silent…… and the sinking night air pierced them anew, as if for the first time.

And so it came to pass. It became clear that the enigmatic old samurai Tokuin Kagemitsu was a descendant of Seki no Magoroku—creator of the night-crying swords—and with this revelation, all fell into place: his four subordinates clad in identical fire brigade attire were his disciples; the six-foot-tall palanquin bearers wielding heavy iron hammers were common smiths among his retinue. Yayoi could not suppress a smile of genuine trust, yet simultaneously, faced with the old man's fervor for this craft, she instinctively bowed her head—here indeed was a descendant worthy of the legendary artisan Magoroku.

The night was nearing the fifth hour, and under the dim glow of twilight, the glimmer of grass leaves could be seen in the garden. When the conversation ceased, the area around Aoyama Chōjagaru—devoid of dwellings—was sealed in a loneliness akin to that of a remote island, and from beyond Kogoi Forest came the sound of what were likely the wicked monks of Aburage Temple shouting back and forth in booming voices along the rice field banks.

A dog barked, and then stopped.

A spring evening compelled one to reflection. The tale of old man Tokuin had carried away Yayoi’s impressionable heart, returning her to the distant past of the Warring States period. In the nearby darkness, Yayoi saw—or thought she had seen— Magoroku the swordsmith—attired like a figure from an ancient painting—wholly devoted himself to hammering the Ken'un and Konryū blades in Seki Village of Mino Province! The bellows sounded. The fire roared. As the red-hot iron sand scattered like fireflies, Magoroku—his visage like a solemn deity—held the forged iron before his eyes and glared at the blade’s edge...

It was truly a scene of unwavering, soul-scouring concentration. In the blink of an eye, That phantom vanished, and there, in Yayoi’s eyes, another vision began to form—seemingly without any conscious effort to conjure it.

Magoroku was nearing death.

He was writing. On a long, narrow strip of paper, he was rapidly moving his brush in astonishingly fine characters—but the color of those characters was pale red. As red as blood, yet watery like sweat. And no wonder! Was he not writing down these Water-Fire Secret Documents, wringing his own blood and sweat into them?! Before long, Magoroku—having finished writing—paused the secret document to make it into split documents, securing them with trembling hands exclusively within the Ken'un and Konryū blades... But when Yayoi had followed her mental imagery this far, she gasped!—and returned her gaze to old Tokuin Kagemitsu before her.

For the face of Magoroku—now nearing death—had begun to resemble Kagemitsu’s, and then it seemed to her to transform once more into the visage of her late father, Tessai. “Lady Yayoi!”

The crystalline voice of Tokuin Kagemitsu pierced through, sharply calling to Yayoi. "Yes?"

With this, Yayoi shook off the waking dream in the darkness and corrected her posture.

“Given these circumstances, I must by all means temporarily obtain those two swords.” “Oh, it’s nothing—just a moment will suffice.” “If only I remove the two hilts and extract the secret documents in a mere moment, I shall harbor no lingering attachment or obsession toward the remaining swords.” “Naturally, I shall humbly return them immediately to you, their rightful owner.” “Yes.” “Relying on your words, both I and Bean Tarō shall strive to our utmost.” “In that case—be that as it may, the two swords should first be entrusted to your hands, old master!” “Understood!”

The old samurai merely let slip a knowing smile. He gave no answer.

Gah! The seizure of Konryūmaru was one thing, but... Yayoi’s heart—before she knew it—had drifted back to Eizaburō’s figure trailing from Kawaramachi when she and Bean Tarō ambushed Sazen and Tsukigata at Fukagawa’s mountain-opening ceremony the previous night. Then came memories of him returning at dusk in the artistic guise of a picture peddler—those recollections she had sorrowfully buried now refused to surface. Even disguised as a man, even bearing a young samurai’s name, Yayoi remained Yayoi—the tears she secretly shed in unrequited yearning retained their pristine purity unchanged since Akebono Komachi’s days.

Just then— On that same night, the figure of Oto as a geisha—who had slid open the shoji on the second floor of the inn—appeared before her eyes. I fulfilled my duty, and so that woman sank to becoming a geisha... Forgive me...!

Just as Yayoi nearly gave voice to these solitary words— “Well, well!” “Well now, that’s shocking!” “It’s absurdly dark in here!” Bean Tarō lit a lantern and brought it in.

候かしく

April.

The changing of robes. Rain scattering deutzia flowers.

Today, too, since morning, silver threads like a reed screen shimmered hazily across the sky, and the thorny hedge's flowers began to waft their plump fragrance.

Beside the estate, the swollen waters of Hōonji River surged as a turbid current dotted with bubbles, washing over the mugwort on its banks while flowing relentlessly onward. A single red-thonged geta could be seen bobbing and sinking in the torrent.

The enoki tree continuing along the embankment.

The early fresh green leaves were soaked through, here and there shining in seven-colored light under the sun.

It was a bright midday drizzle. In the distant rice fields spreading out far in the back, a farmer clad in a large straw raincoat was hauling a rice-planting boat piled high with seedlings. His movements were so sluggish that at times he seemed to come to a complete stop, making him look just like a scarecrow when seen from afar. The talk of clam digging had passed, and soon the scent of early summer drew near.

In the distant fields, a single belt-like yellow streak, washed by the rain and vividly visible, must have been rapeseed flowers...

A Rainy Day Scene. Tange Sazen vaguely reflected these scenes in his one eye and remained motionless since earlier, leaning against a pillar on the veranda of the detached room in the Honjo Bakemono Yashiki’s garden—as though carved in place. Despite his towering height, which allowed him to peer over the broken wall and survey the entire area when standing on the veranda like this, one had to wonder—why was this Sword Demon Sazen so quietly entranced by the scenery shrouded in silken rain?

Uncharacteristic of him. That being said, in truth, even now Sazen's heart burned with his usual fervent fighting spirit as he quietly contemplated strategies to rally and seize Eizaburō's Konryūmaru by any means necessary. A long lean frame; a one-eyed face marked by a sword scar. Dangling his empty right sleeve, he leaned his sole remaining left hand against the pillar—then the rain-soaked wind swept in, teasing the woman's undergarments at his hem.

As his sharp eye roved across the rain-drenched outdoors, Sazen's cheek gradually crumbled into a sarcastic, self-mocking smile—then suddenly, like a neighing wild horse, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Ahahahaha! Hanyū Sen’nosuke was killed, and last night Tsukigata lost warriors like Okazaki and Tōdō. What remains are just four—Lord Gunnosuke, Kagami, Santō, and Todoroki. Pah! We ain’t some warrior dolls’ insect picks—numbers alone don’t mean shit. But Gen’s lot can’t be trusted... So only five men left with me? Hmm! Might make things more interestin’! I still got this—Ken’unmaru as my big ally here...”

While letting slip his musings alone, Sazen—as if to encourage himself—*Tat!* As he tapped the shakudō hilt of his jindachi,

“Tch! It just won’t quit coming down!” From the main house came Yokichi the drummer—making his first appearance in some time—tumbling in without an umbrella, his hanten coat pulled completely over his head. Trapped by the rain, he peered at the four remaining Tsukigata remnants who had no choice but to sleep packed together in the detached room,

“Hya!” “The tuna’s arrived at the riverbank, eh?”

Yokichi—as talkative as ever in his Edo manner—greeted Sazen as though noticing him for the first time, "Oh! Lord, you were there? Urgent report, urgent report!"

“What?” “What’s this? You sound so uncertain! You’re strangely calm… Hmm… Has something happened? Your complexion doesn’t look too good—” “What’re you yappin’ about?!” Tange Sazen ignored him. “You ain’t exactly lookin’ too fresh yourself. Don’t see any fat paydays comin’ your way neither.”

“But my lord! Lord Tange! Heheheheh, just a moment...”

“What?” “Mind if I borrow your ear for a sec?” With a bitter smile, Tange Sazen bent down and pressed his ear to Yokichi’s mouth for a moment. When Yokichi’s words finally came to an end, he bared his white teeth in a grin, clearly pleased with himself. “Well now, Yokichi—you, that’s the truth, ain’t it?” “This ain’t no joke. What reason would I have to lie?” Yokichi pressed on eagerly. “True, true! That Oto…the girl our main-house lord’s completely smitten with workin’ as a geisha in Fukagawa—no matter what anyone says, Heaven above and this Yokichi see right through it all! Heh, this here’s the genuine article of a story!”

“Is that so?” With just that one word, Sazen grinned for some reason— “Hmm. Well, maybe that’s how it is—but why ain’t you takin’ that info straight to Genjūrō, the one who actually matters, instead of reportin’ it to me like this? Even if you try to make someone buy info on Oto’s whereabouts, I ain’t payin’ a single coin.” “My lord! With all due respect, you’ve underestimated this Yokichi of Komagata. I wouldn’t bring such a matter to someone as unrelated as you and then try to make a profit off it—that’s not the kind of petty scheme Yokichi here would devise!”

“Bold of you.”

“But, you see... Lord Suzukawa’s finances are squealin’ like a wheel on fire right now...” “That’s his usual state.” “But this time’s worse’n ever—so bad that tellin’ him wouldn’t fetch a single copper. That’s why I’m bringin’ it straight to you instead. Listen here, Lord Tange—how ’bout we dangle this woman’s whereabouts to make Lord Suzukawa dance for us?” “Hahaha! Now that’s wicked!” “Wicked? What’s wicked ’bout it? Just t’other night when we first scouted Kawaramachi together, he wandered ’round like a moonstruck fool, babblin’ nothin’ but ‘Oto this’ and ‘Oto that.’ So we tell him we know where she’s hidin’, and we’ll spill it quick if he snatches that sword from Eizaburō—sure he’s all addled over her now, but Lord Suzukawa’s still a Sakinagare-ryū master! That single-minded lust’ll drive him to take down Eizaburō and grab Konryū for us.” “Reckon this scheme might just work slicker’n grease. Whaddya say, Lord Tange?”

“Hmm… True enough. Our reinforcements have dwindled to four now. What’s more, Eizaburō has Taiken backing him up, and on top of those five palanquins, that shuriken-flinging ape’s shown his face too. These are dire times for us.” “Right then—first things first—we’ll do like you said: use Oto as bait to rile up Genjū and slip him into Kawaramachi on the sly.”

At the edge of the detached room, Tange Sazen and Yokichi pressed their foreheads together and whispered in hushed tones—when! Just then.

In the main building of the monster mansion across the garden, in Suzukawa Genjūrō’s living room—

Tightly closing the shoji, master Genjūrō and a middle-aged woman were in the midst of a hushed, urgent conversation about some matter.

A middle-aged woman…… But who was she?

And there she was— It was none other than Kushimaki Oto.

“So, Milord, you’re bein’ too impatient.” “There’s no need to overcomplicate things, is there?” Where had she been hiding all this time? Her eyes were sunken and weary, yet this only heightened the madam Kushimaki’s haunting beauty—like evening cherry blossoms clinging desperately to their branches. As one noticed her suddenly flushed cheeks, there sat only two dried sake cups between them. Her washed hair—her pride and joy—adorned with a boxwood comb placed horizontally. Her large eyes fixed intently, face tilted slightly; with her blunt demeanor and rapid speech, even her casually slouched posture seemed charged—disregarding men as mere men, she exuded the madam’s signature iron-willed flair…

"I must admit—when I think back now on what a hopelessly unreliable man you were—it chills me to the bone. But there was a time I resented you for it, Milord." "But you know—what’s past is past." "If we let bygones flow away like water, fellow Edokko understand each other quick enough—hohoho—so here I’ve come brazenly calling, you see?" "You came."

Genjū muttered and poured cold sake for her.

A heavy silence. Earlier, Suzukawa Genjūrō had sat alone suppressing his fury while dwelling on Osayo—who had taken the fifty gold coins from their recent severance and still not returned—when Kushimaki Oto, whom he had not seen in ages, came sneaking unannounced through the water gate via the back garden. Though Genjūrō, conscious of her reasons to resent him, found her sudden presence unsettling, he could not bring himself to show open displeasure and instead offered whatever sake was at hand while keeping her company.

Oto immediately brought up the matter of Yayoi—who could be called both her romantic rival and Sazen’s beloved woman—of her own accord. Yayoi’s subsequent whereabouts—Oto told Genjūrō of them.

And…

Oto had been like this.

It had been confirmed through certain channels that Yayoi was now disguised as a man under the name Onozuka Iori and hiding in a secret base of the fire-cloak five-person group at the edge of Kogoi Forest in Aoyama Chōjagamaru—or so she said. What was this "certain source" that Oto referred to here? That was none other than— It was simply something she herself had recently tracked down through investigative skills that had gradually developed within her. Since she had discovered it through her own surveillance, there could indeed be no more reliable source than this...

This Oto— While evading constables and other officials day and night for so long, out of necessity to counter them, her eyes had grown so sharp that even rookie constables could not approach her—and in most cases of tracking someone’s whereabouts, matters could be settled immediately if one borrowed Madam Oto’s wisdom.

This time was no exception. After spending the night with Tange Sazen in the underground chamber of Rokutentai Shinotsuka Inari Shrine, Sazen seized the Konryūmaru sword Oto had stolen and fled into the swirling snowfall—never returning to Oto, who waited alone in the shrine’s subterranean room. Abandoned and left waiting in vain, Oto thereafter built a nest beneath the shrine’s eaves. Her cursed existence, under the authorities’ watchful eyes, barred her from venturing out for now. She slept and woke in darkness—pining for Sazen, cursing the world—living in quiet seclusion.

This Shinotsuka Inari Shrine... Long ago, Shinozuka Iganokami—a retainer of the Nitta clan—devoutly worshipped this shrine. In his later years, he took Buddhist vows and resided in this area. It is said that Kokuzōin, the shrine's head priest, is his descendant. Kushimaki had been eyeing this ancient shrine for some time. Several years prior, from one of the places she frequented in Edo, she had quietly removed the foundation joists within the shrine and patiently dug underground, creating a small chamber beneath the earthen floor. For what purpose?

Needless to say, it was a hiding place for emergencies. In fact, because of this, Oto had managed to escape the clutches of the constables countless times. She had always made it her practice that whenever pursuers closed in, she would somehow lure them to this Inari shrine, slip into the underground room there to conceal her tracks, and live there until the heat died down. Therefore, she had stocked everything from bedding to cooking utensils and provisions in advance, and had prepared enough so that no matter when she fled there, she wouldn’t face hardship for a while.

Indeed, on that night too, Oto had vanished from the police officers' encircling formation there, later even rescuing Sazen and bringing him to the same underground hideout—but after Sazen left— What Oto contemplated while alone in the darkness. Indeed, matters of past and future. Above all—though others despised her—because Sazen harbored feelings for Yayoi, who remained an obstacle in Oto's romantic path, this matter continued to plague Oto's heart relentlessly. Come to think of it—since that rainy night when someone had taken her from Banchō to Kawaramachi—what on earth had become of that girl?

When it came to anything, once an idea struck her, Oto couldn’t sit still. From the next day onward, she emerged from her hideout and began combing through all of Edo with her signature investigative skills!

Meguro’s Koujin Slope. During the Kan'ei era, at the festival of Daienji Temple—founded by a yamabushi from Yudono Mountain who had erected a hall for Dainichi Nyorai—she happened to pass by a young samurai who bore a resemblance [to someone]. Being Oto, whose mind was especially sharp in such matters—Ah! He resembles!

No sooner had she recognized this than she began tailing him, ultimately uncovering that it was Yayoi—disguised as a man under the name Onozuka Iori—and pinpointing the very house where she lay hidden.

That was what Oto was now telling Genjūrō. "Why don't you tell Sazen about that matter directly instead of me?" Genjūrō said with a wry smile.

Oto sneered.

“What fool in this world would go out of their way to tell their own romantic rival where they’re hiding? But what I truly resent is Lord Sazen. Ah—I hate him! Hate him so much I can’t stand it! So Milord—if you were to suggest to Lord Sazen that you’ll tell him where Miss Yayoi is hiding, provided he helps you search for Miss Oto’s whereabouts—well, given how head over heels he is for Miss Yayoi, he’d surely come searching for Miss Oto with eyes ablaze! What an amusing farce! Hohohoho! Well, Milord, what do you think?”

Suzukawa Genjūrō silently blew tobacco smoke into rings. In Oto’s mind, If someone were to inform Sazen through others of Yayoi’s whereabouts, he would undoubtedly rush immediately to Kogoi Forest without a moment’s delay. Then at the forefront, with the five-person group and even that monster Bean Tarō lying in wait, Sazen would surely be driven into dire straits—perhaps losing not just Ken'unmaru but even his very life. This, Oto now firmly believed, would be the ultimate—indeed the only—retribution against the man who had so utterly rejected her love.

And so, driven to desperation, she pressed Genjūrō. “I can’t just sit back and keep being made a fool of by that one-eyed, one-armed country bumpkin. Once we make Lord Sazen suffer and eliminate our enemies—given my precarious situation—I’ll slip out of Edo for a while and travel far away. Well, consider this Kushimaki Oto’s farewell performance!”

Genjūrō too gradually grew more enthusiastic, “So—in exchange for helping me locate Miss Oto—I’ll offer to tell him where Yayoi’s hiding.” “Yes.” “Exactly.” “Milord—you must be anxious about Miss Oto’s whereabouts yourself?”

“Hmm. “Well, s’pose you could say it’s somethin’ like that—” “So, that’s why I’m saying—how about we have Lord Sazen work for us in exchange for Miss Yayoi’s whereabouts?” “Hahaha—quite sinful, but—”

“What’s so sinful about that? Then Milord will have Miss Oto found, and once we inform Lord Sazen about the Aoyama residence so that he comes rushing there—right?! Hohohoho! Like a moth to flame, as they say—the rest will fall right into my hands.” “Well now, Oto—you’re quite the schemer.” “Can’t beat that.” “Then let’s proceed with that plan, shall we?” “By all means, Milord, do try that… Speaking of which, where is Granny Osayo?”

“What, Granny Osayo? Ah, she probably just went out shopping around there.” With that light evasion, Genjūrō—eager to act on his good intentions—immediately resolved to confront Sazen. He quietly sent Oto home and began cutting across the garden toward the detached hermitage when— “Hey! Genjūrō, there you are. I came to discuss a matter.” From the opposite direction came Sazen’s voice.

At just the right moment—the two of them involuntarily smiled.

"Sazen!"

“What?” “I also came to discuss a matter with you.” “You’re not trying to set some sort of trap, are you?” “You’re quite mistaken. “I’ve discovered where your woman Yayoi is hiding.” “Hoh! “That’s welcome news! But Gen!” “Come to think of it, I’ve discovered where your woman Oto is hiding!” “What?! “You know Oto’s whereabouts?” “You know where she is? Where?!” “Where?!” “Wait, wait! “Don’t get so flustered.” “But more importantly—where is Yayoi?” “Out with it!”

“Hold on! What do you think’ll sprout from recklessly splitting seeds? You spit it out first!” “Clever trick there? This ain’t some bargain-bin purchase—there’s capital sunk in. I ain’t partin’ with it for peanuts!”

“Hahaha, there’ll be no end to this if we keep going like this. Why don’t we reveal them to each other at the same time?” “Today’s damnably full of women’s whereabouts coming to light—so I’ll ask: where’s Yayoi?” “Where does Oto reside?”

“Tch! Then I’ll go first! Oto’s currently working as a geisha under the name Yumehachi at a house called Matsugawa in Fukagawa.” “Hmm… Yumehachi of Matsugawa…”

Groaning, Genjūrō began staggering out of the garden—which panicked Sazen.

“Hey hey, Genjūrō! You just get your questions answered—what about mine? Where the hell is Lady Yayoi?”

“Oh—right!” Genjūrō turned around. “Aoyama Chōjagamaru—a single house on the fringe of Kogoi Forest.” Before Sazen could process the words—muttered like those of a man entranced— “What? Aoyama?”

Sazen—in such haste he hadn't even properly fastened his sword—went charging out of the monster mansion with a whoosh. No sooner had he seen this than Genjūrō also quickened his pace.

One to Fukagawa.

The other to Aoyama. Genjūrō and Sazen broke into a run at the same moment.

However, there had been two figures—one large and one small—hiding in the garden thicket from the very beginning, eavesdropping on this conversation and scene. Could it be that those two figures were none other than Yayoi and Bean Tarō… who had been constantly lurking around this household these days? “No no! Whatever you may say, it’s not Oto—I have conclusively determined that Yumehachi is here at this establishment. Stop stalling and take me to her room!” Genjūrō stood blocking the entrance to Matsugawa under the turret, his lightly pockmarked face flushed crimson as he bellowed at the top of his voice.

Clearly in a towering rage—behavior shockingly boorish even for this pleasure quarter—Genjūrō gripped his sword hilt as if to draw it at any moment, but the Matsugawa owner who had come to receive him remained utterly unflustered. “Eh? Whatever do you mean? We haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” “Ah, Yumehachi… that does sound like a name I might have heard—but as you’re well aware, there are numerous geisha establishments here in the Yagurashita district. Please search elsewhere.”

With excessive politeness, the proprietor said this while repeatedly rubbing his glistening forehead against the threshold, but Genjūrō—having heard definitively that Oto was at Matsugawa in Yagurashita—had absolutely no reason to withdraw. Of course Oto—known as Yumehachi—was undoubtedly in this house, but with this Hatchōbori-style samurai of ill omen barging in for a threatening negotiation, the old proprietor was maintaining this pretense. A back-and-forth of “She’s here,” “She isn’t.”

Given the location—with a burly samurai puffing up his shoulders in fierce intimidation and bellowing loudly—local women and men with no daytime obligations, along with passersby, had gathered to form a veritable mountain of people at the entrance of Hayamatsugawa. Genjūrō was irritated. Despite having hurried here from Honjo as fast as he could, there was no such woman. A curt 'Very well then, goodbye...'—but he couldn’t very well withdraw.

There! “Shut up! There’s no way she isn’t here! This humble one will push through and search every corner of this house—mark my words!” No sooner had Genjūrō spoken than he shoved the old man aside with a one-handed strike and stomped into the Matsugawa house—only to find…! At the end of the narrow hallway, the shadow of a woman who had peeked out with a fleeting glimpse!

“Oh!” “Oto! Wait!”

“Huh?!” Simultaneously, both raised their voices. That voice carried the tone of Oto that Genjūrō had heard in dreams and waking moments—! So Genjūrō, like a warrior advancing into enemy territory, ran down the hallway with a clatter, heading deeper inside.

And—! Oto was already nowhere to be seen—the only sounds were of people bustling inside and outside at this mad warrior’s intrusion… A dumbfounded Genjūrō scanned the area with bloodshot eyes! Directly before him stood a small room with narrow-sashed shoji tightly closed—eerily silent as if swallowing something whole. “This is the room! “Hmph—Oto! You’ve hidden yourself away here without doubt!” At that very nod of conviction, Genjūrō gripped the shoji and slid it open with one swift motion.

“Wahahaha!”

This tremendous burst of laughter was the first shock to strike Genjūrō. Who...? He strained his eyes to see—though there was no need. In the center of the room, facing away, sat a beggarly master in a tattered lined kimono—his unkempt hair tied in the traditional sōhatsu style—gulping from a large sake cup in grand cross-legged posture... Utterly unexpected! Gamō Taiken! “You!” “You?!” The words Taiken hurled at him—turning slowly to face a faltering Genjūrō—burned with an unprecedented intensity of hatred and rebuke.

“You fool! “If you possess even a shred of shame，Suzukawa Genjūrō—now! “Sit there in seiza and cut your belly!”

“Urgh…” As Genjūrō groaned—whether he intended to cut his belly or not—he snapped into motion! With a sharp click—the Suishū blade at his waist was already clearing its sheath. Taiken remained seated—glaring unblinkingly! ——His eyes burned upward at Genjūrō.

Strange! As for why Master Taiken happened to be in Oto's very room...! Hearing the sound of water, Sazen—suddenly noticing—stopped his hurried steps, descended into the valley, and moistened his parched throat at the clear babbling stream. It was Sazen who had rushed breathlessly here from the Monster Mansion in Honjo after learning Yayoi's whereabouts. Having finished drinking water—now certain that the thicket visible ahead must be Kogoi Forest where Yayoi was said to be—Sazen swung Ken'unmaru upward from his waist with his left hand and returned to the embankment, quickening his pace.

This entire area was a continuation of densely growing trees.

Kōgai Bridge.

Here at Aoyama Chōjagamaru was a bridge spanning a small stream in the valley—said to be a transformation of Kuniga Tanibashi—and it was when Sazen approached this Kōgai Bridge. No sooner had a figure flickered into view ahead than—along a path where pale, parched soil kicked up dust—from one side came first the shadow of a sword hilt cast downward, followed by Sazen freezing in shock; then gradually emerged the upper half of a rōnin’s topknot, and finally the full form of a samurai, black against the road, materializing as a quiet voice accompanied his blocking of the path…!

Konryūmaru—Suwa Eizaburō! “I’ve been waiting, Sazen! Sazen!” “Yah! Konryūmaru… Hmm, so it’s Eizaburō—alone, eh?” Even as he spoke, Sazen thrust Ken’unmaru’s hilt upward with one hand, licking the peg while hastily scanning his surroundings. The stillness resembled deep mountains. *Hoo-hokekyo*—a bush warbler sang from a nearby tree.

Eizaburō smiled and, “Naturally, this humble one stands alone. Knowing of your arrival, Eizaburō and Konryūmaru have been waiting here for you. Fortunately, there are no people around—this forest is perfect for our duel. Though we have crossed blades many times before, with interruptions or allies intervening, I have no memory of you and this humble one ever having fought to our heart’s content. A perfect opportunity—now prepare yourself!” A cruel smile rose on Sazen’s cheek as his demeanor shifted abruptly. When Sazen adopted this Edo playboy manner of speech, it signaled he had been awakened by the sword energy surging through his entire being—craving the scent of blood, becoming the most dangerous man.

The voice was forced out from the corner of thin lips. "I'll say what I damn well please." “Ha ha ha ha! We’ve been dragging this out with all sorts of excuses until now, but for the Night-Crying Swords to become one, one of us has to die.” “Then, Eizaburō—last autumn, when I destroyed the Negishi Akebono-no-Sato Dojo, you and I were meant to cross swords then, yet we did not.” “Today, we use real swords instead of bamboo ones—think of this as a continuation of that day’s match and come at me with all you’ve got!”

Having now confirmed that Eizaburō stood alone, Sazen—not merely wielding a real sword but truly prepared for combat—persisted in his nagging remarks while fixing his single eye intently on Eizaburō's face, though his mind burned with fiery rage toward Suzukawa Genjūrō. So I'd been tricked!

Sazen ground his teeth as he thought. That Genjūrō had, unbeknownst to him, allied with Eizaburō and lured him here—there could be no doubt. In that case...! Convinced that numerous ambushers must lie in wait besides Eizaburō, Sazen, his single eye glinting, scanned once more through the trees and over the undulating grass—yet the midday forest remained as still as if frozen, with only the sound of water flowing beneath Kōgai Bridge… No matter how many times he looked, there was no sign of anyone.

The bloody battle was about to unfold here in all its fury. Suwa Eizaburō and Tange Sazen stood opposed.

In other words—the twin swords Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru, harboring the Water-Fire Secret Document. One was the Shinpen Musō-ryū. The other originated from the Tsukigata Ittō-ryū school of Hokushū, demonstrated myriad techniques through its left arm, and boasted the self-proclaimed name Tange-ryū.

It was a quiet beginning.

*Swoosh—!* As Tange Sazen drew Ken'unmaru Sword with his single arm and adopted the orthodox Seigan stance, Suwa Eizaburō's beloved blade Musashitarō Yasukuni gleamed coldly in his hand—likewise settling into the universal Hira-Seigan stance of Shinpen Musō-ryū, poised to strike in all directions... The two blades drew near—which would draw in the other? This appeared to be their final decisive battle—! Strange!

Why was Suwa Eizaburō lying in wait on Sazen’s path, wielding sword intent…? To explain this— A moment ago…. In the depths of an alley in Asakusa Kawaramachi, at Suwa Eizaburō’s residence—just as Eizaburō and his guest Gamō Taiken were present—a figure resembling a monkey or child flickered momentarily at the front entrance. Then, soundlessly, a letter was thrown inside.

"What could this be?" Eizaburō picked it up, and when the two of them opened it together, he recognized the handwriting as that of Lady Yayoi. It appeared to have been written in great haste—on a single sheet of folded paper, the ink from the writing brush trailing off faintly, the characters gentle yet composed in a classical style… While the phrasing might have suggested something amorous, as they brought their faces closer to read, Taiken and Eizaburō involuntarily cried out “This is—!” and locked eyes with each other. The letter, though elegantly penned in a woman’s hand, brimmed not with romance but martial urgency: Suzukawa Genjūrō, having learned Oto’s whereabouts, was now heading toward Matsugawa beneath the tower, while Tange Sazen had uncovered Yayoi’s hideout and set out for Kogoi Forest in Aoyama Chōjagamaru.

The above matter was urgently reported to the two of you, composed in a classical style… Though unsigned, Eizaburō recognized at a glance that this was the hand of Lady Yayoi, who had since gone missing.

This letter: Lately, Yayoi—disguised as Onozuka Iori—had been surveilling the Monsters’ Mansion in Honjo daily with Bean Tarō in tow. Today too, she had just been lurking in Genjūrō’s overgrown garden, idly observing the situation, when Genjūrō and Sazen simultaneously emerged from the main house and detached quarters. They collided right before the noses of Yayoi and Bean Tarō, who lay hidden. After exchanging provocations, the two men finally revealed each other’s women’s whereabouts. Hastily waiting for both to depart, Yayoi immediately took up her brush to compose this missive. She entrusted it to Bean Tarō, sending him dashing to Kawaramachi to deliver it, while she herself turned back toward her Aoyama residence without delay.

And in Kawaramachi.

Upon learning that Suzukawa Genjūrō was now attacking Oto and Tange Sazen was heading toward Yayoi—thereby also uncovering the long-mysterious location of Yayoi’s whereabouts—Gamō Taiken and Suwa Eizaburō nodded in silent agreement, swiftly stood up, and without a word had their roles and responsibilities decided. For Eizaburō, what truly concerned him at this moment was undeniably Oto; yet given the circumstances, he entrusted her safety to Taiken. With a confirming glance, Taiken accepted this charge and immediately raced to Fukagawa’s Matsugawa to rescue her. Bound by duty, Eizaburō wasted no time heading toward Aoyama Chōjagamaru—intercepting Sazen en route for an all-or-nothing showdown.

Thus, the two men swiftly ran out from the alley in Kawaramachi. Thus, before Genjūrō could storm into Matsugawa, Oto had already been hidden away in an inconspicuous bedding room thanks to Taiken’s advance notice—and in her place, Gamō Taiken sat cross-legged in Oto’s room, nonchalantly gulping sake from a bowl. Is Oto truly here? Genjūrō, filled with determination, forcefully slid open the shoji screen—only to find his greatest nemesis, Gamō Taiken, coiled up in that very space. The moment he gasped in surprise, his instincts as an iaijutsu master took over, and he had already drawn his sword in an instant.

But—! It had occurred to Genjūrō... "So, I've been set up!" That Sazen must have conspired with Taiken and Eizaburō without his knowledge, putting him at this disadvantage—there could be no doubt. Genjūrō felt suspicious about this strange turn of events, but for now relegated such matters to secondary importance—first he had to settle things here. Maintaining as eerie a smile as he could muster, he slightly brandished the ice blade in his hand. Before him, Master Taiken's bearded face suddenly opened its great red mouth once more,

“Bwahaha…” Genjūrō flared up at his unrestrained laughter. “This bastard has a habit of showing up where he’s least wanted. “To ensure this never happens again, I’ll blow you away from this world right here! You’d best believe it!” With an absurdly sloppy line, he—now past the point of retreat—was about to charge in with all his might—! Outside, “Fire! “Fire!”

The voices of the men from Matsugawa and neighboring people rose in commotion. Pretending to charge in, Suzukawa Genjūrō suddenly whirled around and nimbly leapt down into the garden. Brandishing his gleaming blade, he barely forced open a bloody path before darting through the crowd in frantic retreat. Behind him, Master Taiken’s uproarious laughter, doubled over in mirth, resounded even more loudly.

Three Realms Wind and Rain

The base of Kōgai Bridge.

The spring sun filtered through the trees, weaving a pattern of black and yellow mottling like some noble carpet. With no one to assist, intervene, or even witness—Suwa Eizaburō and Tange Sazen demonstrated the ultimate secrets of their swordsmanship, locked in mortal combat here at this decisive moment.

Blade against blade—no, rather than that, it was a contest of spirit against spirit, mind against mind, and a physical clash. Spectacular! Each time an early summer-scented wind blew through the forest from nowhere, the hems of the two combatants' kimonos fluttered, and Sazen's notorious women's undergarment brushed against the grass blades.

A pungent scent of earth and plants. In this unseasonably warm weather where even stillness brought sweat, there the two warriors stood poised to decide their fate—their full resolve concentrated into their blades’ edges. Though they scarcely moved, drenched in exertion, a circular sweat stain seeped across the back of Eizaburō’s unlined kimono. Click-click-click... Like living creatures, the tips of the two blades trembled faintly with five or six inches between them. But when one sword edged forward slightly and emitted a small yet sharp metallic clang, both parties—as if startled by something—instantly leapt apart to left and right before freezing again.

Then, inch by grinding inch, both warriors edged closer—but no sooner had their sword tips grazed again than they simultaneously sprang back into stance… Repeating this dance under a languid spring sun, their clash appeared almost tranquil to an observer. Yet for Sazen and Eizaburō, locked in this lethal exchange, there was no tranquility—every fiber of Eizaburō’s being had become pure nerve.

At that moment! Tange Sazen—his single eye blazing with impatience, for whom lawlessness itself was his creed—suddenly! With his left arm, he drew Ken’unmaru down with a swish—snapping it precisely to his left flank—and stood motionless. For an instant, it appeared to mirror Master Taiken’s signature Jigen-ryū Suigetsu stance—but only for an instant!

“Ugh! I ain’t got time to waste on the likes of you! No more games—I’ll cut you down here and now! Prepare yourself!” With a roar, Sazen—suffused with murderous aura—twisted his body diagonally and unleashed a reverse horizontal slash from right to left with Ken’unmaru. Had the blade already begun to drink Eizaburō’s blood? In that instant, the new blade Musashi Tarō Yasukuni—gleaming like a white serpent—deflected Ken’unmaru with a resounding clang! Forced back, Sazen let out a guttural “Tsk-tsk-tsk—Ugh!” Unintentionally stomping his feet, he kicked up a cloud of dust as he lunged forward—!

Eizaburō seized the moment. With no time to reset his swung blade, he advanced several steps in a burst and unleashed a desperate downward strike, immediately following up with another slash— …………

Silently, he tried to slash down in one breath—but! For someone like Sazen—even within Tsukigata, he had been deemed a heretic by the previous master Tsukigata Gunnosuke for his mastery of the savage slaughter sword, yet this very quality caught the eye of Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke, who entrusted him with a direct secret mission despite his lowly status as a foot soldier. After coming to Edo, he had bathed in so much human blood through countless battlefields and reverse-kesa slash ambushes that his body reeked of it. No matter how divinely inspired Eizaburō’s Banbaken sword techniques were, even he could not yet fell Sazen in a daylight duel.

Evidently, Swish! Caught by Musashi Tarō's blade tip that had fallen like lightning - carried by a sudden gust of wind - what fluttered away from Sazen's feet was nothing but his kimono hem... and the edge of feminine undergarments... "You're outta your mind!"

Unnoticed, Sazen had leapt away and approached a standing tree—and just as he laughed nonchalantly, baring his white teeth—! Whizz!

From nowhere came a shrieking projectile hurtling through the air—needless to say, it was none other than Japan's supreme shuriken: the small blade flung by Bean Tarō the Mountain Ape! “This ain’t good… Hell and damnation!” Sazen’s groan rippled through the abyssal air of Kogoi Forest, resonating far and wide. The dagger Bean Tarō had flung narrowly missed Tange Sazen’s neck and thudded into the trunk of the tree he was leaning against. Given the circumstances, Sazen’s shock must have been profound. He instantly leapt back a couple of ken while snapping Ken'unmaru into perfect position before him, simultaneously restraining Eizaburō as he bellowed at full volume.

“Come out, you coward!” A voice without form... Tch! “You ain’t no damned cuckoo—show yourself proper!”

But only the mountain echo answered Sazen’s roar, echoing back through the forest—the surroundings remained steeped in unbroken silence.

No matter where one looked, there was no sign of the shuriken's owner. That was only natural. The moment Yayoi saw that Tange Sazen had discovered her residence in Aoyama and rushed there, she dashed off a note to dispatch Bean Tarō to Kawaramachi with the news while hurrying back to Aoyama herself—intending to wait with him in a corner of the forest to ambush Sazen. Yet because Sazen had arrived first, Yayoi and Bean Tarō belatedly reached the scene in the midst of Eizaburō and Sazen's fierce duel. Even now, the pair undoubtedly lurked hidden somewhere nearby in the grass.

The moment they realized—! Sazen pretended to shield Eizaburō from the flying blade while simultaneously brandishing Ken’unmaru with his left arm—grinning as he braced for the second and third strikes that would surely follow! No sooner had Sazen begun quietly retreating with a bitter smile than he felt momentary relief—the anticipated follow-up blades never came. “Suwa, seems we’ve another worthless interruption.” “We’ll meet again soon—when we do, this Sazen shall properly receive that strike at your hip. Let’s seal that promise here and now.”

No sooner had he spoken than Tange Sazen slowly turned around—suddenly making as if to dash into the forest depths—which prompted Eizaburō, burning with fighting spirit, to hastily throw himself forward in pursuit. But just as he did, the bamboo thicket before him rustled noisily, and out leapt—like a rabbit—a hunchbacked dwarf with a row of bare short swords arrayed around his waist! Eizaburō had no way of knowing this hunchbacked dwarf was Bean Tarō the Mountain Pepper, whom Yayoi employed. He gasped and froze—and in that instant, behind the monstrous figure, another masked silhouette emerged. Appearing to be a handsome young samurai, two clear eyes stared intently at Eizaburō through gaps in the black cloth covering its face while repeatedly raising a hand to signal him to halt.

Unaware that this was Yayoi—a fact beyond his wildest dreams—Eizaburō felt that cutting down this ape-like monster and its smooth-shouldered young samurai keeper would pose no particular challenge. But as he watched Sazen’s figure—swinging his lone arm skyward while rapidly retreating beneath the forest canopy—grow ever more distant, he abandoned pursuit and turned his renewed attention to the dwarf before him and the young samurai standing behind.

Buried almost entirely in shrubs and grass, a dwarf grinned with his large face!

What a grotesque sight! No sooner had the thought "I’ve never seen such a strange human being" crossed his mind than Eizaburō felt a momentary chill run down his spine. He now shifted his gaze to the young samurai who appeared to be this man’s master. The gaunt dwarf... With his black mask making his features indiscernible, almond-shaped beautiful eyes seared into Eizaburō’s face—and whether it was mere imagination or not, to Eizaburō they seemed to be brimming with tears.

Eizaburō tensed. "Whether you meant to assist me or not, you've done something wholly unnecessary—I must say..."

Thereupon, “Heh heh heh!” Restraining the laughing man with one hand, the young samurai turned on his heel without a word and began to retreat into the depths of the forest.

In that rotating motion, there was something that vaguely stirred Eizaburō’s memory. “Oh!” Eizaburō gasped. “Ah! Lady Yayoi—it is you, is it not?!” But Yayoi did not so much as reply—she did not even look back—urging Bean Tarō onward as she tried to vanish into the purple hues of the forest.

“Lady Yayoi! Oh—that’s right! It’s Lady Yayoi!” At Eizaburō’s voice, Yayoi quickened her steps as if fleeing, and Bean Tarō—walking alongside her—looked up from the side. “Miss Iori… Heh heh heh. Your real name’s Yayoi, ain’t it, you?” In an instant—once more— “Lady Yayoi—please wait—!”

Eizaburō’s voice came urgently chasing after. That day’s lingering dusk settled in.

The dusk of Edo tinged purple, heralding the arrival of a lingering late spring night.

The sun set later.

High in the sky, the afterglow bled crimson into the western clouds, while a flock of birds—likely fleeing from hawks—darted about like scattered sesame seeds.

And.

On the ground, a pale blue evening breeze was faintly beginning to rise.

At the Monster Mansion before Honjo Hoon-ji Temple—Suzukawa Genjūrō’s detached cottage—two figures were engaged in fervent discussion: one seated in the tatami room, the other perched on the veranda. Genjūrō, who had fled from Taiken at Matsugawa under the turret— At Aoyama Chōjagamaru’s Kogoi Forest—Tange Sazen, who had narrowly evaded Eizaburō’s slashes and Bean Tarō’s flying swords—and. Sazen had learned of Yayoi’s whereabouts from Genjūrō’s own mouth, while Genjūrō, in turn, had been led by Sazen to believe Oto was at Matsugawa and had barged in there—thus, each had their own grievances to air.

“Hey Genjū!” Sazen was already spoiling for a fight. “You damn friendless bastard! You spouted whatever nonsense you pleased to lure me out—no doubt planning to have that ape-like freak in Kogoi Forest throw his blade and take my life! But it ain’t that simple! Genjū! To think you’d dare parade that pockmarked mug of yours before Lord Sazen here, alive and well! I’ll turn this Ken’unmaru’s blade to rust right now—no holding back!”

Genjūrō, perched on the veranda, drew his partially drawn sword close to his side and laughed coldly.

“Just think about it! Believing every word you said, I was certain Oto was hiding there! I threw open the shoji in haste—only to find that beggar Gamō Taiken sitting there all cocky! I had no choice but to draw my blade, slash my way free, and flee! In all my years, Genjūrō’s never endured such humiliation! The grievance lies with me to voice! Sazen—who told you Oto goes by Yumehachi and works as a geisha at Matsugawa under the turret?!”

“Hmph!” Sazen snarled. “If you also had such a mishap on your end, then I can’t press you too harshly either… Well I’ll be damned! More importantly, Genjū! Who the hell told you that Yayoi’s living in that house in Kogoi Forest?!” Genjūrō, who had crossed his arms, “This is indeed as you say—there can be no doubt that both of us have been plotted against. You and I—we can fight anytime. First, before that—let us track down those who deceived us and expose their schemes, shall we not?”

“Hmph.”

“In other words, we two have suffered the same calamity,” “This is no situation for us to pointlessly hold grudges against each other.” “What say you?!” “Aye, that’s about right.” “But Genjū! Who in blazes told you ’bout Yayoi?!” “I see.” “Then I’ll tell you—Kushimaki Oto herself came callin’ just t’other day, an’—”

“What?! Oto?!” “Oto?!” Without hearing everything, Sazen hoisted Ken'unmaru in one hand and charged out. His single eye glinted in the sunset. “Oto... Tch, damn it! Where are you hiding? I’ll split you clean in two—” “Hold on!” Genjūrō also stood up. “She’s gone. She’s not here anymore. She left immediately… But you still haven’t said who told you Oto was at Matsugawa in Fukagawa!”

The sword scar on Sazen's cheek twitched with his laughter. "Oh, that? That was Yon-kō—Yokichi the drum player—who told me." "Yokichi!" Genjūrō echoed in surprise, "So it was that damned Oto's revenge after all..." At the exact moment Sazen likewise gritted his teeth, Yokichi—the trembling drum player—drenched in sweat, crawled across the wild garden's earth, stealthily attempting to distance himself from Sazen's detached room. "This ain't good! If I'm discovered now, I'm done for—they'll cut me down without a second thought... Kuwa-bara, Kuwa-bara!"

Licking the dirt, Yokichi muttered. “Boss! “Boss!” “We’re done for!” As a frantic voice came flying into the entrance of the pitch-black pit, Kushimaki Oto abruptly sat up in the darkness. In Dairokuten... Beneath the Shinozuka Inari shrine, in an emergency hideout hole meant to evade pursuers, Oto had been holed up alone for some time now. “What’s all this racket?” Tch! Though she clicked her tongue lightly, Oto’s voice inadvertently rose in pitch at Yokichi’s unusual state.

The reason Oto, having concealed her imperiled form within Inari's pit and refrained from venturing outside for so long, could still keep abreast of worldly affairs was because this drum-playing Yokichi stood between them to constantly bring reports; and though it was a place unknown to all others, Yon-kō alone had long understood this hideout that Oto the Boss had crafted through a lifetime of accumulated cunning.

Now, Given that this Yokichi had come rushing in in a panic unlike any before, even Oto having her courage crushed was only natural, "What's this, Yon-san? You can't just say 'it's serious' and leave it at that." "What exactly happened?" While feigning composure as she listened, Oto fidgeted restlessly—and just then, Yon-kō the drum player, who had rushed into this pitch-black subterranean chamber from the bright twilight world outside and become virtually blind, collapsed as if his legs had given out, plopping down onto a torn mat with a thud,

“You can’t stay calm! A-Anyway, it’s terrible! Guh—heads! Our heads’ll fly!” “Hohohoho!” Oto burst into laughter. “Well now, Yon-kō—this isn’t like you at all. It’s not like this just started now, is it? We’re in the same boat—given that we’re people whose heads could fly off any moment, if you think about it, staying quiet would just be a waste.” Yokichi, before even speaking, wildly waved both hands over his head,

“Tch! Th-that’s not... That’s no time to be carefree! After all, Boss—the Lord of Honjo and Lord Sazen are planning to stack me and you together and split us in two—” “Oh! That sounds interesting! But I’d hate to be split in two with you… It’s not like I’m some adulteress.” “Now! There!” Yokichi leaned forward and, “Just now, when I thought to show my face at Lord Sazen’s detached room—went wandering over there all absentminded-like—wouldn’t you know there were voices talking, you see?”

“Then I heard ‘Yokichi’ and ‘Oto’ in there, so I thought, ‘This ain’t right—what’s goin’ on?’ So I decided to listen real close and—”

“Then what?” “I was shocked, let me tell you!” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Oh no! It’s a shocker of all shockers, I tell you!” “You’re so noisy. What’s got you so shocked?” “No, Boss! You went and told Lord Suzukawa where Miss Yayoi was hiding, didn’t you?”

“Ah. I had some reason to let him know. What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s it! Truth is, Boss—I stuck my nose in too and told Lord Sazen where you’re hidin’, but see, those two went and tipped each other off right quick, then dashed off to their own women’s places! Only thing is, both struck out—ended up embarrassed *and* nearly dead! They came crawlin’ back lookin’ like hell, almost started hackin’ at each other till they figured out who’d fed ’em the info! Now they’ve swung their sights this way—Lord Suzukawa and Lord Sazen swear they’ll slaughter you and me on sight! They’re dead set on it, I tell ya!”

In the middle of Yokichi’s account, Kushimaki Oto—who had stood up and was retying her obi in the darkness—let out a low, groaning voice at that moment. “Yon-kō, hurry with the preparations! “Now, let’s put on those long straw sandals.” “But before that…” The rest came as a whispered secret—Yokichi simply stared wide-eyed, nodding incessantly.

Sotozakura District… The official residence of Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, South Magistrate of Edo.

It was still early in the evening. In a back room, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke passed a moment after supper, idly gazing at peony blossoms scattering into the dim twilight of the garden while moistening his throat with tea brought by a maid—when frantic shouting erupted near the rear gate. Like a stone cast into still waters, it suddenly startled him from his reverie. What is this? Could it be those black curs have been up to mischief again—

Just as Tadasuke pricked up his ears, his retainer Ibukita Daisaku, thoroughly abashed, prostrated himself at the threshold. “What is it, Daisaku?” Tadasuke turned a genial face. “Yes. I humbly apologize that this has reached your esteemed ears. Well, actually—at this very moment—it’s that, you see—a single deranged woman has approached the rear gate…”

“Well, well! A deranged woman, you say?” “As Your Lordship commands.” “Moreover, the nature of her derangement is utterly outrageous...”

“Very well, very well! Have her carefully tended and promptly investigate her origins.” His gentle eyes narrowed into threads, revealing Tadasuke’s compassion for the unknown woman. “Perish the thought!” In this manner, Daisaku hurriedly continued his explanation. “However—it is as follows.” “The extent of her derangement is by no means ordinary, so—”

“Hmm! In what way is it not ordinary? Has some self-proclaimed wife come forcing herself upon your household?” “Such words from you, ha ha ha… No, were that the case, I too would be resolved—but she simply desires an audience with Your Lordship—” “What? She wishes to meet me?” Tadasuke blinked his eyes in bewilderment.

“That is correct,” Daisaku replied, leaning forward. “That a deranged woman would approach Your Lordship—until this very day, Daisaku never even dreamed…”

“Ha ha ha! Is that your retort just now? Hmm, that is indeed Tadasuke’s loss.” “Ha ha ha! However, for what reason does that woman wish to meet with me, I wonder?” “Well, that is—in any case, what the deranged woman says truly lacks coherence. She clings to the rear gate, desperately seeking an audience. No matter how we try to appease her and send her away, she only wails and screams all the more. We are deeply ashamed that this has reached your ears—all of us have been utterly perplexed since earlier.”

“So you cannot determine her origins or identity?”

While listening, Tadasuke had already risen to his feet.

Daisaku, startled, restrained him.

“Your Lordship! Where might you be heading? Surely Your Lordship isn’t heading to see the woman… No—in truth, shortly after she arrived in this deranged state, a young townsman claiming to be her brother found her and came here. We have been striving together to calm her and take her back, but the wretched woman refuses to budge an inch and continues thrashing about wildly.” Lightly shaking off the restraining Daisaku, Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—South Magistrate of Edo in his informal kimono sleeves tucked up—started walking briskly along the garden path toward the rear gate where the woman was said to have rushed in.

He passed through the central garden to the rear gate.

Beyond the planted thicket, the servants' quarters came into view.

Night was already deepening, and lamps leaked through the trees here and there.

A drop fell... It was rain.

He’d thought it felt strangely warm and overcast earlier—so it finally started raining.

When Tadasuke looked up at the sky, another drop of water struck his forehead from the starless, pitch-black heavens. A voice could be heard. Close.

Close.

Quickening his pace, Tadasuke emerged into the square before the rear gate... Indeed, this must be the deranged woman Daisaku had mentioned. A woman of lower-town bearing lay pitifully disheveled on the ground, wailing incessantly about something. Peering stealthily from behind the encircling attendants, Tadasuke—for reasons unclear—ordered Daisaku, who had followed him, to make everyone withdraw. After waiting until the area stood deserted, he strode decisively toward the woman and the townsman-like man prostrating beside her who claimed to be her brother.

“Oto! You are Kushimaki Oto, are you not?! What brings you here feigning madness to make appeal?”

Tadasuke crouched down. "Your Honor, she is indeed that Oto. Since I'll spill everything clean, please in return..." "Are you suggesting I 'close my eyes and let Edo fall'—?" Piercingly, Tadasuke's eyes darted toward the man nearby. "You're Yokichi? Tsuzumi no—"

The rain grew heavier. Rain and wind and lightning and...

Around nine o'clock, the night became a terribly stormy one.

The trees groaned; torrents of water rushed like cartwheels. Blue-white flashes of lightning zigzagged as if to cleave the heavens and rend the earth, appearing and vanishing in an instant.

At this moment!

At the detached hermitage of the Honjo Monster Mansion.

Tange Sazen—the sword demon lying alongside four remnants of Sōma domain's reinforcement swordsmen: Tsukigata Gunnosuke, Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō, and Todoroki Genpachi—was dreaming. Fatigue of the five viscera—could that be why...? Sazen's dream: In the still night, Tange Sazen stood in wilderness gazing upward at the sky.

A bright indigo expanse formed a circular lid above him.

A huge moon.

Stars revolved around it. As Tange Sazen watched, one of the stars streaked away with a whoosh—then instantly scattered wildly in all directions. And then—. The place where he stood was not a field as he had thought—he stood upright on boundless water, his soles submerged as if he were a pillar.

Could this be the sea? Or perhaps it was a pond... When Sazen thought this, he saw the moon above him reflected distinctly on the water's surface, casting a cold light like death.

At the same moment, he awoke. Drenched in cold sweat, Tange Sazen turned his heavy head upon the pillow and surveyed the entire room. The torn lantern—likely cloaked in Tsukigata Gunnosuke's prized black cotton crested kimono—cast a dim reddish-brown light that gloomily illuminated the lower half of the chamber. There lay Tsukigata's four men in haphazard sleeping postures, with Heishichirō appearing to be the source of faint snores. A biting late-night stillness... The soundless sound of deepest dark, the earth's own respiration.

Tange Sazen used his only hand to raise himself up, then lay prone and sank into thought. It was the dream he had just had. Tange Sazen was not one to dwell on dreams, nor was he versed in interpreting them like the common women of the town...

The current trend of dream interpretation. According to this. A dream reflected in moonlit water meant all matters should be swiftly discerned. A dream where stars flew portended a trial of lust. —so it said. It was best to discern everything swiftly. Moreover, it warned that a calamity involving women was upon him. "Hmm! "This is no simple matter!" Even as he muttered this half-jokingly to himself and grinned sharply, he clearly heard once more the counterpart Ken'unmaru plaintively wailing—the sound of the night-crying sword.

Where was it coming from? Wondering, Tange Sazen raised his razor-sharp elongated face. Sssss... came the sound of the lamp wick sucking up oil.

Ken’unmaru was—without needing to look around—right by the pillow. A camp-style forged, flat silk-wrapped ancient blade—Tange Sazen fixed his single eye and stared intently at its sword form—!

Sure enough, there was a sound. The Night-Crying Sword! Was it betraying its name? Through wind and rain came intermittent weeping—pleading like an appeal, imploring like a mercy-begging entreaty, desperately beseeching something. A woman's voice. And that too—undoubtedly an old woman's.

And then—from the main house! Sazen’s glare, having fixed on his estimation, did not miss its mark.

The reason was this:

In the midst of that stormy midnight, in the main hall of the Monster Mansion—Suzukawa Genjūrō’s living quarters…

Oto's mother, Osayo was… Osayo had received fifty ryō from Genjūrō as severance money for Eizaburō and gone to Kajiya Tomigorō in Asakusa’s Mimachi district to request his assistance in handling the matter. However, Tomigorō—who also harbored feelings for Oto—absconded with the entrusted gold. Though she waited a while with Tomigorō’s wife Oshin for his return, Tomigorō had jauntily departed for the Tōkaidō road under the pretense of an Ise pilgrimage, so there was no chance he would return anytime soon.

However, Unable to freeload at others' houses forever—and with Oshin growing daily harsher in her treatment due to suspicions about Oto and Tomigorō's relationship—Granny Osayo finally reached her limit. Resolving to explain the circumstances, offer apologies, and beg for more time despite the awkwardness, she steeled herself and knocked at the back of the Monster Mansion that very night— Given that Genjūrō had been raging daily over Osayo—who had left with the gold and never returned—when he saw Granny Osayo flitting in like a fox-possessed wraith, he flew into an uncontrollable fury. Without hearing a word of explanation, he roared: "You wretch!" Shouting, he suddenly pressed Osayo down onto the wooden floor,

“You there, Sayo! After I said you resembled her mother and treated you with honor—what’s this? You swindled fifty ryō from me and must’ve hidden Oto and Eizaburō somewhere! No—this was a scheme you three plotted from the start! You fat hag! How dare you come crawling back here sniveling—Grr!” And so, without letting Osayo get a proper word in, they suddenly began torturing her. The fifty-six-year-old Granny Osayo screamed uncontrollably in her agony.

That scream—!

The scream pierced through the raging storm outside and reached even Tange Sazen’s ears in the detached room.

Already,

A fierce storm raged in the dead of night. The old woman's mournful weeping drifted amidst those sounds. Even this seemed to chill the heart of a blade demon—Tange Sazen, who had been awake alone interpreting dreams—involuntarily shuddered violently! As he shuddered and tried to pull the night garment over himself— From somewhere...

“Ken’un! “Here—Konryū has come yearning for you!” “Konryū has come!” “Open up!”

It was a low voice.

That sound—like wind slipping through a crack—reached Tange Sazen’s ears, and—Hah! Even as he reacted— Could it be my ears... deceiving me? Hah! He tried to verify by lifting his pillow—no, in that very instant he meant to raise it— Between Tange Sazen and where Tsukigata Gunnosuke lay on the opposite side lay a one-tatami gap, with chisels, half-drunk tea bowls, and water jugs scattered within arm’s reach from either direction—!

Strange!

Tange Sazen wondered—was this an earthquake? The thought that—

The tea bowls and water jugs began moving on their own—What the—?! In the moment he rubbed his eyes and looked—! The tatami mat swelled upward from below! It snapped! As it was snapped back—! Astonishing— Before anyone knew it, the floorboards had been peeled away, revealing a gaping hole in the floor joists. And there— And there—as if sprouted from beneath the veranda—stood two figures… Suwa Eizaburō and Gamō Taiken.

They had likely infiltrated under cover of the storm's roar and pried away the floorboards from below. Both wore sashes and headbands, and even Master Taiken had prepared a single sword tonight, already drawn from its sheath. "Get up! Night attack!" Shouting and reeling back as he swung his sword once, Sazen—already assuming a stance with Ken'unmaru's gleaming blade—roared twice with his entire face contorted into a mouth. "Can't you get up, Tsukigata?!" Thud—!

At the same time,

Ugh... An agonized groan of death throes.

The tip of Gamō Taiken’s sword pierced Todoroki Genpachi’s flank.

With a pale smile, Eizaburō had already slowly risen from the hole into the room.

The sound of standing trees swaying, their treetops brushing against the roof— The sight of Todoroki Genpachi—stabbed through his night garment and collapsing without even a scream—startled the other three, who had been dead to the world; their eyes snapped open as they leapt to their feet.

They looked—! Suwa Eizaburō and Gamō Taiken—both fully armed—stood divided to either side of the room, their coldly gleaming blades catching the pale glow of the lantern. The three men had no time to retie their sashes. They each ran to their swords, dropping their scabbards. And Sazen? When he realized this—was their intent to lure him out to the garden via the underside of the floor? Backing away slowly—he was now approaching the floor joist hole from which Taiken and Eizaburō had emerged.

A surprise attack in the wild night. Eizaburō—his entire being long since transformed into a sword—had a voice that sank, choked with dread.

“Lord Tange?… Deem tonight your last!”

Tange Sazen narrowed his single eye and laughed.

“With this storm raging, no amount of thrashing about will let sounds leak outside. Hey youngster, let’s take our time clashing swords till morning!” Gamō Taiken barked.

“Enough talk! Attack!”

And with that— This triggered the chaotic dance of blades. Santō Heishichirō, second-in-command under Tsukigata Gunnosuke, was the first to draw his sword, providing an opening for Magistrate Katsunori’s single strike—

“Hyah!”

Deliberately executing a feint, then immediately— charging toward Gamō Taiken while simultaneously Swoosh—! With the tip of his sword swung sideways—aiming to catch Eizaburō in the sweep. That might have been his plan—but! This was none other than Master Taiken, who had honed his swordsmanship through the Jigen-ryū school preserved in Chichibu. Jigen-ryū prized speed and overflowed with Zen paradoxes. Having discerned Heishichirō's avalanche-like technique, Gamō Taiken proactively parried his blade while shifting leftward to shield Eizaburō—whereupon Eizaburō drew his seasoned greatsword Musashi Tarō and unleashed a board-splitting thrust aimed at Sazen's chest...

In the same instant! Tange Sazen—avoiding the hole he nearly fell into by skirting its edge and stepping back—flipped his hilt upward from below with a swoosh! No sooner had he struck up Tarō Yasukuni than the rare blade Ken'unmaru—swung back with his left arm—hummed through the air, driving straight toward Eizaburō’s face! “Here it comes!” he cried. A flash strike—unexpectedly! Eizaburō—evading the blade by a mere inch as he pivoted sideways through Shinpen Musō’s state of “empty mind, void body”—raised his foot in an instant with a grunt! With that, he delivered a splendid slash to Santō Heishichirō’s flank before twisting back.

This time—! From the right side of Tange Sazen—who lacked a right arm—someone struck without warning in a praying blow. Unable to defend himself, Sazen erupted in a spray of blood with a THUD! What seemed to have collapsed there... was that thick, billowing smoke. Evading, Tange Sazen used the swirling ash from the tobacco tray he’d kicked up in that instant—then, already backing against the wall in a boar-rush stance, he bellowed with his single eye blazing. “Raa! “I’ll grind your bones to dust. “With this blade, I’ll grind you down… Heh heh heh… Come at me, bastard…”

Eizaburō faced his opponent, his lowered gaze fixed in an immovable blue-eyed stare—silent... Both stood still as a forest.

What of Gamō Taiken?

And when one looked... At the center of the triangular sword formation formed by Tsukigata Gunnosuke—the northern warlord—Kagami Bōnosuke—the foremost combatant—and Santō Heishichirō—the second-ranked fighter—stood Gamō Taiken imposingly like a temple guardian. His posture remained unchanged: eyes half-closed in thoughtless void, sword hand dangling loosely at his side. This was the Water-Moon stance—the Jigen-ryū school’s primordial form that Master Taiken alone could truly embody, responding freely to this hellish battleground with spontaneous precision. For a few seconds, the indoor sword clash came to an abrupt halt as both sides measured each other’s breathing... Then came a roaring gust of wind.

Large raindrops pounded against the storm shutters. The light from the crested pillow lamp still gently illuminated the corpse of Todoroki Genpachi, wrapped in a futon, as though he were peacefully asleep.

But wait! This stalemate did not last long. In an instant, the clash reignited; sword flashes flew like arrows through the narrow detached room, and sword energy overflowed like raging flames— By this time already!

Outside the detached room, five fire-cloaked figures sneaked up like cats, completely encircled them and lay in wait for an opportunity—yet no one noticed.

Morning came.

The stillness after the storm was laced with a peculiar weariness.

Around the time golden arrows of sunlight began piercing through Aoyama Kogoi Forest...

Yayoi was, as usual, soaking in her morning bath. Since bathing immediately upon waking had become Yayoi’s custom, she had continued it without missing a single day; however—

Last night. Having left behind herself and Bean Tarō, Old Master Tokui Kanemitsu—who had dispatched four fire-cloaked disciples and ten large men disguised as blacksmith laborers to carry palanquins—still had not returned from launching a night attack on Honjo’s Monster Mansion. Though Yayoi felt no desire to leisurely bathe under these circumstances, when Bean Tarō came to inform her the bathwater had boiled, she resolutely headed to the bathhouse nonetheless. Last night, it had been known to us since yesterday afternoon through Bean Tarō’s reconnaissance that Eizaburō had come raiding the Suzukawa side while wielding Konryūmaru.

In essence—just as the twin blades Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru churned their swirling vortex of conflict—the plan had been to leap in from the flank and seize both swords simultaneously. Thus had last night’s group set out with extraordinary fervor… But would Tokui Kanemitsu, descendant of Seki no Magoroku, truly succeed in wresting Ken'unmaru from Tange Sazen and Konryūmaru from Suwa Eizaburō to obtain the Water-Fire Secret Scrolls—the founder’s authentication seals? Soaking in the bath while gazing at the softened sky through the window after the storm, Yayoi—disguised as Onozuka Iori—ceaselessly turned these thoughts over in her mind.

Of course, she had earnestly entreated Old Master Tokui and his four subordinates to ensure Lord Eizaburō remained unharmed—to prevent any mishaps—but given that Eizaburō, unaware of the particulars, would never relinquish the secret Konryū blade so readily, they must have engaged in fierce sword combat; yet the thought that in the heat of it all, Lord Eizaburō might... made Yayoi—though entrusted with overseeing their hideout—utterly incapable of continuing to leisurely soak in the bath,

“They still hadn’t returned… What could have happened?”

Unconsciously muttering to herself, she abruptly began preparing to exit the bath and started drying her body. Yayoi was, after all, Yayoi—she still had not lost her pure heart that yearned for Eizaburō.

That’s all well and good! From a knothole in the bathhouse’s wooden paneling, a single eye peered through—and there was someone who had watched Yayoi’s entire bath from start to finish.

Kōshū’s Homeless Sanshō, Bean Tarō—. He had harbored doubts about Yayoi’s so-called “Iori” being a man ever since she discovered and hired him during the festival day. But after that incident days prior—when he helped a young samurai from Kawaramachi at the edge of Kogoi Forest and heard him call Iori “Yayoi”—his suspicions had deepened further. He had been lying in wait for an opportunity to confirm it… and finally, this morning!

In the deserted house, Yayoi was bathing alone; delighted, Bean Tarō stealthily peeked through a gap—!

Plump breasts exposed, her snow-white skin bare without a single thread—the nude form of a woman fresh from the bath... Bean Tarō—born a hunchbacked dwarf who had never been acknowledged by any woman—found himself alone in this forest cottage with a woman disguised as a young samurai. This isolation proved more than enough to drive him to frenzy. Moreover... The naked form of Yayoi he had glimpsed—Bean Tarō's breathing grew labored. And...

He stood motionless outside the bathhouse door, lying in wait—. It was the moment when Yayoi, unaware of this, hastily threw on her kimono and opened the door. “I saw you!” It was the strained voice of Bean Tarō. Thud! Even as she did so, Yayoi tried to mask it with a laugh. “What?! It’s just Bean… What do you mean you saw?” “I saw you!” Bean Tarō’s face twisted as he drew closer. “So, what do you mean you saw?—Move… Get out of the way there!”

“No way, I ain’t movin’! Heh heh, now that I’ve seen clear you’re a woman, Bean Tarō here’s got himself a little request…” Yayoi staggered back under the pressure of Bean Tarō’s grotesquely gleaming eyes— She retreated two or three steps into the bathhouse. Slam! Bean Tarō stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a backward thrust. This was the moment Yayoi desperately fended off Bean Tarō as he lunged at her like a madman.

The cramped bathhouse struggle favored Bean Tarō’s small frame. Moreover, Yayoi had completely reverted to feminine sensibilities, increasingly finding herself at a disadvantage and nearly pinned down. Bean Tarō—stocky as a bear cub and ablaze with carnal desire—came lunging. When she saw that massive grotesque face up close, Yayoi tried to shut her eyes in resignation. To be bitten by one’s own dog—this was what it meant.

Yayoi felt as though her soul had left her body, yet still she continued to struggle—clinging to the slim hope that Old Master Tokui and his men might return at any moment, determined to resist for as long as escape remained possible… Through clenched teeth, Bean Tarō implored. "Hey, Miss Yayoi! I’ve worked for you without pay all this time. Not once’ve I gotten any thanks from you. That’s ’cause I’ve had just this one wish for you as a woman. C’mon, don’t say such heartless things—!"

As he now pressed his plea with hands clasped as if in prayer, Yayoi decisively leapt back, swiftly adjusting her disheveled clothing while— “Get back! You unforgivable wretch! I won’t let this go unpunished!” She roared in Onozuka Iori’s manner! “Hah! This is the end!”

Sanshō Bean Tarō, having bellowed, grew even more frenzied and leapt at her. The drain area... slippery underfoot. The footing was treacherous. As Yayoi's feet slid out from under her and she fell, the half-mad Bean Tarō pounced like a beast—a scene of violent disorder ensued... In that instant when all seemed lost—— Bang! Bang!

Bang-bang-bang! Came the sound of pounding on the bathhouse door,

“Iori-san! Is Iori-san there?”

It was a man’s voice. Pushing aside the startled Bean Tarō who flinched back, Yayoi ran up and threw open the door— One of this house’s palanquin bearers—a large man from the Tokui school’s Hirakaji faction who had carried five palanquins the previous night—appeared to have rushed back alone, his shoulders heaving with labored breaths as he stood speechless,

“Oh! “This is it!” Thud! When he thrust them suddenly before Yayoi’s eyes—! Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—the paired night-crying swords! “Ah! Finally—the two swords reunited?!” “Finally—the two swords reunited?!” “Then that… last night’s raid…”

The Hirakaji palanquin bearer, restraining Yayoi as she tried to speak, “We’re in a hurry so no time for long talk—anyway, last night when Ken’un and Konryū were clashing, our leader jumped into the fray. Turned into one hell of a scuffle, but in the end even us ten palanquin bearers joined in to pin down Sazen and Eizaburō, finally snatchin’ both swords! So then…” “Oh! And then?” “Before dawn, we dashed all the way to Yatsushita, and inside the palanquin, the Old Master removed the copper caps from these twin swords’ hilts and—”

“Hmm?” “It came out.” “Was the Water-Fire Secret Document there?” “Yes! It was written in densely packed small characters on a thin strip of paper and tightly wound around the center.” “Hmm… That’s a relief…” “At that moment, Tokui-sensei’s tears streamed down—but no, we all cried too, I tell ya. Honestly, tears of joy... Lord Iori, they just kept streaming down—damn it! They spilled out… Hahaha!”

“That is as it should be,” said Yayoi, maintaining her male persona. “Iori offers heartfelt congratulations. I can well imagine how the elderly gentleman must feel, having finally achieved his lifelong ambition.” “Aye, exactly,” replied the palanquin bearer, suddenly rubbing the bridge of his nose with a clenched fist as if remembering something urgent. “Oh! Right! No time to waste—Mr. Iori! The Master says he’s racing back to Mino Barrier with the Water-Fire Document this instant. As for these blades—” He thrust forward the paired swords. “They’re your family’s rightful property. Now that we’ve got the scroll, the Master’s done with these night-crying steel-wailers.” He pressed the swords into her hands, his breath still ragged from running. “We’re returnin’ ’em proper-like—keep ’em safe through the generations, yeah? And since we’ll likely never cross paths again…” He stepped back, bowing awkwardly. “Take care of yourself. The Master’s whole crew’s waitin’ with the palanquins down in Shinagawa. Consider ’em delivered!” Before she could respond, he turned and vanished into the forest path.

Leaving his voice and the Ken’un-Konryū paired swords with Yayoi, the man had already raced away down a forest path. Yayoi snapped back to her senses; without even needing to look closely, the Ken’un-Konryū paired night-crying swords—left behind by the burly palanquin bearer—were now in her hands! These swords—the inseparable blades that had separated her from Father Tetsusai across the boundary between life and death and stolen her lover Eizaburō from the world… Though she had not laid eyes on them since last autumn, and though they had now spat out from their hilts the Water-Fire Secret Document they had harbored for years, they rested in Yayoi’s pale hands as if nothing had transpired—the rarest of rare blades.

In retrospect, it had all been a tangled nightmare. These fate-bound blades were not meant to be kept... As this realization welled up within her, Yayoi absently moved to fasten the paired night-crying swords at her waist—in that very instant!

She had forgotten about Yamashuku’s Bean Tarō…. Just as he interfered at the critical moment—leaving her feeling she’d lost her grip on the prize—Yayoi, though unaware of the full details, now seemed to have obtained those very blades everyone had risked their lives for. Seeing this, he resolved to snatch them away from the sidelines as revenge for his unrequited love… After all, no one would ever return to this house again. It was practically an empty house—he’d take the swords first, torment them thoroughly until they begged forgiveness, and then make them obey his every word! Driven by cunning worthy of Bean Tarō himself, he suddenly leaped out from the bathhouse corner where he’d been hiding,

“Got ’em!”

Faster than a single cry could be made—swiftly! He snatched the night-crying swords from Yayoi’s hands and, in the same motion, leaped down along the small corridor to the kitchen; then, kicking down the Mizuguchi lattice door, he dashed outside.

“Ahh—!” For a moment, even Yayoi herself stood dumbfounded; but after a few seconds’ pause, when she came to her senses and looked, there was Bean Tarō—carrying two battle swords taller than her own height—weaving through the trees of the forest and shrinking until he truly resembled a bean. Only then did Yayoi grasp the gravity of the situation. As she snapped from bewilderment to horror, “Damn you!” She took off in pursuit at full speed. One block.

Two blocks.

It was the middle of Kogoi Forest, dim even at noon. Cedars, maples, and assorted trees—untouched by axes—towered skyward in vigorous growth, while below, waist-high weeds tangled into impenetrable thickets. To Yayoi’s dismay, Bean Tarō had vanished into this sea of vegetation, leaving no trace of where he might lurk. Proceeding through the rustling waves of grass—and sure enough—! At a spot where the grass was charred black, likely from a past campfire that created a slight clearing, she found Bean Tarō standing with both hands resting on the Ken'un and Konryū swords planted like a staff.

“Heh heh heh! “So you finally made it here!” Bean Tarō groaned. Yayoi remained silent—step by cautious step, she drew closer.

And then— Bean Tarō, gripping the swords once more and preparing to leap into the grass, assumed his stance. “Ha! As long as I’m runnin’ around this Kogoi Forest here, cry or howl all you want—you ain’t got a chance of catchin’ me.” “Right?!” “I’m a man too!” “If ya won’t listen to what I say, then there’s no helpin’ it.” “I’ll just take these swords and scram… Or will you die here and close your eyes forever, Miss Yayoi?” “Ha ha ha! If this were a stage, we’d be closin’ in for the climax—right about now!”

As he spoke, Bean Tarō twisted his body as if to dart into the trees at any moment. Yayoi couldn’t let him escape with the swords, yet she couldn’t freely confront this ape-man either—she stood frozen, trapped between choices. Perhaps mistaking her hesitation for consent, Bean Tarō stomped back toward her,

“Miss Yayoi!” Holding both swords in his right hand, he swung his left arm around and tried to seize Yayoi’s body. Yayoi instinctively recoiled. The loathsome Bean Tarō clung to her.

That was the moment.

A voice sounded... nearby!

“Hey!” “There it is!” “The swords too!” “Hey! There’s a girl here too!” Snap! Along with his words, The one-eyed, scarred horse-faced visage thrust forward— parting the grass—

Water and sky— “Hey!” Having lost Ken'unmaru, Sazen stood revealed, brandishing a great sword in his single arm.

No sooner had he seen this than Bean Tarō abandoned Yayoi, snatched up the two swords, and immediately crouched low to rummage through his pocket. He was about to take out his signature shuriken.

Sazen’s hoarse voice once again shook the forest’s leaves. “You there—are you some kind of monster?! Even if you are, if you understand human speech, listen well to what I say! Those two swords and this girl—last autumn’s grand tournament! I took first place and claimed them both as my prize! They’ve been mine all along!” Bean Tarō remained silent. Baring white teeth like a wild dog, he suddenly made a movement as if leaping up—his long arm whooshed through the air! The blade roared through the air—a violet lightning flash!

Thwack! The small sword that had narrowly missed Sazen’s neck embedded itself into the trunk of a tree behind him with a dull thud.

“Ugh, you bastard!” “You’re serious, huh?” With a groan, Sazen pulled back his foot to ready a charge—instantly drawing a half-arc aiming to slash off Bean Tarō’s exposed neck. But Bean Tarō clawed at the earth to dodge and hurled a sidearm throw mid-retreat; the brocade-threaded shuriken soared like shooting stars and struck Sazen’s right arm. However,

Unfortunately, Sazen had no right arm.

And so, the dagger that had pierced his right sleeve remained lodged there, stitching through an inch or two of the sleeve’s fabric. But only for an instant! Then came the fourth and fifth blades—gleaming projectiles trailing long tails like living creatures, shining in the sun and stirring the wind as they enveloped Sazen in a spear-like barrage... yet! Tange Sazen was by no means an ordinary swordsman. Clang clang clang! The rapid succession of hard clangs scattering through the air came from his left sword whirling up, down, left, and right to knock down Bean Tarō’s daggers.

“Ah!”

Terrified by this swordsmanship, Bean Tarō let out a cry and instinctively reached into his pocket once more—but he had already thrown all his daggers, leaving none remaining. In an instant! No sooner had he made a tearful face than Bean Tarō turned his back and tried to leap into the thicket of grass before him.

“Wait! Don’t you have anything left to throw?!”

Sazen’s abusive shout chased after him.

Bean Tarō turned around. It was an expression that seemed to beg for mercy through a forced smile. However, in the next instant, he gushed a torrent of blood from his head, turning crimson all over. Tange Sazen, having closed in, delivered a single strike with an icy smile.

Bean Tarō of Yamashuku, his entire body like a blood-drenched figure, writhed on the ground for a time before finally clutching the roots of the grass and ceasing to move. He breathed his last. No sooner had he seen this than Sazen muttered to himself, “I killed a nasty piece of work.” With a strained, pale smile, he wiped the blood from his large sword onto the grass leaves—but where were Yayoi and the two swords? When he looked around the area, they must have slipped away unnoticed during the commotion. Yayoi was nowhere to be seen, and the Night-Crying Swords had vanished from the vicinity.

In the depths of the forest, under the high sun, all was still. Arrows of rain-like light filtered through the treetops, their reflections on the lingering dew at the tips of grass blades shimmering like wildflowers in a seven-colored radiance that pierced Sazen’s solitary eye. Snort! The smell of blood—Sazen grinned coldly once more as he glared back at Bean Tarō’s corpse, but—! He had recalled hearing from Suzukawa Genjūrō that Yayoi was living in this Kogoi Forest with a five-member group in fireman attire; thus, after being outnumbered last night and having Ken’unmaru stolen from him despite his efforts, he had come to this forest intending to reclaim it, thinking she might be here.

Then, though he had indeed seen the two swords brought together, while fending off that nuisance Bean Tarō, Yayoi had vanished along with them to who knows where. “Ah, they’re still loitering around here anyway…” As Sazen rustled through the grass and began walking, his eye caught a glimpse of Yayoi hurrying beneath the forest canopy and the pair of camp swords she had tucked under her arm. Sazen broke into a run.

Yayoi kept running desperately while glancing back slightly.

Pursuing and pursued, the two exited the forest. Yayoi, clutching the Konryū and Ken’unmaru swords tightly, ran out of Kogoi Forest. When she looked ahead and saw four palanquins parked there, she realized Tokuine’s four disciples must have returned to the forest house for some reason—thank heavens, I’m saved! she thought. She quickened her steps and approached, “Hey! There you are—gotcha!”

In response to Sazen’s voice calling from behind, she watched as they burst out of the palanquins with a clattering rustle—

No sooner had one peril passed than two or three more arisen! The Tsukigata reinforcements—now reduced from thirty-one to three remaining swordsmen—their leader Tsukigata Gunnosuke, Kagami Bōnosuke, Santō Heishichirō… these were the ones who had come rushing in palanquins alongside Sazen. Yayoi’s position was like that of a small fish leaping of its own accord into the very center of that net! “Wh-what...?!”

And Yayoi—now fully reverted to her true female self—tried to immediately turn back the way she had come even before a startled cry could escape her lips, but! As the proverb goes: a tiger at the front gate, a wolf at the rear! Sazen would be there to block her retreat. As she hesitated between right and left, Yayoi was seized by the four men and thrown into one of the palanquins along with the Night-Crying Swords—and no sooner had this happened than Tange Sazen tried to force his way into it as well.

At that critical moment!

This too was last night. Outnumbered in a chaotic battle amidst wind and rain, Eizaburō and Taiken had Konryūmaru taken by the Tokuine five-member group; though belatedly, they rushed to pursue Sazen’s party.

And then! No sooner had Suwa Eizaburō seen this than he struck Musashi Tarō—who had been sated with blood since the previous night—and whirled to slash at Tange Sazen. "You’re here!" Tange Sazen roared, deliberately positioning himself between Eizaburō and Taiken, "Mr. Tsukigata—push ahead without hesitation! The rendezvous point remains as planned... Now that I’ll take charge here, entrust the girl and swords properly to me...! Leave this humble one behind—make your dash...!"

he bellowed.

Simultaneously. “Right! Let’s go, buddy!” “Understood!”

The palanquin bearers' vigor. "In that case, Lord Tange, the aftermath—" "Understood! With all haste!" No sooner had Sazen and Gunnosuke—inside and outside the palanquins—exchanged words than the four palanquins plunged earthward— After two or three steps, their feet fell into unison—hips braced, shoulders swinging uniformly—splattering mire from the rain-drenched ground until they disappeared beyond the road's edge in an instant. Sazen, reassured after a fleeting glance after them, let a sardonic smile suffuse his entire face as he turned his gaze toward Taiken and Eizaburō.

“While I have long been indebted to you, I shall now take my leave with this.” “The swords and the young lady are items this humble one received from Lord Tetsusai after winning the match… Ha ha ha! I shall gratefully accept them.” Before Eizaburō could open his mouth, Taiken burst into laughter. “You’re getting ahead of yourself with that grandiose talk!” “Your sword—have you no mind to use it for the righteous path? What a waste!” “What nonsense are you spouting! Since when does your righteous path or any of that rubbish matter?” “I’m doing this for my lord’s sake…”

“Hmph! You’ve said your piece now!” Taiken took a step forward. “For your lord’s sake! Oh, of course! Precisely so! For Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke’s sword collection—hahaha! Echizen said the same thing...”

Sazen’s eyes glinted, “Echizen... you mean the southern magistrate?” “That’s right! There aren’t two Echizens in this world!” No sooner had he heard this than Sazen,

“Tch! So Echizen is meddling in this affair... Ugh! In that case—maybe I was too quick to let my guard down, just like you said! Now! Ain’t got time for this!” With his voice, Sazen moved—snap! No sooner had he leapt up and swung his sword than—There!—dashing through the gap between Taiken and Eizaburō who had assumed their stances, he then leapt toward the peasant leading a horse along the narrow path ahead.

As Tange Sazen shoved the peasant aside and leapt onto the bare-backed horse, the startled animal bolted off—while still mounted, he reached out to snap a branch from a standing tree with a sharp crack! He gave the galloping horse one vigorous lash to urge it onward—all these events transpired in the same instant. No rider remained upon the saddle; no horse lingered beneath it. Tange Sazen became first a star, then a speck, steadily vanishing into the billowing dust.

At that moment. It was when Taiken and Eizaburō, standing dumbfounded, heard the fierce horse's neigh close to their ears. A godsend when most needed!

At the horse’s neigh, Taiken and Eizaburō whirled around—!

A masked samurai stood holding the bridles of two horses, having appeared as if from nowhere.

The two of them started in surprise and exchanged a glance, but the black-hooded samurai led the horses forward steadily and approached, “Mount them! If you pursue now, tracking that one-armed man on horseback should prove easy. Now, do not hold back!” “Much obliged!”

Taiken bowed his head, "Though I do not know who you are, I believe you have your reasons for graciously aiding us."

“Indeed!” “It is all by the Lord’s command.” “With swift arrangements made everywhere, rest assured and pursue them to the last!” At these unexpected compassionate words, “Lord… do you mean?”

When Taiken asked in return,

“Well, that I cannot answer.” “In any case, when time is of the essence, ride this horse with all haste—” No time to wait for formalities! Taiken and Eizaburō mounted their saddles and—Hyah!—urged their horses in the direction Sazen had fled. They galloped headlong and soon caught sight of Sazen, but Sazen, appearing quite skilled in horsemanship, proved difficult to catch up to. Three horses kicked up sand and dust as they charged through the streets of Edo, finally coming to a halt as they emerged at the beach.

It was the shore of Shiodome. When they looked, Sazen—having nimbly dismounted from his horse—boarded a small boat that had been prepared in advance. No sooner had he done so than he snapped—cutting the rope—and began rowing out to sea. On the boat, three Tsukigata men—who had loaded Yayoi and the Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru swords—were waiting.

So that's it! He seemed intent on taking the sea route to escape to Sōma-Nakamura! When Eizaburō and Taiken glared at the boat and stamped their feet in frustration— Silently, like a shadow, yet another masked samurai stood behind them! Without paying the two any heed, “This way!” When he beckoned, a large boat approached, oars splashing spiritedly against its hull. “Get aboard!”

The samurai said. At that voice, Taiken seemed to recognize it, "Oh! You're the great--!"

As he started to speak, the samurai waved his hand. The samurai silently pointed at the boat.

“I’ve got it! So this was your doing—you’d prepared everything this thoroughly? I’m grateful! As expected of the South... Oh!... I’ll say no more! This is it!” Taiken pressed his palms together and bowed to the samurai, who seemed to smile faintly beneath his hood while nodding insistently, urging them to board quickly! He gestured impatiently. Then— “We’ve tracked their faction’s every move since long ago—today’s arrangements were set well in advance. That wretch has no allies left now! Listen well—the Sōma clan’s upper residence stands in Sotobanda. I summoned their Edo steward and gave him a proper scare. Made him swear he knows nothing of any one-armed swordsman collecting blades. Hah! Now that rogue’s no Sōma retainer—just a stray dog. Cut him down or truss him up—no complaints will come from the north! Do as you will...”

“I see! Very well!”

“The Magistrate may posture as a wise man—not that I mean to disparage him—but I too have vision,” declared the masked samurai. “Even silent, I’ll fulfill what must be done! Leave Edo’s aftermath to me. Pursue that vessel to the ends of the earth!” He thrust an armored finger seaward. “Make haste! Can’t you see it’s nearly beyond sight?” Taiken wordlessly bowed to the warrior before urging Eizaburō onward. They vaulted onto the waiting craft where brawny oarsmen stood ready. With a synchronized heave, the crew plunged their oars into the water and surged after Sazen’s retreating ship.

Shiodome. To the left stood Senki Inari.

A single glance—nothing but water.

The view stretched endlessly. Oarlocks groaned with grating creaks. Thus did the two ships depart Edo. Indigo sea. Pale blue mountains.

Looking back, the figure of the masked samurai standing on the shore had shrunk to a needle's tip, about to vanish beyond the field of vision. Only water and sky lay ahead on the ships' course.

Sunset Crossroads The ships moved in tandem. Days and nights without wind. In the oil-smooth inlet, the same distance continued between the two ships for days on end. Riding in the wake of Sazen's ship trailing its white wake, Eizaburō and Taiken's vessel followed tirelessly... It was a listless succession of days and nights at sea, where even hostility and fighting spirit seemed on the verge of fading away.

Meanwhile, aboard Tange Sazen’s ship—

Though they had forcibly brought her aboard, when actually seeing her noble maidenly dignity up close, even Tange Sazen found himself unable to lay hands on Yayoi. Now guarding only the Konryūmaru and Ken'unmaru swords while being treated with utmost care, she simply waited for the day their ship would arrive at Matsukawaura Bay near Sōma-Nakamura. The three Tsukigata warriors—Gunnosuke, Kagami Bōnosuke, and Santō Heishichirō—were no exception. When they had set out for Edo on their Blood Register journey, which among them could have foreseen this present desolation!

Reduced from thirty-one men to a mere three, they lay exposed in the ship’s hold like fallen warriors. Rise and fall—such words ceaselessly haunted Gunnosuke’s heart. A single plank’s thickness was all that separated them from hell. A sea voyage makes shipmates bond. Both pursuing vessel and pursued vessel, subject to the same weather’s whim, did nothing but chase and be chased.

On the forward ship was Yayoi.

In the rear ship was Eizaburō. What thoughts must have filled their minds as they gazed at each other’s sails, listened to the groan of ropes, and watched the flocks of seagulls. By day were cloud peaks. By night were drops of moonlight. And thus.

Yawata Inn. Ōi. Azeto Beach.

Ōnuki. Sanuki Villages.

Rounding Tomiura Misaki, they reached Awa no Katsuyama and Hashirimizu.

From Kannonzaki to Nago and Funagata. Misaki…Jōgashima. In this area of frequent passing showers, aboard both ships, they brought out bowls, basins, and all manner of concave vessels to collect rainwater for drinking.

Beyond that, the lights of Hōjō Town.

Kokonoe Yasunobu Shrine’s cedar forest.

Nojimazaki. Shirahama. Wada Bay. Emi. Awa Kamogawa. Higashinami— Out to the open sea, Kujūkuri Beach. Matsuo. Chigata. Togawa. From Byōbugaura to Inubō. The view of Iinuma Kannon. With Ōtone to port and Kaikashima to starboard, they emerged into Kashimanada—Chōshi, Yatabe. Heading north— From Ōarai to Isohama, Hiraiso, Isosaki…there is Isozaki Shrine. Next: Akogi, Matsukawa Iso’s Ogitsu. Sekimoto. Nakoso. Ono-hama. Ena.

Kusano. Yotsukura. Tatsuta. Yoru no Mori. Namie. From around here stretching to Matsukawaura Bay, the fishing villages of Kodaka, Hara Town, and Hitachi-ki continued. Sendai Bay. Near the renowned Shiogama Shrine, offshore to the right lay Kinkasan, where the Ayukawa River flowed into the sea. Raging waves... It was dusk on the ninth day since departing Edo.

The sky that had been threatening since afternoon began pelting heavy raindrops as night fell—and with wind now joining in—the two ships were swiftly swept toward Kinkasan offshore!

At last.

Around midnight—with a thunderous crash, the ships collided! Braving the storm, Suwa Eizaburō and Gamō Taiken boarded Sazen’s vessel, and in moments had cut down all three Tsukigata warriors! Sazen saw that he was outmatched. He immediately threw the night-crying swords into the sea—but instantly! Eizaburō dove into the water, retrieved the two sinking swords that came drifting by, and swam back to the ship.

And then! When he placed the two swords in the hands of Yayoi, who lay collapsed in the ship, she smiled gently and returned them to Eizaburō with just a single phrase. “Please… with Oto…” Those faintly uttered words were her last. Lonely—and yet, an indescribably peaceful satisfaction shone upon Yayoi’s lifeless face on that stormy night over the waters off Kinkasan. Eizaburō wiped his tears and looked where Taiken pointed—there in the distant dark waves, Tange Sazen’s tall figure had assembled ship planks into a raft and was drifting far, far away, neither clearly alive nor dead.

Far, far away toward the eastern waters that would soon brighten with dawn...

What a long, long time it had been!

And thus here, the two swords—Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—returned once more to Suwa Eizaburō’s hand.

Fresh verdant leaves...

It was mid-June in Edo.

Oto, now looking completely like a commoner, stood at the base of Tokiwabashi Bridge, her heavily pregnant body hidden beneath her sash. The summer squall whipped at willow branches and teased the hems of women passing by. A breezy early summer town. All of this had been wrought by Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, South Magistrate, who pulled strings from shadows for what he deemed right. Oto had been extracted from Matsukawa through Lord Ōoka's hand and washed her feet of geisha life, while Osayo too was saved when a swift messenger from Lord Ōoka reached landlord Kizaemon, who then pleaded negotiations with Suzukawa Genjūrō on her behalf.

And now. The mother and daughter were staying at Kizaemon’s house in Asakusa Tawaramachi Third District, but by Lord Ōoka’s decree, Ōkubo Tōjirō of Torigoe had also permitted his absent younger brother Eizaburō’s disownment. Upon returning to Edo, Eizaburō would formally marry Oto by entering the Wada family as a son-in-law. Together with Osayo—three people, no—four, including the child in Oto’s womb—they would return to Sōma-Nakamura Domain in accordance with Wada Sōemon’s will and inherit the Wada household.

And if Lord Eizaburō were to obtain the Night-Crying Swords, then upon returning to the domain he would present them—and all the praises and honors that should have gone to Sazen would instead belong entirely to Wada Eizaburō... With this thought, Oto now prayed day and night to the gods and buddhas for Eizaburō’s swift return from the sea and the twin blades of Seki no Magoroku he would bring back! she was praying.

Now, Eizaburō’s ship was nearing the inlet. Today was the fifteenth— The Hiyoshi Sannō Shrine in Kōjimachi Nagatababa—serving as Eijō’s ujigami tutelary deity with Edo’s largest parish—held its festival on June fifteenth. Edo’s grandest festival. The Betto of Kanri-in oversaw rituals; Chief Priest Jige Minbu conducted ceremonies. The portable shrine’s route barred public passage; merchant houses built viewing stands. Resplendent curtains and carpets adorned the streets; bamboo fences partitioned side alleys; daimyo from Sakurada led sacred horses; attendants carried long-handled tools; town magistrates and their assistants accompanied three portable shrines and two lion heads. Ten mounted warrior monks wore armor. Floats paraded; processions marched. Forty-six numbered groups. Over one hundred thirty participating towns.

Gathered before the First Torii Gate, the procession route entered Hanzo Gate from Hoshinoyama, passed through Fukiage Takebashi Gate, proceeded from Ōshimo to Tokiwabashi Bridge, Honchō, Jūkendana Honrokuchō, Teppōchō, Koganechō, Koamichō, crossed Reigan Bridge, performed the offering ritual at Kayabachō Otabisho, then continued along Nihonbashi-dōri Street, passed through Himegomon, and returned to Kasumigaseki O-yama. Every other year, in the years of the Ox, Rabbit, Snake, Goat, Rooster, and Boar. Such was the scale of it all.

Today’s festival fell on an auspicious day. Fortunately, the weather was splendid, and the crowds were truly packed to bursting. As guards cleared people from the bustling streets, Number 30 Kijichō’s decorated float gradually approached, followed in turn by dance floats—then from Kandabashi Bridge came Numbers 35 and 36, their bearers shouting “Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” after completing the official viewing! And so they pressed in—a tremendous commotion. The dance float of Princess Taki Yasha. The red-faced monkey of Sannō...

Hearing a voice call out from behind, Oto absentmindedly turned to look.

Among the spectators, the townspeople were chatting. “Hey, Yukimi. That’s something!” “That’s right. But hey, ain’t they sayin’ the constables headed off to Honjo on the festival day?” “Hey! Where in Honjo?” “It’s the estate of a hatamoto called Suzukawa, they say.” “Oh, that monster mansion. Then there ain’t nothin’ strange about that at all.” “So, apparently, at an inn in Mishima on the Tōkaidō, that bastard blacksmith Tomigorō from Asakusa Mikamachi paid a prostitute with gold coins—and those koban had that ‘Maru ni Wa’ mark that’s been circulating in all the bulletins! No wonder they couldn’t let that slide! They quickly traced it through the money changers’ bulletins, sent that blacksmith to Edo for questioning—and they say they figured out Granny Osayo had gotten those coins straight from Suzukawa Genjūrō’s hands! That Maru ni Wa mark belongs to Lord Dewa—and since Master Carpenter Ihei was robbed of those coins in Aikawa-cho, there ain’t no doubt that hatamoto Suzukawa’s the one who cut him down!”

“Exactly! And of course, before Lord South Magistrate even makes his move, he’s already got all the evidence lined up. His discernment never misses. And you—that rice-serving woman—ain’t she also some unbelievable old crone?” “That’s right! That’s right! They say that Kushimaki Oto—the one who’d been expelled from Edo—was found right here in the city again, but outta mercy they let her go along the Tōkaidō Highway. But this time she pulled some new peddlin’ scam, and they caught her red-handed with the rest of ’em! The peddlin’ scam was your idea—the man sells Oto at the post town, then goes right after to take her back. The man involved’s some bastard called Tsuzumi no Yoki—”

“So ya mean Oto, Yoki, ’n’ Tomigorō—all three got nabbed?” “Ah, that’s right. Tomigorō’s just an accomplice—they’ve all been sent to Edo, ’n’ today the arrest warrant finally came down for Lord Suzukawa in Honjo!” “That monster of a hatamoto bastard—no doubt his hands’re tied behind his back by now.”

Absently listening to these voices as if they bore little connection to her own life, Oto drifted unsteadily toward the bridge railing. Though eras changed and forms differed, the waves of humanity still swirled with naked desire. The crimson sunset filled heaven and earth, casting Oto’s shadow long, black, and diagonally across the soil of the crossroads. Lights came on along the riverbank... like a dream. Edo's festival flowed uninterrupted into night.