Pathway to Japanese Literature

An autumn night deepening quietly.

It seemed the wind had picked up; occasionally, a sharp rustle came from the tightly closed shutters. The sound must have been from the blighted leaves of the garden's persimmon tree scattering against them. Each time the wind slipped through the gaps and stirred the lamp's flame, two shadows on the wall swayed like a towering monk specter—their forms swelling and shrinking ominously. In Edo's Nezu Shrine district, at a place colloquially called Dawn Village, Onozuka Tessai—who operated the Shinpen Musō-ryū town dojo—sat formally in the inner study, his gaze fixed on the naked blade of an unsheathed sword. It resembled water from melted frost refrozen—a blade whose mere sight chilled the flesh. Whenever Tessai's sword hand trembled slightly, lamplight caught the steel and sent flickering silver scales dancing across his weathered face. Some distance away, Yayoi—grinding ink with practiced motions—suddenly shuddered and clutched at her collar.

“No matter how often I look at it, it seems ready to cut.” Tessai muttered as if to himself.

“Yes.”

She meant to answer, but Yayoi’s voice never left her lips. "A blade only permitted to be drawn once a year—and tomorrow is the day... I wonder who shall wield this sword." It seemed less like Tessai speaking and more like the sword itself had found a voice. But when Tessai glanced back at his daughter, his aged eyes held a gentleness greater than ever—a blend of fatherly affection and parental teasing. Then Yayoi—for some reason reddened to the very base of her ears—hastily strengthened her grip on the inkstick she was grinding. Her drooping nape was translucently white. The area around her plumply rounded breasts rose and fell in wave-like motions.

With a roar—the night storm swept over the roof with a single pass.

Tessai smoothly, perfectly sheathed the single blade he held into its brocade-wrapped scabbard, then crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Near his knees lay two swords of identical fittings. Crafted by Seki no Magoroku, there existed two rare masterwork blades—one long, one short. Both were crafted in the battlefield tachi style—sheaths wrapped in flat silk threads with shakudō hilts, the long sword bearing village cloud carvings and the short sword an ascending dragon motif—from which they derived their names: Ken'unmaru ("Heavenly Cloud") for the larger blade and Konryūmaru ("Earth Dragon") for the smaller. This pair of famed blades served as heirlooms of the Onozuka family; even if daimyos piled gold into mountains, old man Tessai would never consent to relinquish them.

The twin blades Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru were indeed peerless masterpieces under heaven. However, people said the reason these blades were so renowned lay not in their craftsmanship alone—there was a particular curse attached. The reason was this: While the two blades remained sheathed together, all was well—but once Ken'un and Konryū were parted, it became tantamount to drawing a cursed lot: blood would inevitably stain that ground, unleashing a vortex of terror and tumult.

And the swords weep.

When Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru lay separated, they would whimper and sob plaintively at the Hour of the Ox—that darkest hour when house eaves seemed to sag three sun lower. Clouds summon dragons, dragons yearn for clouds—so it was said these twin blades, yearning for reunion through mutual longing, would begin weeping softly in unison through the selfsame midnight. The morrow would mark the first Boar Day after October's commencement—the Wild Boar Festival—when bonfires blazed before Edo Castle's main gates, and from dusk onward, hereditary daimyo lords paraded in splendor to receive His Lordship's boar-shaped rice cakes. Though this counted among the shogunate's annual rites, by auspicious custom each year on this date at Dawn Village's Onozuka Tessai Dojo, they held their Autumn Grand Tournament—where the highest scorer earned temporary rights to wear Ken'unmaru during sheathing rites, while Konryūmaru went to the runner-up. True, being blades of such ill omen, they were swiftly returned to Tessai's keeping; yet even momentary wielding of these Heaven-and-Earth swords could make the humblest man walk nose aloft—or so men claimed. "This year's Ken'unmaru must be mine—no, better claim Konryūmaru instead," thus each disciple vowed as they drove themselves through daily drills with singular purpose.

On the eve of the tournament, Tessai was thus examining the sword he had taken out for the first time in a year.

“Father, um... I’m afraid the ink has smudged.” Prompted by Yayoi, Tessai opened his eyes wide—then, while smoothly spreading out the paper, suddenly began speaking as if in a dream. “Tomorrow, Suwa shall prevail and wield this Ken’unmaru—it’s decided.” “By the way—you—what think you of Eizaburō?”

Suwa Eizaburō! Upon hearing this, the eighteen-year-old girl—her pale face flushing as though autumn leaves had scattered across it—writhed as if unable to remain seated, her hand thoughtlessly stroking the tatami mat... No reply came.

The scent of ink permeated the room. “Ha ha ha! Hmm! Good!” “I know.” The elderly Tessai gave a firm nod; no sooner had he adjusted his grip on the brush saturated with ink than he set vigorous characters dancing across the blank paper’s surface and wrote them down in one fluid motion. To the victor of today’s tournament—alongside Ken’unmaru, I offer my daughter Yayoi.

Onozuka Tessai

"What?! Father!" As she cried out, Yayoi’s voice—a jumble of delight and shame—seemed ready to vanish into nothingness.

In the spacious wooden-floored hall of the dojo, beneath the large plaque of Yumiya Hachiman at the front, white-haired Onozuka Tessai sat firmly positioned; while nodding repeatedly at the words of the disciples beside him, he kept his smile-laden eyes fixed on the bamboo sword that a young samurai had just raised into high stance.

One might have called it a melee—a distinctive style of match.

There was neither order nor courtesy.

The moment they perceived a match concluded, five or six disciples leaped out simultaneously, vying to strike first; the one who first crossed blades with an opponent would face them—if he won, he would then take on however many challengers followed. However, once a disciple withdrew, he could not step forward again. This system ensured that whoever remained undefeated until the end would be declared the ultimate victor. The instant they emerged— They yielded immediately! Some even played the charmer, hastily removing their masks while retreating as if declaring defeat.

The matches had continued since dawn—combatants replacing each other in rapid succession—until now the sunset's crimson hues streaming through the warrior windows dyed the dojo scarlet, casting elongated shadows of bamboo swords across its wooden floor. Though merely a practice match, sparks seemed ready to fly—

The era was that of the esteemed reign of Tokugawa Yoshimune, the eighth shogun.

People long accustomed to peace had grown complacent—among rival schools, what passed for swordsmanship had become mere ceremonial dance—yet within this milieu, Shinpen Musō-ryū thrived through Tessai’s daily injunction: "Never lose—Win!" This single-minded focus had naturally honed the school’s techniques to ruthless efficiency. Today’s ceremonial occasion for the Heaven and Earth swords made this all the more critical—and what’s more! A large notice glared from the dojo wall: "To the victor goes Yayoi!" The master’s only daughter—Lady Yayoi of Akebono Komachi—had been offered as martial prize. What divine fortune for men! No wonder the disciples secretly prayed to both Yumiya Hachiman and Izumo’s deity while radiating fearsome fighting spirit. Though all claimed Yayoi must be won through blade alone to prevent resentment—she being a swordsman’s daughter—this pretense masked Old Man Tessai’s design: he had already settled upon Suwa Eizaburō as victor by skill alone—and as son-in-law meeting exacting standards. This mischief was Tessai’s act of paternal refinement, attuned to his daughter’s heart that secretly loved Eizaburō.

“Who’s there?” “Who’s next?!”

Mori Tetsuma, who had been winning up until then, stood in the dojo's center brandishing his bamboo sword and shouting. Various voices clamored. "Attack! Attack!" "Don't let them catch their breath!" "Is there no one to crush Mori?—Suwa!" "What's wrong with you?" "Hey, Mr. Suwa!" "That's right—where's Eizaburō?!" Amidst this uproar, Suwa Eizaburō—clad in a pale indigo-patterned training jacket and black-lacquered sun-disc breastplate—was thrust forward from a corner by numerous hands. No sooner had this happened than Tessai, seated in the place of honor, broke into a grin and instinctively braced his elbows to lean forward.

Then, through the gap in the door connecting the main house and corridor, a young woman in a vibrant yuzen-patterned kimono flitted briefly into view. Eizaburō was the younger brother of Ōkubo Tōjirō—a three-hundred-koku stipend recipient and Great Guardsman whose estate lay in Asakusa Torigoe—now twenty-eight years old, having taken his mother’s surname to adopt the name Suwa from an early age. A man so beautiful women might envy him—yet with an unapproachable dignity underlying his features—had already captured Old Man Tessai’s heart before Yayoi ever could. Eizaburō snapped into his high stance—poised perfectly on the balls of his feet—and through the gap in the sliding door she’d left ajar, Yayoi’s face flushed crimson. Tilting her maiden’s topknot—still never undone—and hiding her eyes behind her sleeve-screen, she prayed with all her heart—Please, oh please, Lord Eizaburō—win for Yayoi’s sake!

Victory depends on fortune's whim, as the saying goes. But—surely not! Just as this thought formed, intermittent clinks arose where bamboo sword tips met—then silence fell like water struck—marking what must have been an extraordinary duel.

Then came shouts, stomping feet, and the fierce clang of blades crossing once—twice—! What?! Lord Eizaburō—win! Win! The instant Yayoi tensed, there came a clang—the telltale sound of someone collapsing—followed by,

“I yield! Withdraw your strike—I yield!” came Eizaburō’s voice. Yayoi, startled, peered out to see Suwa Eizaburō—his bamboo sword sent flying into the distance—unthinkably kneeling with both hands planted on the wooden floor!

He did it on purpose! He lost on purpose! Having screamed this in her heart, Yayoi clenched her teeth and ran back—but her welling tears could not be held back until she reached her own room. As soon as she slid open the shoji screen, Yayoi collapsed there in tears.

“That you would despise me and deliberately lose—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 bangs, Yayoi was immersed in endless hot tears.

At that moment, voices sounded at the entrance.

“I demand an audience!”

At the front entrance of Onozuka Tessai’s residence in Negishi Akebono Village stood a rōnin whose figure resembled a withered tree—frighteningly emaciated and toweringly tall. His reddish-brown hair was tied up in a large topknot; his left eye hollow and sunken, while the remaining narrow right eye—sneering from corner to corner—framed a deep, trench-like sword scar running down his right cheek. They say specters rise at twilight.

Was this not one of those malevolent spirits? So much so that one might think—around this samurai hovered dimly swirling shadows of ill omen, leaping through the murk. Right hand tucked into the fold of his garment, left arm clutching some large board-like object as he peered inside, "I demand—I demand an audience!"

His voice boomed out, but with evening dusk settling in, silence filled the vast estate—only the cries of birds hastening toward Nezu Shrine’s rear forest echoed hollowly through the air. The samurai clicked his tongue. He clicked his tongue and hefted up the board-like object wedged beneath his arm.

The dojo was in utter chaos.

Eizaburō, who had been certain of victory, faced Mori Tetsuma in a match and clearly suffered a self-inflicted defeat. He had lost to avoid Yayoi! Yayoi—who had lost her mother early and through her own hands blossomed into a beautiful maiden—now stood poised to taste the bitterness of tragic love upon her youthful bud! As he thought this, Onozuka Tessai—with a heart that felt scalding water forced down his throat—could only feel remorse toward Yayoi now for having presumptuously assumed Eizaburō’s intentions and posted that notice! This self-reproach transformed into irrepressible fury, surging violently up through his chest.

Tessai rose up and glared at Eizaburō. “You coward! Take up your bamboo sword!”

Eizaburō’s lips were pale. “With all due respect, the match has already been decided—” “Silence! Silence! I saw through it—you deliberately conceded victory! I won’t tolerate scheming! Engage Mori again!” “However, since the person himself has declared defeat—” “But Master...” Tetsuma too was desperate. “Enough! Silence! I take issue with this match! Unacceptable! Face him once more!”

In the midst of this commotion, no one had noticed, but when someone happened to glance, there stood a figure at the dojo entrance—how long had they been there? The samurai at the entrance had called repeatedly, but with no attendant appearing, he began barging further inside. Still with one hand tucked into his breast and the board hanging down. Tessai noticed something amiss and approached.

“Who are you? Where have you come from!”

“From there.” A brazen reply. He thrust his upper body forward aggressively, his voice deceptively gentle. While everyone stood dumbfounded, he declared his wish to cross blades with today’s tournament victor. “Your name!” When challenged, he answered, “Tange Sazen.” “Your style?” The interrogation continued. “Tange-ryū…” The man bared his teeth in a sly grin. “How remarkable. “Lord Tange by name and Tange-ryū by style—most amusing indeed. “However, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, today’s match is an internal affair. Our dojo’s rules prohibit accepting challenges from other schools. “Pray return on another occasion.”

Guh! With a guttural snort, the one-eyed samurai who had introduced himself as Tange Sazen laughed deep in his throat. “Another day’d suit ya fine, eh? “Dojo stormin’ ain’t got no ‘nother day nor any day!” “Hey!” “You bastards—seein’ this clear?” On the board thrust out with one hand glared the bold inscription: “Shinpen Musō-ryū Instruction—Onozuka Tessai Dojo”! There! The dojo’s signboard! So—he’d torn it from the gate upon entering and hauled it here. You bastard! As they all surged to their feet— “This how ya greet guests?!”

Tange Sazen released the inscribed signboard and recoiled, Gah! Ptui! He spat blue-tinged phlegm. Restraining the eager disciples while spreading his arms wide, Tessai glanced back at Mori Tetsuma and issued a silent command through his gaze: Punish him thoroughly! During that silent command through his gaze, Sazen tested the wooden swords around him by swinging them, selected one, and in an instant—swish! He stretched and stood rigid as a post. At his hem, women’s undergarments fluttered into view. His right hand remained tucked into his breast as expected. Tetsuma flared up.

“Show your right hand.” Then, “I have no right hand.”

“What? “You have no right hand?” “One-armed, huh?” “Heh heh heh... But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just ’cause you’re one-armed!” Sazen twisted his mouth into a scowl and remained silent. The one-eyed, one-armed dojo stormer Tange Sazen. The positioning of his left hand was extraordinary. But the opponent was one-armed—what threat could he pose? ……And then—Tap, tap! Swish! Mori Tetsuma stepped in decisively, his horizontal slash striking deep into the enemy’s chest—a direct hit——. It appeared to be over in an instant—crack! With a dull sound,

“Ugh...” “Ugh...” “Ugh... Ugh... It hurts...”

Valiant Tetsuma, his forearm entangled, collapsed face-first. At the same time, Sazen swung around to face the wall and began bellowing the proclamation in a loud voice. “Eizaburō! Come at me!” Receiving Tessai’s bloodshot gaze, Eizaburō answered coolly. “Having defeated Mr. Mori, the tournament winner, it would follow that Lord Tange is now the ultimate victor.”

The twilight grew exceptionally thick, and night arrived in Dawn Village.

No sooner had the sun set than the live-in disciples took the lead and hurried to prepare a banquet in the garden. First, they spread straw mats over the lawn, gathered dead branches and firewood in various spots to prepare bonfires, arranged straw mat covers, drew sake from the cask, and set out ladles. In accordance with auspicious custom, they celebrated the first and second-ranked victors—who bore Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru—with *suri*-squid and *kachi-guri* (dried squid and pounded chestnuts), then set up an all-night banquet with rough-hewn dishes.

Amidst the grove, they warmed sake and burned maple leaves—the night, though deep, was graced by bonfires that added their charm, and every year on this night, unrestrained revelry reigned. Though fragile in swordplay, they boasted stalwarts aplenty when it came to wine cups—an unceremonious banquet lasting through the night. Yet beforehand, it was ordained that they would form a procession—the year’s victor bearing the Heaven and Earth blades at the forefront, Yayoi lowering a lantern to illuminate their path, old Tessai following behind, and the disciples all forming ranks—to visit the Inari shrine enshrined in the inner garden, thereby concluding the ceremony.

When they passed through the thicket, there stood a single-slab stone bridge over a stream fed by Kiyomizu Kannon's sacred spring. Crossing it brought them to an artificial hillock where the Inari shrine lay nestled in shadow. A moonlit stretch of sand marked where the orb would rise. Osmanthus perfumed the darkness. ——If Tange Sazen were to defeat Mori Tetsuma—the day's officially recognized tournament champion—then despite knowing Eizaburō's true skill far exceeded Tetsuma's, they couldn't possibly field Eizaburō now that he'd lost to that very man. It was precisely this logic Eizaburō had understood when declining participation. The one-armed swordsmaster Tange Sazen—this man of unknown provenance—twisted his scar-riddled face into an obstinate grin there in that moment. Wielding the posted notice as his warrant, he renewed his demands and pressed Tessai: "Now I claim both Ken'unmaru and Lady Yayoi!" Yet even when they protested this prize was meant for dojo insiders alone, Sazen remained implacable. Though aged, Onozuka Tessai could likely have driven off Tange Sazen through direct confrontation—but today's matter concerned his daughter's fate. Placating Sazen took precedence; concede Ken'unmaru alone and surely he wouldn't demand Yayoi too—so reasoned the old master as he swallowed his fury and acknowledged Tange's victory.

And thus, the Night-Crying Swords forged by Sekino Magoroku—Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru—which had been ceremoniously brought from the main hall, were temporarily entrusted from Tessai's hands: Ken'unmaru to Tange Sazen, and Konryūmaru to Mori Tetsuma.

The shrine-visiting procession formed.

When Yayoi—having reapplied makeup over her tear-stained face—lowered the lantern and took the lead, Sazen never once looked away from her in that crimson glow; but Yayoi, her heart wholly occupied by Eizaburō approaching from behind, noticed nothing.

Eventually, after filing back from circling the dark garden, they returned the swords and immediately concluded the banquet... The bonfires blazed, young samurai's blood surged—such was the commotion when—!

Tetsuma, who had been searching intently for Sazen with the intention of returning both his own Konryūmaru and Sazen's Ken'unmaru together, suddenly let out a cry of astonishment.

“Hey, he’s not here! That Tange intruder is nowhere to be seen!” This voice struck the clamorous surroundings—still reeling from the disrupted procession—like a thunderclap.

“What?!” “T-Tange’s gone?!” “But he was loitering around there until just now!”

In an instant, they piled over and surrounded Tetsuma. “Was he still wearing that sword?”

When someone among them asked, Tetsuma seemed unable to speak, “Yeah…” He did nothing but nod repeatedly—. Tange Sazen vanished with Ken'unmaru.

This sudden calamity!

Once separated—so it was said—these Heaven and Earth blades, matching cloud with dragon to stir winds and summon rains, perhaps bringing frenzied storms and raging waves that might cast a hell upon this earth, had now been parted!

……The ill-omened token had been cast. A mountain of corpses shall arise! A river of living blood shall flow. A forest of swords rises; a field of chaos unfolds.

And—! Across those corpse-laden mountains and rivers of blood, the two swords bound by karmic fate yearned for each other and sobbed...!

The alarm board of Onozuka Tessai’s dojo shattered Dawn Village’s desolate silence—Tō! Totototō!—and resounded through the night. Hearing the commotion, Tessai stepped onto the veranda; his face paled abruptly as he barked commands. “He must have already fled through the gate!”

But no—he must still be hiding within the walls.

With Mori Tetsuma at their head, the two squads immediately left the mansion, and lantern lights flew like fireflies across Nezu's rice fields.

Simultaneously, Bang! Bang! As they slammed both front and rear gates, Tessai himself took command of the garden search—with drawn swords parting every root and blade of grass, the bonfire's reflection flickered and glinted upon their blades.

Suwa Eizaburō alone separated from the throng, performed a grand reverse draw with his Musashitarō Yasukuni at his hip, and stood at the edge of a pond dusted with starlight. Night dew dampened his feet. Eizaburō pulled up his kimono 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's this! This must be Lady Yayoi’s—but why would it be here?! He tilted his head...

At that very moment—?

From a corner of the garden where drawn blades darted wildly through the darkness—right then left in frantic arcs—frantic voices rippled outward like spreading waves.

“Yah!” “There he is! There he is!” “Here!” “Meet your fate!”

No sooner had these two shouts sounded near the rear gate than everything plunged back into silence—shiver! A sword aura pressed in relentlessly—one could feel it. The voice cut off—they must have already crossed blades.

The scattered disciples all at once dashing toward the rear floated into view beneath the night sky.

With a click, Eizaburō pushed open Musashitarō’s sword collar—then, as if magnetically drawn, he instinctively quickened his pace—clang...! “Agh!”

One disciple had been cut down. By starlight— Tange Sazen—one sleeve torn away—stood swaying against a massive pine trunk, his left hand executing Ken'unmaru's blood-flicking ritual along its two-shaku-three-sun blade. The demonic swords prophesied to bring bloodshed when parted had now tasted their first blood.

At the base of the pine tree, entangled with Sazen's hem, crouched a shadowy figure—Yayoi, her head completely shrouded by one of Sazen's torn sleeves. "This is Shinpen Musō-ryū's moment!" The encircling sword formation tightened like a net around him... creeping closer inch by cautious inch on tiptoe. Tange Sazen's freshly scarred face twisted into a grin, his lone eye glinting. "I can't fuckin' wait to split your worthless guts clean through with this steel." "Feel that? Flesh clingin' to the edge—quivers runnin' up my arm—heh!" "Come at me! From any damn direction!"

Silence. Not a single gleam stirs.

Where was Tessai? Looking.

Onozuka Tessai stood with hands clasped behind his back as if in self-forgetfulness, gazing mesmerized from outside the circular formation at this bedraggled rōnin's swordsmanship. Transcending ally and enemy alike, his expression seemed ready to burst forth with admiration—"Well now! Here's a rare swordsman!"

Impatient, one of the disciples circled around behind Sazen beyond the pine tree, pressed his sword against the grass... and in the blink of an eye, crept closer with hushed steps— “Hyah!”

As he stood up and thrust upward from below— “You bastard!” —Sazen’s groan became a battle cry that sliced through the air a split-second faster. Ken’unmaru cut through empty space with a wet splatter of blood. In that instant, the thrusting blade shot through the darkness like a comet, his body already arching backward to the ground.

Yayoi's scream trailed off, echoing through the shadowy grove. Seizing this opportunity, four or five figures scattered from the arc of surrounding blades leapt forth—flashes of clashing steel engulfed Sazen in chaos. But Ken'unmaru was a blade that moved on its own, craving human blood. And yet— That blade rested in the Sword Demon Tange Sazen’s grasp! Here they come! The instant he saw them, he dropped to one knee—his left-handed blade slashed shins from left to right in reverse motion—kicking aside falling bodies, trampling over them—and Tange Sazen’s Ken’unmaru charged toward Tessai in one breath.

Tessai dashed back—he parried, but his opponent wasn't Tange Sazen; it was the demon blade Ken'unmaru. Before he could wrench himself free and reset his stance, the second strike grazed his elbow—then Ken'unmaru sank its fangs deep into Tessai's shoulder.

“Gah! “Ei—!” “Eiza—”

Right—what was Eizaburō doing? Needless to say— Eizaburō’s initial strike—Musashitarō Ankoku held aloft with a “Hissatsu!”—had struck empty air and whooshed... past.

“Damn you!”

As he closed in, Sazen wheeled back toward the pine’s roots, dragging Yayoi before the advancing Eizaburō while deflecting strikes with Ken’unmaru’s tip— “Cut her down! This girl first!” Yayoi stood frenzied between gleaming blades, screaming as though vomiting blood: “Lord Eizaburō! Strike—! “Strike! “To die by your hand would fulfill me… Now, quickly!”

Seizing the moment of Eizaburō’s hesitation, Sazen—still gripping Ken'unmaru’s bare blade—grabbed a drooping pine branch. His mantis-like frame found purchase on the wall’s edge, and with a thud against the earth, he landed outside. Like fire—a clamor of voices and wooden clappers.

After that figure vanished around the street corner—had nearly half an hour passed?

In Kōjimachi Sanbanchō, someone was violently pounding on the front gate of Tsuchiya Tamon—a 150-koku hatamoto in the minor repairs group. “Tch.” “What’s this at this hour? You ain’t no town doctor.”

The old gatekeeper, who had been about to go to sleep, went out muttering and opened the wicket gate—and in that instant, Mori Tetsuma came leaping in breathlessly. "Oh! You're from the Nezu dojo—"

"A matter of utmost urgency for my lord!"

No sooner had he spoken than Tetsuma collapsed onto the step. Tsuchiya Tamon was Onozuka Tessai’s cousin and the only remaining relative of the Onozuka family, so Tetsuma had kept running all the way from Dawn Village to here to report the incident.

As Tamon—appeared in nightclothes with a sword at his side—wondered what had occurred... Tetsuma began recounting every detail of that night's disturbance to him. —That outlaw Tange Sazen stormed into the dojo, emerged victorious in the crucial match to claim Ken'unmaru, then attempted to flee while still wearing it—only to be discovered, whereupon he cut down Master Tessai and over a dozen others to escape... Moreover, whether their wounds were grave or slight, all those struck by that blade died instantly—likely due to Ken'unmaru's curse! Upon hearing this, Tamon pressed urgently.

“The old master too?!” “Wh-what a tragedy—a most heartbreaking calamity, my lord.” “Gah! The old master may be advanced in years, but with skilled swordsmen like you and Suwa among others—I heard you had considerable talent gathered there—wh-what an inexcusable blunder—” Mori Tetsuma had gone out to search and found [Tange Sazen] climbing over the back wall—he slashed at him—but what with the pitch-dark night and Ken’unmaru’s razor-sharp tip—he ultimately lost sight of Tange’s figure in the direction of the gatefront town. His words—appended as if making excuses—no longer reached Tamon’s ears.

As the old man began to say, "A palanquin—" "What? We'll nab him at Kudan with a palanquin stationed at the crossroads."

With preparations hastily made, Tamon ran out of the estate together with Tetsuma…

Their destination was, needless to say, Nezu's Dawn Village.

The dojo of Dawn Village.

In the inner study, Suwa Eizaburō and Yayoi sat facing each other, their pallid faces locked in a gaze, enveloped in breathless silence. The remains of Tessai and the other victims had been enshrined in the dojo, and an unexpected wake had now begun. The two of them had slipped away from that gathering and quietly secluded themselves in this room to avoid prying eyes. Having perhaps passed the extremity of grief—as if she had no tears left to shed—Yayoi gazed with unnaturally gleaming eyes at Konryūmaru placed before Eizaburō, who stood with arms folded in grim resignation; the remaining sword of the broken pair lay there as though entrusted with lonely sorrow.

From near and far, the sizzle... hiss of sounds was that of someone dousing bonfires with water. Suddenly, a cricket began to chirp on the frame of the shoji screen.

"Truly, I find myself at a loss for words—no words of condolence suffice."

Measuring each phrase, Eizaburō repeated his words again and again.

“That Ken'unmaru—our Master’s cherished blade—would sever his life... None could have foreseen it.” “Yet this karmic bond—if this humble one may speak thus—Ken'unmaru that spills blood when parted... When separated, first drank our Master’s vital flow...”

“Lord Eizaburō!” “No—given how matters stand, rather than pointlessly lamenting, our wisest course would be first to retrieve Ken’unmaru and forestall further calamity—” “Lord Eizaburō!” “To that end, I humbly propose a strategy: a sword summons its counterpart.” “Since Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru are said to attract each other, if you would permit me to gird this Konryūmaru and pursue that Tange Sazen, the swords themselves will draw us together like threads—we shall surely encounter him…”

“Lord Eizaburō!”

“Yes?” “You are such a strong-willed man—the sword may be the sword, but you pay no heed at all to what Yayoi says.”

"What you say—what could you mean?" "Oh! How insincere! If only you had properly won today’s match as you should have—th-this would never have happened! When I think of that—Lord Eizaburō! Resentment—such resentment fills me!"

“The outcome of a match depends on fortune’s whim. This humble one engaged without ulterior motive.”

“Lies! All lies!”

“Please maintain your composure—”

“No. “Could there exist another as cruel as you? Though you know my heart through and through—today, for the first time as a woman… Yayoi has known this utmost shame…”

“Lady Yayoi. The Master’s remains also lie within the dojo.” “Yes… In this very room, how Father smiled so joyfully as he wrote that label—”

"—That too was unavoidable." “Lord Eizaburō! Th-that’s too cruel!” Waah!

As Yayoi collapsed in tears, Tamon’s resounding footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Eizaburō coldly gazed at the trembling white nape and took up Konryūmaru. “Then, I shall take custody of this sword. The dragon beckons the cloud, the cloud awaits the dragon—though Edo be vast, this humble one shall soon present both Konryūmaru and Tange’s head before your eyes.” Thus did the short sword in battlefield tachi style—reminiscent of the Warring States era—form a strange pair with the ordinary black-sheathed Musashi Tarō Yasukuni, coming to rest at Suwa Eizaburō’s waist from this night onward.

Haunted Mansion

With faint pockmarks on his face and long narrow eyes grown drowsy, using an overturned armrest as his pillow, Suzukawa Genjūrō lay sprawled in mild intoxication.

He was thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old. A five-hundred-koku lord yet a pleasure-seeking hatamoto, his hair—styled in a small chonmage topknot with thin sideburns rather than the grand samurai coiffure—made him resemble those yoriki under the town magistrate who lived comfortably on land grants in Hatchōbori. Thus even among fellow hatamoto, Genjūrō had been nicknamed "Yoriki."

His father was Suzukawa Uemon, who had served as Great Guard Brigade Captain, but by Genjūrō’s generation, they had fallen to the kobushin group. A master of Saryū-ryū iaijutsu. He should have been reasonably well-read, but perhaps grown restless in this peaceful world—now he had fully become the city’s prodigal son. His outstretched toes moved in rhythm, as if keeping time by mouthing a shamisen tune to some popular ballad, and Genjūrō looked blissfully at ease.

Autumn nights are long. After the regular patrons had gathered at Suzukawa’s residence before Honjo Hoonji Temple—under the pretense of settling accounts while engaging in their usual mischief—an impromptu banquet now raged on， leaving their sole maid， old woman Osayo， in a frantic whirl： heating large sake flasks whole， scavenging the kitchen to haul in anything edible， and generally running herself ragged amid the commotion. “What’s this， Suzukawa？ You’ve got a new old woman here， haven’t you？”

Tsuchiya Tamon watched Osayo depart with apparent curiosity and remarked.

“Hmm. The previous one took her leave, grumbling about rough treatment. I had her hired with Kizaemon, the landlord of Tahara-machi Sanchōme, and Tōgorō Kaji-tomi the blacksmith acting as guarantors. She works diligently. Keep an eye on her. Seems maids are best when they’re old crones. The young ones these days aren’t worth a damn.”

“Heh heh heh heh”—the one who burst into manic laughter in the corner was Yokichi, the libertine from Komagata. “Heh heh heh, ‘rough treatment,’ my lord? What’re you on about? You just reached your hand out a bit… Not that I should say such things, but when it comes to this master here, he’s got some peculiar tastes.” Genjūrō forced a bitter smile as he watched a surviving moth flutter toward the paper lantern.

The crowd coiled together tonight in this Honjo residence called the Monster Mansion consisted entirely of eccentrics approaching monstrosity—led by Tsuchiya Tamon, a former koshōnin guard turned ill-natured rogue ordered into the kobushin demotion group—with Tamon himself being the sort who would halfheartedly thrust his short sword sideways behind his informal kimono while sporting a yazō hairstyle at his shoulders. Add to this about ten of Honjo’s most notorious low-ranking hatamoto, a grand troupe including one called Tsuzumi no Yokichi, and a single middle-aged woman with a spiteful air—sitting cross-legged like a man, her eyes already quite glazed over the cheap sake bottle at hand.

“Oto—waiting late into the night? Ah, I can guess where this leads.” As someone barked out a jeer, Kushimaki Oto laughed back with practiced allure, her pale hand once more stretching toward the sake jar. “She’s mutterin’ somethin’... But where in blazes is that mistress with her precious boxwood comb roamin’ off to now?” “This’s maddenin’ beyond endurance!” “Spare me your unrestrained flattery.” “But Oto—you’d best keep your wits about you.” “That layabout’s found himself a cozy hole to mooch from lately—”

“Hey, where’s that?”

“No good, no good.” Yokichi hurriedly waved both hands. “You shouldn’t go dropping hints like that, y’know.” “Boss—you’re one who’s weathered life’s storms.” “This dreariness’ll sour the sake’s taste, eh?”

Thud! As roaring laughter shattered the gathering's composure, one or two guests seized this moment to take their leave. Kushimaki Oto remained cross-legged like a man, her sake-flushed face glowing as she leaned back with hands planted on her knees, watching the departing figures through lowered lashes. A crimson cloth lay spilled across the tatami like peonies at half-bloom, while her boxwood comb—saturated with hair oil—glinted provocatively behind shell-like ears. She burned like twilight striking an ancient cherry tree just beginning to shed its blossoms, that ripe feminine allure exuding sweetness from both the skin peeking through her disheveled collar and the silk-draped shoulders sloping beneath black-edged fabric—a fragrance that teased Suzukawa Genjūrō's nostrils with every breath.

This woman was a wanted criminal—thinking this, Genjūrō felt as if he were living within the pages of an illustrated storybook. “Boss, everyone’s leavin’,” “I’ll come along with ya.”

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

"Yeah..." "Empty vessels remain useless however long you wait." "Then let us raise the mikoshi." "My lord, we have imposed upon your hospitality." "Good night." "Hmm. Departing already?"

And Genjūrō remained lying down just as he was.

A pale light fell upon the ravaged dishes and overturned sake flasks, the weave of the tatami mats clearly visible.

The eaves hung low; on the watery surface of the moon, wild geese formed a diagonal line. After Yokichi escorted Oto back to her house in Asakusa, some time passed before Genjūrō—who had been lying sprawled out—heaved himself upright and called for Osayo. “Yes, yes.” Osayo-bāsan emerged and froze in shock at finding the guests gone and the hall deserted—she hadn’t noticed their departure.

“Oh my, has everyone already left? I hadn’t the slightest inkling—I’ll tidy this up directly, but I’ve laid out bedding in the sitting room yonder.”

“Well, never mind that. Just go lock up.”

Osayo’s hands, which had begun sliding the storm shutters out from the veranda’s door pocket, involuntarily stilled midway.

Indigo-dye-like moonlight.

In the foreground, shadows of objects crawled sharply along the ground, while beyond Nakanogō—where roof tiles overlapped in scale-like patterns—the stage-flat silhouette of Myoken Forest blurred into pale night mist. A moonlit crow's cry floated up from somewhere.

Osayo looked back at Genjūrō.

"My lord, what a lovely moon it is tonight, isn't it?"

Then Genjūrō. "I hate the moon." he snapped, as though swatting away a fly.

"My lord, you dislike the moon—is that the case? But why... might that be?" "Because I hate it. Looking at the moon makes one dwell on things. When people dwell on things, it becomes painful. That might be why—" "Perhaps recalling your departed wife makes you feel lonely, my lord." "Hmm... That might be so. Well, hurry up and close them."

When the storm shutters had been fully secured, Genjūrō sprawled out again, "Sayo, come here. Grab my shoulder for a moment."

“A massage,” he said. Osayo-bāsan entered the room with her work sash still tied and began massaging Genjūrō’s shoulders and lower back.

"What time is it now?" "I just heard Ekōin Temple's eight strikes ring out moments ago." "I see." Genjūrō's eyelids grew heavy at the realization. "Aaaah!" He yawned cavernously while prodding Osayo's arm. "You don't get drowsy despite your years. Seems your body's holding up well." "Ohhh, I've always been sturdy as an ox, my lord. Though these aging eyes struggle more each year after nightfall." She kneaded his shoulders with practiced rhythm. "Why, even if I retired now, I'd still rise before dawn breaks."

"My shoulders seem rather knotted." "Press harder there—you there! Got any children?" "Yes, one." "Boy or girl?" "A girl, my lord." "A girl—still, a pleasure's a pleasure." "Oh my lord, had it been a boy, one might have sought connections to secure him a position—but with a girl... And besides—"

“If you speak of securing positions—you there, are you from a samurai family?”

“Yes.” “It’s rather embarrassing to admit.” “Well, well—that’s news to me.” “So which domain was it?” “My lord, I beg your pardon regarding that matter.” “For someone as fallen as myself to mention your name—”

“That may be so. That was thoughtless of me. But in short—during your long years of wandering, you lost your standing and fell into your current circumstances—that’s the gist of it, I suppose?”

"As you have discerned, my lord." “So, what became of this daughter of yours?” "I left her at the lodging, but—my lord—she’s truly become a troublesome one." “Why’s that?” “Well, you see... As for this old woman—there are those kind enough to offer capital, so I suggested finding a suitable husband of appropriate status and setting them up in some decent, if modest, trade. But as they say, children never know their parents’ hearts—lately some bad influence has taken hold of her, you see.”

“An affair?” “She makes me weep with shame, you see.” “What’s this—who’s the man?” “Something about being the second son of a hatamoto—” “That’s fine, isn’t it? With adopted heirs left to others’ whims, you often see them facing hardships down the line. If the two are fond of each other, that’s what matters most. You should stoke the flames and make arrangements to live comfortably later. Shall I wrap this up for you? Hahahaha!” “Well, my lord’s way of handling things is one matter—but I must say my household affairs aren’t looking favorable at all.”

Suddenly, Genjūrō pricked up his ears.

Chased by the distant howls of dogs, no sooner had the sound of footsteps treading through the night fog stealthily approached than— "Shh! Shh!"

Along with a low voice scolding the dog in the garden, the rain shutters rattled softly and stealthily—

“Hey! Genjū! Suzugen! It’s me... me, I tell you.” “Open up.”

No sooner had he realized someone had returned than Genjūrō’s brows relaxed; with a jerk of his chin he sent Osayo away to the other side, then threw open once more the shutters he’d just closed.

Like one of the night specters, Tange Sazen slid in soundlessly.

“You’re late. Where the hell have you been until now?”

Without answering that, Sazen cautiously surveyed the room and—

“Where are they?” “They’ve just left.”

Sazen led the way into the lantern light, but Genjūrō who followed gave a slight start. It was Sazen's disheveled state. His being soiled with street dust was nothing new, but what in blazes had happened tonight?! Disheveled hair covered his forehead. From the hem of his torn-sleeved black hitokoshi robe up to below the collar ran a single streak of what looked like splattered blood. One-eyed and one-armed, toweringly tall and emaciated—Tange Sazen. Hunched over, he stared at Genjūrō, the sword scar on his face twisting into a taut smile.

“Sit!” Genjūrō shuddered at the night’s chill and drew his padded robe closer about himself as he remarked— “You’ve gone and killed someone again.” “Nah, just stirred up some trouble.” “Hahahaha!” “You’d do well to curb this slaughtering habit.” Having delivered this semblance of counsel, Genjūrō—now seated cross-legged—suddenly turned a curious gaze toward the long sword Sazen had drawn from his belt.

“What’s that? Isn’t this a battlefield tachi?”

Then Sazen twisted the corner of his mouth triumphantly, but— “There’s no one else here, right?”

After ceremoniously looking around the area, he boldly shifted his knee forward— “Hey Suzukawa—no, wait, Gen-san... the Gen character...”

He heaved out thick, guttural words one by one.

“What’s this? So ceremonious...” Genjūrō suppressed a laugh. “More than that, I’d rather you didn’t turn into some dandy.” “Oto waited for you until just now and left in quite the huff. You should come back at dusk sometime and show her that scarred mug of yours—it’d be a good deed.” “Though honestly, I can’t fathom what that woman sees in a wretch like you. But after devouring men left and right, I suppose even a three-parts-human-seven-parts-monster like you starts looking precious.” “She’s a fearless woman, but when it comes to you, all her spirit drains away—turns into a simpering girl, no, worse. Painful to watch, I tell you.” “You ought to count yourself a little blessed.”

At the tobacco rings Suzukawa Genjūrō blew out, Sazen went “Pfft!” and turned his face away. “Returning at the fourth watch, treading shadows beneath the waning moon. Might seem poetic-like, but I got soaked through with dew. Don’t wanna hear that kinda talk no more. But hey Suzugen—how many months’ve passed since I started mooching off your place?” “You’re getting strangely sentimental tonight of all nights,” Genjūrō observed. “Though if pressed—it must be nigh on half a year now.” “That so? Time flies... All this while, I’ve truly reckoned you as my own brother—”

“Cut it out! If I’m supposed to think of you as an older brother that way, then once you get seen as a younger brother, who knows what you’ll do.” “Hahahaha!”

“This ain’t no joke. Tonight here, I’m plannin’ to spill one major secret ’bout myself ’n’ some great domain up north.”

Sazen, leaning forward, suddenly thrust out Ken’unmaru in its battlefield tachi mounting. “Here! This blade’s where the tale begins—”

he launched into his tale.

As Genjūrō trimmed the lamp wick and added oil, with a sizzle of new light, the thick predawn darkness retreated to the room's four corners. But neither of them noticed the figure standing in the hallway beyond the shoji.

Sazen’s words.

This rōnin who moved like the wind—Tange Sazen—was in truth merely a temporary guise assumed by a retainer of Lord Sōma Daisanryō of Nakamura Domain in Oshu (60,000 koku), located seventy-six ri—approximately three hundred kilometers—northeast of Edo, who had infiltrated the capital under his lord’s secret command.

And what was the nature of that mission? Why must a proper samurai have disguised himself in the wretched form of a starved dog, enduring the dust of Edo's eight hundred and eight quarters, exposed to rain and blazing sun? There must have been some compelling 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 colors of dawn were already stirring.

Osayo, eavesdropping in the hallway, nearly let escape a cry of surprise upon hearing "Sōma-Nakamura," but pressed both palms firmly against her mouth to stifle it. The sixty-thousand-koku Sōma clan counted among the outer lords while maintaining an unostentatiously prosperous lineage. Their lord Daisanryō stood as a consummate sword connoisseur—or rather belonged to that breed obsessed with blades—having amassed through lavish expenditure numerous celebrated swords and rare weapons from across the realm. Yet what one might call the single flaw in this jewel remained his collection's lack of any noteworthy work by Magoroku, founding master of the Seki Shichiryū school.

Therefore, Since they were to search for Magoroku’s works regardless, they reasoned: why not pursue the Night-Crying long and short swords—Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru—said to have been forged by that master smith with every ounce of his spirit and divine energy until his dying breath? Thus deploying agents nationwide, they learned one blade now lay hidden with Onozuka Tessai, swordsmanship instructor of Dawn Village behind Nezu Shrine in Edo. Through Edo-based retainers, they attempted negotiations sparing no gold or silver—but Tessai, guarding his family’s treasure through every changed approach and altered tactic, would not nod assent.

It was utterly impossible. Once this became clear, the formal negotiations were terminated—but far from subsiding, the blaze of desire in Lord Daisanryō’s breast burned as if doused with new oil. His obsession took flight as a cloud across seventy-six *ri*, swaying now over the skies of Dawn Village in singular focus.

Those who delight in collecting things, after single-mindedly focusing on one pursuit, often fall prey to delusional obsessions. It is hellfire.

On a certain night when Lord Daisanryō—unable to relinquish his obsession yet resigned to it—had steeled his resolve, a single black shadow slipped out through Nakamura Castle’s Impure Gate amidst the prevailing darkness and departed the castle town.

The very next day, Tange Sazen’s name was struck from the roster of the Foot Soldier Group on grounds of unexplained desertion.

Tange Sazen—the sword-mad warrior who had shown death-defying resolve to obtain Magoroku’s blade even through bloodshed and had been released from the Impure Gate—had already set out on his journey to Edo by then, to the gentle rhythm of a horse driver’s song.

Outwardly, he appeared to be a wandering rōnin, but in truth, he acted under the daimyo’s direct authority. Were he to return home bearing these Heaven-Earth twin swords as his trophy, supreme honor and trust—along with vast quantities of gold and an immense fief—awaited him there. From the moment he arrived in Edo, Tange Sazen had lodged at Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence before Honjo Hōonji Temple. As he covertly watched Onozuka Tessai’s dojo day and night, a rumor reached him: at the annual Autumn Grand Tournament, Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru would be temporarily bestowed as prize blades.

Ever since then, he had been eagerly awaiting the first Day of the Boar in the tenth month. Even his outrageous dojo storming had been orchestrated with the purpose of seizing custody of the blades— “Starting with the old master, I butchered over ten people and took them out.” “Draw it and see.” ……Having concluded his lengthy tale, Sazen raised one eyebrow and burst into raucous laughter. The feeling of having shed half his burden made the monster Sazen appear all the more unbridled. Having reseated himself, Suzukawa Genjūrō clamped a tissue paper in his teeth, unsheathed the blade, and spent a long moment narrowing his eyes at Ken’unmaru’s gleaming surface—then,

“Magnificent.—The scabbard has flat silk wrapping. The shakudō hilt bears a carving of clustered clouds. But this sword—with just one blade, there’s no managing it.” “But there is a way. Gen-san—seems you ain’t heard yet—they say clouds summon dragons, and dragons call clouds. There it is! In short—this long sword and short sword—the blades themselves seek each other out. They won’t rest until they’re reunited as a pair.” “You mean…?”

“You’re slow to catch on.” “No matter how far apart their wielders may be—the swords seek each other out and’ll inevitably become one before long—that’s what they say.” “Between Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru runs an invisible thread binding ’em together.”

“Hmm. So to speak—it’s a tapestry of fate.”

“That’s right,” Sazen continued, raising one finger stained with tobacco ash. “Here’s the plan—starting tomorrow, I’ll be roaming all over Edo with this blade at my side. But mark my words, there’s bound to be some hotshot on their end carrying Konryūmaru around. Once Cloud calls to Dragon, me and that bastard’ll cross paths sure as sunrise.” His single eye gleamed like oiled steel. “That’s when I’ll be needing your help—starting right now.” Genjūrō’s lips twitched beneath their thin mustache. “As your second in a duel? How...stimulating.” He paused, fingertips tracing the lacquered edge of his fan. “But this opponent bearing Konryūmaru—who might they be?” “Damned if I know.” Sazen’s grin showed too many teeth. “But there was this pasty-faced whelp back at the dojo—could swing steel like he was born clutching a wet nurse’s tit.” He rubbed his collarbone unconsciously. “Felt like getting slammed into a wall by his fucking swordplay.”

“Hmm.” “Quite the gambit.” “Konryūmaru shares the same craftsmanship—flat-wrapped scabbard with shakudō hilt and ascending dragon carving. No matter whose hip it’s on, one glance would tell.” When a rooster crowed at a nearby farmhouse, the two fell silent in unison—three eyes gleaming at Ken’unmaru’s sword mountings placed between them. And thus, the battlefield tachi style reminiscent of the Warring States era formed an uncanny pair with an ordinary black-sheathed wakizashi, adorning Tange Sazen’s hip from this moment onward.

The old woman Osayo, who had been eavesdropping on every word of this exchange— “Then Lord Tange came from Nakamura—” Even knowing this truth, she neither revealed herself nor uttered a word of what she had learned, sealing it tightly within her heart. For Osayo’s deceased husband Wada Sōemon had served as purveyor to that same Lord Sōma during his lifetime—thus she and Sazen shared a bond that should have kindled mutual nostalgia between fellow natives of the same domain.

Shubi no Matsu

Even if they carried something cold within them, the late autumn sunlight warmed the backs of those passing by.

Indigo shop curtains lining the storefronts shimmered in the heat haze, the unseasonably warm weather making it feel as if even red dragonflies might wander forth.

Along Kuramae’s main avenue, the scent of water sprinkled to suppress dust emanated from before each house, while high in the lapis lazuli-blue sky, a flock of migratory birds drew a lazy circle. Following a kabuki actor wearing a wicker sedge hat, two or three girls—likely local youths returning from lessons—came laughing and chattering along. After they passed by in a lively cluster, the street momentarily fell quiet, and a white dog basking in the sunlight stretched its front legs in unison. One among the imposing row of storehouse inns—at Ryōguchiya Kaemon’s shopfront, in the shadow of its water bucket—Yokichi the drummer had been standing there absentmindedly with an expectant air since some time ago.

So responsive was he that when struck he’d resonate and when beaten he’d answer back—so much so that he’d taken the name of a drum—a playboy renowned even in Komagata. A dark-complexioned man of some repute.

“Tch! How long’s he gonna keep me waiting? For a lord, he’s got more patience than I figured when it comes to money matters—if he can’t get it done, why not just pack up and leave already? It’s not like this is the only place we can turn to. What the hell?! This ain’t funny!”

Peering into Ryōguchiya’s dark earthen floor, he stood there alone, grumbling under his breath. In stark contrast to the bright exterior light, Ryōguchiya’s storehouse interior held a cold, purplish air that loomed ominously. Behind the warehouse doors across the expansive wooden frame, cashiers and rice clerks sat primly aligned—these rice broker clerks received salaries befitting department heads, yet steeled themselves to handle unreasonable hatamoto retainers, prepared to be cut down at any moment.

Even now, Suzukawa Genjūrō of Honjo Hōon-ji—the man who had made every rice broker in Kuramae weep—had barged in himself to beg for a thirty-ryō advance and sat there unmovable even with a lever. For a five-hundred-koku hatamoto, thirty ryō might have seemed trivial, but with such a risky borrower, they could not readily hand it over. The haunted clerk Kanekichi slipped, fell, and fumbled about in confusion. For Suzukawa Genjūrō—who had been losing continuously and found himself saddled with thirty ryō in debt markers—this was likely more mentally taxing than dealing with upright creditors, as these were merely unsettled accounts on the ledger tray. He absolutely had to secure the funds today—he had come out with Yokichi in tow, but the lack of progress was utterly appalling. As soon as possible, he intended to send Yokichi running to make deliveries ahead, which was why he had him waiting outside—a situation that made Suzukawa Genjūrō all the more determined.

“Well, if you’re saying the past ledgers haven’t been settling neatly—if you want to call that my fault, then fine.” “But Kanekichi, even humans can have their miscalculations, you know.” “You’d better show some understanding there.” “Certainly. I fully comprehend your position, my lord, but as I’ve stated repeatedly—given the considerable loans already extended to your lordship—if we could just settle those accounts first and establish proper form… For our part as well, it would truly expedite matters if—”

A thick vein swelled rapidly at Genjūrō’s temple. Slapping his haori back with a sharp pop, he settled himself more deeply into his seat,

“Then what?” “Even after I’ve bent my principles this low to plead, you still refuse? Are you truly saying thirty ryō exceeds your capacity?” “We humbly beg your indulgence just this once regarding our inability to comply.” “Even after I’ve laid matters out so plainly?” “Our profound apologies.” As he rose, Suzukawa Genjūrō snapped his sword cord taut with a sharp jerk, “Enough! I’ll ask no more. If I cease asking, you’ll have no cause for complaint. Kanekichi! You’ve truly excelled at shaming me.”

He started to walk away but immediately turned back, “Hey. I’ll give you one more chance to think it over. It’s thirty ryō! Not thousands or hundreds on top. Just thirty ryō—what do you say?” At that moment, the clerk turned away with a contemptuous snort, while plastering an exaggerated ingratiating smile across his entire face meant for Genjūrō— “Welcome—oh! Why, if it isn’t Young Master Torigoe—what an unexpected pleasure...” When Genjūrō turned toward the commotion, there stood a handsome young samurai—as though he’d stepped straight from a kabuki playbill—just then entering with a sword at his side.

Responding to Kanekichi’s amiability with a glance, he then called out to two or three clerks further along. “Ah, Hikobei. Today I have come as the steward’s proxy.” “My, my! I am most humbly obliged. Now, now, please have a seat… You there—Kiyokichi! Yoshimatsu! Bring seat cushions.” “And then tea—”

Suzukawa Genjūrō noticed that neither tea nor cushions had been provided to him. From his position, he had been intently watching—without recognizing him—Suwa Eizaburō, who had come to rice broker Ryōguchiya Kaemon's shop claiming to act as a steward's proxy, when his gaze suddenly fell upon the end fitting of the short sword Eizaburō was trying to conceal with his sleeve. Startled, he rubbed his eyes—wasn't that flat silk-wrapped battlefield tachi style?!

Then...? Of course, that must be Konryūmaru—the counterpart of the Night-Crying Sword—that he'd heard about in Sazen's story. Had the sword drawn its twin so swiftly that his own eyes—now connected through Sazen—had already glimpsed it? At this thought, even Genjūrō felt an unseasonal chill creep through him, and for a moment— "What should I do?"

He was momentarily at a loss, but immediately—

"Bah. Sazen is Sazen, and I am I. I'll observe this greenhorn a while longer before deciding whether to notify Sazen—it won't be too late. Besides—this riffraff? No need to trouble Sazen. I could handle them myself—no, Yokichi alone could finish them off." Answering himself internally while keeping casual watch, Eizaburō—unaware of this scrutiny—promptly began the crucial discussion.

“Steward Shiraki Jūbei should have attended, but unfortunately, as he has many pressing matters, today this humble one has come as his substitute.” "The truth is, as the roof of the Torigoe residence had deteriorated, we summoned a roofer, but they stated it requires complete re-roofing, which will involve considerable effort." "My brother is also currently somewhat strapped for funds and finds himself in some difficulty, but as the three-period repayment plan would deduct principal and interest without causing hardship, what do you say—could you perhaps lend us fifty ryō?"

The clerk agreed without hesitation. To begin with, rice brokers—though they might call it brokerage fees—hardly earned substantial amounts; they had to lend money to hatamoto and gokenin retainers and collect interest to stay afloat. However, Eizaburō’s brother Ōkubo Tōjirō, though young, was a man of refined habits who had never borrowed even three mon from a rice broker’s establishment, making his household one that brought rice brokers no profit.

Then came a request to borrow fifty ryō. At a valuation of three hundred bales, fifty ryō was an easy matter. "Might I trouble you for your honorable seal?" "Indeed, I have brought my brother’s seal." Indeed, it was unmistakably Tōjirō’s personal seal, so clerk Hikobei rustled over and neatly aligned the edges of the fifty ryō coins there— "Here you are." "Please verify it before accepting." Having observed this far, Genjūrō thought: Ah, here I am stuck over thirty ryō, while those bastards are practically begging to lend fifty ryō to this whelp... The sword is one thing, but fifty ryō is fifty ryō no matter where it comes from— With this thought—though what exactly he had in mind remains unclear—he turned his back on Eizaburō and sauntered out of Ryōguchiya’s shop.

“My lord.”

Tsudzumi's Yokichi—who had grown thoroughly weary from waiting—came rushing out at Genjūrō's appearance, "You took quite a while, didn't you? Didja manage it?" As he tried to charge forward, "Shh! Don't raise your voice."

Sharply scolding him, Genjūrō then strode resolutely into Morita-chō’s alleyway beyond the rice broker’s shop.

"Something’s off…" thought Yokichi as he too followed and took cover in the alleyway—whereupon Genjūrō came to an abrupt halt.

"The money didn't come through. But right now, through your efforts alone, fifty ryō might come rolling in here." "Through my efforts, fifty ryō? That's quite the bold plan! Fifty ryō all bundled up—that thudding weight... Haven't held it in ages, but I can't forget it. So, sir—what's this job you're talkin' about?" "Right now, a young samurai's about to come out from that shop over there. You and I'll act like strangers—you follow four or five ken behind me. When I raise my hand, run past and call out to him. Speak polite-like—'Ah yes, I'm but a humble young clerk from the establishment you just honored with your presence. It seems there may have been an error in the gold coins we provided. If I may, I'd like to briefly inspect them.' Bah, you say one glance'll do. Then when he takes out the money bundle, don't hesitate—snatch it and run. I'll handle the rest."

Yokichi was smirking. “An old trick, isn’t it? Will it work?”

“Isn’t that where your skill comes in, you bastard?”

“Heh heh heh, sure thing. I’ll give it a shot.” The instant they nodded in agreement, “Here he comes! That’s him.” Genjūrō pulled Yokichi’s sleeve. There stood Suwa Eizaburō—clad in an informal kimono and setta sandals, his mismatched daisho carelessly thrust into his sash—his clean-cut shoulders bathed in brilliant sunlight as he strode toward Kaminarimon Gate.

It was when Eizaburō reached the gates of Shōkaku-ji.

Having confirmed there were no passersby ahead or behind, Suzukawa Genjūrō suddenly raised one hand as a signal—whereupon Tsudzumi no Yokichi briskly strode past right beside him. “Excuse me, sir—” While hurriedly catching up, “Ah, if I may—honorable samurai—could I trouble you to wait a moment?” called out and bowed dutifully. "……?" When Eizaburō silently turned around, an apron-clad man who appeared to be a shop worker was bowing like a rice-pounding grasshopper right before his eyes.

“Hmm—you appear to be a stranger. Does this humble one have business with you?”

Eizaburō came to a halt. “Yes, sir. “I must apologize most sincerely for calling out to you so abruptly by the roadside—” “Hmm. “Well then—what is this matter you speak of?”

“Er, well...” As Tsudzumi no Yokichi stammered—rubbing his hands together, stroking his neck, maintaining utmost subservience—Eizaburō found it impossible to reconcile this display with the infamous Komagata brawler who’d hike up his hem and start slashing at the slightest provocation. Before he knew it, Eizaburō’s guard had lowered.

“I know not what this concerns, but if there’s something to discuss, I shall hear it.”

Taking the initiative himself, he took two or three steps toward the tower gate and stood there, avoiding both the harsh sunlight and the flow of passersby. At that moment, Yokichi—who was seeing Eizaburō’s face head-on for the first time—seemed momentarily dazzled and flustered by the man’s strikingly handsome appearance, but he immediately adopted an excessively polite tone, “Ah yes—I am but a humble clerk from Ryōguchiya, which your lordship so graciously visited earlier. It seems there may have been... an error in the gold coins you requested to take with you—or so the managers claim. Thus I have come chasing after you, most impertinently, to humbly request a moment’s inspection of the money—heh—in this manner I have approached you. How might your lordship be disposed? Would you be so kind as to show them to me for a moment?……”

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

The mountain gate of Shōkaku-ji stood shrouded beneath the ancient Furisode Ginkgo—a tree famed throughout the district for its long sleeve-like branches that now spread in full majesty. Boughs sparsely dressed in yellow leaves hung low against the towering autumn sky, their gaps casting striped sunlight that set amethyst patterns dancing across Eizaburō's entire form. Eizaburō—who had been silently scrutinizing Yokichi—whirled abruptly on his heel and started striding briskly into the temple precincts. "Ah, sir!" Yokichi's voice pursued him.

“Follow me.”

With those words, Eizaburō headed toward the main hall. Keeping some distance away, Suzukawa Genjūrō had been observing the situation from behind an abandoned cart. After confirming that Yokichi too had followed Eizaburō into the temple grounds, he muffled his footsteps and pressed close to the ginkgo tree trunk.

"A sudden temple visit? That’s suspicious—!" "What now?" "Where could he be going?…" wondered Genjūrō as he peered out. While he watched, Eizaburō came to an abrupt halt beside the wayside shrine enshrining yin-yang stones at the front side of the main hall, and was heard turning to Yokichi to say: “That place is a thoroughfare." “We cannot speak privately there." “But here, there are no prying eyes." “What is this?—State your earlier matter once more." “I deeply apologize for causing you all this trouble." “The truth is, there appears to have been a misunderstanding regarding the gold coins we humbly provided."

“Your explanation remains unclear. If it’s merely a miscount, that’s one matter—but there can be no error with the gold coins.”

“Huh? Well, actually...” “Wait—you’re from Ryōguchiya, aren’t you?” “I’m merely a junior clerk.” “If we speak of junior clerks, your role would be that of a messenger. And would someone like you comprehend important financial matters?—These gold coins were laid out by the manager, which this humble one duly received and stamped into the contract. There can be no mistake with them.” “Ah. Well, you see... it’s the manager’s mistake…” “Still insisting? What kind of manager is this?”

“Uh...”

Yokichi, finding himself tongue-tied, was summarily ignored by Eizaburō. “There, you see? “First of all—if you were truly from Ryōguchiya, you would know this humble one. “Speak my name!” “Yes. I am already well aware of that. “Heh heh heh, young lord—”

“Shut up! To pick a fight over a samurai’s personal effects—you bastard must have a death wish!” “W-what nonsense! I-I was just…” “Alright! In that case, let us proceed to Ryōguchiya. Accompany me.” Snap! From behind Eizaburō as he stepped forward—perhaps deeming this troublesome—Yokichi, who from the start had dismissed the man as nothing but a cowardly samurai coasting on handsome features alone, slipped off his Kai-silk-lined workman’s coat and threw it like a casting net over him, grappling without uttering a word.

Here he came! No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Eizaburō found himself both astonished by this sesame seed-sized fly of a man’s reckless audacity and growing intensely nettled. Simultaneously, a peculiar amusement that transcended both surprise and anger welled up in his chest—he who now wore Yokichi’s workman’s coat over his head—as though he were performing in some ludicrous farce. Pfft! This guy—what a character!

Such was his thought.

And in that instant, he showed no resistance, letting Yokichi cling on fully... The overconfident Yokichi, now completely carried away, "Serves you right, bastard! You can spout all your fancy talk, but look at you now—what a sorry sight you are!" Snap!

Not merely for show—as was customary among Edo’s pleasure-seekers—the workman’s coat, its silk lining sewn in to slip off swiftly during brawls, now sought to envelop Eizaburō’s face in one fluid motion and wrench him down—! Eizaburō slipped deftly through. Dah! As soon as he raised one leg and kicked Yokichi in the flank, the sesame-patterned Tōzan striped coat—what the—?! sent the coat fluttering down onto the staggering Yokichi’s face,

“Tch! Damn you…!”

He tried to regain his footing, but the more he struggled, the more entangled he became. As the flustered Yokichi donned his own workman’s coat and began flailing like a lion dancer… “Hiyah!” A frost-edged battle cry. Musashitarō leaped from Eizaburō’s grip—a white light swept sideways—and before one could blink, the blade had already returned to its scabbard. What had seemed like blood was in fact the celosia plants blazing crimson where sunlight struck them. Genjūrō, who had been peering from beneath the long-sleeved gingko tree’s shadow at the gate, felt his guts shrivel at the brilliance of this iaijutsu draw—and naturally assumed Yokichi had been cleaved clean in two.

But what had been split in two was not Yokichi—it was the workman’s coat. As if sheared by scissors, they lay split cleanly left and right upon the ground.

Yokichi stood there dazedly, his energy drained away, "Filth like you isn’t worth dirtying my blade—take this lesson and learn to measure your words by the company you keep."

Snapping back to his senses at Eizaburō’s voice was all well and good, but since he didn’t understand how his workman’s coat had been taken from him, Yokichi remained undaunted. “What the—! You’re getting cocky!” Before he could even groan, he snatched the kicked-up geta midair and lunged to strike. Eizaburō grinned, nimbly slipped free, then gave a light poke to the floundering Yokichi’s waist. Yokichi, caught off balance, scraped along the shrine’s stone pavement in a prolonged sprawl…

He too was no ordinary man.

At some point he had snatched the purse from Eizaburō’s breast pocket—gripping tightly the leather pouch containing fifty ryō, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward the gate. There would be no more mercy. A slashing pursuit! Eizaburō, having grasped the hilt with his front hand and stepped back, failed to notice the figure that flickered momentarily in the shadow of the ginkgo tree by the gate he was exiting. As for Eizaburō, he had no inkling even in his dreams that Yokichi, while exiting the gate, had thrown the purse toward that shadow.

After wavering left and right several times in the thoroughfare, Yokichi finally shot toward Kurofunechō's corner like a scurrying turtle. Beyond that bend lay Kōrai Yashiki—its jumble of townhouses and alleyways twisting like brocade threads made an ideal vanishing ground.

Damn you! Depending on where his blade might strike, Suwa Eizaburō lowered his stance with intent to flip it upward from beneath the armpit and pressed forward in pursuit.

The one who watched them depart and flashed a grin from beneath the Long-Sleeved Ginkgo's shadow was Suzukawa Genjūrō.

In his hand, he held a heavily weighted purse. Since Yokichi—who thought he’d been cut down—had come running up and deftly handed over the purse, Suzukawa Genjūrō couldn’t care less that Konryūmaru, the dagger his retainer Tange Sazen was desperately searching for with wild eyes, hung at that young samurai’s waist—compared to these fifty ryō, it meant nothing. No one had witnessed it.

*Got him!* The faint pockmarks on his face formed into a grin.

Having stuffed his pockets for the first time in ages, Genjūrō glanced fore and aft and was about to saunter off when... Though there was no wind—rustle! The sound of fallen leaves rasping. From behind Genjūrō as he moved to leave the ginkgo’s shade without a second thought, a rusted laugh suddenly stabbed his ears. “Ha ha ha ha! Heaven knows, earth knows, people know—wicked deeds never prosper!”

He flinched and spun around, but no one was there.

Beneath sunlight that streamed like rain, only two or three fan-shaped leaves fluttered down――. He could only think that the ginkgo tree had spoken. A trick of the mind!

Scolding himself, just as Genjūrō was about to set off again, another stifled chuckle—kukkukku—sounded nearby. Genjūrō, who had instinctively reached for his sword hilt, recoiled against the ginkgo trunk and assumed a defensive stance—— Along the hedge of Shōkakuji Temple ran a ditch whose water had dried up during the prolonged drought. Directly beneath the Long-Sleeved Ginkgo, fallen golden leaves had been blown into the ditch until it brimmed like a golden stream—but then one patch of leaves swelled upward, and with a rustling sound, something rose from within the trench.

A dog? The thought lasted but an instant—what reflected in Genjūrō’s scrutinizing eyes was a thoroughly unidentifiable man using a one-shō sake bottle as his pillow.

“Y-you bastard! “What the hell are you, you bastard?” A cry of surprise burst from Genjūrō’s gaping mouth.

Yet before answering, the man slowly sat cross-legged upon his mattress of fallen leaves and stared back intently at Genjūrō. The pungent aroma of overripe persimmons stabbed at his nostrils. Even by a beggar’s standards, his visage was revoltingly unkempt.

Yet there was his long hair sweeping over shoulders, a broad forehead burnished by drink, cheeks whose rich contours evoked a master sculptor’s chisel. Moreover, his narrow eyes brimmed with both mirth and menace, while from his thick chest down to his arms, mounds of muscle like small hills bore evidence of rigorous training.

His age was still considerably short of forty. His garments were soiled with sweat—a lined Matsusaka cotton kimono tattered like seaweed—yet his imposing bearing radiated such vigor that he could never be mistaken for ordinary. Before the dumbfounded Genjūrō, who stared without missing a beat, the man slowly emerged from the ditch. He had briskly brushed the fallen leaves from his body but still bore two or three ginkgo leaves stuck to his head—standing there with a sake bottle in one hand, his chest hair rustling in the faint breeze. He was tall, his build like a rock.

A stalwart figure—and there was about him the semblance of a Sengoku-era wild warrior.

Though thoroughly unnerved, Genjūrō still managed to maintain sufficient composure as he confronted this mysterious drifter with an icy gaze. When the man stopped abruptly about a foot away, planting both hands on his hips, he suddenly shook with laughter from the depths of his belly—like a stallion's whinny. The voice tangled in the ginkgo's upper branches before being drawn high into the clear autumn sky like smoke. Since the man kept laughing endlessly, Genjūrō found himself drawn in and inexplicably overcome by mirth.

With that, he smirked.

Then the man abruptly stopped laughing, "You're from Hatchōbori?"

snapped in an imperious tone.

From the small ginkgo-leaf hairstyle, the well-worn Hakata obi, and the setta sandals that comprised Genjūrō’s attire, the man had guessed him to be some sort of town magistrate. Genjūrō was so often mistaken for an official—being called “Yoriki Suzugen”—that he had concluded it was best to remain silent as long as others persisted in their assumptions. Now too, he merely glared fiercely, his imposing presence swelling. “You insolent wretch! What do you mean by speaking like that when you dare stand before me?”

The man narrowed his eyes, "You heard me muttering to myself, so you came back, didn’t you?" “Heaven knows, earth knows, people know… Quite shocking that a man who eats Tokugawa’s rice with two swords at his hip would pull off a daylight ambush.” “What the hell?!”

The man who gently restrained Genjūrō’s hand as he instinctively reached for his sword hilt—

“I’ve been watching from this ditch since the very beginning. Hand over the purse that man tossed.” As he spoke, he applied more pressure with his fingers. “L-let go of me!” Genjūrō snapped impatiently. “You must be thoroughly drunk not to see this sword—I said let go, yet you refuse to release it...”

“I am drunk. But in this filthy world, at least the time spent drunk is when flowers bloom.” The strange man grunted “Ugh!” as he exhaled alcohol-laden breath and shook the sake bottle in his hand. Even Genjūrō—who had been desperately trying to break free while adhering to the principle of empty stillness, not moving a muscle—upon recognizing the pliant fist technique of Yōshin-ryū style, perhaps deeming this no ordinary foe, kept his hand perfectly motionless within those fingers twisting like young snakes, then suddenly changed his demeanor—

“Ah. If you’ve witnessed every detail from the start, I’ve no recourse. This humble one shall yield without dispute—first let us split it evenly. I must beg your indulgence at half the sum.”

Genjūrō took out Eizaburō’s fifty-ryō purse from his breast pocket. The man loosened his grip on Genjūrō’s hand while— “Shut it!” he barked, squaring his shoulders. “I ain’t chopped off no thief’s head yet! Hand over the whole damn purse!” “And what might you do with this money?” “That’s plain as day.” The man’s chest hair quivered with each word. “Return it to its rightful owner.”

Genjūrō sneered. “That is quite a noble aspiration these days—or so I’d like to say, but pray tell, what manner of man are you?” “Me? I’m a hermit who makes the realm his home!” “A hermit, you say? And may I ask your esteemed name?” “What name could I possibly have? If pressed, you could call me the Nameless Man.” “I see. Well, this is amusing! In that case, I shall hand over this gold to you as it is.” Seeming to have given up, Genjūrō was being straightforward. The purse passed into the man’s hand.

“Hmph! Not that this is particularly amusing... But fitting for Tokugawa’s hounds—those grand thieves who privatize governance and wring the people dry. A fire-raising bandit turned official now plays bandit himself—now that’s far more entertaining!” At these venomous words, Genjūrō flared up— “You’re but a beggar—letting you prattle would be endless! You claim you’ll return the money, but do you even know that young samurai’s name and address?” “Don’t know,” said the nameless man. “But he’ll come back here soon enough.” Before his words had finished echoing, Suwa Eizaburō—who’d lost track of Yokichi the drummer in the back alleys—emerged absently from a side lane onto the main road.

He stood with his head thrown back in deep contemplation.

Seeing this, the man called out loudly before Genjūrō could react, shot a glance at him, then turned to the approaching Eizaburō— "Hey! The money's here. This Hatchōbori official here nabbed the culprit and got it back. Thank him, not me." No sooner had he passed the purse to Eizaburō—having deftly elevated Genjūrō's standing—than he vanished like the wind, leaving both men gaping... a ginkgo leaf clinging to his wild hair, sake bottle still swinging from one hand.

An extraordinarily bizarre nameless man!

Above all, that audacious manner of speech suggesting rebellious designs against the shogunate—just who was this man, and from where? —And so Eizaburō, oblivious to these machinations, bowed repeatedly in gratitude to Genjūrō—who watched his departure—before hastening off toward Kaminarimon himself. Suzukawa Genjūrō returned the courtesy with a peculiar expression, his gaze riveted upon Eizaburō’s retreating waist. Upon the wakizashi of Battlefield Tachi craftsmanship—of which he had only heard tales—the waning sunlight of the ninth hour shimmered. Was this Konryūmaru’s spirit crying out in solitude? About Eizaburō’s receding figure drifted a wisp of loneliness, like smoke from mosquito-repelling incense.

“Alright! Since those fifty ryō were lost, I’ll hunt that man down without mercy—stir up Tange and enjoy this little drama of mine. Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru—so they say swords call to swords after all. Still… that whelp’s definitely from Torigoe—”

When Genjūrō tilted his head in puzzlement, Eizaburō, walking ahead, turned around once more and bowed. Heh heh heh... You fool! Genjūrō chuckled to himself. As he was bowing politely, someone gave his shoulder a firm tap— “Oh ho ho, how improper of you, my lord! You’re not possessed by a fox spirit—what’s this now, bowing all alone like some...”

came the voice of Kushimaki Oto.

When he noticed, Yokichi had somehow come to stand beside him.

Yokichi, who had nearly been overtaken by Eizaburō and was about to be struck by Musashi Tarō, dashed into Oto’s nearby house and narrowly escaped. When they dragged out the boss woman thinking it safe now, they found the crucial money had vanished without a trace—all thanks to that nameless man’s meddling.

Oto thrust up her black collar and twisted her body into a "ku" shape, her abdomen contorted. But her girlish laugh vanished instantly, replaced by a solemn expression. Genjūrō’s words about wanting assistance for Tange Sazen.

What exactly it was, she knew not. However, upon hearing Sazen’s name, a lover's heart grows weak. Oto’s eyes now burned with a resolve that would brave fire and flood.

Moreover, Suzukawa Genjūrō’s fervor—before they knew it—had resonated in both their hearts. Thus, Yokichi remained behind as their relay, while Oto and Genjūrō set off in pursuit of Eizaburō. Once they located the residence, one of them would return to inform Yokichi. Yokichi would then deliver this information to Suzukawa’s estate at Honjo’s Hōnenji Bridge, fetch Sazen, and formulate plans to storm the place that very night. As the emboldened Oto began hurrying alongside Genjūrō toward Eizaburō’s gradually shrinking figure, a wisp of cloud suddenly veiled the sun, casting a deceptively chilly indigo hue over the distant tree-lined avenue.

At that moment, an old samurai who had emerged from the storehouse inn Kurayado Ryōguchiya behind them similarly shielded his eyes with a hand to observe Eizaburō in the distance.

“Well then, shall we make our rounds while the sun remains high?” “Thank you kindly for your hospitality—Miss, I’ll leave the tea payment here.” “Heave-ho!” “Thank you ever so much. Please travel safely.” “Do take care on your way.” The tobacco seller catering to Yoshiwara shouldered his paulownia storage box and stood up, whereupon Otsuyu stepped outside as if drawn in his wake. With an expectant look, she fixed her gaze intently toward the Nio Gate, “It’s nearly time for the Young Master to arrive... What could have delayed him?” “After making such an excessive request... Perhaps it came to naught...”

She murmured to herself, but seeing no trace of him, withdrew dejectedly into the reed screen's shadow. At the stairwell's base lingered only pigeons; no worshippers were present.

Asakusa Sansha-mae.

One of the tea stalls lined up in a row was a shop called Atariya.

The indigo fragrance still fresh on her ikat-patterned apron, the red work sash across her shoulders—though Otsuyu had only recently grown fond of this tea server’s uniform, these days since Suwa Eizaburō had come into her life found her clinging to this resolve as her sole anchor, mustering even empty pleasantries for the passing patrons who paid a single coin for their tea. A piercing hiss rose from the boiling kettle. After mechanically adjusting the fire beneath it, Otsuyu tucked her hands into her obi and sank into thought, her pale chin sinking deep into her collar without conscious intent.

Even the burst of laughter that erupted from the neighboring Shitara’s shop seemed not to reach her ears. Her sideburns disheveled in alluring disarray, she resembled nothing so much as an ukiyo-e print depicting some scene—.

This Otsuyu—

There was a man named Wada Sōemon—an upright samurai who had served as provision master under Sōma Daizensuke, lord of Nakamura in Ōshū, who had infiltrated the sword demon Tange Sazen into Edo to obtain the Night-Crying Swords.

Just as the proverb says, "Water too clear breeds no fish," Sōemon had been caught up in his colleague’s embezzlement and met with permanent dismissal. Having concluded that there could be no returning now to serve two lords as a newcomer in another household, he thereafter emerged into Edo to live out the carefree existence of a rōnin. In Asakusa Mimamachi, there was a blacksmith named Tomigorō—known as Kajitomi—who happened to be a slight acquaintance and kindly provided various forms of assistance. Through his referral, he opened a temple school at Kizaemon’s shop in Tawaramachi Sanchōme, where he managed to eke out a meager living… though…

He had a daughter of marriageable age named Otsuyu with his wife Osayo. Day and night, the elderly couple talked of how they wished to secure a son-in-law posthaste—one who would succeed as head and restore the Wada house—but in the midst of these discussions, Sōemon suddenly took to a makeshift sickbed. Thus it was that despite Osayo, Otsuyu, landlord Kizaemon, and Kajitomi raising cries for physicians and remedies, he departed this world as though vanishing into a dream.

Alas, a mother and daughter left adrift in this transient world. They were not permitted to linger long in their tears. The means of survival for the days ahead pressed urgently before them. The elderly mother Osayo entered service at the residence of hatamoto Suzukawa Genjūrō in Honjo Hōnenji—who happened to be seeking a maid at that very time—with Kizaemon and Kajitomi acting as guarantors. What Kizaemon then brought to Otsuyu, now left alone, was this position at the Atariya water tea shop before the three shrines.

Though Otsuyu had thought—A samurai's daughter becoming a tea shop girl—she resigned herself to it as unavoidable in these times, and thus made her daily commute from Kizaemon of Tawaramachi to Sansha-mae.

Her practical attire accentuated her natural beauty, and though the shop had only just opened, there was no one in Asakusa who didn't know of Atariya's Otsuyu.

Had times been as they should... The more Otsuyu dwelled on it, the more her spirits sank.

At that moment, once again—

There is nothing so unreliable as human kindness. Kajitomi, who had once cared for mother and daughter with such devotion—though looking back now, he had likely harbored ulterior motives—had recently tallied up all the funds he’d provided them over time and now pressed relentlessly for repayment of the hefty sum of fifty ryō. One day after visiting following her return from Kannon worship, Eizaburō began visiting Atariya without fail every day. It was to him that Otsuyu suddenly confessed hardships exceeding her heart’s capacity—whereupon he promptly dashed off to procure fifty ryō, but—

He still hadn’t returned. “I deeply apologize. From the very start, it must seem as though I’m begging for money… You must think me such a vulgar tea shop girl.” A deep sigh escaped from Otsuyu’s lips. Shiraki Jūbei, retainer of Ōkubo Tōjirō, visited Kurayado Ryōguchiya on business that day, where he learned that Eizaburō, his master’s younger brother, had just come bearing Tōjirō’s personal seal and borrowed fifty ryō under this pretext. Even if it was the Young Master, one could not overlook the pilfering of a seal to demand a large sum of money—and so Shiraki Jūbei shook his white-haired head vigorously, then leaped out and raised his arm—

An autumn-white townscape where the view stretched far. On the Kuramae street where people came and went 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 kept within our household it would be acceptable, but with moneylenders being pressured like this, I cannot help but worry about Lord Eizaburō's future prospects." Shuddering violently! "I must report this to my lord... I absolutely must report this to my lord."

Honest to a fault and utterly inflexible, Shiraki Jūbei immediately turned on his heel and headed back toward the Torigoe estate. I don’t know about that, but why is this young samurai also heading to Torigoe? While Suzukawa Genjūrō kept his gaze fixed on Eizaburō ahead, instead of descending toward Hanakawado, Eizaburō proceeded straight through the Niō Gate into the Kannon precinct.

Hmm, he's taking a different path—where could he be headed? Suzukawa Genjūrō exchanged a glance with Oto and quickened his pace.

As for Eizaburō— Though knowing he could not simply spurn Yayoi—daughter of the late Master Onozuka Tessai from Dawn Village in Nezu—who had given him her heart, he had deliberately accepted defeat in that manner and reduced her to tears. Nor did matters end there—an incident soon followed where the master fell to an unexpected blade, leaving the Night-Crying Swords split asunder with Konryūmaru now hanging at his own waist. Eizaburō was no man to thoughtlessly cast Yayoi aside or act contrary to his teacher's aspirations. That very night, to Yayoi—who had been tearfully taken into the care of their relative Tsuchiya Tamon in Kōjimachi—he had sworn an unshakable vow.

The opponent was Tange Sazen of Ken'unmaru. But that Eizaburō had trampled upon Yayoi's affections and brought matters to this pass was, for him, precisely because there existed Otsuyu of the Atariya water tea shop before the three shrines.

The struggles of loving and being loved could not be restrained by society's ordinary reins. Could this be called love at first sight? From that initial encounter, Eizaburō found himself helpless against this relentless tide of longing. It was a demand for resourcefulness - fifty ryō presented by the woman he cherished. Though Eizaburō had accepted with soaring spirits, as a dependent family member he could never muster such funds. Driven to desperation despite knowing its wrongness, he suddenly conceived of withdrawing the money from the rice broker under his brother Tōjirō's name. Thus came these fifty ryō - obtained by swiftly stealing the personal seal and having Ryōguchiya prepare it posthaste.

He had been robbed by some strange fellow along the way—but then another odd character appeared and retrieved it for him. Who in the world was that peculiar yet dignified beggar? A path walked in preoccupation feels near. Ah! Even so, Otsuyu must surely be worn out from waiting by now. As Eizaburō lifted his face and quickened his pace, he suddenly found himself already amidst the row of waterside teahouses—and there, beneath Atariya’s paper lantern adorned with a golden target pierced by an arrow, Otsuyu’s pale face smiled at him.

Eizaburō tapped his pocket swollen with koban coins, his heart declaring, “Excellent fortune—it’s done!” “Truly, I made such an unreasonable request—I was so anxious you might not come—but seeing your face has put my heart at ease.” Catching her fragrant smile in her apron as she spoke, the clarity of her upturned eyes gazing at Eizaburō held a charm that would inevitably captivate any young soul. Eizaburō suddenly felt unbridled joy racing down his spine,

“Well, let’s go in—”

Taking the lead, he passed through the reed screen—and immediately, “Here’s the fifty ryō.” He laughed broadly and tossed the heavy purse onto the bench there. Otsuyu did not immediately pick it up, but sent Eizaburō a sidelong glance veiled in bashfulness before lowering her eyes. “I do apologize—oh my lord, to speak of money so soon when our acquaintance is still new… You must indeed think me nothing but a vulgar tea shop girl.” “I find that so painful—”

“Not at all. When times are hard, everyone is the same. Quickly take this and go pay off that debt to Kajitomi or whatever his name is. I’ll watch the shop.” “Oh my! You’ve done absolutely everything—I’ll inform my mother and formally express my gratitude later, but since you’ve been so kind as to offer this, I’ll take it and make a quick trip to repay the debt. Ah, it’s right over there.” Otsuyu, having eagerly removed her apron and started running with her sleeves folded over her chest, nearly collided with a samurai accompanied by a woman. It was Suzukawa Genjūrō.

“Oh! Pardon me!”

As Otsuyu hurried away with short, quick steps, Suzukawa Genjūrō’s eyes burned into her retreating figure— "My lord, that is Otsuyu of the renowned Atariya Teahouse in Asakusa—oh, how beautiful she is!"

Oto whispered provocatively. As Otsuyu hurried away with her hem disarrayed, Suzukawa Genjūrō—wearing a lascivious grin—turned and called out to her, "Oto—" "What a beauty!" "That's Otsuyu of Atariya?" "Hmm, I see." Oto scolded Suzukawa Genjūrō with mischief dancing in her eyes. "Oh now, my lord—that won't do." "That wandering-eye bug of yours is stirring again..." Suzukawa Genjūrō forced a bitter smile—the true reason he'd brought along the young samurai carrying fifty ryō lay in the battlefield tachi-style short sword at his waist: Konryūmaru's magnetic pull. This was no time to be mesmerized by a teahouse girl's hem adjustments—he quietly shoved Oto aside and peered toward the establishment ahead—.

Beneath the reed screens, benches spread with crimson felt stood in rows—teacups and earthenware teapots, 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. When he spotted the plain-wrapped sheath peeking out from beneath the haori, Suzukawa Genjūrō stealthily moved and beckoned Oto into the shadow of the night lantern. “He’s here.” “So he’s here… Well then, since Yokichi-kō is waiting, I’ll head back right away—”

As Oto quickly tucked up one side of her hem, Suzukawa grinned slyly at her, “Tange Sazen is staking his life to hunt down this whelp.” “The reason will become clear in time—but since this concerns Sazen’s vital interests, I—no, you especially—Ha ha ha! It’s not as though this requires no muscle.” “Keep that resolve unshaken—I rely on it.” “I’ve already communicated your affections to Tange Sazen, and I mean to plot no ill against you henceforth.”

When Sazen's name was mentioned, a woman of Oto's standing flushed cherry-blossom pink, her tone sinking to a fearsome depth. "I won't let you go back on these words just now."

Perhaps due to the shadows cast by the sun, Genjūrō felt an unnatural chill. “It’s fine. Go quickly and send Yokichi… Ah! And then—about that Otsuyu from earlier—could you do me the trouble of investigating where her shop is located and what sort of social standing she holds?”

Oto bared her teeth in admonishment yet nodded with apparent amusement, her stylish figure vanishing along the shadows from the bell tower toward the water house.

To Yokichi of Tsuzumi, waiting under the Furisode Ginkgo. And so, upon receiving the message, Yokichi immediately dashed through the air to Honjō Hōonji Bridge, making arrangements to relay the news to Tange Sazen that Konryūmaru had now arrived at the Atariya Teahouse in front of Asakusa Shrine.

Left behind alone, Genjūrō remained motionless for a time as though turned to stone.

After a moment. “A samurai called the young lord of Torigoe has come to this Atariya Teahouse.” “So that bastard and Otsuyu—but wait—for me, a living Otsuyu’s worth more than a hundred Konryūmaru.” “This here’s one hell of a dilemma.” No sooner had Suzukawa Genjūrō jerked his neck upright than he seemed struck by inspiration, thrusting out his grand sword’s hilt to lick its mekugi peg. He pulled off his setta sandals and stuffed them into his kimono front. With a shh... of stealthy footsteps, he crept toward Atariya’s entrance.

No sooner had he thought this than—suddenly! Whoosh! As the white light slashed through the reed screen behind him, Eizaburō—already lowering his body—kicked over the bench in that instant. Suzukawa Genjūrō’s frenzied blade, fully extended without a word, swung over Eizaburō’s head with a bone-chilling summons of icy aura. Kyosui-ryū Iaijutsu—the ultimate secret of the Sekirei-ken. But by this time, in Eizaburō’s hand—as he barely managed to leap back—Musashitarō Yasukuni gleamed like a polished mirror. Suzukawa Genjūrō, restraining his follow-up strike, assumed an upper stance.

Eizaburō assumed Shinpen Musō-ryū’s Level Blue-Eye stance. Inside the narrow teahouse, Suzukawa Genjūrō—backlit by exterior light—appeared only as a black silhouette when viewed head-on. “What fiend?! Madman?! To commit such outrage in broad daylight—I’ve done nothing to warrant this grudge! Withdraw!” Eizaburō rebuked with an upward glare. Suzukawa laughed. “I could withdraw.” “But your breathing’s disordered.” “That dojo swordsmanship—you’ve never killed with it, have you?” “Hah!” “Who are you?!” “Declare your name! Your name!” “Tange Sazen... You’ve heard that name, I trust.”

“Wh-wh-what?!” “T-Tange... That Tange Sazen—?”

When Eizaburō inadvertently shifted his posture and peered, Suzukawa Genjūrō’s sword slid smoothly and silently back into its scabbard. “First—first, if you would put away that people-slaying blade and take a seat.” “We have business to discuss.” Without even glancing at Eizaburō, who stood dumbfounded, Suzukawa Genjūrō suddenly unleashed a thunderous roar at the crowd of Shitara teahouse patrons and passersby who—terrified by this sudden midday clash that had erupted without warning yet drawn by morbid curiosity—had already formed a ring in front of the establishment.

"You fools! You lot! What're you gawking at? This ain't no damned spectacle! Scram!" "Let's make this quick. A trade—the woman for the sword. How's that sound?" Suzukawa Genjūrō barked abruptly, jutting his chin forward as though spearing the words like a blade. Though shadows pooled across half his face obscuring his features, even Eizaburō—peering through the gloom—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 exchange of blade and woman mean? The thoughts left him momentarily speechless. Eizaburō tensed, locking eyes with Genjūrō in a piercing glare.

According to Tange Sazen, this wielder of Konryūmaru was said to possess considerable skill. Having attacked to gauge his opponent’s limits, Suzukawa Genjūrō—perceiving an indomitable spirit in Musashitarō’s radiant edge—abruptly shifted to a casual tone even as he thought, “Neither Tange Sazen nor I can afford carelessness hereafter when dealing with this blade.” “I offer my deepest apologies for my earlier discourtesy.” Using this as his opening gambit, he revealed that he knew the whereabouts of both Tange Sazen and Ken’unmaru, concluding that depending on circumstances, he might retrieve the sword and present it as an offering.

“Where?” To Eizaburō’s pressing question, Suzukawa answered only with “a corner of Edo” and lowered his voice. “Now, there we are.” “You seek to summon Tange’s Ken’unmaru with that Konryūmaru of yours, while Tange exploits Ken’unmaru to target both your life and Konryūmaru.” “And standing between you both, having a grand old time—well, that would be this humble one.” “Now then—this being a matter for discussion—depending on how our negotiations proceed, this humble one could either persuade Tange Sazen or dispose of him altogether to return Ken’unmaru to your possession. Would you be so kind as to hear me out?”

Eizaburō wore an expression of incomprehension. “That concerns the sword. And the woman you mentioned in exchange for it?” “Would you be so kind as to hand over Otsuyu here to this humble one?” “Preposterous!” Eizaburō snapped, “What absurd drivel! True, the sword matter holds importance,” Eizaburō declared, “but against the likes of Tange Sazen, I alone suffice. To sell a woman I pledged two lifetimes to for such purpose—Eizaburō would never conceive it. Fundamentally, human hearts aren’t goods to be bartered or withheld...”

“Pledged for two lifetimes, have you?” “Hahahaha! Well now—this is most extraordinary.” “Young man!” “So you decline?” “Absolutely!” “Then it cannot be helped. This humble one shall aid Tange Sazen in acquiring that Konryūmaru in due course—and while at it, Otsuyu too shall resign herself to being mine.” “As you please.” “Pray convey my respects to Lord Tange as well.” “My apologies.” As Suzukawa Genjūrō turned to leave—Otsuyu, who had returned earlier yet held back upon hearing her name—now seemed to grasp Eizaburō’s true essence. She fell against him like a scattering blossom, pale arms encircling his neck before pressing her face silently into his chest…

The sight was more than he could bear! Having been made a fool of, Genjūrō declared, “I’ll let you keep that woman…for now.”

With a parting shot, he flicked his sleeve and casually strolled out of the Atariya Teahouse.

At the same time.

A world without night or day—a realm of perpetual gloom.

Despite the blazing midday sun beating down, the sun-dried shutters on the verge of splitting were tightly closed, and in Suzukawa’s residence before Hōon-ji, Tange Sazen lay snoring.

A six-tatami-mat detached cottage styled like a tea room.

In the midst of such clutter that there was no place to set foot down, Tange Sazen—who prowled by night—slept through the day like this: his two hairy legs thrown out from a four-cloth futon bunched up like an oak-leaf-wrapped rice cake. In the room thickly clouded with grime and grease, slender beams of light seeping through gaps in the planks wove strange stripes. That night—it was not that Tange Sazen had been troubled by Eizaburō’s Konryūmaru since acquiring Ken’unmaru—but rather he seemed tormented by some malevolent presence. His gaunt frame had grown even more skeletal—appetite waned, even drink held no appeal—and he could be seen wandering nightly around Akebono Village like a scarecrow; but the gates of Onozuka Dojo, now masterless, remained tightly shut, and Yayoi’s whereabouts were unknown to all.

He had not forgotten the secret decree entrusted by the Great Lord. Nor could he deny some lingering gratitude toward Oto, yet whenever he recalled how he had won that woman through combat, the vision of Yayoi—blooming like a Chinese flowering crabapple—would flicker incessantly before Tange Sazen's solitary eye: Tange Sazen, consumed by love.

A one-armed man's unrequited love. The snarl of yearning threads could not be cut through even by Ken'unmaru's keen edge.

In a dream, Yayoi appeared holding a lantern as she walked along the foot of the artificial hill. "Hrmph!" As Tange Sazen turned over in his sleep, suddenly— A shadow fell across the knothole in the paper-covered door, "Lord Sazen—Lord Tange!" At Yokichi's call, Sazen snatched Ken'unmaru from his bedside in a flash and sprang up. When he slid open the wooden door, sunlight danced across the garden's overgrown weeds, and a refreshing breeze playfully tugged at the hem of his nightclothes. Upon hearing Yokichi's report, Sazen snapped open his pus-clogged eye and struck—! The sword guard of Ken'unmaru rang out.

“What? Genjū’s keeping watch?” “But this is night work—you bastard! Scramble around now and round up fifteen or sixteen men, starting with Tsuchinoe Shinnosuke!” Having performed his frantic spinning dance, Yokichi shot through the rear gate like a severed-kite string—vanishing instantly.

The scent of water permeated the pitch-black darkness—.

A moonless night, still early in the evening yet hushed and still, lay enveloped by the murmuring river sounds washing against the base of stone walls.

The rear of Asakura’s rice storehouse.

From the first to the eighth inlet along the shore where boat channels cut inward like comb teeth, under the intertwined shadows of the renowned Shubi Pine—a celebrated Edo landmark—two or three small boats of unknown ownership lay moored. In the midship of one such boat were a young man and woman who had fled the clamorous world.

Immediately after closing the Atariya Teahouse, Otsuyu and Eizaburō wandered aimlessly through towns where lanterns were beginning to glow, and before they knew it—unconsciously choosing darkened paths—they had come this far...and into the boat. They had a mountain of things they needed to discuss.

But merely sensing this, Eizaburō took Otsuyu’s hand onto his lap—there was no longer any need for words. Across the river lay Honjo’s sky. Stars twinkled on the fire watchtower’s ledge as scattered lights from the mansions of Kōno Tōtōmi and Matsuura Bungo-no-kami spilled into the water, the cedars of Otakegura looming thickly... There were no onlookers. As the pounding in Otsuyu’s chest traveled through her clasped hand to Eizaburō, he peered into her faintly pale face, like a water lily.

“The cold winter nights are already drawing near. “If we stay like this, we’ll catch cold—” As he spoke, he removed his haori and tried to drape it over Otsuyu’s shoulders.

“Oh, no, wait! That’s too much… If you do that, my lord, you’ll be the one who—” Otsuyu lightly resisted, but as the man’s haori fluttered down onto her shoulders, she yielded and leaned into him—Eizaburō pulled her close as if to sweep her into his arms,

“Otsuyu.” “My lord.”

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

“Yes. Such kindness exceeds my worth… Otsuyu is overjoyed.” “Even if I were to die like this—” “Die?! What ominous nonsense are you spouting?!” “Then we’ll die together!”

Otsuyu, pressing her chest even more deeply against him, twisted her body softly and looked up at Eizaburō. “Oh yes. No matter what happens, forever! But I suppose there will be all sorts of things... on the path ahead of us.” “Hmm. First, you should steel yourself for that. For now, regarding the Night-Crying Sword we discussed earlier on the way…” “No.” Otsuyu shook her head like a petulant child. “The retrieval of that sword is something you can splendidly accomplish through your skill alone. I was often told by my late father that those of the samurai class possess an unyielding will in all matters. Especially regarding the rivalry over what you carry at your waist—this Otsuyu would never speak ill of it to dull your resolve. No, truly—though merely thinking of that lawless Tange Sazen targeting you makes my life shrivel with fear, as a woman’s station leaves me unable to aid you, and I am but a burden to shame myself… I bear no resentment, only—well…”

“Only that—well… Is there something else…?” “Yes. About the dojo’s—” “The dojo’s...?” “I can’t help worrying about the young lady I’ve heard about.” “Miss Yayoi? Th-that’s absurd! Even if Miss Yayoi tries to bring up any manner of proposal, understand this—as long as I remain steadfast, you have nothing to fear, do you?” “But… you’re a lord and I’m just a teahouse woman—our stations are too different. When I think how mismatched we are… the very thought terrifies me.”

Otsuyu’s voice trembled with tears. Since surrendering to the roar of each other’s blood… how much time had passed? Kubino Matsu whispered in the wind.

Suddenly, Otsuyu—her flushed cheeks meeting the pleasant night air—lay face down against the gunwale. Eizaburō’s hand began to stretch out tenderly toward her shoulder— “Ahem!”

Near their ears came a deliberate cough from within the boat. Patterned-thread wheel. "Ahem!" The cough had indeed come from inside the small boat— The two abruptly split to either side and strained their ears. All they could hear were the distant cries of a night-roaming udon vendor and pine winds howling high along the banks—the night had grown late indeed. The Ōkawa’s waters swirled darkly around wooden posts as they flowed onward, while across the river, house lights began vanishing one by two unnoticed.

The silent slumber of Great Edo.

“It seems I heard something just now.”

When Eizaburō tilted his head in a soliloquy,

“Apologies for interrupting your lovers’ tryst—though truth be told, I was growing rather bored myself. Time to show myself.” No sooner had a gruff voice boomed from the stern than the lump—what had seemed like rigging ropes bundled under straw matting—swept aside the covering with one hand and heaved upright abruptly.

“Wh—! Who are you?!”

Eizaburō cried out instinctively—shoving Otsuyu behind him as she recoiled—twisting his left hip to draw Musashitarō’s hilt with a sharp *tatsu*! He grasped it with a click. The sliding collar of the sword revealed an inch or two of blade that glinted sharply in the moonlight, striking their eyes. The man sitting at the stern did not move, like a mountain. Matted hair and a grimy face—the pungent aroma of alcohol drifted about. A familiar face... Before Eizaburō could peer through the darkness, the man’s laughter resounded, shaking the boat. “Ha ha ha! Fancy meetin’ ya here again!”

Now that he thought of it—there was no mistaking him. This was that nameless man who had defeated Suzukawa Genjūrō and retrieved the fifty ryō. When the young pair—their embarrassment rising first upon recognizing even a vaguely familiar face—became flustered, the man instead seemed apologetic in his haste, “This won’t do!” “My fault.” “My bad for waking up and showing my face!” “I’ll sleep again—sleep again—”

As he spoke, he lay down on the wooden floorboards and began rustling to pull the straw mat over himself again. This time, it was Eizaburō who became flustered. “No. “Th-that won’t be necessary.” Still clad in tattered clothes, using a cheap sake bottle as his pillow, the nameless man made do with a straw mat for bedding.

“Hmm. “So it’s fine if I stay awake then?” “Did you hear our conversation earlier?” “Yeah. Heard up to the sword part. Don’t know the rest. Sounded like an interestin’ tale.” “Then about the sword—?” “That right? My bad?” Eizaburō’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “Wrong or not—can’t unhear what’s heard.” The man remained unperturbed. “More importantly—if you’re short on help—reckon I could pitch in. But if you say knowin’ secrets ain’t allowed—do what you want. First off—crashin’ others’ homes uninvited—that’s the real rudeness here.”

“What?!” “Help? You?” “Hahahaha!” Eizaburō slapped his knee and laughed audaciously. Then the man said: “That’s right.” “If you want my blade’s aid—ask properly and lower your head.” “Such insolence!” Eizaburō’s temper flared. “Spout whatever drivel you like!” “Who’d ever beg your help?!” “Won’t ask?” “Oh?” The man grinned sharply—white teeth glinting like drawn steel— “Oh?” “Won’t ask?” “Then I’ll ask instead—let me strip off one sleeve for this.”

“…………?” “No, nothing—to you who won’t bow your head to others, I want to bow mine. The fact that you don’t beg for aid—that’s what makes you admirable!”

Stretching his neck to peer at Otsuyu, “Madam! In this world crawling with petty tricksters, you’ve landed yourself a rare catch! Splendid work, splendid work!” “Ha ha ha! Treasure it well!” Otsuyu—addressed as “Madam”—flushed crimson. Some overwhelming emotion surged through her chest, her eyes suddenly burning hot as she pressed her face against Eizaburō’s back. Eizaburō lurched forward and slammed his palms against the floorboards,

“I humbly beg your forgiveness for my earlier discourtesy. “I humbly request your assistance once more.” “Accepted!” “But in that case, I am deeply honored.” “First, your hands—c’mon, raise ’em up.” “You must be the hermit renowned throughout the land. Might I inquire your esteemed name?” “A hermit is one who hides away—yet here I am, appearing everywhere.” “My name?” “That would be—”

When he trailed off, Eizaburō thought he would once again call himself the nameless man—

“I am Kamo Taiiken.” “Earlier you spoke of entering homes unannounced—but where do you reside?” “Troublesome indeed.” “This boat here—no, not necessarily this particular boat.” “All vessels moored in these waters serve as my dwellings.” “Hah! A roof-free existence beneath heaven’s vault.” “When needing me, come to Shubi Pine and cast stones into the river—three precisely.” “Three stones cast upon the waters... from whichever boat I inhabit shall I emerge...”

Just then—!

The boat lurched violently, and Otsuyu nearly threw herself against Eizaburō—how bizarre! Riding the tidal current, someone on shore seemed to be hauling in the taut mooring rope—in an instant, the boat crashed against the stone embankment. Overhead, thunderous footsteps erupted as Tange Sazen’s rasping roar tore across the river surface. “Hey!” “Ken’unmaru ain’t gonna quit its cursed howlin’, so I came for its twin.” “Heh—Konryūmaru.” “You’re there, ain’tcha!”

The river, the bank, the sky—all were a single shade of ink.

As if that ink-black darkness had coagulated and scattered, over twenty black-robed figures came to an abrupt halt under a pine tree standing across the moat.

Led by Tange Sazen and Suzukawa Genjūrō, the hundred demons of the Honjo Monster Mansion had emerged under midnight's cloak. A true back-to-the-water formation. At the water's edge—aligned with Kamo Taiiken, who crouched ponderously gripping a boat plank—Suwa Eizaburō had already calmly drawn Musashi Tarō Yasukuni from its scabbard. While shielding Otsuyu, who clung to him unbidden, with one hand and a faint smile,

“I ain’t gonna cut you bastards down until you’ve landed, so come on over here nice and easy!”

Laughing off Sazen’s words, the three helped each other leave the small boat. Behind them lay the Ōkawa. Tossed by the dark waves beneath the stone embankment, the boat’s bottom made a lapping sound. In the shadows encircling them front and sides, what appeared as glimmering rods of ice arranged in lines were none other than the forest of blades from the Blue-Eyed Faction relentlessly pressing forward. A hush fell as though all things had solidified. “A way to escape… don’t you think?” “I’m just a helpless woman—we need a way to escape—”

Feeling Otsuyu's fervent voice against his cheek, Eizaburō glanced briefly at Taiiken. Hanging a plank from the stern that had been flipped up at the critical moment, Taiiken half-closed his eyes as if in an entranced slumber... the stance of Flowing Water and Moonlight. And then—! A voice rang out. "Kid!" "Let's go—c'mon!"

It was Sazen. And then—perhaps lured by an ally’s voice—one of the black demons drew near as if sucked in, its short, quick steps... “—!” Just as it was about to leap in silence—! Simultaneously, Eizaburō’s keen blade sliced through with a silent gust—brutally! No sooner had he split a torso with a sickening crunch than Eizaburō—stepping out with his left foot and entrusting his blade in that instant—swished! No sooner had he tenaciously pulled away than he instantly pivoted right, forcing one more man to claw the earth with a groan.

But by this time, silver sparks were already flying up and down as all three were swallowed at once into the manji-shaped vortex of battle. Amidst the commotion, Suzukawa Genjūrō stood slightly apart whispering something with Oto—but what filled the dark-accustomed eyes of Otsuyu, who had slipped beneath swinging blades to tumble into tree shadows, was her lover Eizaburō seen clearly for the first time. The hand that had gently embraced her now brandished a blood-dripping longsword, while eyes darting left and right held a coldly glimmering smile.

“Master Taiiken!” “Oh… there! There’s one behind you—a single one!” Before they knew it, they had split into two groups. Kamo Taiiken—handling an entire band with just a single plank—stretched upward, peered through the darkness, and called out over the clustered heads. It was as though some great force disrupted the tide of battle only to quell it—. They would clash fiercely only to abruptly still, then surge through another wave of struggle before falling into tense standoffs, measuring each other’s breath.

With each clash, one or two would stagger back while others fell to the ground biting back demonic wails. Flying flesh and bone fragments. The metallic scent of fresh blood—akin to rust—thickened in the river wind, threatening to choke... Otsuyu pressed her sleeve to her face, stifling the rising nausea. But behold! Eizaburō of the Shinpen Musō-ryū’s Hawk Feather Technique—sweeping left and right in one breath like a hawk striking with its wings, leaving no opening—now saw that none dared approach.

“Otsuyu! Where are you?”

As he shouted from amidst the blade shadows, "Yes. I am here—" "I am here—"

Otsuyu, who had begun to answer, found her mouth suddenly covered from behind by a sneaking hand mid-sentence—but in its place, the voice of Tange Sazen, the Sword Demon, struck Eizaburō head-on. “You’re quite something, you bastard! Wipe your hands—they’ll slip from the blood!” Eizaburō laughed sharply and wiped one hand against his side. His other hand returned to the hilt. At the same time, Sazen’s one-armed flash—Ken’unmaru whirled up earth and sand toward Eizaburō’s legs! It seemed as if—CRASH! As pale sparks scattered from the deflected tip of Musashi Tarō’s blade, the sword scar on Sazen’s cheek emerged from the darkness... and in that instant,

“You! Insolent bastard!” Just as Sazen, having risen to his feet, was about to plunge back into his tiger-like frenzy, Taiiken’s plank—splitting the sky as it flew—leapt before his eyes.

“What the hell?!” “What the—” The moment Sazen’s ridge strike split the plank cleanly in two—! “To the boat!” Taiiken’s voice rang out.

When he looked, the woman’s figure was tumbling into one of the boats.

Oh! Otsuyu was safe! No sooner had this thought flashed through his mind than Eizaburō too leapt after Taiiken toward the boat. Amidst the spray from two or three pursuers he had outrun now tumbling off the stone wall, Eizaburō cleanly severed the stern rope with a snap. Leaving behind Sazen’s curses on the shore, their boat rode the swelling tide into midstream.

Two or three men had fallen into the water, but Sazen—along with the rest—had barely managed to keep their footing atop the stone wall, “You! Think there’s any way you’re escaping?!” “This Ken’unmaru burns for your Konryūmaru and will charge after it to the ends of the earth!” “So think of it as one sword chasing another!”

As he shouted angrily at the receding boat and frantically looked around, for some reason, neither Genjūrō nor Oto were anywhere to be seen.

Melting the darkness, the waters of the great river flowed like a ribbon.

The Eight Hundred and Eight Districts sprawling along both banks pressed down, while the rain-threatening sky hung dull and low. Tilting like a top and drawing a gentle arc, the boat carrying three people rapidly approached the main current—.

Creak... creak! The oarlock groaned. Taiiken, having swiftly lowered the one amidships into the water and surrendered his hem to the river wind, demonstrated oar work that put the boat house’s young men to shame. “You’ve got quite the skill there.”

he glanced back at Eizaburō, “That sword has fine reach. It’s been ages since I last encountered Shinpen Musō-ryū, but this bears a striking resemblance to old man Onozuka’s techniques from Nezu Akebono Village.”

Eizaburō, who had been moistening a hand towel to wipe away the bloodstains, involuntarily— “Oh! Then you know Master Tessai—” His urgent voice, snatched away by the wind, seemed not to reach Taiiken, “But that one-armed rōnin—what a vicious swordsman he is!”

Taiiken continued. "He's got more killing intent than you, and that left-handed sword of his has grit." "In a head-on clash, it's four parts you to six parts him—unfortunately." "Hahaha! Though truth be told, you'd likely take each other out—Oh!" "Look." "They're coming! Here they come!"

At these words, he looked toward the shore with the rice storehouse—and there it was: Sazen’s Ken’unmaru. The radiant figure issuing commands streamed brilliantly through the night shadows; in an instant crawling down the stone wall came a pitch-black small boat that had coalesced into form, its oar sounds carried by the wind as it rowed like an arrow.

“Come on, come on! We could strike from here too!” bellowed Taiiken with a roar of laughter as he leaned his upper body forward, then arched back to thrust the oar out with great force. Then, a lukewarm dampness swept swiftly across the water’s surface... plink, a single drop. “Rain.” “It’s coming down.” While they were still speaking, large raindrops pattered against the boat planks—then a chill pierced through their collars as, in an instant, a white curtain of waterfall connecting heaven and earth pounded the river’s surface, the midnight rain misting with spray.

What about Otsuyu? When he looked, the woman had remained prostrated at the bow ever since leaping into the boat, not moving a muscle. She'll get drenched! Having thought this, Eizaburō took the straw mat from the stern and approached her while— "Were you startled? Are you feeling unwell? Come now—since it's started raining, put this on and endure a little longer..." As he tried to lift her up, "Hohohoho! My, how kind! I'm so sorry, really."

With that crisp voice, she brushed off Eizaburō’s hand and looked up—! But contrary to expectations—it wasn’t Otsuyu!

“Wha—? Wh-Who are you?” “My! What a terrifying face! Does it matter who I am? What a pity it’s not Miss Otsuyu from Atariya.” Kushimaki Oto let the rain soak her pale face as she laughed with ironic fire. “But you needn’t worry—by now Miss Otsuyu must be nestled snugly in the arms of the Honjō lord. Hohoho! Jumping into the boat as her substitute was clever enough, but look what a fool I’ve become. This rain. This deluge isn’t even fit for comedy... Hey there, boatman! Put some back into it!”

Ah! Otsuyu had been abducted—Eizaburō steadied his staggering legs, his voice lost.

Oto sat with one knee raised, resting her cheek on the boat’s edge,

“Hey! Don’t just stand there blankly—what are you going to do?! “If you hate me, stab me or cut me down as you please—but more importantly, does anyone have a flint?” “But with this downpour, it’s no use?” “Tch!” “I can’t even smoke a single cigarette.”

Even if he killed her, it would resolve nothing... Suddenly, as Kamo Taiiken and Suwa Eizaburō exchanged glances— Sazen’s boat tore through the silver curtain of rain and appeared! Crash! No sooner had they collided sideways than Sazen’s men swept aside the rain with their drawn gleaming blades and attacked all at once. Taiiken swung up the oar and instantly sent four or five men tumbling into the water with a splash. Hōshō Shinnosuke, who had been dodged by Eizaburō, also lost his balance and plunged into the river with a chilling splash. Torrential downpour—and even thunderclaps.

In the flashing lightning, Eizaburō discerned Sazen’s demon-like visage, “You! Ken’unmaru?” “Come at me!”

He shouted, but strangely, the opponent showed no sign of confronting him; instead, they gathered up their fallen comrades, thrust a pole against this boat, and hastily retreated.

In an instant, when viewed through the bluish cloud-light, it appeared the guardhouse that had heard the commotion had dispatched official boats—the lights of rain-soaked government lanterns dotted... Without anyone noticing when she had moved, Kushimaki Oto sat laughing on the departing boat with her knees drawn up. “Konryūmaru... We’ll meet again.” Tange Sazen’s parting words dissolved into the rain.

“Otsuyu! Where are you!”

At the moment when Eizaburō, having come to deeply understand loneliness, screamed thus within his heart, Taiiken put strength into the oar, and the boat rocked once.

"No. As I have stated from the beginning—if this concerns Eizaburō, I have no ears to hear it—" The master delivered this curtly and gazed out through the open veranda’s shoji screens.

In the garden where sunlight danced like gold sand, a moss-covered stone lantern cast its bright shadow, and potted chrysanthemums—tended until now—perfumed the crystalline air.

In the spacious house of the late afternoon, a listless stillness akin to the ocean’s depths hung cold and stagnant.

Clang… Clang! Today as well, the drawn-out sound of hammers being swung at the nearby swordsmith’s could be heard.

Serene. As if counting each clang, the master gazed at the sky for a while, but soon curled a wry smile and continued speaking as though suddenly remembering. “Ah, I see. It is true that until recently, I had a foolish younger brother called Eizaburō. However, due to unavoidable circumstances, he has now been effectively disowned and is, so to speak, a complete stranger to me. I must request that you refrain from uttering that one’s name where my ears might reach,” concluded the master. Just then noticing a kitten playfully pawing at a birdcage placed in the sunlit edge of the veranda, he rose to shoo the cat away, hung the cage from the eaves, and returned to his seat.

He was Ōkubo Tōjirō, Suwa Eizaburō’s older brother.

Asakusa Torigoe estate.

In the inner room of that estate, sitting solemnly with his back against the pillar and a pained expression on his face, was Tsuchiya Tamon—a hatamoto from Kōjimachi Sanbanchō, cousin to the late Onozuka Tessai, who had taken in Tessai’s daughter Yayoi as his foster child after the swordsmaster’s death and was personally looking after her in every way.

“However, regarding those circumstances—” After waiting for Tōjirō to return to his seat, Tamon began to speak but interrupted himself with a forced cough. “No, I know nothing of the details, but if—if I may speak vulgarly—it was some youthful indiscretion, hahaha, allow me to offer my most sincere apologies in Lord Eizaburō’s stead. I beg you to show leniency just this once—”

“No no—there exists no circumstance where I would accept mediation from you whom I’ve only just met.”

“Well…if you say so, then that settles it…” “That you would personally trouble yourself to come here—even proposing to take that fool as a son-in-law—I am quite taken aback by your present conduct. Were this a matter between ordinary brothers, I would be a Kurumae official and you a provincial. Should he someday secure an official post, it would naturally benefit him—a match he could only dream of—and thus I myself would plead his case. Yet as his brother, I cannot possibly consent. To speak plainly, this affair brings shame upon our house, exposing my negligence in managing family matters. Though I doubt such reasoning will satisfy you… I ask that you comprehend my position.”

“Hmm, what might Lord Eizaburō have done?” “It’s vile even to utter—but know this: he’s been mooning over some teahouse wench from Sansha-mae—” Tamon’s expression flickered momentarily before he forced a laugh. “Ha ha ha! Is that all? Merely the sort of folly common among youths! Surely even you must harbor one or two such memories yourself. “Ah—my apologies! That was uncalled for!” “Worse still—that wretch Eizaburō, desperate for coin to lavish on her, resorted to swindling funds from the clan storehouse! “Steward Shiraki Jūbei investigated and confirmed it all!”

"If I had realized how meager the dependent’s rice allotment was, a mere stroke of the brush could have balanced the ledger! What an utterly incompetent steward!" When Tamon remained silent, Tōjirō pressed on: “Since that incident, he hasn’t once appeared at the estate.” “The other night brought some bloody skirmish in the rain at Ōkawa—they say the boat checkpoint dispatched men—but as for Eizaburō’s whereabouts... No, why would I spare a thought for someone unrelated?” “Ha ha ha ha!”

Tamon involuntarily lowered his gaze. "I fully grasp your forthright proposal. Yet even so—by all means—I must take Lord Eizaburō as my adopted son. Though I beg you... do not mock this." "What could you mean?" "That bride meant for Eizaburō—my own daughter—" "Ah—you spoke of Lady Yayoi earlier?" "Her devotion verges on self-destruction! Even I, who watch over her, find myself weeping night and day." "What—to that worthless wretch we call Eizaburō?"

“As one who has become her parent in name if not in blood, I cannot sit still when considering Yayoi’s feelings. If I may presume upon your discernment—a word regarding Lord Eizaburō to my side—” “No. Even if I waste a million words, it would be the same. The thought of bestowing someone as ill-advised as him has never even occurred to me.” “Even if I say that this ill-advised one is so earnestly desired?” “Is this not somewhat unreasonable? I must decline.” “Very well! But Mr. Ōkubo—surely you haven’t forgotten that you yourself called him a complete stranger. If he’s a stranger, then you should have no say in his affairs based on his own decisions.”

“Of course, it’s your own affair!”

To Tamon, who had resolutely kicked against the tatami mat, Tōjirō’s distorted voice followed. “Mr. Tsuchiya!” “What?” “Will you meet Eizaburō?”

“What’s the use in meeting him?!” “If you meet him… if you do… tell him his brother said to stay well.” Tamon caught a glimmer in Tōjirō’s eyes as the man turned away with a sharp sniff.

In the sunset-tinged sky, the distant din of the lower town reverberated—amidst the tumult, a thread of sorrow lingered—as another day in Great Edo came to its end.

In the mansion district of Kōjimachi Sanbanchō, cooking smoke entwined with the dense grove of trees, filling the air with a hushed stillness that pierced the mind and ears with crystalline clarity.

Twilight—a time that inevitably draws people back to the homeland of their hearts… and for one who dwells on thoughts, it deepens the shadow of longing.

Even though a pale blue light was already creeping across the tatami mats, Yayoi sat motionless in this room of Tsuchiya Tamon’s residence, appearing to have even forgotten to prepare the lamps.

The sasanqua tree in the front garden scattered its red seashell-like petals in the dim light. When Yayoi suddenly raised her face—perhaps from having endured too many unexpected lashes of fate in rapid succession—her cheeks had hollowed, her shoulders grown gaunt and bony, and even her once-innocent round eyes, untainted by worldly corruption, now lay sunken in their sockets. In just a short span of time, she had become a pitiful figure bearing no resemblance to her former self. “Ah—” An involuntary sigh escaped her lips, immediately transforming into a feeble cough. Yayoi pressed her face into her sleeve—cough! Cough! She shuddered violently in rapid succession.

Lately, her chest cavity had suddenly become hollow, and she felt as though an autumn wind blew through it. Especially in the evenings, both body and heart grew relentlessly heavy. Yayoi’s lungs had been eroded over time, an incurable disease taking root like a blight upon a sapling’s bud.

She could not find peace unless she cast off the burden weighing on her heart. Yayoi knew this well enough, but what was she to do about Lord Eizaburō—whom she could think of endlessly, think and think and still never have her fill! Now that she had been taken in as a foster 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 Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru—not even death itself! [...] was none other than the visage of Suwa Eizaburō, who had sworn his oath. Of course, her father’s death was both tragic and sorrowful. And that enemy must be hunted down even if it meant parting every blade of grass.

The Night-Crying Swords—needless to say—ought to be reclaimed into my hands by overcoming all hardships, yet... Was it not Lord Eizaburō who would avenge that foe and wrest back those treasured blades? Strong, gentle Lord Eizaburō! Even when coolly tracing logic—that her present plight originated entirely from his choice of self-defeat—Yayoi found herself incapable of resenting Eizaburō in the slightest. Rather than bitterness, she grew ever more unable to regard him as anything separate from herself.

Yayoi might have been channeling her late father’s sword-sharp temperament directly into love. For a samurai’s daughter thinking of a man for the first time, there was nothing but this fervent longing hot enough to melt stone—and when she sat alone whispering “Lord Eizaburō!”, tears would well up somberly every time, to an extent that struck even herself as peculiar. Yayoi vaguely sensed that her uncle Tamon had stealthily gone to Eizaburō’s family home in Torigoe today to negotiate an adoption—and was this pounding heart of hers because of that?

Like autumn grass tormented by frost, Yayoi—slender and emaciated—startled at the sudden dimming of her surroundings. As she attempted to rise and fetch the lamp, she spotted a small spider descending from the ceiling on a silken thread into the empty space before her eyes. When Yayoi brushed its upper part with her kaishi paper, the spider fell soundlessly onto the tatami—but simultaneously began scrambling to flee. They say you should kill a night spider even if you think it’s your parent—or was it a day spider, I wonder? While Yayoi hesitated, the spiderling froze—! Then desperately crawled away.

That small effort, unusually, drew a smile from Yayoi.

“Where are you rushing off to like that? You’re free from all worries, aren’t you?” With these words, when Yayoi blocked its path with her hand, the spider hesitated briefly before immediately trying to escape to the right. Yayoi moved her hand to the right. The spider hurried to escape to the left. Yayoi’s hand blocked its path. Perplexed, the spider—surrounded by Yayoi’s hands—cowered meekly. “Hohoho, yes! Now, stay still, stay still!”

As Yayoi laughed with melancholy, it seemed a palanquin had arrived at the entrance—welcoming voices stirred—and soon after a maid holding a lantern passed along the front corridor, followed by Tsuchiya Tamon accompanied by his retainer. What appeared in Yayoi’s eyes as she pressed her hands to the floor and bowed her head were only the white tabi socks and the hems of hakama trousers treading along the wooden corridor—but Tsuchiya Tamon’s loud voice, clearly meant for Yayoi to hear, kept turning back toward the retainer behind him.

“There are so many men in this world,” “Yet to fixate on just one to the exclusion of all others—how narrow-minded!” “And what if that very man were to start frequenting waterside teahouses?” “Well? Isn’t that right? Hahaha!”

“As you say, my lord.” The retainer answered without quite grasping what was going on. Startled into frozen stillness, Yayoi remained unaware that beneath her own heel, the spider had just gone crunch!—crushed with an audible pop.

“Daisaku.”

While calling out to the next room, Ōoka Tadasuke pushed the documents he had brought back that day from the Minamimachi Magistrate’s Office into a paulownia wood box labeled “Miscellaneous,” likely intending to prepare his pipe. He tore scrap paper and began twisting a Kanze cord. After dinner, having secluded himself in this sitting room as usual and begun reviewing the remaining petitions and notifications, he found the late autumn night deepening swiftly despite it seeming little time had passed. Beyond the open veranda, darkness loomed heavily—plop! A faint sound echoed of a carp leaping in the pond.

Ōoka Tadasuke, hearing no reply, strained his ears through the sliding door—but his retainer Ibuki Daisaku appeared to be dozing off, leaving a stillness as if frozen in place.

In the distant children’s room, a commotion—likely Tadayasu, his grandson, throwing a pillow or something at his wet nurse—vibrated through the old mansion’s air, audible as if held in one’s hand. “You little rascal, making noise again at bedtime.” A smile had just begun to bloom across Tadasuke’s plump, kindly face when pattering little footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Tadayasu’s dragonfly-like head poked through a gap in the shōji screen to bow.

“Nighty-night, Grandpa.” Before Tadasuke could open his mouth, Tadayasu had already fled back as if escaping—but startled by the commotion, Daisaku, who was stationed in the adjacent room, suddenly began to rustle about. “Daisaku, here—Daisaku!” “Yes!” Startled, Ibuki Daisaku answered with a loud voice; sliding open the fusuma and kneeling formally, he found Ōoka Tadasuke already sitting properly in seiza, his eyes skimming over Chinese classics on the writing desk.

"Did you summon me, my lord?" “Ah. “Rest without minding me.” Gentle wrinkles formed at the corners of Tadasuke’s eyes. "I still have investigations to complete and reading to pursue... But, Daisaku—"

As his corpulent body leaned against the armrest, the weight caused it to creak and groan. "When I examined the documents earlier at the office, an inquiry notice had been filed by a landlord named Kizaemon from Asakusa Tawaramachi Third District regarding his tenant Otsuyu—yes, that Otsuyu from the Atariya Teahouse before the Three Shrines—but though a minor incident, I find myself unable to shake off this lingering concern." No—from the standpoint of a magistrate’s duties, the trivial matters of the common people are precisely the great affairs of the state. “So, Daisaku—regarding this woman’s disappearance—can you think of anything that might be related?”

“Well, there’s nothing particular to say about this…” Daisaku tilted his head with a look of shame. Then Tadasuke hummed a passage from a Noh chant in a low voice before seeming to notice something and half-muttering: “That woman called Kushimaki Oto—she was formerly a courtesan in Shinagawa who later married a stagehand at Morita Kanya-za theater in Kobikichō. After her husband’s death combined her innate promiscuity and heavy drinking with gambling habits—gathering riffraff like that drum-playing Yokichi year-round while maintaining her second floor as a perpetual gambling den—this much has reached my ears.” “That is not all.” “Having accumulated extortion schemes and every manner of fraud among their comrades—well—she became their matriarch boss.” “Be that as it may,” he continued sharply, “this Oto was supposed to remain under ten-ri banishment for years past—yet reports claim she’s infiltrated Edo proper even now.”

As was often the case, Daisaku—once again astonished by his lord Echizen-no-kami’s penetrating insight into the lower classes and prodigious memory—kept his face bowed in deference,

"If I may venture to say, it is conceivable that she has covertly entered under the usual pretense of grave visits." “Indeed. That must be the case... but if Oto is indeed in Edo, I cannot believe there is absolutely no connection to the recent abduction of Otsuyu from Kizaemon’s shop. Well, this is merely my intuition—Oto has had numerous charges of abducting women in the past. Given that, my conjecture may not be precisely accurate, but it cannot be far from the mark. Well, you there—don’t you agree?”

“Your words are most reasonable.” “However, from the patrol officers to all the officials across Edo—no matter what one might say, they are currently frantically occupied with that street killings case—”

As Daisaku reported this while gauging his lord’s expression, Ōoka Echizen—who had been gazing at the front garden and suddenly raised one hand—turned back to Daisaku with practiced ease, “The notorious diagonal slash street killings… Hmm. That’s enough—you may withdraw now.” “I shall retire to my bedchamber as well.”

he said but did not rise.

The Diagonal Slash street slayings sweeping through the city! But more than that, what concerned Daisaku was how something in the garden—invisible to him—seemed visible only in his lord’s eyes; pressed by Tadasuke’s commanding tone, he withdrew from the room while remaining prostrate.

After Ibuki Daisaku, the retainer, vanished behind the sliding door, Tadasuke waited for the sound of footsteps to fade into the distance. Then, lamp in hand, he swiftly rose and stepped onto the veranda. Peering into the garden’s darkness, he called out in a hushed voice: “Kamo—no, Taiiken, is that you there?”

From three or four stepping stones beyond the shoe-removal area came an equally low voice. "It seemed like official business, so I held back. If I'm in the way, I'll just head back like this."

As he dismissively spoke and began to turn away, Tadasuke hurriedly— “Reserve isn’t your style—hahahaha! What’s the bother? It’s been a while. You came. Well, there’s no one here. Come on up now.” Invited by laughter brimming with camaraderie, when he looked at the figure that had abruptly stepped into the circle of candlelight... there stood a man clad in threadbare rags clutching a one-shō sake flask. At this late hour, the visitor emerging from the garden could indeed be none other than Kamo Taiiken.

Kamo Taiiken led the way into the room without hesitation despite his muddy feet, abruptly sitting down while casually peering at Tadasuke’s reading desk. “What’s this?” “What’re you reading?” “Hmm—Kan’unfu.” “Jia Yi’s poem, eh? ‘When gazing afar at the white clouds billowing forth…’ Ahahahaha!”

Tadasuke joined in this magnanimous laughter, and the quintessence of their profound camaraderie—worthy of being spoken of—twined together like smoke billowing upward.

Smoothing the hem of his garment, Ōoka Tadasuke, magistrate of the Southern Town, took his seat. The wild-reared eccentric Kamo Taiiken plopped down into a wide cross-legged position before him, thrust out his hand to grab the armrest, and tucked it under his grime-streaked armpit. "Comfortable." A smile brimmed on Tadasuke's plump, glossy cheeks. "It's been some time." "It's been ages."

Then host and guest met each other's eyes and laughed quietly once more. The unspoken ease between kindred spirits drifted from breast to breast like lingering mist. Noticing the night breeze, Tadasuke stood and closed the veranda's shōji screens. Circling behind Taiiken as he returned, "You've grown thinner." "Me..." Taiiken rubbed his neck. "Ain't been gettin' much feed, hahaha! But now you mention it—you've plumped up something fierce lately." "Seems Tokugawa rice agrees with you after all."

Echizen looked somewhat dazzled, "You're as caustic as ever, you know. I'd been worried about where you'd gotten to."

“I’m nowhere. And everywhere at once.” “Like the very air around you.” “A divine essence—too ethereal to grasp! Hahaha! But enough mysticism—how’s that shoulder of yours? Still giving you trouble?”

“Oh, it’s nothing—already healed.” “Completely recovered.” “That’s most reassuring.” “We remain hale—a doubly splendid thing!”

The two men bowed their heads in unison before throwing them back with uproarious laughter. Yet as Taiiken noticed frost-like white strands in Tadasuke’s sideburns, and Tadasuke saw them in Taiiken’s beard, they felt an inexplicable desolation take root in their hearts. Both fell abruptly silent, their gazes shifting to the candle’s flickering light. From the central room came booming laughter—ridiculous tales in full swing—muffled like distant ocean waves. In the autumn night’s stillness, people found their ears stolen by whispers of nothingness that trailed like threads, as though the silence itself spun some unspoken story.

Host and guest sat facing each other in silence.

One was Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Edo's Southern Town and Lord of Echizen, now renowned throughout the realm. The other was Kamo Taiiken—a man who might as well say, "Should I drown myself in drink or aim for five thousand koku? Five thousand koku..."—a masterless wanderer of the three realms, the realm's very own beggar scholar.

In all the world, there could be no stranger pairing than this. Moreover, this bond of theirs—having bared their very souls to one another—was one of such profound intimacy. Strange as it may seem, what were mere surface barriers in a bond between men who would lay down their necks for each other? What were the ranks of this fleeting world determined by people—what did social status matter?! Tadasuke the man facing Taiiken the man—when one thought about it, theirs was a relationship as refreshing as a summer squall passing through to dry one’s sweat with its cool breeze.

Be that as it may. To appear before Lord Ōoka and indulge in such brazen antics... Just who was this Kamo Taiiken—this roguish gallant of the streets? Isuzu River. “You—where did you get in from? Did you climb over the wall again, as usual?” With his eyes crinkling in mirth, Tadasuke looked over at Taiiken, who was stroking his beard with composure.

Taiiken’s shoulders towered like mountain peaks. “I didn’t climb over anything. Just stepped over a bit—Hahahaha! Kōga-ryū ninjutsu… No barrier can stop me! Well, joking aside—crawling through the bushes at night to present myself however I please before you, the magistrate? That’s a feat only I could pull off.” “Hmm. I suppose only someone like you could pull that off. But that’s beside the point.”

As a dark shadow darted across Lord Ōoka Tadasuke’s forehead, he slightly lowered his voice: “They say a skilled street killer stalks the night. You’d do well to curb your nocturnal wanderings.” Taiiken began rhythmically slapping the cheap ceramic sake flask with his palm, “I’ve caught wind of the rumors. That Diagonal Slash technique—every victim cleaved from right shoulder to left ribs, yes? Ten lives claimed in one night—astonishing. Skilled without question, yet—”

"The blade is Wazamono-grade—that goes without saying." "Samurai, townspeople, town girls—none are spared, and the deaths appear cruelly gruesome." "But it doesn't seem to be the work of a single individual." "In Aoyama, Ueno, Fuda no Tsuji, and Shinagawa—they've appeared in entirely different directions all in one night." "That's why this heightened vigilance has become particularly cumbersome to maintain." "Yeah." "Even now coming here, I saw them lighting bonfires at checkpoints everywhere." "But you claim it's several men's work—as for me, judging by the blade's sharpness and technique, I can't help thinking there's only one culprit."

“Hmm... Do you have some lead in mind?” “Not entirely without.” Cutting off his words, Taiiken reached into the front of his robe and scratched his side, but—

“Listen. You should consider… If it’s from the right shoulder down to the left under the breast, then wouldn’t whoever’s gripping that sword have to be using a reverse grip?”

“Left-handedness has been our initial assumption from the start—but Edo teems with left-handed folk.” “Therefore!” “Climb a hundred-foot pole and take one step beyond!” When Taiiken barked this out, Tadasuke grinned and slapped his knee with theatrical emphasis. “No, this is precisely like being chastised by a Zen master—but even in Edo, it’s unthinkable that so many left-handed street killers could exist and coordinate their attacks in unison.” “That’s why I’ve been saying from the start—this might be a one-armed swordsman wielding his blade left-handed in the darkness!”

“Hmm. That does make sense! So, who on earth is this master of the mad blade?” “Hold on. Just wait—I’ll grab them by the collar, drag them here, and show you their face myself.” When he laughed heartily, the beard on both his cheeks swayed like grass in a storm; Tadasuke looked on with a worried expression. “You’re being grandiose again! Are you sure about this? I won’t care if you get hurt.” “Nonsense! In Jigen-ryū, though Japan be vast, there exists none who could surpass this Kamo Taiiken!”

Having declared this, Taiiken rolled up his sleeves—his gnarled arm cracked! He had just struck a pose when the midnight cold seeped into his skin—and with that, Haa-choo! When he let out one loud sneeze, he seemed to find his own childishness amusing even to himself, "If testing a new blade's mettle, once or twice would suffice... But these street killings lasting seven or eight days now—I'd wager they've sworn some vow to slaughter hundreds."

Ignoring Tadasuke’s half-posed question, he chuckled softly and willfully shifted the subject. “You’re doing well as Magistrate, sir—but no doubt you’ve got a mountain of petty, nagging cases piled up.” “Hmm. A mountain of them. From time to time, come through the garden like tonight and offer me your wisdom.” “Not a chance. What’s the point of punishing some petty thief for a broomstick and a few coppers when there’s a great bandit who stole 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 alone.” “That’s been your stock phrase since the old days—hahahaha!”

“Echizen, I have never once punished a person. I punish people’s sins. No—I punish the world that compels people toward sin. Day and night, I pray to the divine spirits to uphold this.”

Taiiken flung up both hands before Tadasuke’s eyes. “Whoa! You’re doomed! “Got it, got it! I understand your reasoning!” “But hey, listen here—what do you do when you’ve reached enlightenment and everything starts grating on your nerves?” “Hmm?” “Though I’m no Master Hakumon, I’ll take up these old books and return to my former hermitage...” “Wildflowers and birdsong—all share the same spring, do they?” As Tadasuke responded, the two burst into booming laughter in unison—then Taiiken spoke up, cutting through the mirth.

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

Desolate when seen as desolate.

His words carried a nostalgic cadence.

Autumn night, solitary lamp—and with that, what comes to mind is…

Ten years make an era, they say.

In the mountain embrace of Chichibu, one of the local lords known throughout neighboring villages as a remnant of the Takeda clan set out on an aimless journey through the provinces, arriving at Yamada town in Watarai District of Ise Province—where the Isuzu River flows clear—around this time, on a dreary dusk nearing winter.

The forest of Gekū.

When a white hand lit the eaves lantern of the traveler’s inn… came the solicitous voices of touts, charming even in their dialect.

When it came to Yamada in Ise Province, Onoe-chō was a notable main thoroughfare.

As the pale late autumn sun began fading into purple hues, a crowd had gathered in the middle of the thoroughfare—the clamorous voices of cursing and commotion stopping passersby in their tracks despite themselves. "A collapsed traveler!" "A beggar's fit!" "A drunkard!" In the vortex of clamoring voices lay at its center a man with unkempt hair—unidentifiable as either rōnin or mountain ascetic—still wearing his long coat weathered by stormy journeys through wilderness. Using a sake bottle as a pillow against the ground, he sprawled drunkenly true to his sodden nature, his mouth alone vigorously delivering a soliloquy amidst flying spittle. Though his words were slurred by drink and indistinct, even so, from amidst the difficult Chinese-derived phrases, the surrounding crowd could discern the audacious intent—to curse the Tokugawa regime and reject its hollyhock crest as unworthy.

Kamo Taiiken of the Takeda remnant clan, whose ancestors had hidden for generations in the mountain valleys of Chichibu.

Steeped since childhood in anti-Tokugawa convictions—instilled by ancestral elders through winter hearthside tales and summer evening mosquito-repelling sessions—Kamo Taiiken possessed both scholarly mastery of Japanese and Chinese classics and martial prowess in self-originated swordsmanship and Yōshin-ryū grappling, particularly excelling in the esoteric secrets of Kōyō-ryū military strategy. Yet despite his talents, he spurned offers from major feudal lords vying to recruit him with high stipends and ceremonial honors, instead drifting down from the mountains with carefree resolve. Though he once served as a minor official for Kyoto’s Takatsukasa household, his unorthodox and unruly nature could not long endure the constraints of courtly service. Thus he embarked anew upon a wandering journey across rivers and peaks, finally taking the Ise road to fulfill his long-cherished ambition as one born of the divine land—washing ashore in this very town of Yamada.

If one has something to seek from others, one will destroy oneself for their sake. If one seeks to gain anything from the world, one becomes immersed in worldly affairs and loses one's true self. Yet if one adheres to the self, then the self itself becomes an obstacle.

Kamo Taiiken—needing neither gold, life, nor women—had truly become a wild child as placid as water, with no people in his eyes, no world in his mind, and no self in his being. This noble spirit must have shared a common thread with what lay in the heart of Ōoka Tadasuke—then still known as Ōoka Tadaemon—who served as Yamada magistrate during his vigorous years as governor of Echizen. The indomitable Taiiken had only ever genuinely admired one person in his entire life—Lord Ōoka—for being such a compelling conversationalist. To judge a man, you needed another man. Tadasuke too had deeply respected the eccentric Taiiken’s character and erudition—from their very first meeting, they had collaborated like brothers or master and disciple, supporting each other in both public and private. But even Tadasuke grew exasperated by Taiiken’s beggarly ways at forty—still without a household, his comings and goings ever erratic—and could only watch those unfathomable movements from afar with a bemused smile.

Therefore, even after Tadasuke—who had been recognized by the eighth shogun Yoshimune—ventured to Edo and assumed the prestigious post of South Magistrate, Taiiken would visit him like this as if suddenly remembering, sit knee-to-knee, reminisce about old times, and discuss the state of the world. But Taiiken, who always came and went through the garden without even being noticed by the household members, remained solely as a revered friend in Tadasuke’s heart.

Be that as it may.

On this autumn midnight.

Now, in the inner chamber of the magistrate’s residence, Taiiken—facing Tadasuke—seemed to have been struck by some old memory. Abruptly narrowing his eyes, he peered at Tadasuke’s face. “You—what became of Otsuru-bō?” “Still getting letters?”

Then the aged Tadasuke, looking slightly embarrassed, stared down at the tatami mats, "He is not a boy anymore. He has taken a husband and apparently has two or three children now. Just the other day, he delivered a basket of splendid matsutake mushrooms. I thought of giving you some too, but could not figure out where to find you—" "Well, if you'd just eaten them, Otsuru-bō would've been satisfied—but we were both so young back then, weren't we?"

“Yes, young! Young!” “I was young too, but you were just as young! Ha ha ha ha!”

As if a long-forgotten, shallow scar had begun to throb, Tadasuke crossed his arms solemnly, suppressing a wry smile.

Kamo Taiiken, lost in reverie, distractedly stroked the sake bottle. Who was this Otsuru-bō, who could make even the fearsome magistrate reminisce about days long past?

The story now returned once more to Yamada of ten years ago.

At the height of his joy upon reaching the sacred town, when Kamo Taiiken—behaving like an innocent child—was causing ominous disturbances on the main street after overindulging in sacred sake, just as an underling of the Yamada magistrate happened by and tried to apprehend him, a young woman in clattering geta called out and emerged from the front of Wakihonjin Chawanya, the subsidiary inn ahead. Otsuru of Wakihonjin Chawanya, moved by maidenly compassion and mindful of the officials’ presence, pretended he was an acquaintance on the spot, then ushered Taiiken—who had been arrogantly sprawling across the thoroughfare—into her establishment.

Perceiving him as a warrior from a distant province with some untold circumstances—she even personally fetched water for him to wash his feet. She had him use hot water and suggested he change into clean clothes, but Taiiken calmly slipped into an old coat and immediately demanded sake—such was his willfulness. First was sake, second was sake, third was sake. While the household members frowned and muttered, “What’s so amusing about keeping such a drunken goblin around?” Otsuru—with no prior connection to Taiiken—addressed him as “Sensei,” provided him a room, and diligently attended to his daily needs.

In Otsuru’s mind’s eye—clear as a polished mirror—Taiiken’s greatness may have been reflected just as it was, however indistinctly. As for Taiiken, he accepted this young girl’s sincere kindness with a laugh—neither refusing nor offering a single word of thanks—and days passed without reserve, as though he had returned to his own home— A narrow town.

Word soon spread like wildfire that a suspicious man dressed in yamabushi attire had lately been staying at Wakihonjin—and from the mouths of his agents, reports of this strange fellow mocking the shogunate’s authority on the main streets reached even Lord Ōoka’s ears, making it impossible for him to disregard his official duty. He immediately had him apprehended and thrown into a temporary prison. That night, the man who would later become Tadasuke—Ōoka Tadaemon, then serving as Yamada magistrate—secretly slipped into the jail to spy on what manner of man this was, and when he peered inside…

It is said that a noble person must exercise prudence even in solitude.

A person’s true worth is revealed when they are alone and believe no one watches.

The vagabond—who had been heard troubling the jailers while lying on the wooden floor with his hand for a pillow and humming to himself—now sat solemnly in the center of the closed cell, seemingly immersed in deep meditation. In his very occupation of the room’s center, there was evident an extraordinary martial discipline that did not neglect even the smallest detail of daily conduct. And yet! In the dim light of an earthenware oil lamp with a single wick, Tadasuke—skilled in physiognomy—gazed at the pale forehead illuminated before him and saw an extraordinary spirit, a brilliance of talent, and something drifting like clouds.

This man was a singular hero. Having instantly discerned this, he summoned him onto the tatami mats to face him directly, and between their questions and answers flowed a spring of captivating intrigue—until at last, dawn broke. And in the morning sunlight’s glow, there they were—a magistrate who had forgotten his duty and a prisoner who had bared his soul, both fully naked as men, their friendship, reverence, and trust now blended into one. Though Tadasuke had patched over matters before his subordinates with strained whispers—"This man is actually a Chiyoda spy, a gardener agent serving directly under the shogun, concealing his name and life to secretly investigate great clans"—even he must have felt grudging admiration for Otsuru of Chawanya’s uneducated perceptiveness, she who had recognized the vagabond Taiiken’s worth before he himself did. He, even after entrusting Taiiken to Otsuru, frequently slipped through the teahouse’s noren incognito—but was this not less about visiting Taiiken and more to encounter Otsuru’s figure bringing tea and sweets to that seat? Then one day when even Tadasuke himself had begun to doubt in his own heart, Taiiken struck right at the mark.

“You come to see Otsuru-bō, don’t you.” “Hahaha.” “Don’t hide it! Don’t hide it!” “No—that’s exactly what makes even a magistrate human!” “Amusing.” Without a word, Tadasuke threw back his chest and laughed heartily.

That was all.

Could this be love? Even if love were some fickle trickster, for Lord Ōoka and an innkeeper’s daughter... this was too strange a twist of obsessive passion to be anything but fate’s cruel jest. Yet countless winters and summers had since passed. Now hailed through the ages as a peerless magistrate, having plumbed every hidden depth of human affairs, Tadasuke still secretly called that faint flutter of affection he once felt toward Otsuru of Yamada in Ise—the love of his life.

On sunlit verandas, as Tadasuke plucked the white hairs that had markedly increased of late, there were moments when he drowsily caught the sound of Isuzugawa’s waters washing over the wicker baskets for river works—and without fail, the face that would float before his eyes was that plump countenance of Otsuru. Truly, Otsuru must have been the sole crimson mark in Tadasuke’s life—a life otherwise lacking in color. Even if it were ever so small and faded. It was not long after Taiiken had taken up residence at Otsuru’s house.

It was around this time that a case arose—one sufficiently challenging to test the mettle of Yamada Magistrate Tadasuke.

Around that time at Matsusaka Encampment, the sixth young lord Genrokurō—tenth collateral branch of the retired shogun through Lord Mitsusada, Middle Counselor of Kishū—was residing for his studies. His usual hijinks were so fierce that all nearby townsfolk suffered greatly, yet none dared confront him for fear of his hollyhock-crested robes. Genrokurō was fourteen or fifteen years old at the time. Taking full advantage of this privilege, Genrokurō disregarded even his attendants’ admonitions and began casting nets nightly into Futamigaura’s sacred no-kill waters—grinning smugly at his fish basket filled to the brim with catches. Though this became widely known, being none other than the young lord of Kishū meant he couldn’t be apprehended like any commoner, leaving all parties at a loss. When Yamada Magistrate Ōoka Tadaemon heard of it, he declared: “The law is the realm’s supreme order. Even Lord Genrokurō of Kishū cannot be left unchecked, lest chaos take root.” After secretly consulting Taiiken, he led his officers to stake out Futamigaura for a night and swiftly bound Genrokurō.

And then.

“How dare you!” “Outrageous conduct!” Disregarding Genrokurō’s ranting—“How dare you bind this Genrokurō with defiling ropes?!”—they dragged him to the magistrate’s office, where bonfires blazed on either side and Tadaemon presided over the night court.

“You there! This is unpardonable insolence! Who do you think you are? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

As Tadaemon, seated on the raised platform, glared intensely,

“Insanity? Don’t talk nonsense! I am Matsudaira Genrokurō. Untie these ropes at once!” “Silence!” Tadaemon raised his voice further. “You dare proclaim yourself Matsudaira Genrokurō? True enough—the sixth young lord of Kishū bears that august name, but though still in his youth, he is a paragon of wisdom and discernment. He would never perpetrate such lawless acts as casting nets in forbidden waters! You there—clearly deranged! You are naught but a madman!” “Madman? What insolence! I am indisputably Genrokurō of Kishū!”

“I say again,” “You there, madman! Should you utter such words again, I shall not overlook it.” “If you do not confess promptly, stay!” “I have something to show you now.”

With these words, Tadaemon summoned a peasant from Komata Village named Genbei, accompanied by the village headman and others. “Genbei, raise your head.” “Observe closely and answer.” “The one waiting here is your son Genzo, is he not?” “Well?” At that moment, the aforementioned Genbei rushed unhesitatingly across the courtroom floor to Genrokurō’s side. “Hyaah! My boy?! You lost your wits and vanished—you got any idea how worried we’ve been, hah?” “When I finally tracked you to this magistrate’s office, I begged the headman here to help me file a petition to drop the charges—just now!” “But you’re lookin’ hale…”

Genrokurō was the one taken aback. "Back off! Hey—don't come near! What's this 'son' nonsense? I've never seen this wretch before!" He berated them fiercely, but the peasant Genbei—joined by the village headman and all assembled villagers—came forward and began speaking in unison:

"To forget your own parents—how shameful!" "Please, hah, calm yourself now."

“Look close now, Genzō. Ain’t this here your old man?” As they all uniformly treated him like a madman in this fashion, Genrokurō—teeth grinding—found himself masterfully framed as having lost his mind. Tadaemon, who had maintained an amused smile throughout this display, finally pronounced:

“Well, this madman has been determined to be Genzō, son of Genbei, a peasant from Komata Village.” “Though it is pitiful for parent and child to coexist while the son forgets his father’s face and lacks discernment, given that this derangement drove him to violate ordinances by fishing in Futamigaura—an act so madcap such things may well occur—we, in consideration of his madness, do not deem today’s transgression one committed with deliberate intent. Therefore, Genzō here is remanded into the custody of his father, Genbei.” “See that he receives proper care—Genzō!” “We shall deem this act the work of a madman and pardon it this once. But see that you do not repeat such deeds—conduct yourself with dignity befitting your station... No, first and foremost, you must revere the law above all.” “Understood? Hmm. All present, rise.”

Through this comprehensive judgment that left no angle unaddressed, Genrokurō was outwardly fashioned as nothing more than a peasant’s son gripped by madness—thereby narrowly evading punishment and resolving matters without complication—but Genrokurō, who would later become the eighth shogun Yoshimune, was naturally no fool. Caught between the great laws of the realm and the young lord of Kishū, he had neither bent the law nor harmed Genrokurō, having admirably discharged his duties—Ōoka Tadaemon, Magistrate of Ise Yamada, who handled this with such exemplary skill, proved himself a magistrate of peerless renown, endowed with both compassion and wisdom.

And so, with this lesson firmly etched into his mind, Genrokurō later inherited the positions of Head of both the Junna and Shōgaku Institutes and Eighth Patriarch of the Minamoto Clan, becoming Lord Yoshimune (posthumously known as Yūtoku-in). When he summoned Tadaemon to Edo, today marked his first official audience as Shogun.

Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke—the former Tadaemon, now appointed to this post—lay prostrate in perfect stillness, awaiting the shogun’s words when——

Shhii—shii—! The cry to clear the way rang out from beside him. Then, a deep purple cord smoothly drew up the curtain edged with scattered hollyhock crests, revealing the eighth shogun Yoshimune atop a gold-brocade cushion up to his chest. With the elbows of his kamishimo stretched out in a straight horizontal line, Tadasuke’s forehead pressed against the tatami mat. Simultaneously with the voice, Yoshimune’s knee inched forward one or two sun. “Echizen, do you remember me?”

Startled, Tadasuke raised only his eyes to look. From beneath the partially raised curtain peeked the thick white cord of a haori... and through narrowed eyes, Yoshimune’s faint smile appeared. Long ago, in the light of the night bonfire at the Yamada Magistrate’s courtroom, there surfaced the figure of young Genrokurō—his eyebrows raised proudly.

Tadasuke’s eyes welled with unbidden tears, and the tatami he was pressing his hands against blurred hazily.

But he tilted his head in puzzlement.

"I am most humbly obliged—however, I do not understand this in the slightest."

Then Yoshimune—for some reason—suddenly leaned forward, flipped up the curtain with his own fan, and thrust his face out abruptly.

“Echizen—this! This here!” “This face.” “You recognize it, do you not?”

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

When the shogun—unable to retreat—grew irritated, and the pages along with everyone present could neither mediate nor keep their composure,

“Indeed it does.” At the detestably composed voice of Echizen-no-kami, Takagi Isenokami—the chamberlain in charge of shogunal audiences—and others first felt secretly relieved as their sweat began to dry. “Hmm.” “What do you say?” “With all due respect—though it pertains to a matter from long ago—during my tenure as Magistrate of Ise Yamada, there was a peasant from Komata Village named Genbei who cast nets in Futamigaura, where all killing was strictly prohibited. His son—a madman called Genzō—bears a striking resemblance to Your Excellency.”

“What insolence—to compare him to a madman!” As the courtiers on both sides, unaware of the reason, whispered among themselves, “Is that so? “Do I resemble Genzō?” Yoshimune smiled cheerfully from behind the curtain, “That Genzō from Komata Village must now look back with satisfaction upon your splendid judgment as a magistrate… This, Echizen—I hereby appoint you as Edo Town Magistrate.” “Yoshimune’s discernment? No—rather, it’s Genzō’s gratitude.” “Henceforth together—now—serve with diligence.” “I entrust this to you.”

“I—I am deeply oblig—”

Just as Tadasuke began to speak—the curtain descended without a sound, and through the bamboo blinds, Yoshimune’s figure—rising hurriedly—appeared as though in a dream… The Lord Genrokurō whom I had once scolded.

That he had already grown into such splendid manhood—yet those smiling eyes remained unchanged from before. A smile and tears. How interminably long the castle corridor had felt as he shuffled out. Since that day when he had undertaken this great duty— As South Magistrate of Edo, what had he truly accomplished? What had he come to understand? Looking back, winds had blown and rains had fallen. But now that he had come to fully comprehend everything, one great mystery remained.

That—is humanity.

Lord Ōoka—that terrifying magistrate who could thoroughly understand the deepest depths of the human heart and distinguish good souls from evil with a single glance. Even for that peerless, dreadful Magistrate—said to make most evildoers involuntarily clutch at the courtroom sand with just a piercing glare—when all was distilled to its essence, this world might have been nothing but ordinary... save for that smile.

A dream.

Such was the feeling that sank deeply into Tadasuke. And then, as he turned his dazed eyes to Taiiken beside him—perhaps finding the lack of conversation awkward—there lay Kamo Taiiken, who had at some point clumped down sideways, his head resting on a sake bottle and already emitting soft snores.

Clumped-down hair. A half-open mouth. Though he appeared strong, his sleeping face—stained by wandering—was somehow emaciated and sorrowful.

"You must be tired. Sleep. Sleep." After muttering this to himself, Tadasuke—as if suddenly struck by a thought—swiftly rummaged through his document case. "This guy's broke yet still so stubborn! As usual, he would never say it himself. If he wakes up, he'll just start making excuses again and refuse to accept it—that's right! Now’s the time—" When Tadasuke wrapped a good number of gold coins in paper and quietly slipped them into Taiiken’s sleeve, Master Taiiken—who should have been asleep—cracked his eyes open slightly and grinned, but then immediately began snoring even louder than before.

At that very moment,

Hurried footsteps came rushing across the garden front and halted at the edge of the veranda, as Daisaku’s breathless voice struck the shoji screen. “Reporting!”

“What is it?” A fierce expression flashed across Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke’s face.

Green-Faced Female Demon “What’s all this racket! Isn’t this Daisaku? What is it?”

When Tadasuke raised his voice from inside the room, Ibuki Daisaku outside regained some composure. “It’s happened—a street killing! That early morning street killing… The perpetrator failed to cut down a townsman at the main gate just now and is currently clashing with our mansion’s men.” “A street killing?” “Hmm. Is that so?” Echizen-no-kami nodded sleepily, but perhaps thinking this response sounded too indifferent, he tacked on a forced remark.

“That must be gallant.” “How shall we proceed?” “Well, first—what’s the situation?” Finally rising to his feet, Tadasuke opened the shoji screen and listened intently near the edge of the veranda,

A moonless and starless midnight. A thick fog of impenetrable darkness enveloped the vast garden, as if pitch-black imps were leaping from tree to tree—the lanterns drifting in the distance must have been the guards securing the estate.

The pond water shone white, and the wind lay dead. Yet within the depths of midnight's chill that breathed heavy, A voiceless battle cry and taut killing intent drifted from nowhere. As Tadasuke imagined their fully poised confrontation, his tone grew sharp unbidden. "The rogue seems formidable—who engages him?" "Iwaki and Shinmen, my lord, though this cursed fog hinders..." "You mentioned 'the main gate'—how fares the wounded man?"

“He appears to be a clerk from a merchant house—a diagonal slash from the shoulder here… No, truly—a wound too ghastly to look upon twice…” “We’ve had him tended to in the tenements, but I fear he won’t survive in the end.” Even as they spoke, the clashing tension of swords—opposing forces locked in struggle—reached them like something about to rupture. “Cutting down innocent travelers?! Despicable fiend! And to do this knowing it’s before the Ōoka residence—this is outright provocation!” As his bushy eyebrows twitched, Tadasuke barked at Daisaku crouched below him.

“Alright! Go! Lend a hand—cut them down if you must.” After seeing off Daisaku—who ran off gripping his sword hilt—Tadasuke quietly returned to his room, his face twisted in revulsion as if he’d seen blood, while conducting a solitary debate within his heart. That the perpetrator of this morning’s street killing was a left-handed swordsman fanatic—this I’d discerned from the start. When I’d earlier told Taiiken the killer was likely left-handed and there must be multiple culprits, even Taiiken—being someone other than myself—I’d strictly honored investigative confidentiality. It had merely been an attempt to subtly draw out his true intentions—

Inside, Taiiken was tightening his obi. He who bowed 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.” “Stop!” Tadasuke laughed. “I can’t have you getting hurt on my watch.” “What nonsense.” Taiiken retorted sharply, “I’ll just take a peek on my way back… Then I’ll come again.” And with that—laughing once more from the depths of darkness—no sooner had he vanished into the garden as he had arrived than Tadasuke shouted after him, “Be careful!” But he no longer answered even Tadasuke’s voice chasing after him. Merciless Street Killings!

That such a human demon could prowl unseen was entirely due to Tadasuke’s moral failing—and as Lord Echizen stood with arms folded beneath the lamplight in bitter resignation, Taiiken—having slipped through the shadows—had just reached the corner of the wall when…!

Just as two or three booming voices seemed to crumble before the main gate, a figure like wavering smoke stood unsteadily before his eyes—or so it seemed? "Huh?!" When he stole a glance at the frozen figure—tall and gaunt, robes disheveled with a sagging obi—the drawn sword in its left hand lay flush against its back. "What's so amusing about slaughtering those clinging to life?" Taiiken's voice resonated with piercing intensity. "Huh? "What's amusing? "You reek of hell!"

…… Yet the opponent remained silent, staggering forward as though drunk on fresh blood. The sword's tip struck a pebble with a clink! It rang out.

“You and I should recognize each other. Now, come!” “Try cutting me!”

Having declared this, Taiiken was simultaneously struck by a distinctly odd sensation and peered forward. What he had mistaken for the shadow of an arm sobbing proved but a trick of his ears—Kekeke! And he unleashed a beast-like laugh that rasped from his throat.

“Cut! How’s that? Can’t cut me, can you?!” “If you can’t cut me, then follow me quietly!” As Taiiken leisurely turned his back—in that split second—it came! With a backward leap and a single sword strike, a white flash split the darkness and lunged at Taiiken.

Eizaburō, who had hung a cluster of toothbrushes on the fence and left the wellside, was being waited for by Magoshichi and Warimeshi beside the hearth.

Senju Take no Tsuka.

It was a bright, clear autumn morning.

At the edge of the eaves, on the chestnut treetop, the high blue sky peered in, and the shadow of a chirping small bird slid through the sunlight. "A shrike..." With these words, Eizaburō turned to his meal. And,

“This is truly the countryside. It’s quiet and peaceful—pleasant. You live long in places like this.”

And once more, he gazed absently at the pale chilly early winter sun shining upon the radishes laid out to dry in the square before him—a sight he seemed to find novel. Magoshichi silently stuffed his mouth with rice. A chicken, tentative about entering the earthen-floored area, stood on one leg, contemplating.

“People must have gone out for Shichi-Go-San.” “Places like Kanda Myojin Shrine...”

Old Lady Okan held out the serving tray while speaking in a hushed and hesitant manner, "Why don't you eat with us, Okan? If you treat me as a guest like this, I—a mere burden—can't bear it."

Eizaburō tried to encourage them, but since Okan made no move to take up her chopsticks and her son Magotarou added nothing to the conversation, the three fell silent, and within the black-gleamed farmhouse, the sounds of their meager breakfast lingered in deep stillness. Even though he understood it was a meal prepared with care, for Eizaburō—burdened with worries—the food would not pass his throat.

Before long, the taciturn Magotarou stood up sullenly to cut brushwood.

The live-in guest Eizaburō climbed the monkey ladder to his assigned room as usual. Though called a room, it had a ceiling low enough to bump one's head. Suwa Eizaburō lay down restlessly. Despite his efforts not to think of her, Otsuyu's figure kept crossing his mind. That night at the Shubi no Matsu Pine. Having lost Otsuyu in the midst of battle, he had been driven through wind and rain—relentlessly pursued by official lanterns—until reaching the opposite shore. After landing and parting ways with Taiiken, he guarded Konryūmaru at his waist while waiting for dawn in the streets... Yet with daybreak's faint light came thoughts of Okan and her son living here in Senju Take no Tsuka.

When Eizaburō was born, his mother’s milk did not flow well, so they brought in Okan, a farmer woman from Senju, as a wet nurse into the estate. Okan had a son named Magotarou who was the same age as Eizaburō, but as they lived together under one roof while bringing him along, she came to regard Eizaburō as her own child, and he too came to revere her as his true mother. This practice continued even after Eizaburō was weaned and Okan had left his household—never failing to have mother and son visit together during Bon festivals and year-end observances. Now her son Magotarou had taken over the role, cultivating their own fields and modestly supporting his elderly mother.

The taciturn yet good-natured Magotarou, his foster brother, and Okan, the wet nurse who still regarded him as her own child.

They would surely shelter this wounded heart for a time... At least as a temporary refuge from the rain and dew. Having thought this, several days had already passed since Eizaburō had sought shelter at Magotarou’s house in Take no Tsuka—but though a samurai surely had his own reasons, neither Old Lady Okan nor Magotarou asked anything, and Eizaburō himself said nothing. But precisely because of this, it must be said that Eizaburō’s suffering—which he alone had to bear—only grew greater the weaker his body became.

Wrapped in an oil-stained quilted futon cover, stroking Konryūmaru by his pillow, how many sleepless nights had he scolded his tears?

In the midnight dark, awakening from a dream, he called Otsuyu’s name. But Eizaburō was not one to simply go with the flow of love. The throbbing of young blood and a warrior’s oath! Otsuyu and Ken’unmaru! It was in this inability to abandon all else for the sake of one that Eizaburō’s torment lay deepest. Night after night, he would stand beneath the Shubi no Matsu Pine, throw three stones into the river, and come to meet Taiiken—yet both Otsuyu’s whereabouts and Ken’unmaru’s location had been swallowed by the restless capital, vanishing beyond all trace.

And then there was Yayoi.

And then there was Torigoe's older brother Tōjirō. Eizaburō’s heart wept alongside the Night-Crying Sword.

The sound of the hillside stream tickled its way into Eizaburō’s ears as he lay sprawled out. He abruptly sat up and brushed off Konryūmaru’s scabbard by the window light. In the dim room, sunlight streaming through one window glinted off Konryūmaru’s blade, casting bright, shifting rays across the soot-stained ceiling. On a quiet, desolate day nearing winter, Eizaburō sat on the second floor of Magotarou’s house in Senju Take no Tsuka, and for a long time absently drew out the Night-Crying short sword and gazed at it. As he turned the blade over and over, from hilt to tip while examining both sides, he felt the indomitable spirit of the master-forged blade gradually taking hold of him. Raising his eyes, he looked out the window.

Through the bamboo lattice, the lapis lazuli-colored sky laughed.

A single cloud resembling a kitten curled up in sleep floated loftily in the distant sky—likely Edo’s sky…… After sheathing his sword, Eizaburō now leaned back alone against the wall, closed his eyes, and began to ponder. Amidst the many things in this world that do not go as one wishes, he had come to feel keenly of late that what seemed most within his control—and yet remained utterly unmanageable—was his own heart.

It was especially whenever he recalled Master Tessai’s daughter, Lady Yayoi, that a hundredfold vajra force would strike young Eizaburō. I don't dislike her. Not in the least do I dislike her! But when mere absence of dislike proved insufficient to wholeheartedly direct one’s affections no matter what, the natural course of romantic entanglements dictated that being pressed upon by the other party inevitably made one want to reflexively push back without true intent.

It wasn’t that Eizaburō utterly loathed Yayoi—but try as he might, he himself could do nothing about his own heart that refused to grow fond of her. Why? Even if pressed for an answer, Eizaburō would have found none—there being neither need to force affection nor capacity to conjure it, while that very obligation weighed upon him like a debt, perhaps pushing him ever further from Yayoi.

But logically speaking— It went without saying that this stemmed from Otsuyu of Atariya Teahouse before Three Shrines dwelling in Eizaburō’s heart. More than Yayoi’s artless devotion—the fierce ardor of a samurai daughter ignorant of worldly ways and made stronger by that very ignorance—it was Otsuyu’s delicate form like seaweed blossom battered ashore by rough waves after cruel sport, ever passive yet binding Eizaburō’s entire being with unbreakable ties—a truth hardly surprising upon reflection.

That Otsuyu. That night on the great river, according to Bakurenjo—who had leapt into the boat as a substitute—Otsuyu had been abducted by some lord from Honjo... How was she faring now? When these thoughts came to him, Eizaburō—driven by unbearable restlessness—would snatch up his trusted blade Musashi Tarō Yasukuni as though gripped by madness. Yet each time he saw Konryūmaru resting alongside that sword, he became aware of the personal feelings in his heart that he must first cut down and cast aside—and would abruptly straighten his collar and square his shoulders.

Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru! Tange Sazen, the Sword Demon, rides Ken’unmaru to soar through the heavens and charge through the darkness, attempting to lure away this Konryūmaru of mine—and in response, I will make Konryūmaru leap beneath the blazing sun, drive it far, and summon Ken’unmaru! I can't go on like this! To think I’m trapped in this latticework of love and longing, unable to move a muscle! Damn it! What a disgrace! Sever it! That’s right—before I cut down Sazen, I must first use Konryūmaru’s cold blade to sever and cast aside these delusions toward Otsuyu! Only by cleanly cutting free from all earthly attachments and becoming a swordsman unperturbed by anything can I possibly hope to act with true freedom!

I know this a hundred times over. But when he thought of Otsuyu, Eizaburō put his sword second and turned her way! His heart raced... It was a battle between passion and reason.

But? If she remained docile and got adopted into some family, both Otsuyu and the sword would be lost forever. Was this not Eizaburō—who, unable to endure such an outcome while silently clasping hands in apology toward brother Tōjirō, had deliberately angered his brother through wild antics to sever all family bonds, refusing even now to return to his ancestral home? How furious my upright brother must be! Though those fifty ryō were for dear Otsuyu's sake, it wasn't as if he couldn't have found an honest way without such measures—but wasn't that too a rejection of his brother? Even now he secretly apologized in his heart, yet wasn't all of this for staking his whole being on uniting Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru?

Otsuyu! Don’t resent me. I’ll find you without fail and save you. Eizaburō, who had muttered this in a low voice, somehow keenly sensed the approaching battle once more— With a snap! When he opened his bloodshot eyes sharply, the hollow sound of a wooden fish drum arose from the temple behind. “Young Master, your tea is ready—”

Midway up the ladder stairs, Okane-baa-san’s voice rang out.

“Otsuyu!” “Otsuyu!” With a voice hushed as if wary of listeners nearby, Otsuyu awoke from her afternoon nap.

When she came to her senses, she realized she had been dreaming.

Her own body had transformed into a mermaid’s, chained to a rock on the seabed. It was a world blurred in navy blue, as though seen through a blue mosquito net. A forest of seaweed grew thickly around her, and strangely enough, each tip bore human faces like fruit. It was Genjūrō. It was Oto. It was Yokichi. It was the one-eyed head of a samurai called Sazen, bearing a fearsome scar. They swayed and converged upon her from all directions, as if to sink their teeth into her at any moment.

Even as Otsuyu shuddered in fear and tried to flee, kelp-like things entangled her legs and waist, leaving her unable to move an inch. Even if she desperately called for help, only large bubbles rose from her mouth, and her own voice remained inaudible even to herself. What wretchedness!... As she clawed at her chest and looked up, Eizaburō—Konryūmaru at his side—swam through the surface where sunlight blurred in diagonal stripes. Again and again he circled high above her head, but he would not descend, and Otsuyu could not rise.

Oh! How maddening! He’s been circling above me so much—can’t he see this? Even if he sees me, does he no longer have any intention of rescuing me? In that small boat beneath the Pine of Success... The vows we made there so solemnly!

When Otsuyu—now transformed into a mermaid—found herself pressed against Genjūrō's neck and involuntarily tried to scream, “Otsuyu!” “Otsuyu!”

The voice calling her name gradually grew clearer through the layers of water.

Ah! Lord Eizaburō has come! “Y-Yes—Otsuyu is here!” “Otsuyu!” When the final voice resounded loudly beside her ear, Otsuyu snapped her eyes open and looked... It wasn’t Eizaburō—her mother Osayo had brought something on a tray and was squatting there. “Otsuyu… I did care for you, didn’t I? “I made some sweet bean soup and brought it here. Come now, sit up and have some.” Osayo peered into her daughter’s face,

“You seemed to be having a nightmare.” “Yes, a frightening dream… Thank goodness it was just a dream.” Still dazed, Otsuyu sat up and quickly tidied her disheveled hair; having apparently cried in her sleep, when she noticed the edge of the zafu 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 irresistibly stirred men’s hearts.

Mother and daughter sat facing each other in silence within the narrow, dim room.

It was a room in Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence before Honjo Hōonji Bridge. Through Kushimaki Oto’s scheming, Suzukawa Genjūrō had cleverly abducted Otsuyu amidst the whirlwind of clashing blades and successfully transported her to his Honjo residence late at night using a street palanquin—everything had gone smoothly up to that point, but… That the daughter mentioned by the old maid Osayo some time ago was none other than this Otsuyu—even someone as cunning as Genjūrō had never so much as imagined it. When Osayo saw Otsuyu being dragged from the palanquin, she recoiled in shock; but drawing on her aged wisdom and knowledge of Genjūrō’s ways, she instantly resolved that concealing their maternal bond and secretly protecting Otsuyu from the shadows was now the wisest course. Osayo swiftly signaled her intent to Otsuyu with a glance, maintaining an outward show of strictly following Genjūrō’s orders by roughly confining her in the inner chambers—all while behind the scenes enduring a mother’s agonizing worries. Fortune had not abandoned Otsuyu—within this demon’s den she’d been thrust into, her mother’s precious hand awaited.

A secluded storage room. Day after day brought Otsuyu nothing but musty confinement from morning till night—yet as Osayo had been charged with overseeing her daily routine, she could slip unnoticed into Otsuyu’s room just like this, whispering comfort through hushed conversations and smuggling in favorite foods. That they were mother and daughter… remained undiscerned by anyone throughout the residence. At every drinking occasion, Otsuyu was invariably produced.

And so Otsuyu, having learned that the one-eyed samurai who slipped in and out morning and night to the detached room visible through her window among the grasses wore a ceremonial battlefield tachi identical to Lord Eizaburō’s, wished desperately to somehow inform Lord Eizaburō—but she was like a bird with clipped wings. But Genjūrō could only fret impatiently; he couldn’t even slowly approach Otsuyu’s side, and there was nothing he could do. Whenever he tried to make advances, without fail Osayo would press her hands on the threshold like the wind and announce that someone had come. “Is there something you require?” she popped her face out. Suzukawa Genjūrō could only click his tongue in frustration.

Even now, that sharp voice of Genjūrō approached through the corridor accompanied by footsteps.

“Sayo!” “Sayo!” “Hey! Isn’t Sayo here?”

Restraining Otsuyu, who had instantly cowered, Osayo hurriedly left the room. "Oh! Mother! He’s coming this way again. Please hurry and go stop him…" As Otsuyu shrank into the corner, Osayo scolded in a hushed voice: "Just be quiet and let me handle this already!"

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’s that hag gone?” Genjūrō’s voice pierced through as it drew nearer.

At Suzukawa’s haunted residence in Honjo, though it was past noon, a dark chill stagnated in the air; this area devoid of houses lay hushed as a graveyard. Osayo, who had hurried around the corner, ran headlong into Genjūrō’s chest the moment they met. “What the hell? You hag! What’re you doing clinging to me?” “Hahahaha! More importantly, Osayo—why didn’t you answer when I called so many times? You went to Otsuyu’s room again, didn’t you?” Genjūrō’s thick eyebrows twitched for an instant,

“Something’s off here... You bastard—do you have some connection with that girl?!” When he peered at Osayo, the startled woman immediately forced a miserable smile. “No, my lord, absolutely not! It’s just that she’s a terribly stubborn girl despite her youth, and with your lordship being so gracious to her, she’s grown rather full of herself—it’s positively agonizing to watch. That’s why this old crone keeps wearing her down through indirect means.”

Osayo was filled with determination to somehow smooth things over. "I see. "I'm not one for rough methods—though I've shamefully left things as they are... but you there—I'll leave it to you for now. Make sure she fully understands." "Yeeeees. That is indeed the case. At present, she's still quite headstrong, so your lordship's true intentions haven't quite reached her—but once she thoroughly weighs the pros and cons, hohoho, she'll surely bend to your will before long."

Even if lies are a means to an end—what manner of mother have I become?! Yet even as she thought this, Osayo could not help but swallow bitter tears in her heart. "And besides, my lord—they say precisely those who act most resistant come charging forth themselves once conquered. So please, leave matters to this old crone and keep your patience a while longer."

Genjūrō, in high spirits, stood blocking the hallway floorboards, incessantly stroking his chin with a hand peeking from his collar, lost in self-satisfaction as he—

“Hmm, I suppose that’s how it is—hahaha! No, indeed it must be so. I’m not saying I intend to make her some temporary plaything.” “Why, I... I’ve been thoroughly advising her every single day, indeed.” “That said, given her being from a teahouse—and considering how that might sound to the authorities—I can’t very well make her my legal wife. But I do intend to keep her by my side as, well… let’s say a concubine, and cherish her for life.”

Genjūrō put on a show of feigned solemnity with his glib lies, but when Osayo—who had sunk from dire poverty into servitude as a maid—heard him say he would "keep her by his side for life," a flicker of tension passed across her face.

“My lord,”

“What’s this? Getting all formal…”

“Those words you just spoke—could they truly be sincere?” “Well now! Did I say something?” “Oh! How cruel! Then wouldn’t that be too pitiful for that girl?” “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” “You said you’d keep her by your side for life… that… was just a jest, wasn’t it?”

Genjūrō turned away and laughed. “Nonsense! Do I look like one to jest? When determining a person’s entire fate, one cannot do so through mere trifles! In truth, I fully intend to stay with Otsuyu until our hair turns white, caring for her all the while. This is my genuine, unfeigned resolve!” As old Osayo’s expression shifted with sudden calculations of what this might mean for both Otsuyu and herself—Genjūrō watched suspiciously while her resolve swelled with earnest determination, as though she might dare here and now to overturn fate itself for Otsuyu’s sake.

“Osayo—you bastard—you’re getting awfully worked up about that matter.”

“No, no! Th-that’s absolutely not the case!” Flustered, Osayo stammered, “It’s just—it’s just that... I too have a daughter around the same age, you see. So I couldn’t help but think... if Miss Otsuyu were to become a concubine for life, why... she’d surely live in comfort—”

“That’s right. For her sake goes without saying—and should she have any blood relatives, I intend to seek out her father or mother and care for them handsomely. In truth, she’ll be a secondary wife with five hundred koku and a child of her own. She’d hardly face any hardships at all.”

When Genjūrō declared this, Osayo instinctively reached out as if to cling— “My lord! Is that… is that truly your sincere intention?” Then Genjūrō— “Wh-what are you saying?! A samurai does not go back on his word!” Leaning back smugly with every intention of brandishing his dual swords—he reached to his left side, but found himself unarmed. As if about to say something—snap!—the instant he glared at Osayo! A piercing scream trailed off as it flowed through the gloomy mansion from nowhere…

Genjūrō and Osayo—snap!—exchanged silent glances.

Snap! Once again, the voice—

Eeeek…—a scream that made one shudder involuntarily—was unmistakably a woman’s cry!

It welled up as though from the depths of a well—remaining strangely muffled—before being absorbed into the desolate hush of the surrounding area and vanishing. Genjūrō, seeming to know every detail, turned a bitter smile toward Osayo. Yet what he spoke of was still Otsuyu. “Now then, Osayo—you bastard—you seem oddly invested in that girl’s matter, but I’ll hear the details of that later—” “No. There is no particular reason or anything of the sort. I had my own reasons for moving the conversation forward—and above all, I wished to ascertain your true intentions, my lord… Now I have come to fully understand them. Yes. Truly, Miss Otsuyu is fortunate.”

Honest and single-minded, Osayo gradually began to feel grateful toward Genjūrō. “Hmm… Well, that’s more or less the case.” Genjūrō, who had concealed a cunning smile, nodded repeatedly, “We shouldn’t stand around talking forever. I intend to discuss it thoroughly in the near future and make a formal request.” “My lord, I am unworthy of such a request! I should be the one to take Miss Otsuyu’s place…” Osayo began to speak, then flusteredly closed her mouth—Genjūrō pretended not to notice her faltering and lowered his voice.

What he meant was this:

That woman’s scream.

That was the mad Tange Sazen tormenting Kushimaki Oto in the detached room, it was said.

When she heard this, a certain detail came to Osayo’s mind as well.

On the stormy night when Genjūrō had Otsuyu’s palanquin carried in—late into the night, or rather nearing dawn—Osayo heard unusual voices at the garden entrance. Quietly sliding open the rain shutter to peer out, she saw the drenched figures of Tange Sazen and Tsuchi Sennosuke’s party dragging a coolly composed Oto with evident hatred, just as they were passing through the door of the detached room— Since then, Oto had not been allowed to return to her home in Asakusa. From the detached room, almost daily, her weeping could be heard mingling with Sazen’s roars.

An ominous presence! She had sensed this foreboding atmosphere, but as a mere elderly maidservant, this was no situation where she ought to show her face. Though troubled, she had occupied herself with safeguarding Otsuyu—yet now what surfaced in her mind was— That masterless samurai, Tange Sazen. He served the same lord as her late husband Sōemon—Lord Sōma of Nakamurasōma in Ōshū—and shared their hometown with both herself and Otsuyu. But on a certain night, she had overheard outside the parlor that he lurked here in Edo under secret orders to locate a sword—or so it was rumored.

It’s no wonder street killings were rampant these days—yet night after night, Sazen still wandered out into the darkness as if summoned... in search of another sword! However! While sneaking in to talk with Otsuyu without Suzukawa Genjūrō’s knowledge, Osayo had learned much about Eizaburō’s subsequent circumstances; according to Otsuyu, Eizaburō was now desperately searching for the other sword while wielding one of the two blades. So that's it! The realization struck Osayo instantly, but she concealed her thoughts and feigned composure on the spot. Yet she had long discerned Otsuyu’s subtle attempts—from the storeroom window—to observe Sazen’s comings and goings and somehow relay them to Eizaburō. Now it became clear: Sazen and Eizaburō were sworn enemies, each carrying one half of a pair of swords, undeniably seeking to unite both blades in their own hands… All of this drifted dimly through Osayo’s mind, as if seen through steam.

However, now Genjūrō was demanding Otsuyu’s entire life! Though she would be a concubine, if it were lifelong service, she would be treated as a proper wife—and a mother like herself, with little time left, could go to her final rest without any hardships. Moreover, if Otsuyu’s background were to become known and she were recognized as being from a samurai family, then even formal notifications could be made and a public announcement would be possible. If that were to happen, along with dear Otsuyu’s rise in status, she herself would naturally become a leisurely retiree with five hundred *koku*!—Thus the gullible Osayo, swallowing Genjūrō’s nonsense wholeheartedly from the start, resolved to formally sever ties with Eizaburō. Above all else, she would request Lord Genjūrō to pursue that coveted sword and have it seized from Sazen to be handed over... Osayo promptly conceived this plan.

It was only through her mother’s protection that Otsuyu had remained unharmed in this haunted mansion until now! With her mother’s change of heart, how could she continue upholding her devotion to Eizaburō? The white-feathered arrow marking a sacrificial victim… now quivered unerringly above Otsuyu. But would Genjūrō truly honor Osayo’s entreaty and sever Sazen from Ken’unmaru? As Osayo sank deeper into contemplation, a voice hissed near her ear— “Since Oto here aided me in abducting Otsuyu—and that botched sword theft—Sazen’s been frothing like a mad dog. Play the wise elder and pacify him—that’s your role now.”

Returning to her senses at Genjūrō’s voice, she parted the grass up to her knees and found herself already before the detached room. *Snap!* Piercing through the drifting murderous intent came Sazen’s roar. “You bastard! Who put you up to interfering?!” “Won’t you talk, you bastard……!”

Following that—crack! The sound of a lash striking. “Hohohoho! How pitiful!” “You’ve got the wrong mark, you bastard.” Kushimaki Oto seemed thoroughly decayed. “Hey! What’s your damn game meddlin’ in my work?” “Hey! You bastard!” “Tch...! It’s your fault I lost that sword I could’ve grabbed!” “M-make some racket, damn you! Noise!” “Hohoho! Make noise—you say?!” “A would-be Hatchōbori constable!”

“What the hell—?!” Sazen roared, shaking his head to dislodge his palm-fiber broom-like hair that had fallen over the sword scar on his cheek, his single remaining eye blazing with hatred as he glared down at Oto lying at his feet. Tange Sazen—his gaunt frame evoking the trunk of a slender pine, his tattered old lined kimono hanging open as though he subsisted by swallowing each night’s darkness—already resembled nothing less than a blue demon from hell scrolls. And with every swing of Ken’unmaru gripped in his left hand, sheath and all, his empty right sleeve performed a sinister dance through the air.

A narrow six-tatami room. Suzukawa Genjūrō’s father Uemon had built this detached cottage intending to enjoy tea ceremonies in his tranquil retirement—but as the stars shifted and times changed, look at it now! Its crumbling eaves sagged, overgrown with weeds—now transformed into a garden of torment where the deranged one-eyed, one-armed Tange Sazen swung his furious whip to lash at a woman’s body.

The cloudy day's sky was gray.

In this part of Honjo, far removed from any cluster of houses, pale light slanted through breaks in the clouds—as if the sun had recalled its duty—and in an instant bathed Sazen standing like a wrathful temple guardian, his hem entangled with Oto clinging to him, only to fade just as swiftly. No one seemed to cross the Hōonji Bridge ahead; all lay hushed under the swift passage of seven bells... A bitterly cold room where bedding and personal belongings had been kicked into a corner. In the meager empty space at the center, Kushimaki Oto's figure lay sprawled defiantly on her stomach as though hurled there.

Four or five men stood encircling her. Among them were Tsuchi Sennosuke and Yokichi of Tsuzumi, but they all merely stared with bloodshot eyes—alternating their gazes between Sazen and Oto—without uttering a word. Tange Sazen, already emaciated, had been further withered by recent nightly wanderings drenched in dew and frost, his aura of ferocity intensifying all the more—Snap! As his single eye snapped open, harboring a cruel smile—

Again! “Hey—! “Say something, damn you!” “You bastard! St-still won’t talk?!” “You bastard! Even this…!”

Before his shout could even finish, he swung Ken’unmaru’s scabbard end in an arc with a swish! He struck Oto’s back—

Agh! Clenching her teeth and clinging to the tatami—Oto lay motionless as if asleep. In the watery half-light, her usually elaborate coiffure clung limply to her scalp, disheveled clothes revealing glimpses of neck and knees—pale skin glistening with an oily sheen like grotesque blossoms scattered about. The terror of the scene gave way to perverse allure depending on one's perspective. Tsuchi Sennosuke, hands thrust into his belt, licked his lips while drinking in Oto's disarray without satiation, while Yokichi of Tsuzumi averted his eyes……utterly flustered yet powerless to intervene.

This daily torture.

That began again today. For what purpose! The reason was none other than this—on that night of chaos beneath the Pine of Outcome, at the very moment Tange Sazen swung his blade at Eizaburō, Kushimaki Oto had leapt into a boat disguised as Otsuyu, causing Eizaburō and that beggar to swiftly follow and launch their own vessel. Because of her, he had let slip the prize when they were but one step away—all Oto’s doing! Had they just lain low, they could have splendidly cut down that young man and claimed Konryūmaru! Now—just who commissioned you to leap out there as Otsuyu’s stand-in? No doubt you planned from the start to throw cold water on that scene and wreck our arrangements. What a brazen wench. I'll torture you to death!

Though Tange Sazen had confined Kushimaki Oto to his quarters and subjected her daily to the torment of hitting, punching, and kicking, he fully understood that she had merely facilitated Suzukawa Genjūrō’s abduction of Otsuyu. He intended to confront Suzukawa using as evidence even a single utterance from Oto—such as "Lord...ordered me"—should she let it slip. Yet Oto remained stubbornly tight-lipped, refusing to speak a word. But from Oto’s perspective, Though she believed that Suzukawa Genjūrō would surely soon intervene to set everything right—given she was enduring such hardships—Genjūrō, consumed by matters concerning Otsuyu, had turned a blind eye and deaf ear not only to his pledged promise to act as a bridge between Oto and Tange Sazen, but also to Oto’s present suffering.

A lover’s vulnerability—though perhaps not—for she was an Edo gang leader. When Oto looked up at Sazen and forced a tight smile from blood-streaked lips, the men raised their faces toward the doorway. A figure stood blocking the garden entrance. Tange Sazen stomped forward, his usual women’s underkimono fluttering around him as he brandished Ken’unmaru— “The hell? Genjū and Osayo? You bastards ain’t wanted here! What’d you come for?”

Tange Sazen spread his stance menacingly, but Suzukawa Genjūrō grinned slyly and gave Osayo a gentle push. “Now, you’re perfect for playing the old servant. “Go on—give him a proper apology.” Osayo—who had been whispered to—was so overwhelmed with terror that she avoided looking at Sazen’s face. Mumbling incoherently, she hastily bowed her head—only for Sazen to bark, “Shut up! Ain’t no place here for some hag!” and brush past her to sneer at Genjūrō standing behind.

“Suzugen! Ain’t you stuck to that storehouse woman day and night? Rare to see you show your face—well? You did call that woman Otsuyu, didn’t ya? How’d your little scheme go?” Sneering all the while, Sazen retreated into the room with slow, deliberate steps. Genjūrō tracked his movements through narrowed eyes, maintaining the smug smirk of a man whose affair with Otsuyu was flourishing— “This here’s my woman!”

With that, Sazen abruptly kicked Oto back, “Hey, Oto! Who put you up to blocking my sword? Spit it out!” Screaming, he grabbed her hair with his left hand and dragged her about—yet Oto, as if surrendering both body and soul to this deranged Tange Sazen, clenched her teeth in her pallid face and endured his abuse. Whether from exhaustion or resignation, she made no effort to cry out or adjust her disheveled kimono, merely collapsing against Sazen’s leg in a desperate clutch.

Hair torn out by days of beatings lay scattered about, invisible flames of obsessive fury blazing through the room. Osayo had fled sliding away at the excessive sight, but when Genjūrō came and saw the rampage beyond his expectations, his courage failed him—and just as he tried to rush forward, unable to stay silent even toward Oto any longer—! The visage of Tange Sazen—frenzied like the Asura King—twisting Oto’s arm and trampling every inch of her body without restraint! As he recoiled in shock, a voice laden with grief seeped from the shadows.

"My lord...?" From beneath Sazen’s foot, Oto sent a glare filled with resentment toward Genjūrō through the hair covering her face.

“Hmph! “You think my lord would be shocked to hear this?!” “I’ll get your message through, so in return, you told me to watch for an opening, pretend to be Otsuyu, and roll into the boat—and that you’d make sure nothing bad happened afterward. So who the hell was it that fed me such smooth lies?!”

Genjūrō panicked.

“H-hey now, Oto! You bastard—you’re getting carried away, spouting such nonsense…”

“Shut up, Genjū!”

It was Sazen who barked. At the same moment he grabbed her hair and yanked Oto upright—the pain becoming too much to bear—she threw her head back to look up at Sazen and let out a piercing shriek. “Not my head! “No matter what you do to me, I’m madly in love with you! So if you say you’ll kill me, then kill me if you must.” “Oh yes! Let me die by your hand!” “But if you feel even a shred of pity—Lord Tange—cut me clean! Don’t make me suffer like this! I’m Kushimaki Oto!” “If it’s your blade, I’ll take it smiling any day.” “But wait—before I die—I’ve got words for you!”

Breaking free from Sazen’s grip, she staggered—! She staggered to her feet at the step—then collapsed heavily against Suzukawa Genjūrō’s face, “Welcome. It’s been a while, ho ho ho—that face! “Thanks to you, Oto’s ended up covered in blood like this!” No sooner had she smiled than Oto’s entire body quivered violently before Sazen and the others, who stood dumbfounded. “If my lord decided on two, then all the targets are my lord! “What the hell! “Even back at the Three Shrines, you spouted such smooth promises that people suffered terribly for it—and now you’re playing the clueless fool?! “And you call yourself a samurai?! “You disgrace… Not even fit to stand upwind of an Edokko! …”

“Boss, Boss—if you get all riled up like this, we can’t talk proper.” “Hey, this here’s our lord’s presence!” “Don’t do anything reckless…” As Yokichi fretted and whispered into her ear, Sazen shoved him aside from the side. “Yokichi! Stay back!” “Damn right!” Oto turned her bruised face and spat, “Yokichi here can just sit back and enjoy the show… Oh yes, now that it’s come to this, I’ll say my piece—hey, you there, my lord! All because I helped you kidnap Otsuyu like you asked, I got chewed out by Lord Tange and ended up like this.” “But I’m downright happy!” “If you thought of me as a stranger, you’d never be able to do something like this!”

In the breathless tension, Tange Sazen twisted into a spasmodic smile; quietly moving Oto aside, his gleaming single eye piercing Genjūrō’s face all the while, his lone hand already gripped the hilt of Ken’unmaru—the blade starved for blood.

“Hey… Suzukawa.” In Sazen’s gravelly voice—which had called out flatly—lurked something dangerous that could erupt at any moment. “Hey Gen-san, the bond between you and me ain’t some yesterday-or-today acquaintance. So you’ve known full well how I’ve staked my entire being on seizing Konryūmaru—and yet—” As he spoke, Sazen stepped down into the earthen-floored area, his face rapidly changing, “And yet—!”

When he raised his voice another notch, he had already shed both self and passion, revealing the true demonic visage of Tange Sazen—the One-Eyed Sword Demon in his essential nature.

“You swore to help me seize Konryūmaru—so what the hell?!” “You’d betray a friend over some hussy’s pretty face?” “Hey Genjū! You’re a damn disgrace of a man!” As he snarled like a rabid dog, Ken’unmaru in his left hand clattered—the tsuba rattling without cease.

The wind died—and in its wake, a silence swelled, teetering on the brink of shattering. Tsuchi Sennosuke, Oto, Yokichi, and two or three others were lined up near the edge, breathlessly comparing Suzukawa Genjūrō—who stood straddling the doorway’s threshold—and Tange Sazen, who faced him one *ken* apart. Genjūrō, hands tucked in his sleeves, chuckled under his breath—an order of magnitude more composed than the others. “Tange!” he uttered in a low voice. “You bastard—getting riled up so easily. Turns out you’re just a child after all!” “I never plotted to interfere with you or anything—”

“Shut the hell up!” “Shut up! Just shut up and let me cut you down, you bastard!” Sazen abruptly narrowed his eyes and fell into a trance. The cursed sword’s hilt pressed insistently against his chest—Tange Sazen, now indifferent to justice or reason, caring only for the scent of fresh blood—twisted the scar on his right cheek, his pale lips trembling like serpent scales...

The madness of the Night-Crying Swords—separated yet bound—transmuted into flames that seemed to surge hungrily upward from his robe's hem. His blade would sever this trembling human flesh!

The intoxication—like poisoned wine—had become a daylight illusion numbing Tange Sazen’s senses. “L-Let me cut you! Hey, Lord Gen! C’mon!” “Let me cut you! Aha ha ha!”

Sazen staggered two or three steps forward as though collapsing. Stunned! Genjūrō leaped back. “You’re an impossible man—! True enough, I did haul Otsuyu back ahead of you all that night. “It’s entirely my fault for not coordinating with your group. “On that point, I apologize.” “Look here—I’m groveling repeatedly… But listen well, Tange—even if Oto jumped into the boat and those bastards mistook her for Otsuyu before fleeing aboard—that’s none of my cursed concern!”

Then Oto—who had been listening— “Still going on about that?! “My lord, you’re being so pigheaded! Every bit of this came straight from your own head, didn’t it?”

Yokichi restrained her from speaking further.

“Sis! Come on, let’s just settle this—his lordship’s already backing down here—”

“There! You see?!” Sazen shifted his triumphant gaze from Oto back to Genjūrō, “If not for your fire-scavenging thievery,” he declared while rattling his left sword menacingly, “I would’ve seized Konryūmaru that night—this blade here! Suzukawa! Never thought you’d betray me!” “You’re one persistent bastard yourself,” “But what’s done is done.” “Let it rest already...” “That may satisfy you,” “But this remains unsettled.” “Not my fixation.” “The blade’s hunger.” “Th-this accursed Ken’unmaru’s craving!”

“Hmph!” Genjurou sneered. “How amusing. So what—you’re saying you go out for nightly street killings now?” He spat out sharply.

Thud! “Bam!” Sazen’s already pale face suddenly flushed a strange crimson. “How’d you know?” “Ah! You’ve finally confessed! Just took a stab in the dark—but hey Tange! With every filthy constable in Edo sniffing around these reverse-diagonal slash midnight killings... The South District magistrate’s that famous judge Ōoka Tadasuke, ain’t he?! All I’d need’s to dash in with a humble ‘Begging pardon—!’ How ’bout that! Figure out the rest yourself!”

“Grr! I’ll cut you down before that happens!” “I have no desire for conflict.” “I-I’ll cut you down, Gen! K-Ken’unmaru... it’s crying to be cut through! Can’t you bastard hear this voice?!” “I have no desire for this... but it cannot be helped!” Genjūrō suddenly turned a sallow smile toward Yokichi. “Bring my sword from the hall!” Sazen sat down on the courtyard weeds—overgrown things that had long forgotten the touch of a sickle, though they were grandly called a “lawn”—and plucked a blade of nearby crabgrass.

“Look at this—this thing’s already turning red.” Then, considering this, perhaps one great storm would come between the 210th and 220th days. “The old sayings handed down from ancient times are never wrong.” He had been making such carefree remarks, but when he saw Yokichi—who had scurried back—timidly hand the great sword to Genjūrō, even he finally sprang to his feet.

“So, we’re finally doing this?”

Sazen’s pale eye grinned in the faint sunlight. “Genjū, let me say one word of thanks before you die.” “Die…? And who exactly would that be?” “The fuck you think? You’re dyin’ here—” “Hmph! You’re the one who’ll die. Speak your piece! I’ll hear it.” “Been leeching off you long enough. My thanks… that’s all!” “Ha ha ha ha!” Genjūrō’s laughter rang hollow. “When birds approach death, their songs turn mournful. When men approach death, their words turn wise—so they say. Well Tange? You truly want this duel?”

“The hell else?!” Sazen stepped back—stomp-stomp-stomp! With a thud, he discarded the flat-silk-wrapped scabbard and lowered Ken’unmaru’s coldly gleaming blade to his left hand. He smiled nonchalantly. “Since you bastard let Konryūmaru slip away, I might not care—but this Ken’unmaru here’s got a grudge against you and won’t shut up about needing to cut you down.” “Well, I’m sure even a bastard like you’s got reasons to keep breathin’—but how ’bout you clear your schedule and let me do you in right here?”

“Don’t make me laugh. You’re one persistent bastard.” “Wouldn’t be able to do this job if I weren’t persistent.” “Even I’ll admit there’s reason to it.” “First off—now you’ve sniffed out my street killings—no way in hell I’m lettin’ you walk away alive.”

“I see... Then! If you desire it that desperately, Suzukawa Genjūrō shall gladly oblige as your opponent! But mark my words—once you’ve taken a blow, crying ‘Halt!’ will be too late!” “What nonsense are you spouting?! You coward! I’ll see whether your blood’s red or white! Hey! Come on, hurry up! I’m comin’! You don’t wanna—?! Hahaha!” With a mocking laugh, Ken’unmaru’s glint shot forth, whirling a vortex ring three inches before their eyes as it challenged them.

There was no path left but to respond! Genjūrō steeled himself with quiet resolve.

“How childish.” “But here I come, Tange! …Like this!” Faster than a groan came the spread of dirt-scattering legs—into the Suiryū school’s transmitted Amigasa-hane iaijutsu stance—the great sword flew diagonally with a *Gah!* and parried Ken’unmaru from below.

Sazen, having stepped back, now drifted leftward with fluid inevitability. At the same time, Genjūrō took two or three steps to the right, circling ahead to seize the initiative. The sun hastening dusk cast its light upon two sword blades, where white circular glints bloomed and vanished. The frost-scorched garden brimmed with intense, majestic energy.

A kitten peered at the two men from beneath the fence, listlessly batting at grass fronds—Sazen glanced briefly at it, twisted his sword scar into a smirk, and laughed.

"Suzukawa," he said in a light, clear tone utterly unlike himself. "I only feel alive when I'm like this." "What a cursed disposition!" "I've seen how you handle pots—putting them down, flipping them open—and your methods of sneaking women in. But this is my first time seeing your sword techniques." "Come at me with everything you've got!"

Genjūrō remained silent.

Lowering the hilt from his seigan stance, he inadvertently applied pressure to the toes of his left foot planted behind him, crushing a clod of earth. Both sides stood motionless. Sazen, chin pulled back, allowed a slight slack in his left sword while his single eye fixed diagonally as rigid as a rod—spitting flecks of saliva in his usual manner, a habitual tic through which his overflowing fighting spirit leaked out…

Neither would recklessly make the first move. Thinking this, Oto and Yokichi had already vanished early on, unwilling to be swept into this duel's chaos, while even Sennosuke—the sole remaining—could only pace about helplessly. The Shinkage and Hōzan Two Schools merged to become the Suiryū school. They say they split the character for "law" (法) into "sui" (去水) to read it as such.

The founder was Tsuzuki Yasubēmon, a disciple of Asada Kurobēmon. Suzukawa Genjūrō seemed quite proficient in this Suiryū-ryū style—so much so that even Tange Sazen, whose intimidating aura typically overwhelmed opponents before blades crossed, showed uncharacteristic restraint... or so it appeared, until Sazen suddenly drew his sword and burst into raucous laughter. “Hahaha, cut it out. Genkō! You’re already dead, bastard!” Sazen abruptly stopped laughing and scornfully disregarded the dumbfounded Genjūrō,

“If you don’t realize you’ve already lost, that’s your own damn problem… I’ve opened my mind’s eye and seen how this fight ends.” “Listen here—I tried imagining myself brandishing Ken’unmaru and striking it into your torso—” “And then, you evaded the blade’s ridge and blocked it splendidly.” “Yeah, you blocked it—blocked it good.” “But then I went and drew my blade, aiming to split your right shoulder—and when I thought that… Hahaha! It worked splendidly, Genjū! I saw your blood fly like a rainbow.” “I saw it clear as day!”

Genjūrō made a strange face, like someone about to sneeze. “......”

“That’s why you’re already dead. “You’ve been slain by me. “What stands there is your ghost, you bastard. “Hahaha! To know victory without fighting— “The profound truth of sword and Zen united.” A wry smile formed on Genjūrō’s pallid cheek, “You spout nonsense—”

When he lowered his sword, Tsuchi Sennosuke—who had been hovering restlessly about the periphery—stepped between them. "This is no occasion for comrades to cross blades. "My lords, I implore you—by your regard for this Sennosuke, withdraw from this place."

Sazen twisted his mouth and laughed. “What’s this ‘now’?! What a clueless bastard!”

And sheathing Ken'unmaru, he briskly entered the cottage.

As Genjūrō tried to leave, Sennosuke caught hold of him as if clinging and led him inside. Before long, the sound of clapping summoned Osayo—the three in the cottage were about to begin their reconciliation drinking party into the night... As usual, Otsuyu would likely be brought out before long, though――.

There was a shed beside the back gate.

Behind the stacked firewood and brushwood.

Behind the shed—where even daytime sunlight failed to penetrate, and the perpetual stench of damp wood festered— Now, in the faintly darkening false chill of approaching dusk, where fallen leaves showered like rain from the overhanging branches of chinquapin trees above.

A man and a woman.

Kushimaki Oto and Tsuzumi no Yokichi were squatting on the ground, engrossed in conversation. Oto, with burning eyes fixed on Yokichi's mouth, paid no heed to the hem of her workman's coat dragging in the dirt as she edged closer, almost pouncing. “So what you’re saying… it’s not a lie, right?”

At the shrillness of her voice, Yokichi started and looked around. “Boss, if you get so worked up like this, I can’t get a word out. “Well, no… I did think about keepin’ my mouth shut, but feelin’ too sorry for ya, Boss, I went and spilled it all. Ain’t like lyin’ to you’d be any fun now, would it?” “No, see—this ain’t just some wild guess of mine.” “Well, you could say Lord Tange himself ‘confessed’ to it, so there ain’t no room for doubt here.”

Abruptly, the color drained from Oto’s face, and she began to tremble finely as if struck by a chill, “Confessed…? Did Lord Tange say something?” “Well now, that’s a tough one to answer,” said Yokichi, scratching his head with exaggerated playfulness. “Ain’t like he really confessed or nothin’.” “Actually, it’s just sleep-talk.” “Well, after hearin’ that sleep-talk, I went and did some secret probin’—” Having said this much and kept poking the ground with a stick fragment, Yokichi was prompted by Oto to continue.

According to his account:

Recently, Oto had been the first to notice the subtle changes in Sazen’s demeanor precisely because of her deep concern for him, but Yokichi—who attended to Sazen’s daily needs morning and night—found these changes stood out all the more.

Sazen sighed.

Sazen pondered. ——a Sazen never before seen. When he began paying subtle attention, he found that Sazen often talked in his sleep. The name Yayoi. If we’re talking about Yayoi, she must be a woman…!

And then, when Yokichi secretly investigated—sure enough! There was a daughter named Yayoi of Onozuka Tessai—the swordsmanship instructor of Nezu Akebono Village who had formerly kept Ken'unmaru—and it was said that after losing both her father and the sword because of Sazen, she had disappeared without a trace. “It’s precisely ’cause Lord Tange’s so hung up on this Yayoi that he makes you suffer like hell over every little thing, Boss.” “When I think about that, I just can’t stand how damn maddenin’ it is!”

While chattering away in good spirits and carelessly glancing up at Oto, Yokichi involuntarily let out a “Doh!” and fell on his backside as he shouted. “Ah! Boss! What kind of face are you making?!” If the god of love is pink— Then the god of jealousy must be painted head to toe in cursed green! It was this green-faced demoness that Yokichi now saw before his very eyes.

In the mist-hung gloom where twilight deepened. In the shadow of the storage shed, Tsuzumi no Yokichi swallowed hard and looked up with concern at Oto staggering against an old chinquapin trunk. Upon hearing Tange Sazen loved Yayoi—So that’s it!—Oto’s blood froze instantly—her vacant eyes darting wildly...papery lips trembling violently with fear. Jealousy and demonic intent. They became unseen flames silhouetting Kushimaki Oto’s terrifying beauty against pale twilight.

Yokichi involuntarily lowered his face and spoke inwardly to the dirt at his feet. I’ve really gone and done it now! I never thought she’d change this drastically—damn it all! I should’ve kept my mouth shut… Then, above his head came Oto’s voice—lifeless, as if murmuring in a dream. “She must be quite the beauty, this Miss Yayoi.” “Huh?” Yokichi looked up, suddenly feeling as though three buckets of cold water had been dumped down his collar. “W-well, they do call her the Akebono Beauty, so she’s gotta be—”

He trailed off and fell silent.

Seeing Oto’s mask-like face twist into a stiff smile, Yokichi shuddered. “That’s only natural. Someone like me—a dried-up old woman—couldn’t even get near your feet. Hahaha! I know! But Yokichi-kun”—her voice sharpened—“you did bring me useful information.” A white hand slipped between black collars. “Just a small token... take it.” Clink! A gold coin materialized before Yokichi’s eyes with crystalline clarity.

At the same time. Leaving Yokichi standing there dazedly, Oto began walking through the twilight garden, trampling the weeds that thrived in the evening air. Oto, consumed by jealousy and oblivious to herself, planted her staggering feet in staggered steps as if traversing the boundary between light and darkness.

A voiceless laugh escaped Oto’s lips——. I am not one to pine after men or lose myself in love—not anymore. Yet I found myself drawn to something within Tange Sazen—though bystanders mocked what could possibly appeal in that one-eyed, one-armed man, even I could scarcely endure wondering why I harbored these feelings. Not only did he show not even a needle’s tip of awareness, but that relentless abuse over some trifle from days prior continued precisely because he had that Yayoi—because my very existence and true feelings were obstacles to him?

Even so—what manner of man was Lord Genjūrō! He’d sworn to mediate things between Lord Sazen and me without fail—that was our ironclad pact when I helped spirit Otsuyu away! Yet not only did he neglect to convey my feelings—no—through his actions he’d drawn Lord Sazen’s terrible wrath instead! And still he clung to that damned pretense of ignorance till the bitter end!

Kushimaki Oto, who had directed her heart that knew everything toward Tange Sazen—a man who held no one in his eyes—now understood that there had never been anyone in his eyes from the very beginning.

If the daughter's love was one of tears, then Oto's love was one of fire.

The ugly remains of a snake, charred pitch-black after being extinguished by dousing water.

Revenge!

Would someone of Kushimaki Oto’s stature endure being mocked by others after having her man stolen by mere girls?—Oto, who had surrendered both body and soul to the rakshasa, slipped into the thick curtain of night as though nursing a scheme in her breast, stealthily making her way to the main house’s veranda.

The edge of the veranda led to a storage room.

On the shoji of that storage room, two large shadow figures. Entangled, they swayed……. “Hey Otsuyu, so that’s how it is,” said Osayo, her voice rising as she took Otsuyu’s hand. “Since His Lordship says he’ll keep you by his side for life, why don’t you do your best to stay in his good graces with that in mind? “I’d never tell you anything that wouldn’t do you good. “As for Mr. Eizaburō—if he were to ask His Lordship to hand over that thing at Lord Tange’s waist, I think he’d cut ties without a word of complaint, don’t you think?”

Otsuyu shrank back into the shadow of the andon lamp. “Oh! Mother, you’re so pathetic!” “To speak of such an inhuman creature now—” “That’s why I’m saying—I never told you to decide anything hastily.” “Just put on some makeup and come to the drinking party, won’t you?” “Smile—I beg you, put on a cheerful face...!” “His Lordship has been urgently asking ‘Isn’t Otsuyu here yet?’ this whole time.” “What’s this at your age? You shouldn’t make your mother wait on you like this.” “You’re only making things difficult for me by resisting—I’ll go fetch him myself!” “Here—let me fix your hair.”

“I said no!” As Otsuyu desperately pushed her mother’s hand away, the quiet rustle of fabric outside the shoji screen fell silent.

“Good evening…” “Good evening… Is Ms. Osayo here?” A hushed voice seemed to lurk beyond the shoji screen—then someone slid it open gently from outside. Osayo caught her breath at what she saw. There stood Kushimaki Oto, her face deep green like a yasha’s visage, purple welts from Sazen’s whip mottling her skin like strange blossoms. She grinned like a shapeshifter incarnate. Sliding into the room with a thud, Oto plopped down and cast a diagonal glance toward the rear veranda. “Ms. Osayo—why so startled? His Lordship’s calling for you.” “The sake ran out ages ago, yet he’s been howling like a madman this whole time.” “Go tend to him.”

“Yes, well, you see, I simply couldn’t manage alone—so I thought to ask this Ms. Otsuyu here for help.” “And since it’s His Lordship’s will… Now, Ms. Otsuyu, come quietly to the annex.” “Come now, before you face reprimand.” As Osayo seized the chance to urgently grasp Otsuyu’s hand again, Oto—using the very hand still mid-gesture—firmly restrained her, then fixed Osayo with a glare of bone-chilling ferocity.

“It’s fine right here! Ms. Otsuyu has various matters His Lordship has entrusted her with, so you get over there already!” “But His Lordship told me to bring Otsuyu—” “You’re a persistent old woman, aren’t you? I’ll take her there, so it’s fine. Besides, the hotheads are all here. If they start hurling sake bottles again, I won’t be responsible! Hurry up! Hey! Get the hell out of here already!”

Osayo, frightened into retreat, fled down the corridor as if escaping. Oto—who had been waiting for her footsteps to fade—suddenly crinkled her eyes in amusement and turned her gaze toward Otsuyu cowering in the room’s corner. It must have been past the fifth hour. In the abyssal silence where night’s chill crept alongside the darkness, Otsuyu—her thinly clad shoulders defenseless against the cold—remained frozen under Oto’s unblinking stare. The voice from Rian demanding sake cut through the air like a tangible thing... A masseur’s flute drifted across the moat’s reclaimed land, its notes now carried by the wind.

Oto moved her knees forward, leaned sideways on her hand, and peered into the shadow of the andon lamp. “Otsuyu-san, you poor dear—you’ve gotten a bit thinner. “Oh ho!” “No wonder, really.” “It’s like you’ve gathered all the world’s suffering onto yourself alone—I always say that to Yokichi and such.” “People truly do say the storeroom girl is pitiful.” Under the accumulated hardships of days, Otsuyu—already timid by nature—would hear the comforting words of this unexpected person as mere misheard whispers, yet still find herself moved to a hot tear... all too often moistening her cheek.

There, Oto sidled closer, “Hey, you must resent me, don’t you? “No, well—if you resent me, there’s nothing to be done. But truth be told, I’m also one who was tricked by the master of this house. You could say we’re sharing the same sinking boat, you and I. “This must be some kind of fate. “Having thought this through, I can’t just leave you be like this—so from now on, we’ll help each other out, or something like that. “So as a token of our new friendship, I’ve deigned to show you some respect—hehehe.”

As Otsuyu slightly lowered her head, Oto— “Take a look at this!” she said, pulling out the tip of a straw sandal from her sleeve. “See? Even here in my hometown of Edo, I’m just passing through." “A wanted criminal within Edo’s jurisdiction.” “Even if the officials catch sight of me at any moment, I’ll just say I came visiting graves yesterday—hohoho.” “I’ll just put these on and show them.” “Well, that’s fine for me—but you’ve got yourself a sweetheart, haven’t you?” Otsuyu turned as red as a lobster and doubled over.

“Men’s hearts and this fickle weather—the two grand champions of unreliability, wouldn’t you say?”

"Huh?" As Otsuyu vaguely lifted her face, Oto's gaze sharpened upon it. "Do you know where that young lady called Lady Yayoi is now?" "Yes. I heard she was taken in by Lord Tsuchiya Tamon, the hatamoto of Sambanchō—"

Having made her say this much, there was little more need—

“Well.” “That’s a huge mistake—so laugh it off!” said Oto with a perfectly straight face. “This isn’t the time for you to be crying.” “You never know what men are up to.” “It’s none of my business, but seeing you getting trampled on this much just naturally pisses me off… Come on, get a grip—listen, they say Lady Yayoi’s got herself a sweet man and a home now, you know?” “What?!” “My goodness!” As Otsuyu instinctively recoiled, Oto steadied her with a hand from beside her,

“Go there yourself and say everything you want to say.” “I’ll take you there right now!” Two birds with one stone.

Oto—who had let Otsuyu escape to exact revenge on Suzukawa Genjūrō and learned Yayoi’s whereabouts to retaliate against Tange Sazen—concealed some secret scheme within her heart as she hurried the trembling Otsuyu into the garden. Soon after, two disheveled women, embodiments of jealousy, emerged from the monster mansion’s rear gate. Glancing warily about, they vanished into the pitch-black night. In their wake, wind rustled through the standing trees’ branches, and a distant song began to rise.

Though not quite the scene of drunken disarray or decadent feasting that phrases like “cups and plates in chaos” or “wine pools and meat forests” might suggest, here in Rian’s detached cottage—in Tange Sazen’s quarters—Sazen, Genjūrō, Sennosuke, and Yokichi were making merry with an untimely midnight feast, their spirits high despite the humble fare of sliced pickled daikon and fermented fish.

A scene of red and blue demons carousing at a hellish banquet.

“Hey! “Genjū! Genji! The character ‘Gen’—ah, no! Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō!” “Let’s share a ceremonial cup!” Sazen pulled the longsword Ken’unmaru close to his knees, his single eye—like a jade mountain about to crumble—unnaturally crimson.

“L-Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō! Don’t you get cocky with me!” “But hell—uh, you’ve got decent technique there. That seigan stance of yours carries real heft.” “Gotta respect you for not biting at my taunts.” “That Departing Water Style’s nothing but Iaijutsu theatrics.” “Didn’t I crush it splendidly? Ahahaha!”

With an inscrutable smile, Suzukawa Genjūrō returned the sake cup to Tange Sazen, “Unlike your murderous blade, mine follows the kingly path of the sword.” Sazen shook his empty sleeve and sneered. “A killing blade is a life-giving blade. Those who slaughter well also preserve well… Hahaha.” “You’re one twisted bastard… my dear brother.” “Well, think of me as your wayward little brother—I’ll be countin’ on ya for ages.” Both Sazen and Genjūrō sat unperturbed.

When Tange Sazen propped his one-armed elbow and gave a perfunctory bow, Tsuchi Sennosuke clapped his hands.

“That’s right, that’s right! “It’s what you might call a brotherly quarrel.” “Don’t hold grudges.”

“Hmm.” “Lord Tsuchi is quite right.” Yokichi, who had somehow arrived and taken his place at the lowest seat, spoke up while observing both men’s expressions. “Well now, with everyone pitchin’ in to help Lord Tange claim that sword proper-like—why, I ain’t gone a day without prayin’ for it… If there’s anythin’ this lowly underling could do to serve, you just say the word.”

“Hmm.” Tange Sazen—his blade-scarred face aglow with sake—laughed heartily. “Well, whatever. The talk’s gotten too logical.” “Handlin’ one or two young pups like that on my own ain’t a problem—but there’s this beggar with a topknot and a wild beard taggin’ along.” “Even this Sazen had some trouble with that bastard.”

It was Tange Sazen who began to recount. “On the night some time ago when I committed a street killing in front of Ōoka’s residence— “A beggar samurai I recognized—a giant of a man—called me out. Just as he turned his back, I swung Ken’unmaru down with a leap—but damn! “Did I miss?!” By the time I noticed, my opponent had already sprung into motion and dodged. In that instant—just as I felt fingers clamp onto my elbow—a voice rang out from the darkness at my shoulder.

"You fool!" —! Already, his figure had vanished into the midnight mist——. "At that moment, even I broke into a sweat."

As Tange Sazen concluded, “There’s always a higher peak above.” “Heey! But there ain’t nobody stronger than Lord Tange! My lord, that guy’s just some arrogant braggart, I tell ya!” Even as Sennosuke and Yokichi each continued their flattery, Suzukawa Genjūrō sat alone, licking the rim of his sake cup while listening intently for footsteps in the courtyard…… Otsuyu, having steeled her resolve, would surely appear at any moment with a radiant smile. Disturbing the reddish light, four shadows intermingled. Sake cups went flying. Chopsticks reached out. Knocking the bottom of the sake bottle—a long night’s drinking. When the words ceased, the sound of the deepening night stabbed at their ears like a blade.

Tange Sazen lay down, embracing his sword. “What happened to Oto?” “Oh.” “She left earlier.”

“Was I a bit too rough? Hahahaha!”

As Tange Sazen exhaled rainbow-like alcohol breath, Osayo’s voice called out from the dirt-floored entrance.

“My lord, might I borrow a moment of your time…”

Having risen, Suzukawa Genjūrō—

“Otsuyu says she’s waiting.” “Don’t just stand there gawking alone—bring her here.”

Hearing Tange Sazen’s jeer at his back, he started walking toward the main house alongside Osayo. In the night dew beginning to crystallize into frost, the thongs of the garden clogs grew damp and heavy. The wind carried the scent of rain.

“My lord.” “What?” “Um, regarding Lady Otsuyu...”

“Hmm. What do you say? Is she yielding?” “Yes. I tried persuading her in various ways, but she says that if you will keep her by your side for life…”

“I see. “Good work.” “I’ll reward you properly later as well.” “No, it’s not that… but, my lord.” “What?” “Um... I... about Otsuyu...” While saying this, Osayo opened the storage room door, and Genjūrō—peering inside with one eye—roughly grabbed the old woman’s hand.

“What?!” “Look! Otsuyu’s gone! She’s not here! Ah!” “There’s a fate-tied bond here!” “You let her escape, you bastard!”

Seki no Magoroku’s forged blade, Ken’unmaru.

The legend of the Night-Crying Swords holds that if the short sword Konryūmaru were separated from its counterpart…… wandering clouds would inevitably weep and sob at the Hour of the Ox and Ram, yearning for the earthbound dragon.

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

In this detached room of the Suzukawa residence in Honjo. Tange Sazen had once again heard that weeping. With what tears did the cursed blade Ken’unmaru speak to Sazen— An eerie voice, like that of an old woman ranting incoherently, resounded in the drunken Sazen’s ears like the buzzing of insect wings. He opened his single eye wide and stared intently at Ken’unmaru lying by his knees. The red copper hilt glistening with hand oils, its mottled cloud carvings, the scabbard tightly wrapped in flat silk threads… The Ceremonial Battlefield Tachi Ken’unmaru lay with its guard as a pillow, its blade resting damply on torn tatami mats as the red shadow of a bare candle trembled minutely.

The sword spirit’s plea.

That was clearly audible to Sazen.

“Blood… blood… blood… Let us kill people… Let us kill people…”

And so it went— Tange Sazen grinned. But he felt a strange sense of unease. Why? Until now, Sazen had often heard what seemed like the sword’s weeping in the dead of night—always the muffled sobs of a young woman—but tonight’s was unmistakably an old crone’s wailing.

As that mournful voice reached Sazen’s drunken ears—groaning intermittently as if from the earth’s depths—he started, glanced furtively around, and seized Ken’unmaru. Suzukawa Genjūrō had left with Osayo earlier and had not returned.

Amidst the aftermath of their feast—the cramped space thoroughly littered—Sennosuke and Yokichi drank themselves into oblivion and lay asleep. The night air deepened profoundly. And then came a voice tinged with a demonic tone… from Ken’unmaru’s blade? Tange Sazen drew Ken’unmaru an inch or two from its scabbard with his left hand. Simultaneously, no sooner did he spring up as if thrust upward than he was already landing on the hermitage room’s earthen floor, his greatsword held in a downward thrust and his footsteps muffled.

They were fast asleep. There was nothing to see. Yet despite this, Sazen swiftly searched his pocket, took out a black cloth, and deftly wrapped it around his face with one hand. When he exited the detached room without making a sound, the night wind blowing through the darkness felt pleasantly cool against his alcohol-warmed body. Thus transformed into a slender, elongated shadow, Tange Sazen laid Ken’unmaru across his body and slipped out of the mansion along the shrubbery. Where to? To the crossroads of Edo to cut down passersby. To what end?

Just to kill.

Yet Tange Sazen had once fervently believed that Konryūmaru would answer—that guided by the swords’ pull, he would inevitably meet Suwa Eizaburō. But now he was a Sazen who cut solely to cut, killed purely to kill. If kept as a pair, nothing would come of it—but once separated, the cursed blade Ken’unmaru would ceaselessly crave human blood until the bitter end. Enthralled by the sword’s spirit, it was not Tange Sazen who drew the blade—but the blade that drew Tange Sazen. Not Sazen who slaughtered people—but the blade that slaughtered through him. Thus did he wander nightly through darkness for these street killings, yet the moment he glimpsed Ken’unmaru’s edge, Sazen could no longer resist killing. Now he existed in a state where only by bathing in night-warm bloodspray could he barely rest his spirit with meager daytime sleep.

But what he had heard as the sword’s weeping was merely a delusion of Sazen’s corrupted heart—the young woman’s voice until now had been Otsuyu from the storage room, and tonight’s old woman’s cries were those of Osayo, imprisoned there in Otsuyu’s stead.

After Sazen left.

In the storage room, Genjūrō was interrogating Osayo. "I’ve thought something was off for a while now, but this—!" "Osayo!" "You bastard—it was you who let Otsuyu escape!" "Just what are you to that woman?" "Well?" "I’ve already suspected you’re a close relative of hers—now speak plainly!" Genjūrō—left behind by his caged bird who had flown away—crouched before the prostrate Osayo and pressed relentlessly, true to his reputation as Police Captain Suzukawa.

“Are you her aunt? Some acquaintance? What’s your connection?” Osayo appeared to have drained her capacity for excuses, now obstinately sealing her lips as Genjūrō pressed, “I’ll wring answers from your flesh soon enough—but until Otsuyu crawls back to me, you bastard, you’ll rot here.”

Dismissing her as if he remained unrepentant of his prior failures, he locked the wooden door with a clang and departed. He had confined the mother in the same room where her daughter had been kept until today—

Message Stone

It was a night where the moon seemed to linger somewhere behind the clouds, its gray-tinged silver light drifting dreamily without falling.

Dawn couldn’t be far off now.

To their right, the direction of Tamahime Shrine must have been facing east. The whitish hues of dawn were already surging beyond the forest.

Along the deserted thoroughfare of Kozukahara Execution Grounds, two shadows—a man and a woman—hurried side by side: Otsuyu of Atariya and Gamō Taiken. They had crossed the Sanya moat quite some time earlier. Yet Taiken showed no sign of stopping, and before them stretched a long, interminable road—its dust swirling in the dim light as it ran narrow and far into the distance, eventually fading from sight… toward Senju Village.

Otsuyu, unaccustomed to walking, held down the obstructive hem of her kimono as she quickened her lagging steps and caught up to Taiken with a self-pitying sigh. “Master, just how far are we going to go?” “It’s quite far, isn’t it?” “Wouldn’t this place already be outside Edo?” Taiken turned his laughing face toward her.

“That’s right,” said Gamō Taiken, turning his laughing face toward her. “This ain’t Edo no more. But still Japan through ’n’ through. Quit your frettin’ and keep up—told ya from the start it’d be a long haul, but worth it! Hahaha! Runnin’ through the night to meet your pretty boy, yet here you are actin’ all timid!” “But—” Otsuyu gasped. “But what now?” “But Master, I beg you—be straight with me. Is Lord Eizaburō truly staying at that Bamboo Mound place in Senju?”

“You’ll know when we get there.” “It’s the fastest way.” “And... and... he’s alone...?” “Well, that too we’ll know soon enough once we strike them in their sleep.”

When Taiken spoke teasingly, Otsuyu hung her head forlornly and bit the edge of the hand towel covering her head with her front teeth. Though he knew it was sinful... since it would all become a laughable story later anyway, Taiken walked ahead while carefully keeping his smiling face hidden. Following behind him, Otsuyu's heart—torn by jealousy, anxiety, and fleeting joy—became like a hopelessly tangled ball of hemp thread.

After being led by the hand by Kushimaki Oto and escaping from Suzukawa’s residence before Honjo Hōonji Bridge. When they had come a short way, Otsuyu lost sight of Oto. For Oto—having learned from Otsuyu’s own lips the whereabouts of her romantic rival Yayoi and having taken Otsuyu out to spite Genjūrō—Otsuyu was now nothing more than a hindrance, so she promptly dumped her into the night streets. But as for Yayoi and Eizaburō having a home together—merely hearing that, where in which town? Otsuyu—who had not yet questioned Oto—now stood utterly lost, alone on the late-night streets.

That young lord of all people—it couldn’t be! Though she once tried fiercely to deny it—deny it with all her might—her doubts spread through her chest like towering cumulus clouds over summer seas, wave after wave cresting until they could no longer be seen as anything but truth. Confronting Eizaburō and Yayoi in her mind’s eye, berating them to their faces, she had to curse them to death—! Clutching a heart roiled by tumultuous waves of madness, she wandered aimlessly until, regaining her senses, found herself drawn as if by magnetism to that Shubi Pine—the very tree whose memory brought both sweet shame and joy.

*Ah, that's it!* I must turn to Master Taiken!

Three small stones were swallowed by the black river water; a white hand flickered at a sleeve cuff in the darkness. Plop! Plop-plop! After removing the matting from a boat and emerging, Taiken explained to Otsuyu the circumstances of her subsequent captivity—the location, and how Tange Sazen, the one-eyed, one-handed guest wielding Ken’unmaru, lurked there. When she urgently asked, “And Lord Eizaburō?”, Taiken replied calmly, “He’s in the countryside. Let’s head there ourselves,” and with these words abruptly began walking.

A beggar clutching a poor man’s flask and a young woman heedless of her disheveled appearance... it was a strange sight.

And so. Otsuyu, who had fallen silent some time ago and given herself over to wayward fantasies, involuntarily raised her eyes and scanned the dim light of dawn in a mix of anger and sorrow when—

“Ah! “That’s the execution ground,” came Taiken’s voice. "Oh! That's terrifying…" “Ha ha ha! That’s why I said we should hurry.”

But Taiken stopped dead in his tracks and positioned himself as if to shield Otsuyu behind him. An avenue of cedars sandwiched between rice fields.

Beyond the faintly white road, clinging to the trunk of a cedar tree, there was a black shadow. And then, Otsuyu’s unforgettable youthful voice of poetry recitation flowed forth, parting the semi-darkness ahead.

“At dusk, he returns to behold blood upon his blade.” Could this be Konryūmaru’s whispered secret—the Night-Crying short sword? Feeling as though the flat-wrapped scabbard at his waist compelled him forward, Eizaburō—too restless to remain still—had walked from dawn along Senju Highway with only his shadow for company, until he reached Kozukahara Execution Grounds— Something flashed across his peripheral vision. The moment it seemed to detach from the tree roots lining the right side—thud-thud! Sensing someone closing in just two paces behind, Eizaburō whirled around.

At that moment. Chōsei. Through the murk soared a blade—the stench of steel grazed his nostrils. "It comes!" Eizaburō knew. He leapt back only to meet the cutting edge—so be it! Instead he stepped forward decisively, striking true against his foe's body—and seized this masked swordsman whose identity eluded him. It was the lone left arm! The blade was Ken’unmaru... and its wielder none other than Tange Sazen—the man they’d hunted fruitlessly until this day. “Hey! That’s Ken’unmaru!” “You! Bastard—Konrȳ! Fine place we’ve met!”

Sazen—uncompromisingly wild when it came to swords—grinned with genuine delight beneath his mask. He had come this way, seeking opponents for his street killings, guided solely by Ken’unmaru’s pull—but to discover that the very prey who’d evaded his first strike was none other than Konryūmaru! There was nothing more to say. The seventh hour.

Across the distant expanse of rice fields, two shadows flashed—scattering the pale light of the low-hanging crescent moon! Splitting to either side of the straight path. The two combatants, having gauged their breaths in their clash, separated—the momentum of their blades suddenly creating a distance of four or five ken between them. Here, Eizaburō discarded the woven sedge hat he had been wearing by the roadside and quietly drew his beloved sword, Musashi Tarō Yasukuni. Even in the hilt’s texture—gripped as softly as wringing out a wet hand towel—tonight was the night! Stirred by a fierce fighting spirit that demanded tonight be the night, Eizaburō’s hira-seigan stance hardened naturally.

Then, from behind— “Gently now.”

A voice came. Strange! Who? Even as he tried to turn around, Sazen’s single arm extended straight ahead through the darkness, closing in… The tip of Ken’unmaru gleamed like a solitary point of white light. “How I’ve searched for you—heh heh heh! Your luck’s run dry!” “Here goes, bastard!” Sweat beaded on Eizaburō’s pale, handsome face as he maintained silence. Sazen stood motionless, gripping the greatsword in one hand. His body angled rightward to catch the dawn breeze—then his rear right foot thudded! The instant his front left heel touched ground, he dropped low from his upright stance and crept forward again, clawing the earth with his left toes. Slowly… slowly… his right foot advanced—cornering Eizaburō diagonally across the road all the while. From beneath the mask, that single eye laughed… How’s that, greenhorn? As if snarling: “This ain’t exactly my idea of fun!”

Neither pushed nor pursued, Eizaburō retreated to the trunk of a pine tree on one side before he knew it; he involuntarily started and composed himself.

“Young lord!” “Lord Eizaburō! Otsuyu has arrived!” “Please stay strong!”

From nearby came this voice. Eizaburō had thought it mere mental distraction—a moment of wavering focus and idle ears—but this very notion shook him to his core. In the next instant, Musashi Tarō Yasukuni let out a hum as it charged toward Sazen’s forehead. But this was no ordinary foe. It was Sazen. Not only did he not parry—with the leaping sword shadows before his eyes—the moment he saw Ken’unmaru’s wielder swiftly draw it toward his own torso, leaning his upper body back to evade Eizaburō’s sharp blade, Ken’unmaru thrust upward from below the right—piercing Eizaburō through to the tsuba.

It appeared that…, but… Pressed down by the hilt of Musashi Tarō Yasukuni—which had cut through emptiness—the streak of blood that ran along Ken’unmaru’s tip came from the residual force grazing the back of Eizaburō’s hand. “You bastard!” A grinding of teeth escaped from Sazen’s mouth. There! Eizaburō, having thrown his weight into a body press, poured all his strength into trying to shove him away—but Sazen, immovable as bedrock, stood rooted to the earth.

From both sides—crunch! They collided and halted in the shape of the character for "person"—a clash of sword guards. Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru drew near—close enough to touch.

As their exhaled breaths tangled and flared into flames of hostility, two faces peered out from the shadows of the trees.

The rain-laden night sky hung low.

The scattered night dew spilling from the striped bamboo grass beneath the window—whether real or imagined—sounded like rainfall.

In the mansion district, the early evening was paradoxically quieter than the dead of night. After a group of drunken guards—their boisterous country dialects echoing loudly—passed through the main street toward some disreputable quarter, the silent night air reclaimed its dominion. A moisture-laden wind swept through, coolly caressed Yayoi’s bedside. Yayoi coughed violently, biting into her nightgown’s collar as if to stifle the convulsions.

Kōjimachi Sanbanchō—a room in Tsuchiya Tamon’s residence.

It was the room where Yayoi lay with her pulmonary illness. Yayoi—who these days shunned people so intensely that even her caretakers kept their distance—had a sickroom chillingly disheveled, unlike what one would expect for a young maiden. The evening meal tray brought by the maid earlier still bore untouched chopsticks.

In bed with her eyes closed, Yayoi once again found herself thinking—of that Lord Suwa Eizaburō. Lord Eizaburō was on intimate terms with some woman from Asakusa’s Three Shrines. Having subtly drawn these words from her uncle Tamon’s lips—learning everything as if reeling in a thread—Yayoi betrayed Tamon’s hopes that she might finally relinquish her attachment. Instead, the flames of her love and desire burned ever fiercer. Compounded by her rapidly worsening condition, she now muttered Eizaburō’s name deliriously under morning and evening fevers—a pitiful figure wasting away in youth’s prime under twin scourges of love and illness, reduced to a gaunt shadow of herself.

Though Tamon’s anguish at daily witnessing this was great, within it lay what might be called one solace: that pulmonary illness which had once seemed so perilous had lately stabilized somewhat, and with proper mental fortitude and care alone, the lung ailment was by no means incurable. Far from being incurable—if only one knew how to treat it—it would improve rapidly... Both Yayoi herself and Tamon had come to hold this firm belief.

However, as her condition improved in this manner, Yayoi’s feelings for Eizaburō only grew more intense—no longer the pure maidenly affection of before, but now transforming into the heart of a jealous woman made all the more tenacious and obstinate by Otsuyu’s presence between them—a jealousy that defied societal norms. A rivalry in love—even as she was shocked by the blatant love and hatred in her own heart, Yayoi found herself unable to stop cursing Otsuyu day and night, invoking demons…….

Though her condition was improving, she still could not leave her bed. Tonight as well—in the lamplight of an andon clad in her own yuzen-patterned fabric—Yayoi lay unable to sleep, cheek pressed to her pillow as she unwittingly pursued Eizaburō’s visage before her eyes, all while muttering resentful incantations under her breath toward this unseen Otsuyu…

A damp night wind flowed in soundlessly.

The moment she did, Yayoi was seized by another violent coughing fit,

"Oh! I forgot to close the window..."

Muttering to herself that it wasn’t worth bothering to call someone, she quietly threw off her nightclothes and sat up—

That was the moment. From the outdoor darkness 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 when she timidly picked it up, she found a pebble wrapped in a scrap of paper and twisted shut—a message stone. No sooner had the thought of what could this be crossed her mind than Yayoi hurriedly opened it—a pebble tumbled down at her feet, leaving in her hand nothing but a torn scrap of rolled paper. Yayoi naturally had no way of knowing whose handwriting it was, but the chicken-scratch characters ran diagonally across the page like a sudden shower slanting across a field path.

Pardon my presumption, but I humbly pen these words. Whenever I see Otsuyu and Lord Eizaburō keeping house together as man and wife, my heart aches for you, my lady—and though I know it impertinent, I felt compelled to inform you. Should you wish to go to that place, I shall escort you there directly—make haste to ready yourself. From one who knows. Startled, Yayoi staggered. Clutching the window frame, she peered out to see—though the message claimed to be from "one who knows"—a woman she had never before laid eyes on standing beneath a tree in the garden now misted with drizzle. When had she slipped in? How? Pale-faced beneath her furled umbrella, the stranger beckoned urgently.

As Yayoi—possessed—stood up and frantically began tying her obi with a blood-drained face, the rain abruptly intensified into a downpour, thick silver-gleaming raindrops pounding against the eaves. Household goods—if one could even call them that—consisted of bowls, plates, small dishes, two pairs of chopsticks, and a few modest cooking implements. Truth be told, they would have preferred to make do with just one bowl and one pair of chopsticks if possible.

Though it lacked everything, for Eizaburō and Otsuyu, their back-alley dwelling surpassed lofty towers and jeweled pavilions.

The house stood with an echoing emptiness—though this might suggest a certain spaciousness—but in truth, it was a cramped nine-by-twelve-foot tenement buried deep within the labyrinthine alleys of Kawara-machi near Asakusa Gate, a place so far removed within that back alley it verged on absurdity. It was beyond merely cramped—if one were to lie straight, their legs would protrude through the doorway—but... When Otsuyu laughed at how cramped and grimy it was, Eizaburō smiled too. Even the new bamboo strainer and miso sieve made this humble dwelling—both joyous and mortifying—the love nest of the young couple.

Though Otsuyu and Eizaburō had managed to set up house here—their wish fulfilled—Otsuyu could not rest easy even now, fearing her mother might be suspected due to her own flight and subjected to abuse by that Lord Genjūrō at his Honjo estate. At the same time, what she found perplexing upon reflection was the behavior and words of the woman named Oto who had helped her escape.

Otsuyu—who had heard about Lord Eizaburō and Lady Yayoi...—dashed out in a frenzy and was hurrying toward Senju with Taiken. At dawn in Kozukahara, Tange Sazen and Suwa Eizaburō crossed blades. Though Eizaburō possessed both swords’ spirits in accordance with Taiken’s earlier assessment of a forty-sixty split, he—unlike Sazen, who had weathered countless blades—inevitably fell into a defensive stance. Worse still, fresh blood from the wound splitting his hand showed no sign of stopping, streaming down his legs to seep uselessly into the dirt of the roadway. Even so, from the shadows came Taiken’s spirited “Hey!” “Yah!” Unbeknownst to himself, Eizaburō found encouragement in these shouts, and from there he and Sazen clashed fiercely through five or six exchanges—when suddenly! Hearing what sounded like reinforcements’ voices from an unknown source, Tange Sazen—perhaps finding prolonged combat troublesome—swiftly vowed to meet again soon with an Asura-like ferocity before fleeing toward Edo under the waning moon’s light.

Otsuyu and Eizaburō joined hands beneath the pale crimson sky as dawn was breaking—their first contact in what felt like ages. As Otsuyu tore her hand towel to bandage his wounds and pressed him with questions, she learned Eizaburō had indeed been hiding all this time at Senju Takezuka with Magotarou, his milk-brother, exactly as Taiken had claimed. The suspicions Oto had whispered into her mind dissolved like morning mist—yet rather than dwell on why such lies had been spun, Otsuyu could only blush crimson while joyfully discussing with Eizaburō their plans to establish a household together immediately.

“I’d only be in the way if I stuck around. “Linger any longer here and you’ll come to hate me. “Best scram before the dogs get me—scram!” After Taiken made this brusque exit, the two sat talking on Tamahime Shrine’s steps—how long had they lingered? When they finally noticed, the sun hung high already, blue cargo carts tinged with morning dew streaming one after another along Senju Highway toward Edo’s markets, carrying crisp freshness in their wake.

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

In their life often wanting, the sound of the morning fire being tended rang out each dawn, Otsuyu’s wifely demeanor fresh and vibrant. Taiken visited nearly every day, and without fail after his departures, a few small gold coins would remain at the entranceway. It was likely he was discreetly utilizing the gold coins given by Lord Ōoka. Eizaburō had been humbly receiving and using them, yet whenever their faces met, neither he nor Taiken ever spoke a word about it. Otsuyu felt so happy that tears welled up, wondering why men’s interactions managed to be so considerate and thorough.

Through Otsuyu’s account. It had been discovered that Tange Sazen was hiding in the detached cottage of hatamoto Suzukawa Genjūrō, located in front of Honjo Hōon-ji Temple where Osayo’s mother was employed.

And so...

Gamō Taiken and Eizaburō had been secretly conferring these past two or three days—but believing that informing Otsuyu would only cause her needless worry, Eizaburō—who had earlier strolled out to the bathhouse in the rain under false pretenses—was at this very moment launching a coordinated raid with Taiken upon Suzukawa’s Honjo estate! Unaware of this, Otsuyu—eagerly awaiting Eizaburō’s return with his damp hand towel, and determined to silently serve him something to lift his spirits despite their poverty—kept fussing over the heating of the sake flask she had set out by the hearth—

No sooner had a vivid flash of color flickered at the latticework than a young woman dressed like a princess from the Yamate district stood in the three-shaku earthen entryway, her hair whipping wildly in the driving rain. Thud! The first move came as a single kick against the storm shutters from outside. Eizaburō and Taiken split to either side simultaneously, concealing themselves against both flanks of the door. Unaware of their presence, the man inside the hermitage scrambled up with frantic rustling sounds before sliding the door open with evident irritation. “Tch!” “Who’s there? The one who just hit the door—state your business!” “If you’ve got business, announce yourself!”

Before he could finish, in that instant, Musashitarō—having leapt back with his sheath—sent a silver arc flashing through the air. Agh—! With a soul-rending death scream lingering in the air, the aforementioned man—struck upward from below his torso—slumped forward as if bowing deeply, then tumbled through the door gap to writhe across rain-soaked garden soil, clawing at the mud. Living blood burst! The blood scattered like sparks, hotly splattering onto Eizaburō’s feet. But! Even judging by how easily he fell to the blade, the one cut down was not Sazen. Indeed, the man was clutching the stepping stones with both arms.

In that case,

There was no doubt their target Tange Sazen still lay submerged within the hermitage—yet not a single rustle betrayed whether he slept or kept watch... Taiken and Eizaburō unconsciously stifled their breath. The night's icy rain fell in a steady drizzle, melting into pitch-black darkness. Tree leaves glowed pale under accumulated rainwater's weight, tilting abruptly until a solitary drop struck the grass below with an audible plink. Water droplets clung to each pine needle's tip, catching light from the door's cracks to glisten conspicuously even through night-adapted vision.

A bone-piercingly sorrowful rain in the dead of night.

The two men who had stormed the detached cottage of the Honjo Haunted Mansion now hid on either side of an ajar wooden door, listening intently to assess what was happening inside.

Having learned from Otsuyu that Tange Sazen—wielder of Ken’unmaru—was hiding here, Suwa Eizaburō and Gamō Taiken had launched a surprise attack tonight without her knowledge. On their way, Taiken—having pulled up a roadside stake as a makeshift weapon—whispered to Eizaburō to finalize the plan. “You focus on Tange.” “According to Miss Otsuyu’s account, four or five to ten ruffians are constantly staying at the mansion—but if any interference comes, I’ll handle however many there are.”

Spurred by Taiken's encouraging words and resolved that this time he must by all means obtain the other half of the Night-Crying pair—Ken'unmaru—Eizaburō revealed his fierce determination through his furrowed brow, stealthily caressed Musashitarō's hilt, and slipped into Suzukawa's estate like a shadow-thief.

Midnight.

The darkness was profound, and the rain poured down. It was a night made for ambushing those in their sleep. Having quietly urged each other on as they approached the detached room, Taiken and Eizaburō—with Eizaburō being the one to open the door—had cut down a man in a surprise strike, but he appeared to be nothing more than some nameless small-time gambler or low-ranking troublemaker. However, inside, it was unclear how many other vagrants—starting with Sazen himself—might be sleeping in a heap. Thus, even these two could not recklessly charge in. The noise from earlier did not seem to reach Genjūrō and the others in the main house, but it was certain that those in the detached room were now on high alert, holding their breath. But to the ears of Eizaburō and Taiken, who were pressed close outside, there came only the cadence of night beneath the rain’s dripping... No matter how long they waited, there was not a single response.

As they waited, Inside the storm shutters came a furtive rustle! There was a furtive rustle of movement inside, and at the same moment, someone blew out the bedside lamp with a sharp puff. He had to break through—this hesitation knew no end! Pumped up with resolve, Eizaburō entrusted the rear to Taiken and slipped his body into the door gap in the nick of time! The ice-cold blade lying in wait inside sliced through the air toward Eizaburō’s shoulder! The moment it seemed about to strike, Musashitarō’s large foreign-iron tsuba clanged! It bit back from below—the smell of violently struck metal conjured a wisp of battle aura that grazed his nostrils. Instantly! Eizaburō’s fully extended one-handed strike—what the Shinpen Musō-ryū school calls the Nyo-i no Kenbō—bloomed into a spray of blood. Yet another man collapsed onto the edge with a thud, unable to endure, clutching his thigh mid-heron’s leap as he fell.

Kicking away the wounded assailant who came crashing down upon him, stepping onto the threshold, Eizaburō—his blood-dripping blade held in blue-eyed stance within the darkness—stirred a silent battle cry from the depths of his belly.

Silence reigned. As Eizaburō’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, the faint silhouette of a figure sitting formally at the room’s center—gripping a single sword—gradually came into view. “Konryūmaru, eh?” “To come in this rain!” “My apologies for the other night—” As Sazen’s drifting voice hung in the air, the sound of a door opening from the main house echoed through the night, followed by Suzukawa Genjūrō’s roar: “What’s this?!” “Tange! What’s happened?!”

Ōmura Kakutoku, who created the method of true fifteen-layer kōbuse and established his own school in the forging of new swords. Kabutofuse—commonly called maru-gitae (round forging)—resulted in blades with a bluish tint that were renowned for their fierce sharpness. Originally developed by Kamakura Fujiwara no Genjisuke Sanezumi but never transmitted beyond himself, Kakutoku perfected this method, declaring that "the world's tachi are dead blades while kōbuse are living swords." Throughout his lifetime, he forged scarcely one hundred blades. Musashitarō Yasukuni was a disciple of this Ōmura Kakutoku.

Suwa Eizaburō—who now held the single sword forged by Musashitarō in a perfect blue-eyed stance—stared intently into the darkness-engulfed hermitage, bracing for Ken’unmaru’s imminent charge from afar. The main house in the separate building erupted into commotion, with Suzukawa Genjūrō, Tsuchi Sennosuke, Tsuzumi no Yokichi, and fourteen or fifteen others shouting back and forth.

If they were to come pouring into the garden at any moment, Taiken alone would be no match for the chaotic blades in the darkness... Just as Eizaburō’s thoughts turned outward, there—at the rear entrance! “Lord Eizaburō! I’ll handle things here! Cut down Tange without hesitation!”

At Taiken’s commanding voice, Eizaburō cast off all lingering hesitation—Cut him down! Hearing this, it was Tange Sazen—still seated with knees formally aligned—who bared his teeth in a grin that flashed through the darkness. “So you’ve come slashing your way here—seems your death’s drawing near at last.”

With Sword Demon Sazen—the tsuba clanged—this was likely due to the force concentrated in his single hand gripping Ken’unmaru’s hilt. At the same time, “Well then, shall we get started?!” With a roar, purple lightning streaked low and came at Eizaburō’s knee. Eizaburō leapt back—Ken’unmaru swept sideways with a splintering crack! The moment he saw Ken’unmaru shatter the shoji screen’s frame with a splintering crack, Eizaburō swung Nagamitsu through the air and charged straight at Sazen’s head. But what bloomed were the futon and a section of the tatami mats.

In that instant, Sazen—having rebounded without moving from his spot—kicked over the tobacco tray as he pressed himself against the rear wall. There, amidst the billowing ash from disturbed embers, the figure of Sazen raising Ken’unmaru high with his left arm appeared like an immovable statue carved from life itself. “Bastard! Now I’ll send that scrawny neck of yours flying!” Tange Sazen’s bellowed words vanished into the metallic shriek of clashing blades. Eizaburō closed in without allowing a moment’s breath, executing a brilliant foot stomp as he danced about—swish-swish!—in all directions. For he pressed his attack relentlessly. It is in dying by the sword that one lives by it. To Eizaburō, who had already transcended life and death, both Sazen and Sazen’s blade differed not at all from the sparring partners who crossed practice swords with him in the dojo. Abandoning his very being in pursuit of salvation, he left his defensive stance wide open and came striding in like a woodsman splitting logs—swish!—he struck. A terrifying swordstroke that defied all technique yet perfectly embodied its principles.

This appeared to have cooled even Sazen’s typically brazen spirit—indeed, Sazen now adopted a somewhat defensive stance, his gaze fixed on the rain-lashed doorway as though seeking an opening to leap into the garden and unite with Genjūrō’s men. But Eizaburō, having already perceived this intent, fiercely parried blades while never forgetting to bodily block the exit—a maneuver that made Sazen erupt in furious impatience despite himself.

“G-Gh…! Shut your damn mouth!” Tange Sazen suddenly shifted to offense—swiftly parrying Eizaburō’s two-handed thrust in that instant—as Ken’unmaru’s cold blade traced a rainbow arc in the blink of an eye before slicing down upon Eizaburō. The Musashitarō-forged blade parried, its iron screeching against iron as the vibration traveled through the hilt to Eizaburō’s hand, leaving it faintly numb. The moment he stepped back, he carelessly tripped over the corpse at the threshold and fell flat on his back.

Seeing this, Sazen—with a gut-piercing battle cry—immediately pursued him and unleashed a second strike...

In the pitch-black darkness, the two could see each other.

The spark-scattering sword aura reflected in their mind’s eye as though it were daylight. Sazen brought his blade down. Eizaburō deflected upward. Between them! Agh! Was the shriek that erupted Sazen’s, or Eizaburō’s?

At the time when Suzukawa’s Honjo haunted mansion had been submerged beneath sword shadows and transformed into a battlefield of clashing blades in the cold rain...

Here in the depths of Kawaramachi’s back alleys, at Suwa Eizaburō’s vacant residence as well, a struggle no less intense than that had begun.

Men fight with sword and strength.

But the weapons employed in women’s conflicts were distorted smiles, glistening tears, and words cloaked in needles… and beneath it all flowed two intense emotions like a river of fire.

Mutual curses—two white snakes locked in hatred. Now they sat in the main room—though it was but a single chamber of Eizaburō’s humble dwelling—facing each other across a hearth fashioned from a cracked mortar filled with ashes. Otsuyu and Yayoi. They stared into each other’s eyes in silence—neither willing to yield, as though whoever looked away first would be deemed defeated—a contest of gazes. But Otsuyu, having managed a water teahouse, was after all more worldly than Yayoi. Otsuyu bowed politely as she had done repeatedly since their encounter began, maintaining a perfectly measured smile as she repeated words laced with thorns. “Pardon me—so you are Lady Yayoi?” “This is our first meeting.” “I’ve heard much about you from my husband… I am Otsuyu, Eizaburō’s wife—a most unrefined woman.” “I beg your kind consideration… hohoho. My husband has just gone to bathe—though given the hour when we drew the water, he should return shortly. Unless… he’s wandered off somewhere.” “Oh, do take your leisure.”

With emphasis on the phrase “Eizaburō’s wife,” just saying this much had been Otsuyu’s utmost effort. She would not be mocked as a former teahouse girl. If she couldn’t even manage a proper greeting, it would reflect poorly on Lord Eizaburō’s honor more than her own. In Otsuyu’s tightly wound heart—and above all else, aided by her triumphant pride in being the sole possessor of Eizaburō’s mind and body—she had managed to deliver this smooth introductory speech, but afterward,

“I hear my husband has caused you considerable trouble…” Otsuyu had barely begun to speak when—suddenly—an inexplicable cloud of jealousy surged up within her, and she felt her vision abruptly darken.

However, Yayoi remained silent.

Since entering this house, she had not once taken her eyes off Otsuyu’s face—sitting there without so much as a bow, let alone uttering a single word. To speak would be defiling! Though harshly scolding herself, Yayoi nevertheless found that the mere thought of this being Eizaburō’s residence made the corners of her eyes grow hot, until even each meager household item scattered about seemed like long-forgotten possessions of her own that she couldn’t help but feel nostalgic toward.

But this woman before her eyes?

She had proclaimed herself to be Lord Eizaburō’s wife. Ah… So this was Atariya’s Otsuyu—the one she’d heard about. But to call herself his wife—absolutely unthinkable! No! No! His wife—she could never be his wife! Absolutely not! Screaming this in her heart and staring fixedly at Otsuyu, Yayoi suddenly wondered—what had driven her to come here through the rain? And as she lost grasp of her own motive—simultaneously seeing her position appear more wretched than ever—no sooner had she felt her raging heart abruptly shatter than tears that hazed her vision accompanied a sob of unknown origin escaping through her clenched teeth.

Compelled by the summons, Yayoi had left Tsuchiya Tamon’s residence and been led through rain-mired roads to this place by Kushimaki Oto, who had been waiting. “Now now! How pitiful,” “I truly sympathize.” Having said this—though bearing no relation to the matter—Oto explained at length as if excusing herself: how she had taken Yayoi’s tragically unrewarded love as her own burden, and thus resolved to guide her unasked to Eizaburō’s hideout where Otsuyu dwelled. And,

“Well now, my lady, truth be told, I too have a man just like you do—one who’ll coldly cast me aside no matter how much I pine for him.” While recalling Sazen—this girl! This girl! This girl! As she glanced sideways in distress over what to do, Yayoi—driven by love and jealousy—paid no heed to who her companion Oto might be, her disheveled hair thoroughly drenched by the driving rain as she kept her lips tightly sealed.

Through the rain that had begun at dusk, that night at Suzukawa’s mansion saw the usual gambling crowd gather and compete boisterously until late into the night—but eventually their revelry dissolved. The corrupt hatamoto and disgraced lower-ranking samurai regulars who had convened there lay side by side in the main house, pillows aligned as they settled into sleep. Just as they began to drift off, a sudden raid broke out like a storm lashing against them. That night, over twenty comrades were staying at Suzukawa’s place, with two of them sleeping in the detached cottage alongside Sazen. These two fell victim to Musashitarō just as Eizaburō stormed in. When Genjūrō, Sennosuke, Yokichi, and fourteen others from the main house—who had heard the commotion—threw open the shutters to peer outside, the midnight rain enveloped the entire garden. Through the thicket from the direction of the cottage drifted an ominous presence.

Even as they called out repeatedly, there was no answer from Sazen. Not only that, but the light in the detached room—which until moments ago had been making its round window stand out in the wet darkness—had gone out. “Something’s wrong!” No sooner had they sensed this than Suzukawa Genjūrō immediately issued commands. They tucked up the hems of their nightclothes, thrust their large swords into their belts, and stealthily descended into the garden.

In the rain, they advanced toward the cottage in several groups. The squelch-squelch-squelch of their footsteps summoned a chill around their collars, and the surrounding darkness grew heavier under the pouring rain. Gamō Taiken, who had discerned this large group of figures from the moment they left the main house, first called out to encourage Eizaburō within—then dashed low to the ground like a crawling creature and concealed himself in the shadow of a stone lantern along the path from the main house, waiting for the vanguard.

Though called a garden, it remained true to its reputation as the Haunted Mansion—an unbroken stretch of overgrown thickets. Tsuchi Sennosuke, leading the way, shielded his drawn sword from the rain while parting sodden clumps of grass. "I dragged myself out here for this? Mount Tai quakes only to birth a fucking mouse... And this godsdamned rain keeps coming down."

He was muttering to himself as he approached its front when—

Taiiken’s log-like staff suddenly shot out sideways— “Ah!” “There he is!” Sennosuke’s stunned body was flung into the grass. What met the eyes of those following behind was a figure that could only be called a monstrous beggar now blocking their path in Sennosuke’s place. And in that hand was being brandished the bare blade he had just seized from Sennosuke. “Hah! “This one’s it!”

“Now! All together now—cut him down!” With Genjūrō at their head exchanging loud shouts, a formation of deadly swords glinting in the raindrops encircled Taiken completely. But Gamō Taiken—bold and unflinching—as though profoundly trusting in his swordsmanship, kicked off the ground and positioned himself behind a stone lantern as a makeshift shield, adopting the Jigen-ryū Chūseigan stance: a composure likened to observing transformations within stillness. This Jigen-ryū is said to have originated when its founder, after mastering the 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 essence of the school.

Master Taiken secretly considered himself peerless in all the land when it came to Jigen-ryū.

Now, pressed by that indomitable spirit and swordsman’s bearing, seeing the encircling group falter ever so slightly— “Have at you!” “I shall face you!” Genjūrō sprang forth—the flying flash of his Saryū-style iai draw sliced through, swift! The instant he was seen cutting through the rain! Without a moment’s delay, Taiiken leapt aside. His blade—having shattered part of the encircling formation in retaliation—immediately took on a crimson hue. Master Taiiken now had no choice but to offer up one of those nearby as a blood sacrifice. A groan of agony erupted as they clawed at the roots of weeds.

As four or five bare blades vied to press in on Taiken, a jet-black spray suddenly flew through the rainy darkness—and already one or two men knelt clutching their swords in the mud, or gripped their shoulders unable to rise.

Taiiken rushed in. In his wake lay the wounded and dying, their agonized cries mingling in chaotic disarray. Rampaging through the garden, Taiken suddenly collided with Genjūrō—the very man he had been hunting! As their blades met in that first clash, a blood-drenched scream—unmistakably from someone being cut down—rang out clearly from the detached hut that had weighed on his mind. Soon after emerged a single black shadow—its sword stained with fresh blood and dulled of luster. The figure could be seen reeling out of the cottage.

The hand holding the sword! Was that the right arm or the left? If it was the right arm, Eizaburō; if the left arm, Sazen...

In the very moment Taiken’s eyes were involuntarily drawn—!

“Hyaah!” With an explosive battle cry, Suzukawa Genjūrō’s longsword whipped up a gale as it came crashing down upon Taiken.

Kushimaki Oto nursed a wicked scheme in her heart. This concerned the girl named Yayoi—the very woman her beloved Sazen had set his heart upon. Yet this same Yayoi burned with desperate longing for Sazen's mortal enemy Suwa Eizaburō. When Oto discovered that Yayoi and Otsuyu—the woman she'd helped escape Suzukawa Genjūrō's clutches the previous night—stood as fierce romantic rivals, she resolved to goad Yayoi here. Her aim: redirect the girl's heart wholly toward Eizaburō and thereby send Sazen into panicked disarray. For this purpose came the inspiration of a sudden written provocation.

Love and jealousy are two sides of the same heart. They cannot be separated.

Moreover, this was Yayoi—the same Yayoi who had long been secretly loosing arrows of fierce hatred and ceaselessly cursing the woman called Otsuyu. She naturally had no way of realizing she was being used as Oto’s puppet. Without a second thought, she was reeled in by the rope Oto had cast—accompanied by a wolf in escort’s clothing under a shared umbrella—and in a dreamlike state, she was delivered to this house in Kawaracho—but… And so it was—having now witnessed Otsuyu and Eizaburō’s life together firsthand, sitting face-to-face with Otsuyu herself—that when those words about “her master Eizaburō” came from the mouth of this hateful woman, Yayoi—true to her single-minded samurai upbringing—found her strength born of worldly naivety crumbling instantly into weakness. Futility and pity surged up in her chest until Yayoi could do nothing but weep.

Yayoi wept. She wept bitterly. Yet she neither slumped forward nor hid her tear-streaked face with hands or sleeves. With hands resting formally on her knees and maintaining a solemn upright posture as she faced Otsuyu, Yayoi sat drenching her entire face in tears while choking back sobs. When this weeping reached Kushimaki Oto—standing eavesdropping in the alley outside with her umbrella folded—she knit her slender eyebrows into inverted V-shapes and clicked her tongue in disgust. “Tch!” “What nonsense! How utterly spineless!” “No one’s pathetic enough to blubber before the woman who stole her man.” “Are all noble girls such weaklings? Infuriating!” “Honestly makes me sick!”

After muttering this, she kept her ear pressed to the door—Yayoi’s weeping grew louder still, gradually overtaking the sound of the rain. True to form, Yayoi made no attempt to turn her face from the tattered lantern; she let her flowing tears fall openly before Otsuyu—Oh! Oh! She sobbed as though coughing up each breath. Otsuyu initially found this strange and gaped at her in bewilderment.

Her beautifully haggard white face contorted convulsively toward the center; her mouth twisted, the area around her nostrils swelled up, and from both eyes—gathered with countless wrinkles—teardrops were forced out... One after another, they glistened as they fell, thoroughly soaking the backs of her hands where blue veins stood out and the yuzen-patterned kimono enveloping 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; she wailed aloud in lamentation, her body not moving an inch.

Yet the reason Yayoi’s shadow loomed large and blurred upon the bone-exposed wall—her shoulder area trembling minutely—was not solely due to the oil-starved bare lamp wick... Yayoi, while remaining seated, cast herself into a river of tears; surrendering to the surging tides of her own emotions, she seemed to savor a strangely sweet satisfaction in the act itself. “Is this how a samurai’s daughter weeps—so unrestrainedly?” Otsuyu marveled inwardly as she stared fixedly at Yayoi’s tears—for it is women who understand women’s weeping. Then, when thoughts of Eizaburō—absent from this place—flashed through her mind, she felt Yayoi’s heart pressing against her own emotions like a seal into wax, and before she knew it, Otsuyu too had dampened the corners of her eyes.

It was a faint epiphany of hearts that, through their shared connection to one man, would soon meld into one. But for them to become smooth, the 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.

A long silence ensued.

And then，at that moment，Otsuyu noticed that something like words had begun to mingle within Yayoi’s weeping，

“Huh?” “What do you mean—?”

She had meant to ask in return, but what startled even herself was that what emerged from Otsuyu’s mouth was nothing but a sobbing voice.

Anticipating that they would soon come to blows, Oto, who had been listening outside,

“Well, well!” “Ugh, this reeks of damp misery.” “This ain’t no funeral… What’s the big idea?!” “Both of you bawlin’ your eyes out!” In a fit of misdirected irritation, she jerked up her black collar with a sharp tug and struck an exaggerated pose to empty air.

At that very moment, at Suzukawa’s Honjo mansion——

Tripping over a corpse cooling in the darkness, Eizaburō fell—and Sazen slashed down at that very spot……

But at that moment! Musashitarō, supporting from below, met the blade’s resistance—and it was the sword-mad Tange Sazen who let out a scream that seemed to gouge the very liver and bowels. Sazen—who had done nothing but cut others down and hadn’t been cut himself in recent times—now felt the metallic taste he had long forgotten surge through his body. With a beast-like howl, he stamped his feet and lurched forward onto the veranda. Even without reexamining it, the wound had only dug into his right knee without reaching the bone. Having determined it was not serious, he once more fiercely took up Ken’unmaru.

One eye gone, one arm lost—a monster with sword scars gouged deep into his face... And now a cripple too? Fucking hell! The instant this thought flashed through his mind, the cunning old fox—contrary to the urgency of the moment—gritted his teeth as though enduring pain—and laughed. “Come on, you! “I’ll repay this debt right now!” …

In lieu of a response, Eizaburō sprang up and immediately leaped to press his pursuit. Parrying them left and right, Sazen retreated step by step, his back to the doorway. It was precisely because they fought within the cramped hermitage that Tange Sazen—whose swordplay could twist through eight turns and four directions—found his movements constrained, while Eizaburō, accustomed to battling beneath dojo roofs, could hold his ground evenly. But should Sazen once be unleashed into the open air, everyone knew he would seize the terrain’s advantages, rally allies, and amplify his frenzied swordsmanship to demonic heights. Outdoors, Taiken was engaged in a desperate struggle against numerous opponents. If he were to let Sazen escape there and go out himself, it was clear as day that he and Taiken would fall into dire straits together.

Determined to keep him confined indoors—as Eizaburō circled right to cut off his retreat—Sazen’s left hand twitched! No sooner had Sazen moved—Ken’unmaru splitting the wind as he leapt forth—than Eizaburō tried to pull back to disengage. But the instant his feet touched the earthen floor, Tange Sazen’s body—rigid as a six-foot staff—slid smoothly out through the doorway.

Taiiken had seen the spot where he emerged. Taiiken cast but a fleeting glance... Yet that momentary lapse unwittingly granted Genjūrō an opening—Suzukawa Genjūrō, splattering mud as he stomped forward, swung his blade down through rain-trailing streams of light, its arc luminous—. That would have been fine, but brushing against a protruding tree branch in between, shattered bark and leaves scattered dew in disarray with a crash! Perceiving the scattering debris with swift intuition, Taiiken crouched low and retreated backward—so that Genjūrō narrowly avoided driving the tip of his beloved blade into his own foot.

Sword flashes glinted in the rain as people trampled the grass and charged wildly in all directions.

The melee raged at its fiercest.

Otherwise, it was an early winter evening of fine rain. A tranquil night most fitting for sipping wine while humming verses and discussing refined poetry—but...

Now, beneath a sky dark and heavy with hanging clouds, halberds swirled in a maelstrom within this Haunted Mansion, and a relentless downpour showed no sign of ceasing. The sound of rain beating against bloodstained blades of grass.

The groans of the slain, mingled with muddy mire, continued intermittently here and there. Wet swords flew past each other, their glimmers intertwining, creating a scene as though it were an untimely battle of fireflies. Taiken evaded Genjūrō’s sharp blade, causing it to strike empty air. At the same moment, Taiken perceived a blade of ice!—a sword gust sweeping across his nape—and barely turned around in time. Whether this reaction was swift or whether Tange Sazen—who, upon exiting the detached room in one motion, had spotted Master Taiken’s figure, charged toward him while flipping Ken’unmaru for a back strike—was simply too slow… Regardless, all Sazen’s slash struck were several rain lines adorning the darkness. Meanwhile, Master Taiken, with the prized blade he had initially wrested from Tsuchi Sennosuke, executed a wheel-like reversal and delivered an unexpected sweeping strike toward Genjūrō behind him. By then, against the crescent-shaped scattered blades now closing in, he had already returned to stillness—no resentment, no thought—settling once more into the unbreakable chūseigan stance.

“Beggar bastard! Here’s a taste for ya!” It was Tange Sazen’s voice, thick with genuine admiration. Konryū—pursuing Ken’unmaru—bolted from the room. As Eizaburō peered through the rain to survey the garden, he spotted a cluster of glinting blades near a small clearing in the grass ahead—a group that seemed to have Taiiken surrounded. “You vermin! If it’s come to this—I’ll make Musashitarō lick up every last drop of your blood!” In that instant, Eizaburō charged headlong toward his foe! Coiling around his initial momentum, a black shadow abruptly surged forth from the void!

“I request a duel!” He stood blocking the way—it was a quiet voice.

The rain intensified with the deepening night, coldly drenching the towns of Edo... From the ditch where collected runoff had swelled the water's volume, a muddy stench wafted up and assaulted Oto's nostrils. The eaves on both sides pressed close together, creating an alleyway so narrow it felt like being beneath a single roof. Drops falling from the eaves struck the tilted umbrella at precise intervals, their muffled resonance startlingly loud. A row of tenements lay hushed in the rain. Inside the house, Otsuyu and Yayoi, each other’s tears provoking fresh ones, seemed to be going on and on with their entreaties.

Oto—this unasked-for meddling of a jealous demoness—had dragged Yayoi, whom Tange Sazen harbored feelings for, all the way from Kōjimachi in this rain, aiming to provoke her longing for Eizaburō and thereby entangle their swirling vortex of love in chaos. Yet despite her labors, even as she stood outside straining to eavesdrop, there was no sign of a scuffle—let alone any escalation—to be seen.

Merely by showing Yayoi the intimate dwelling where Eizaburō and Otsuyu lived together, Oto had tormented her quite effectively—but unless Yayoi suffered even greater humiliation, Oto knew she wouldn’t be able to stomach it. However, no matter how long she waited, the two simply continued weeping together... This meant Kushimaki Oto’s initial scheme had utterly failed, and now, with no way to retreat, she kept pressing her ear to the lattice’s gap—.

A black shadow had been lurking like a dog near the mouth of the alley since some time before. That shadow had crouched on the plank over the ditch a short distance away until now, but perhaps having finally confirmed Oto’s presence, it suddenly retreated backward as if to hide and quietly slipped away into the street… But Oto, her attention fixed solely on the house within, failed to notice.

Inside that house,

Otsuyu and Yayoi, women sharing tears over the same bitter pangs of love. Why had Lady Yayoi tracked down our hideout, and on top of that, come rushing in so suddenly on this rainy late night? This had been the first thought to strike Otsuyu’s mind—but once seated, as she watched Yayoi weep silently before her, she found herself inexplicably unable to hold back her own tears. A single one spilled forth, and after that, all words she might have spoken vanished. The two women wept and wept, nearly clasping hands like sisters yet never quite reaching out, their sorrows unspent.

Yayoi, who spared no tears over her lost love— And Otsuyu—who harbored another sorrow born from the anxieties of a love gained and consideration for her defeated rival—...

Having finally wiped away her tears, Yayoi somberly recounted to Otsuyu— Her own heart of love, inclined toward Eizaburō. Her late father Tessai’s scheme. The parting of the Night-Crying long and short swords. "My own illness... and such, and such."

And then, “I must be going now. “I myself do not know why I came here to intrude. “It would be best if I do not meet Lord Eizaburō…… Please, both of you, take care of your health.”

While rising to her feet, Yayoi added.

“Lady Otsuyu. “Please devote yourself to Lord Eizaburō—my share as well.” “He has always preferred light clothing, even in the coldest months, ever since his days at the dojo—and now that winter approaches, I couldn’t help worrying he might catch a chill… Ohoho! How presumptuous of me to say such a thing when you are here.” “Then please do not mention that I came—forgive my intrusion at this late hour.”

And with that, the strong Yayoi had once again become her usual strong self. But at the same time, the weak Otsuyu—having already reverted to her usual weak self—could she endure the agony of a love won? Ah! Otsuyu let out a cry, sobbed, and collapsed—and Oto, who was outside, overheard this,

“What in blazes?!” “This ain’t some tearful melodrama worth watching.” “She’s started blubbering again!”

At the very moment she unconsciously let slip this muttered complaint—

The presence of many people disrupted the sound of rain as they approached! Startled, Oto turned her gaze toward the alleyway entrance—and through the faintly glimmering silver-threaded bead curtain reflected in her eyes loomed a pitch-black mass of captors piled high, surging forth from who-knows-where at who-knows-when! A forest of jitte! The forest of jitte held their breath in silence.

Oh! Though her courage faltered, there she stood—Kushimaki’s top sister—baring her teeth into the void as she darted glances at the rooftops to either side. And then—! The manhunt’s net held no gaps; lanterns marked “Official Business” in thick brushstrokes seeped sickly yellow light through the rain, some held high and others low…

Fukuro Alley. There was no escape route.

Having instantly assessed the situation, Kushimaki Oto covered her pursed lips with her sleeve and instinctively struck a coquettish pose. “Well now, isn’t this crude! Awfully quick preparations, aren’t they?” A man’s voice—“I demand single combat!”—resonated clearly in Eizaburō’s ears amidst the battlefield where all order had collapsed. Their noses nearly met—even without peering through the darkness, his opponent stood revealed: a magnificent samurai thoroughly drenched by the rain pouring down his entire frame!

At Suzukawa Genjūrō’s haunted mansion, waves of clashing blades still raged through the rain.

Taiken’s in danger! The moment Eizaburō stepped forward with this thought, he froze—the samurai who had materialized before his eyes left him involuntarily breathless. The man wore formal fireman’s attire—unmistakably pristine and draped with the dignity of noble lineage. His drawn longsword remained pointed downward. Whether through Eizaburō’s heightened senses or some trick of perception, the samurai seemed to smile beneath his horned hood—yet his sword stance radiated an unearthly poise. Confronting him instinctively, Eizaburō shuddered—a visceral chill he could not suppress.

"What the—? Who is this?" Had he surged up from the earth itself, or had the darkness congealed into form?—Regardless, this samurai clearly didn’t belong to Suzukawa’s household. Then…? Could these be enemy reinforcements? Yet even so—the oppressiveness radiating from their elaborate fireman’s garb, that arrogant bearing pressing in from all sides—what devilry was this…? Sword still at his side yet unable to quell his suspicions, Eizaburō—torn by conflicting thoughts—cast a fleeting glance into the nearby darkness. Impossible! There beneath rain-drenched trees clutching their last remaining leaves stood four or five more figures in identical attire, each poised with hands resting neatly on sword hilts.

Whether by chance or by intent, this group in elaborate fireman’s garb must have stealthily infiltrated the mansion grounds amidst the fierce battle. A gang of bandits running rampant under cover of night! They must have stumbled into this scene of carnage purely by chance. Eizaburō, deeming further hesitation mere waste of time, began imparting subtle momentum to his body and sword as he prepared to shift into motion—yet contrary to his expectation that they would seize the initiative, the unidentified fireman-garbed samurai stubbornly maintained his defensive stance and swung his blade mockingly while,

“You are—?” “Konryū?” It was a calm voice—one that sounded like an old man’s.

Eizaburō was once again astonished. The struggle between himself and Sazen over the Konryū and Ken swords... No one should have known of it, yet this strangely dressed group that had suddenly appeared seemed fully aware of every detail—their very presence here suggested they had taken the initiative to intrude upon this scene. Though their identities were unknown, they were no ordinary group! Moreover, the well-built samurai now crossing swords with Eizaburō appeared to be their leader, and his swordsmanship and bearing did not seem like those of common thieves.

Into the stagnant whirlpool of night-crying swords that had engulfed Sazen, Eizaburō, Taiken, Genjūrō, and others, yet another mysterious boulder had been cast!

Once the two swords were separated from their rightful place, the legend—that turmoil would birth raging tides and a blood-tainted wind would unleash crimson rain—had now manifested as fulfilled prophecy.

Impatient and agitated, Eizaburō—now that things had come to this—resolved that preserving his life left no better alternative,

“Hyaah—!” With an explosive burst of energy, he feigned a strike—in a flash— and pulled back at once, “I must be on my way—forgive me!” Leaving these words behind as he tried to flee toward Taiken, sword glares scattered wildly behind Eizaburō while the fireman-garbed samurai closed ranks in pursuit. But the mansion’s denizens—who had noticed these sudden intruders earlier and abandoned Taiken to converge here—now recognizing them as immediate threats, enveloped both Eizaburō and their foes alike in a unified assault.

When he looked, Taiken was over there locked in fierce combat with Sazen alone. Out of the mansion—immediately! Having made his decision, Eizaburō slashed through one of Suzukawa’s men who had collided with him! After cutting down the foe, he charged at Tange Sazen through splattering mud, seized the moment of his stagger, and urged Taiken to run up onto the main house’s veranda.

There was no sign of pursuit. Everyone, now facing this new force in fireman attire, found themselves in the midst of a fierce struggle in the rain-whitened garden—though none could make sense of what was happening. “Master Taiken! We’ve got unexpected interference!” “What the hell are those bastards?” “It appears they too are after Ken’un and Konryū.” “Then they’re a common enemy for both Tange Sazen and you—but they look formidable!” “Yes. Regrettably, we should withdraw from this house for now…”

“That would be best. Our mutual lack of injuries is what matters most. Dawn will break soon.” “Our mutual lack of injuries is what matters most.” “Dawn will break soon.”

That’s right. Dawn would break soon.

At the edge of the veranda near the storeroom, dawn’s arrival appeared faintly white through the gloom. “This way!” The two men who had started walking came upon the storeroom where Granny Osayo was being held.

Clatter... As the lattice door slid open, Otsuyu and Yayoi turned their faces simultaneously to see Kushimaki Oto holding a dripping umbrella. “I’m sorry. Let me through for a sec—” she said, and no sooner had she gathered up her umbrella and geta than she darted between the two of them and slipped out through the back door.

The rear opened into another alley; turning right and proceeding straight would bring one out before the Sixth Heaven Shinozuka Inari. Oto, who had fled along the eaves to that point, sighed in relief and looked back. There were no pursuing official lanterns, and the night rain hazed the distant town streets whitish—it seemed she had managed to slip through the pursuers' net that had been stretched so taut after all. But now that she had become acutely aware of her own status—officially banned from Edo for extortion, fraud, gambling, and violent crimes—the current commotion and everything around here seemed to have been orchestrated by the authorities,

"I couldn't afford carelessness now!"

Just as Oto muttered to herself—!

"Hey! A woman alone? Where are you headed at this hour?" A deep voice from the front struck Oto’s chest with a jolt.

“Yes. “No, um—I’m a woman from that tenement over there—it’s just that right now, in the middle of the night, there’s been a sudden patient—” “Are you saying you’re going to fetch a doctor?” “Yes.”

“Alright. Be careful on your way.” “Thank you very much.”

And then, just as she had taken two or three steps—from behind!

“Kushimaki Oto! Submit meekly to your arrest!” With a shout! In the hand of the passing patrol officer, a jitte glinted!

“What?! This is no joke!”

Oto assumed a defensive stance and darted her eyes around her surroundings; the officers crouched in the rain were securely tightening their crossed sashes around themselves. "There’s that song about Kintarō-san coming from the rain… So you were lying in wait here all along." "Hohohoho!" With a defiant smile, she gripped the dagger hidden in her bosom in a reverse hold. In an instant—no sooner had she slashed the flank of one approaching man than Kushimaki Oto dashed into the Inari shrine precincts like a fleeing hare and swung her pale arm downward at the shrine.

“You’re under arrest!” “Kushimaki! You’re under arrest!” “Under arrest!” Whoosh! The crowd of officials pulled their arrest ropes while shouting over one another, surrounding Oto before the shrine and creeping closer with a creak.

The figure of Oto, who had taken a step backward toward the stairs, remained motionless as if fixed in place. Not long after Oto—who had rushed in like the wind from the front—had blown through to the rear like the wind. As Otsuyu and Yayoi stood exchanging bewildered looks, several constables—led by the informant who had earlier spotted Oto—came clamoring into the storeroom.

“A woman came in here just now, didn’t she?” demanded the officer with fierce authority. Yayoi and Otsuyu quickly exchanged glances; sharing the same unspoken understanding, they feigned ignorance as though they had planned it in advance. “No, no one...” “Hmm?”

As the many officers tilted their heads in confusion, would they now step forward? Watching them, they concluded it must have been another household and hurriedly left. From the alleyways up to the rooftops, official lanterns filled the area as the officers who had let their target woman escape kept scrambling about in bitter frustration. At this untimely commotion in the rain, the tenants of the tenements began rising one after another.

“There weren’t no slip-ups in our stakeout—she must’ve gotten snagged somewheres else.”

The overly talkative police informant’s loud voice clattered over the wooden gutter planks... Otsuyu and Yayoi had been gazing into each other’s eyes as if probing their depths, yet neither spoke a word about Oto who had slipped through their grasp. Then, as the outdoor noises began to subside, their hearts—which had been quivering like frightened sheep—relaxed, and for the first time, Otsuyu and Yayoi laughed together like young women their age. Seizing that moment, Yayoi hurried to the doorway; after a prolonged exchange of farewells between the women, the sound of footsteps traversing the alleyway eventually faded into nothingness.

In this rainy dawn, Lady Yayoi intended to return alone to Banchō or wherever—how remarkably strong she was! When Otsuyu, who had sent her off, came to her senses, Lord Eizaburō—who should have gone to the bathhouse—had still not returned home!

This—something had happened suddenly! Otsuyu was plunged into dark anxiety’s depths without warning—but as she collapsed onto tatami mats and sank into thought, what consumed her mind was her obligation toward Lady Yayoi who had just departed! Obligation! Obligation!

Having even tasted the hardships of a water teahouse, Otsuyu was all too fragile—fragile to excess—when it came to worldly obligations.

As the sounds of clashing swords in the courtyard made her cower, Osayo trembled in a corner of the storeroom— With the sound of footsteps and the approaching voices of Taiken and Eizaburō, Osayo shrank deeper into the darkness’s depths. Someone—she knew not who—had dispatched two troublemakers her way... Thinking this, she held her breath, terrified of discovery.

In the outer corridor, it appeared that two people had come to a stop before the storeroom, "Oh! There's a room here."

“There’s a room here.” A young voice spoke. Then an elderly voice answered, “Hmm... Could we get outside from here?” No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than the wooden door slid open with a swift motion, and two ronin—one old, one young—materialized as dark shadows blocking the entrance. They appeared to peer into the dim interior for some time, but upon evidently discerning no exit route, they muttered brief words of disappointment and shut the door.

The footsteps of the two men grew distant, and before long, they seemed to have left the mansion through the kitchen entrance. Unaware that this man was Eizaburō—her daughter Otsuyu’s lover—Osayo let out a sigh of relief and listened intently once more. Despite the two men having just left, the ferocity of swordplay still lingered in the courtyard—the clashing steel and fierce battle cries continued to resonate. For Eizaburō and Taiken. At this Suzukawa residence, Otsuyu’s mother, old Osayo, served as a maid. Knowing she was likely suffering harsh treatment from Genjūrō due to Otsuyu’s escape, they had tried rescuing her by even opening the storeroom—yet such strange near-misses were hardly rare in this world. Those seeking salvation and those striving to save had drawn this close—only to pass unknowingly. This too might have been one small pivot shaping human destinies.

In the rain that had persisted through the night, the dawn of Edo was finally beginning to break. And then...

Around the time when Taiken and Eizaburō had left Suzukawa’s mansion far behind.

Five palanquins clung tightly to the outer wall on the opposite side, settled at their base as they had waited since earlier for their bearers.

Though crudely built in a mountain-palanquin style unseen in the streets of Edo, the bearers—burly men with squared shoulders—stood lined up in rows,

“Hey Tatsuu, Kou—they’re makin’ us wait damn long, ain’t they?” “Saa… They oughta be comin’ out any minute now, but judgin’ by how damn long it’s takin’, this might be one helluva major sword fight brewin’. Right, Kan?”

“Damn right!” “That’s some rough medicine, I tell ya.” “Takes a helluva lotta time—but we knew that from the get-go.” “That’s all right—ain’t they say there’s already a good bunch taken care of up ahead?” “But hey, we’ve got our own prime picks here. Nah, ain’t nothin’ to fret over.” “Nah, ain’t nothin’ to fret over.” “Even I’d leap right in an’ raise hell if they give the word.” “Them masters, swingin’ their clangin’ blades like ‘Hyah!’ or whatnot—goddamn, they’re pullin’ it off clean!”

“Exactly. I’d like to jump in and give it a try too.” “Hell, I’d sure like to jump in an’ try my hand at it too!” “Shh! Hey, everyone! “Your voices are too damn loud!” “Shut up! Shut up! "Anyway, you all ready?" “Once they’re out, we move right away.” “Kōre! Shichikō! Get those hips down—that’s the idea!”

They were making a racket— Whether it was their somewhat knowing tone or, more notably, the fact that all ten of these men—each nearly six feet tall and as robust as Nioh statues—were assembled here, they could not be mistaken for ordinary palanquin bearers. As these ten imposing laborers—resembling sumo wrestlers—all fixed their eyes on the wooden gate in Suzukawa’s wall, suddenly, five figures in fireman outfits kicked the door open from within and came rushing out!

Led by an elderly man who appeared to be their leader, each gripping drawn blades in hand, they swiftly settled into the palanquins— “There they come! Let’s roll!” came the signal.

No sooner had the five palanquins creaked and left the ground than they aligned their poles— Hup, hah! Heave, ho! The five palanquins that started running in the blink of an eye were swallowed by the cold morning rain and vanished like a procession of marauders to nowhere—a testament to their astonishingly swift training. Five palanquins—unknowable from where they came or where they vanished! The five warriors in fireman outfits among them. Could they too be aiming to seize the Heaven and Earth Swords and unite them as one? In any case, it was from this moment that five palanquins like a gale first appeared in Edo’s streets, and afterward, a sleet softened by the morning light pattered down once more upon Suzukawa’s mansion, ravaged by a night of sword battles.

Double mirrors

A sun uncharacteristically harsh for winter blazed down, and standing out in its glare like this, one could even break into a sweat.

The scent of wavering sunlight drifted across shoji screens, tatami mats, and household altars. Through the lattice door could be seen what was likely a small whirlwind, amusingly making the white soil of the street and dried horse dung whirl up in a dance before vanishing. At the bathhouse out back, the wooden clapper at the counter struck—Clack! Clack! Two such sounds transmitted their sluggish waves through the air, even amidst the year-end bustle. As if awaiting this signal, practice voices surged from the neighboring Kineya household all at once, with Ki-chan, Mi-chan, and the girls wearing peach-split hairstyles noisily raising their shrill cries.

Kuroo! Kaamii no tsunten! Musuu boo reetaa ruuuu. The rusted voice of the master wove its way through the middle distance, neither approaching nor retreating.

...As Kizaemon listened, an involuntary bright smile filled his deeply wrinkled face; he blew out the ember he had just lit with a "pfft—" then tapped the edge of his Togetsuhō tobacco pipe.

Thirty Guardian Deities’ sacred lanterns were accompanied by an exquisitely polished thousand-lattice.

This is the residence of Landlord Kizaemon in Asakusa Tawaramachi 3-chōme. Kizaemon, who had seated himself properly before the long brazier, suddenly reached for the inkstone box from the nearby tea cabinet and began jotting down some notes.

With matters pressing like this—just when public duties he wanted to settle by year’s end had piled mountain-high—today too, from morning onward, various neighborhood chores were brought to him, making it impossible to leisurely drink even a single cup of tea. After Kyuuta the errand runner brought circulars about the three-day New Year decorations and events, the head clerk’s messenger came delivering floor plans for rental properties. The people from the corner grain shop had only just left after being engrossed in lengthy discussions about mutual aid association affairs. “Good grief!” Kizaemon muttered. “Even with two bodies, this busyness wouldn’t be manageable!”

Then, suddenly lost in thought, he clamped the brush behind his ear and crossed his arms. A careworn face. The matter concerned their former tenant, Granny Osayo. Tomigorō the blacksmith of Sanma-chō—commissioned by Kaji-tomi—had arranged for a masterless samurai from Ōshū named Wada Sōemon to open a temple school in one of the properties in this 3-chōme. However, Sōemon had soon died. Regarding the disposition of the surviving mother-daughter pair Osayo and Otsuyu, after thorough consultation with Kaji-tomi, they had arranged for Granny Osayo—with himself and Tomigorō acting as guarantors—to be placed as a maid at the residence of the 500-koku hatamoto Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō before Honjo Hōonji Bridge. For her daughter Otsuyu, he had personally taken initiative to have her purchase Atariya, a tea house in front of the Three Shrines that had been up for sale at the time. Yet...

According to rumors, Kaji-tomi had developed quite an interest in Otsuyu and had poured money into pursuing her, but once he realized there was ultimately no hope in that direction, he apparently began pressing rather harshly for repayment of his loans.

From the mindset that tenants are like children and landlords are like parents, I simply looked after them without any thought of personal gain.

And yet. From Osayo, who had entered the mansion's service, there came not so much as a letter—not even a single message. As for her daughter, she had gone and taken up with some man on her own, closing up shop and running off to who-knows-where. When it came to Otsuyu—being a young woman through and through—she'd only made it harder to cross this house's threshold through her own doing, which one might call self-inflicted. But the old woman, despite her years, had been far too negligent in keeping contact. Yet if he were to get angry at every last one of these things, the landlord would have his spleen burst and not last a day. That said, he'd heard people say Lord Suzukawa's mansion wasn't particularly well-regarded. Weighing all this together, being a born worrier, Kizaemon found himself lately unable to stop fretting over Otsuyu's circumstances and—most especially—Granny Osayo's situation.

“The daughter’s bad enough, but her mother’s no better.”

To Kizaemon, who had spoken without thinking, his wife entered the tea room and replied. "You're worrying yourself sick over Osayo-san and Otsuyu-bō." "Yeah... Shall I call it a premonition? I just can't shake this unease in my chest." "That's true. Now that you mention it, I've been having bad dreams about that mother and daughter these past two or three days. How about we pay a visit to the Honjo mansion?" "Hmm... I suppose so."

As Kizaemon let out a vague reply, the lattice door swung open forcefully,

“Hey, Mr. Kizaemon! You there?” “It’s gotten quite pressing, hasn’t it?” Kajitomi sat down, immediately pulled out his tobacco pouch with a snick, then spoke. “You must be swamped with work…”

Kizaemon answered tersely, appearing disinterested. Kajitomi scrubbed his entire face vigorously,

“Nah, nothin’ like that. Just feelin’ all restless for no good reason, y’know? Hahaha… I just can’t take it anymore.”

And now, as if the clamor of the year-end town had seeped into their very bones—and as if chewing over that sensation—the two men looked downward slightly, each gazing at the backs of their own hands. Kizaemon’s wife prepared tea and offered it. The two slurped noisily in unison. Kizaemon had mostly white hair and was of an age where he had likely passed sixty some time ago; however, Tomigorō’s circumstances were defined by his trade and moreover still personally swinging a heavy mallet even now. Though far younger in age than Kizaemon, he nonetheless possessed a robust physique. His arms were like pine trees.

“Hey, Mr. Kizaemon.” “Yes?”

After fidgeting restlessly for a while, Tomigorō finally opened his mouth resolutely. “It’s about Osayo-san, you see—” Hearing this, Kizaemon went “Hmph! Hmph!” and suddenly leaned forward, which spurred Tomigorō on. As he uttered such sounds and leaned forward, Tomigorō gained momentum. “Now, you might laugh at this, but… well, I’ve caught wind of some troubling rumors about Lord Suzukawa’s mansion…” “Hmph! What’s that?”

“Well now, seein’ as you an’ me were the guarantors who got Osayo-san into that place—and bein’ guarantors means we’re standin’ in as her parents, so whenever I heard strange rumors from over there, I’ve been worryin’ myself sick about all sorts of things—but this time I just couldn’t let it slide, which is why I came to talk to you like this—” “Aye. Though mind you, I’ve heard plenty ’bout His Lordship’s... less-than-proper behavior myself—but tell me, what in blazes happened this time? Truth be told, Tomigorō—what with Granny Osayo an’ that Otsuyu girl—this old man’s been at his wit’s end dealin’ with Mr. Wada’s aftermath lately. I’m so fed up with lookin’ after folks that I’m always complainin’ ’bout it to the missus here. Truth is—not that I need tell you—I’ve been frettin’ over this matter somethin’ fierce. Why, just now I was sayin’ to her—‘Hey old woman’—maybe we oughta go withdraw Osayo’s request an’ have you take ’er in instead.”

“Heh heh heh, Miss Otsuyu’s quite a handful too, but we’ve already filed a missing person report with the magistrate’s office. Anyway, today’s business… Well, y’see, I’ve got this friend—a fellow working as an informant for the magistrate—and he says somethin’ happened the other day, right? On that rainy night, there was a sword raid on the mansion—they say a whole lot of folks ended up dead and injured. Did you happen to hear anythin’ about that?”

“Yes.” “Now that you mention it, I did catch wind of something like that—but what’s this about the raiding lot?” “Some kinda grudge match, you reckon?” “Well, ’cordin’ to that snitch, seems two crews hit the place same night. The ones showin’ up later were five samurai in fireman getups—or so he claims—but damned if I can suss out what they were hackin’ each other over.”

“Fireman outfits?” “Weird, ain’t it?” “Things’ve gotten right dangerous with the year endin’.” “That’s how it is.” “So this guy’s been sniffin’ around with eyes big as plates, see—tryin’ to get his story straight, but… can’t speak too loud—seems Lord Suzukawa’s caught the authorities’ eye somethin’ fierce.” “Might be a raid comin’ soon, dependin’.” “Nah, ’s just my own thinkin’, heh heh… Like I said.” “What’re we to do ’bout it, eh?”

“After an incident occurs, Osayo-san would become pitiable too—” “And having our names come up through any involvement—that’s the last thing we want!” “Right then!” Kizaemon uncrossed his arms from their thoughtful pose, “You’ve already resigned yourself to this boat we’ve boarded—so how ’bout it? Busy as you are, could you come with me to Honjo now… Hey!” “Old woman—fetch that haori over there.” “Tch!” “Never around when needed.” “Actin’ all high-and-mighty at your age!” “Old woman!—What’re ya…” “Old womaaan!!”

Landlord Kizaemon grew increasingly furious, steaming and puffing like a boiling kettle.

Though he wasn’t exactly a guest—while Tomigorō the blacksmith was visiting, Kizaemon’s wife took a broom and went out front to sweep the street.

Nice weather.

The sunlight danced brightly over the entire town, the feet of passersby naturally quickened their pace as they created a bustling evening mood—yet amidst this, the calls of street vendors flowed gently, and the peaceful reign of the eighth Tokugawa shogunate held a certain cheerfulness. Carts carrying cut pine trees dashed past with great vigor toward the year-end market. An apprentice, carrying year-end gifts wrapped in a turmeric-dyed cotton cloth hung from his neck to his chest, his pale yellow hakama baggy around his legs, accompanied the young master on his way.

“Auntie…” At the sound of the voice, she turned to see Yukimi from the tenements being pulled by her mother into the crowded alleyway’s throng. The mother’s pale face smiled as she offered what seemed a hasty greeting.

Whether one wept or laughed, there were only so many days left—and stepping out into town, one couldn’t help but feel this truth keenly.

That's right. Since it’s the thought that counts, I must give that child something for the year-end... Battledores would be safe for the girls, but for a mischievous boy, perhaps a ceremonial bow? Thinking such thoughts and stretching her back multiple times, Kizaemon's wife was diligently sweeping in front of the lattice.

While bowing her head and working the broom, all that entered her vision were the feet of people passing nearby. Acquaintances called out as they passed by. She had been careful not to dirty the feet of passersby, but in the moment someone bowed to her... Suddenly, an unexpected force jolted through the tip of her broom, scattering the dust she had just swept up—it flew and landed thickly from the hem down to the tabi socks of the person who had been walking ahead.

Startled, she looked up—

He was a slightly portly, dignified samurai clad in informal kimono attire, with large and small swords in lacquered scabbards at his side. His almond-shaped eyes etched with fine wrinkles at the corners, he stood perfectly still, calmly comparing his dust-covered feet with the flustered face of the old woman clutching her broom.

Kizaemon’s wife panicked as though her back were on fire. Strike me down! I'll be cut down! Even if she weren't cut down—thinking there might still be some terrible punishment—the shock left her tongue frozen stiff. “Ah! “What a terrible blunder I’ve made again!” “Please, my lord—please grant me your gracious consideration.” At the same moment she offered this hasty apology, she lunged forward and tried to sweep the samurai’s feet with the edge of her apron.

The samurai took two or three steps back and smiled calmly. “Ah, there, there. Mistakes happen to everyone—I’ll wipe it off myself, so there’s no need to worry.”

As he spoke, he had already taken out a folded paper from his kimono sleeve and was slowly brushing off his hem. He was of a certain age. His attire, though not eye-catching, exuded undeniable nobility, but above all else, it was his plump, serene countenance—where a friendly smile shone like a spring sea—that stood out. Kizaemon’s wife, who had been staring blankly, snapped back to her senses and once again charged toward the samurai’s feet, crouching down as if to fall and began beating away the dust.

“This is entirely my blunder. For you to do it yourself is far too gracious—I’m terribly sorry. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“No. There’s no need for that.” The samurai hastily pulled back and, as if to take her hand, made the still-resisting old woman rise to her feet. “Ha ha ha! It’s nothing! When you return home, you’re someone’s wife—a mother, nay, even a grandmother by now. If I let a wife, mother, nay grandmother wipe my feet, I could never face those people. Come now—forgive me. In this matter, I should be the one apologizing. Ha ha ha ha!” What a thoughtful and refined samurai! thought the old woman as she tearfully bowed her head. But he continued: “However—sweeping main thoroughfares should be done in early morning before people emerge. Ah! And those scraps of paper and old clogs scattered there—most unsightly for welcoming the new year. Though it’s the neighbor’s front, clean it up while you’re at it.”

As the old woman silently bent double at the waist, the aforementioned samurai glanced back over his shoulder and began to walk away. Likely his attendant—a single hot-blooded samurai of the same build stood slightly apart. Unaware of all this, the old woman’s dignity slipped from “granny” to “hag” in others’ eyes—while inside the house, Kizaemon was bellowing at the top of his lungs. He’s calling—go! In such a manner, the samurai’s eyes crinkled with a smile as he looked at the old woman.

No matter how much he called, his wife didn’t respond—tsk! Clicking his tongue in irritation, Kizaemon prepared to go out himself and, intending to head immediately to Lord Suzukawa’s mansion in Honjo, urged Tomigorō the blacksmith outside. When he stepped outside,

The wife he’d thought wasn’t around had lowered her face—on the verge of tears—and was bobbing up and down in bows to someone. Kizaemon flared up. “Why?! You madwoman! Crying at every passerby you see! Have you gone completely mad?” While barking out orders, he glanced over and spotted a splendid samurai with attendants four or five ken ahead. Well now! He looks familiar! Kizaemon tilted his head slightly to one side, this time in a whisper as faint as a mosquito’s buzz.

“Hey, old woman—what’s the matter? Did that samurai gentleman scold you or something?”

"Oh, old man, listen." "The world does have its noble people indeed." “That’s how it happened”—as his wife explained, Kizaemon listened with deep admiration—Hah!

As he raised his eyes and looked once more at the samurai’s retreating figure—

The master and servant who had started walking away turned back slightly in unison—but when Kizaemon saw the face of the elderly samurai leading them, he suddenly panicked, abruptly grabbed his wife and Tomigorō the blacksmith by their hands, and in a hushed yet rapid voice—

“It’s Lord Ōoka! “Lord Ōoka! Lord Ōoka!” “Lord Ōoka! …That’s undeniably Lord Ōoka!” “Hyah! Old woman!” “You’ve really gone and spoken to someone mighty important, haven’t you!” “What?! “Ah! That’s Lord Ōoka!” “Old man, you’re not trying to pull one over on me again, are you?” “You fool! “This is no time for jokes!” “Though it may be presumptuous of me to say, he is well-versed in public affairs and a renowned mediator even here in Edo.” “I know the South Magistrate’s office better than my own house—truth be told, there was that one time when Tetsu from the Ruffian Tenement got himself involved in a case, and I accompanied him in some capacity, remember?” “That face from when he conducted the investigation at the magistrate’s court is still stuck in the back of my eyes.” “That’s right.” “That was Lord Ōoka!” “Lord Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of the South!”

“Though I say I didn’t know—” The old woman was like a jōruri performer.

“Ah, how grateful! I should’ve gotten closer and properly seen his face. Old man, this tale’ll be passed down to our grandchildren’s generation!” “Aye, aye! We oughta bow again even to his retreating shadow!” “Folks like us’d never lay eyes on the magistrate except at times like these. Right! Let’s spread word through the tenement and gather everyone!”

As Tomigorō the blacksmith was about to dash out, Kizaemon stopped him. “Tomisan! Don’t do such wasteful things—His Lordship is here incognito—”

Passersby who knew nothing of the circumstances cast puzzled looks as Kizaemon and his wife, along with Tomigorō the blacksmith—nearly prostrating themselves—made a clamorous scene.

In time.

Ōoka Tadasuke stood bathed in radiant sunlight. Today being truly an incognito outing, he brought along only his chief attendant Ibuki Daisaku and briskly turned the corner.

Where to? He had no particular destination in mind.

It was, so to speak, an aimless stroll.

Lord Ōoka Tadasuke of Echizen, who considered understanding the people's sentiments and studying the lowest social strata an essential duty of magistracy, took care to stroll aimlessly through Edo's streets whenever he found respite from his duties—a practice he took pleasure in maintaining. On this day too, seizing the rare blessing of clear winter weather, he had likely left his residence to casually observe the year-end hustle and bustle. Ōoka Tadasuke walked on, avoiding the crowds as if devoid of any particular thoughts. For Ibuki Daisaku following behind, avoiding detection proved a great ordeal. After all, he had to keep watch in all directions while single-handedly maintaining his vigilant attendance—

If they ran into a fight among errand boys, horses would snort and rear. Girls absorbed in play came running out and stumbled; craftsmen passed close by... Each time Daisaku started, but to Tadasuke everything appeared as smiles—he walked on with a cheerful gaze sweeping left and right, his stride carefree. At Kannon-sama’s temple stood Edo’s foremost grand market. From Namiki Avenue all the way to Raijin Gate stretched a sea of people so dense it seemed to cry out, "Don’t push! Don’t push!"

"Well, well!" With that sort of look, Lord Echizen-no-kami's smiling face turned back toward Daisaku.

Edo’s famed Asakusa Year-End Market.

In every town and at every crossroads, carts were stopped and straw mats laid out, with pine branches, sacred straw ropes, fern fronds, yuzuriha leaves, bitter oranges, citrons... Temporary stalls stood in rows, their vendors’ cries clamorously resounding while market goods—mortars, wooden bowls, hand buckets—gleamed with pristine whiteness. From Asakusabashi to Okura-mae, along Komagata Namiki and the thoroughfares east-west of Kaminarimon Gate across five chō, stalls stood three or four rows deep on either side—the temple grounds so packed with crowds that not a speck of space remained. Moreover, behind them lay a gravel area continuing all the way to the mountain lodgings, where crowds of people—men and women of all ages, samurai, townsfolk, and peasants—formed a great swirling vortex of color, flowing leisurely and unhurriedly onward.

The winter sun hung high, shining silver, as dust, human heat, and sounds swirled together thickly and rose upward. Sunspots and small shadows danced upon the shoulders of the crowds overflowing the street, resembling the noble pelt of a tiger, yet something faintly cold and fragile swelled amidst them, evoking the relentless bustle that left little remaining of the year. A jostling crowd so dense it seemed to churn. Through this throng, Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of the South and Lord of Echizen in incognito, moved as leisurely as if strolling through his own garden, one hand tucked into his sleeve, weaving his way forward with serene composure.

Ibuki Daisaku, his attendant following at a slight distance, could hardly keep his composure as his lord’s figure kept threatening to be swallowed by the bustling crowd. Fearing he must not fall behind, he desperately pushed through the throng, keeping Tadasuke’s broad shoulders in sight. To the right and left, front and back—as far as the eye could see—the streets were filled with people, people, people… Tadasuke simply brimmed with a richness of heart that accepted everything around him—nodding, yearning to smile at every person and thing.

In that moment there was not a trace left within him—not even that childish yet satisfied joy born from anonymity—as he walked jostled among commoners through bustling market streets with none recognizing his high station. To be sure when first undertaking these covert patrols years prior he had harbored such mischievous whims—imagining how passersby and shopkeepers might startle were they to discover him as Ōoka Tadasuke Lord of Echizen how they would tremble and prostrate themselves upon the ground! At such thoughts he would fancy imminent recognition or even feel impulses roaring I am Ōoka Tadasuke Lord of Echizen! Yet those urges belonged wholly to days long past.

The present Tadasuke had completely withered away. As a middle-aged warrior-official of chūrō rank, he walked through Hinata Town without rationale or purpose, merely inhabiting a quiet, aged state of mind—or rather, this portly, refined samurai casually browsing Asakusa’s Year-End Market was not Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen and Magistrate of Minami-machi, but nothing more than an ordinary citizen of Edo. Thus it held no wonder that the many people approaching from the opposite direction—naturally meeting face-to-face and passing by—continued on their way without a single soul taking notice.

Even a magistrate has two legs—there’s nothing strange about walking through town incognito. Such were Tadasuke’s thoughts. With that mindset, he would march into any place without hesitation, so his attendants had to endure unseen hardships; thus, whenever ordered to accompany him incognito, they would all either sneak away or suddenly come down with stomachaches—this became routine. Ibuki Daisaku’s good-natured disposition led others to foist substitute duties upon him, and through his frequent accompaniment—combined with his inherent favorability—it had unwittingly established that Daisaku would invariably attend to all city patrols. Yet this proved a sweat-inducing ordeal; even stalwart Daisaku found himself grumbling inwardly about the sheer inconvenience.

Especially today!

Of all places, he had never imagined His Lordship would head to the Asakusa market! Daisaku, pushed back by the human tide, was driven to resentful frustration; but paying no heed to his attendant’s inner turmoil, Tadasuke angled his body and pressed forward, suddenly thrusting his head into a stall that had caught his eye.

“Hmm.” “There are lobsters.” “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir—authentic products from the source itself.” “When you say ‘the source’… you mean Ise?” “Yes, indeed! These are premium Ise lobsters!”

Hearing this, Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen—perhaps nostalgic for the Yamada era—abruptly turned around and called out.

“Daisaku! Come and look.” “Magnificent Ise lobsters, you see!”

Tadasuke’s voice had burst out so suddenly and loudly that on the back of the woman beside him—who had been twisting a sacred straw rope—the frightened baby abruptly let out a wail—Waaah! The baby started crying.

It was when they reached the middle of the market.

Suddenly hearing a voice erupt behind him, Tadasuke turned to look without a second thought. "A pickpocket!" "A pickpocket! A pickpocket!!" Shouting abuse, the people behind formed into a mass and jostled against each other. Arms flew; fists swung up—punches and kicks. The entire street was like pampas grass in a typhoon… Slash!

Amidst the swirling mass of people, something glinted. “Ah!” “He drew his sword!” “He drew his sword!” “Don’t get hurt! Don’t get hurt!” No sooner had the clamor erupted than a young man—dressed like a shopkeeper ready for travel—came darting forward like a rat, a divided bundle on his shoulder and wildly swinging a short traveler’s sword. Fearing to be caught in his slashes, the crowd split left and right, creating a narrow empty path through which he sprinted headlong, chased by gawkers—and this was none other than Yokichi of Tsuzumi.

Yokichi, that bastard, was bellowing in a shrill voice as he ran. “Outta my way! Now I ain’t showin’ mercy to any of you bastards! If you come near, I’ll cut down every last one of ya! Get outta the way! Get outta the way!” Overwhelmed by this ferocity, they merely cleared the path... Not a soul dared to step forward. Women and children’s screams; a tumultuous press of bodies. In the middle of the New Year’s market, a tremendous commotion erupted. Unaware that this was Yokichi of Tsuzumi, no sooner did Daisaku see the man brandishing a drawn sword approach than he threw himself forward, swiftly shielding Tadasuke as his hand flew to his hilt.

“Zen-chan! “Over here!” “Over here! Over here!” “Hurry up!” A shrill yellow voice burst beneath Tadasuke’s ear. A young woman resembling a merchant household’s mistress—apparently separated from her child in the commotion—was now desperately calling out to a four- or five-year-old boy who had just begun toddling across the open space between them from the opposite side. Yokichi made his blade glint in the sun, already closing in right before their noses. “Zen-chan! It’s dangerous!” “Just go home!” “That way!”

At the moment the woman shouted, Tadasuke nimbly slipped free from Daisaku’s protective stance and, in an instant, scooped up Zen-chan—who was floundering in the middle of the road—and leapt to the opposite side. At the same instant!

Yokichi and his travel sword streaked away through the air like a bullet.

Passing ronin and construction workers collided with each other as they chased after Yokichi. Now! Responding to Tadasuke’s sharp look, Daisaku too immediately joined the pursuit. “To think he’d try to barge through this crowd—what a reckless bastard, I tell you.” “They say it’s a pickpocket." “Either way, he’s nothing but trouble.” In the aftermath, the market crowd buzzed all around, and here and there, people stood engaged in lively conversations.

Tadasuke also spoke up.

“A pickpocket... Though I must say, it’s rare to see one in traveler’s garb.” “Hmm. So that’s their game… One wrong move and they’d hightail it to some far-off province—”

“Indeed.” He was a samurai of respectable character, but since no one knew who he was or where he was from, everyone exchanged words with him without reserve. “Apparently, that bastard tried messin’ with some young lord’s sleeve or somethin’, got caught red-handed, then figured he’d use this crowd chaos to make his getaway—anyway, the rat’s one hell of a sprinter, I tell ya.” Tadasuke shook his head in amazement. “It’s reported he tampered with someone’s sleeve—he must have stolen something, I suppose.”

“Don’t know about that, but anyway—for a beast like that, best thing’s to gang up and beat him down proper, tie a pickling stone to his neck and sink him in the river.” “Despite Lord Ōoka, that famed South Magistrate, keeping a watchful eye over Minamimachi, here we have this kind of mischief right under his nose!” “Damn! What a fat bastard, ain’t he?” Lord Tadasuke Ōoka, the Echizen-no-kami, nodded self-consciously and was smiling as he made to leave when the young mother holding Zen-chan’s hand offered her thanks once more.

“Not at all…”

As Tadasuke laughed, his gaze now came to rest upon yet another figure—a young ronin pushing through the crowd with a frantic look. Suwa Eizaburō—he was gripping a scrap of paper in his hand.

The raid on the Honjo Haunted Mansion had ended with meager results—an unexpected intervention by a fireman-attired squad made the slaughter of four or five enemies futile, leaving only a shallow wound on their target Sazen. Yet Suwa Eizaburō now strolled through the New Year's market crowd, believing Ken'unmaru might yet cross his path that very day.

Suddenly feeling something brush against his sleeve, he turned back without thinking...

But wait—!

Yokichi of Tsuzumi—Suzukawa Genjūrō’s lackey—having readied himself for travel through some scheme, was now attempting to shove what appeared to be a letter into his own sleeve opening. “You bastard!” “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Before he could even process the thought, Eizaburō’s hand was already clamped around Yokichi’s elbow. “You bastard!” “Oh! I’m sorry.” “You’ve got the wrong person, sir!”

“Shut up! You from the other day—enough of this! Get over here!” Eizaburō attempted to seize him. Yokichi kept desperately apologizing while trying to break free. The quick-witted Edoites around them immediately interpreted this scuffle as a botched pickpocket attempt and began shouting, “Pickpocket! Pickpocket!” Taking this as their cue, they swarmed around Yokichi for a mob beating, but realizing he couldn’t withstand it, Yokichi suddenly drew his travel sword, carved open a path through the crowd, and bolted away.

Thanks to the meddlesome crowd’s interference—which had prevented Eizaburō from apprehending Yokichi—when he checked his sleeve just in case, what emerged was a letter from Tange Sazen to Eizaburō… or rather, from the Night-Crying Sword Ken’unmaru (“Heavenly Cloud”) to its companion shortsword Konryūmaru (“Earth Dragon”)! Amid the commotion, there was no time to waste. Eizaburō swiftly broke the seal and read through it—then gasped! No sooner had his face changed color than he gripped the letter—along with Musashitarō’s hilt—tightly in his hand and, though belatedly, began frantically rushing in the direction Yokichi had gone.

The handwriting of the sword fiend Tange Sazen—what in the world had been written there? What words had the cursed blade Ken'unmaru—borrowing Tange Sazen's brush—brought to its counterpart Konryūmaru?

But enough of that. Tadasuke, spotting the ronin Eizaburō pushing people aside left and right over the heads of the crowd, no sooner overheard whispers of “That’s the samurai who tangled with the pickpocket earlier” than—for some reason—he abruptly quickened his pace and began tailing him. Snap! Eizaburō—his blood seemingly rushing to his brain—pushed through the human tide and staggered forward. He knocked a man aside. He shoved women away and recklessly scattered children in his path.

Tadasuke also hurriedly followed suit but stepped on someone's foot—hard enough to make them yelp, "Ouch!" When the person cried out, Ōoka Tadasuke, Echizen-no-kami, turned a genial smile toward them and offered a polite apology.

However,

Having reached Komagata and drawn near Asakusabashi, both Yokichi and his pursuers had vanished without a trace—perhaps Eizaburō had finally given up—as he turned with despondent, slackened steps into a certain alleyway of Kawaramachi... leaving the bustling market behind.

Tadasuke called out from behind.

“That fellow’s a once-in-a-generation Idaten in speed, isn’t he? Ha ha ha! Now then—you there—have you lost something?”

Eizaburō turned around and, finding an unfamiliar yet refined samurai standing there, flushed with irritation and retorted. “Did you address this humble one?” “Oh no… Regarding that commotion earlier—he must have tried slipping this document to you during it, I should think.” “Though this is merely my conjecture—ha ha ha! What say you?” At Tadasuke’s words, Eizaburō—as if struck by sudden realization—glared sharply at him while trying to pivot away, but—

The letter from Sazen that should have been clutched in his hand until this very moment—! He hadn’t realized where or when he’d dropped it—Oh! When he glanced toward Tadasuke’s hands—!

What was this now?

When and where he had picked it up was unclear, but wasn’t that very crumpled letter now properly in Tadasuke’s hand? “Wh—! Th-that’s—!” “Th-that’s...!” As a panicked Eizaburō forgot himself and attempted to lunge forward, Ōoka Tadasuke nimbly stepped back. He held up the sealed letter front-and-back tauntingly before Eizaburō’s eyes and smiled. Lord Suwa Eizaburō One-Armed Lay Practitioner, Tange Sazen [Respectfully] “Indeed, that letter is something this humble one dropped. I have no words... This is beyond excuse. I am utterly ashamed. I humbly express my deepest gratitude to you for retrieving it. Now, I must ask you to return it—”

Unaware that this was Ōoka Tadasuke, the town magistrate of Edo, Eizaburō—though he had fallen into poverty and wore coarse garments—faced the unfamiliar samurai as an equal. Desperately suppressing his panic, he took two or three steps forward as he spoke—but Tadasuke simultaneously stepped back— “So you are the one called Suwa Eizaburō.” “That’s all well and good—but here on the back, it says ‘Tange Sazen: One-Armed Lay Practitioner, Respectfully.’” “Now then, Lord Suwa, I must humbly inquire—is this one arm the left arm?” “No—it must be the left arm. What do you say?”

The thought that flashed like lightning through Tadasuke’s mind upon hearing this was of the savage street slayings then terrorizing the capital—and the critical fact that their perpetrator too must be a left-handed swordsman.

And when Tadasuke saw Eizaburō nod in surprise—an acknowledgment that contained a silent “Yes...”—he “If that is the case, returning this document to you cannot be done.” flatly refused and briskly tucked it into his pocket. Outrageous! By my sword, I must reclaim it! Just as Eizaburō’s face changed color and he pressed forward, he noticed retainers who seemed to be Tadasuke’s companions hurrying closer. Regrettably realizing that being cornered by these two ominous figures and subjected to endless interrogations would only compound his mistakes, Eizaburō panickedly broke away from Tadasuke and vanished into the depths of the alleyway as though fleeing.

“Your lordship, I had no idea you would be in such a place, so I have been searching for you all over.” At the voice, Tadasuke turned around—there stood Ibuki Daisaku, who had been pursuing Yokichi. They gave chase with a large force, but given the sheer crowd; though they once managed to grab his traveling cloak, he slipped away smoothly, and ultimately they lost sight of Yokichi’s figure on that very street.

“I have no excuse for my failure. Good grief—being someone who attempts pickpocketing, what an agile fellow he is!” “A pickpocket? Who’s a pickpocket?” “Huh? That man—” “He is not a pickpocket.” “Then a purse-slasher? Or a cutpurse…” “Fool! Aren’t they the same? Aren’t they the same?” “My deepest apologies.”

“Hey, Daisaku. A pickpocket is one who seizes the opportunity to steal from others’ pockets.”

“Ah.”

“When someone takes advantage of a moment to slip an item into another’s sleeve—that isn’t pickpocketing. That fellow was acting on someone’s request when he dropped that sealed letter into that man’s sleeve. Therefore, Echizen, you mustn’t call that townsman a pickpocket.” “You mean... the letter? But Your Lordship—how did you come to know such a thing?” Urging the wide-eyed Daisaku onward with a silent gesture, Tadasuke—looking genuinely pleased—gave a firm pat to the breast pocket holding Sazen’s letter and began walking.

“Ah! Now I see—all the details are right there!” Daisaku mimicked striking his own chest,

“No, that must indeed be the case!” “That must indeed be the case!”

Shaking his head as though overwhelmed by emotion, he tried to follow when Tadasuke vaguely came to a stop and stared at the alleyway entrance where Eizaburō had disappeared.

A narrow back alley.

At the corner was a modest vacant lot.

Lumber was piled up, and fourteen or fifteen children were making a racket as they played.

High in the sky, the sun was warm like nourishing rain. Having absorbed the town’s energy to fullness after so long—having melded with the people’s hearts—Ōoka Tadasuke reverted to childlike innocence under the blazing sun and gazed upon their clamor. An older child sat formally atop stacked blocks one tier higher. “I am Ōoka Echizen, South Magistrate of Edo!” “Lift your head!” “You there...”

It was a mock magistrate’s court. That explained why they had spread a straw mat on the ground—there lay a child prostrating himself, likely playing the role of the accused. To either side were children seated as examiners and others crouching like constables, all with brows furrowed and cheeks puffed in earnest seriousness. While Lord Echizen wore a wry smile, Daisaku behind him burst out laughing.

In the far distance, Kizaemon the landlord and Tomi the blacksmith—who had just emerged from Tawaramachi—bowed politely with a slight stoop despite being unrelated bystanders who had encountered Ōoka again. They appeared to be en route to Suzukawa’s residence in Honjo. When Tadasuke saw this, he realized: Ah—someone who recognized him must have spotted them! With that, they quickened their pace and departed, but a faint breeze sent white sand dust swirling low across the ground, while behind them lingered the children’s voices calling “Lord Ōoka!” “You there—on the twenty-ninth of last month, you undoubtedly threw the pawnshop cat from Yokochō into the rainwater barrel and then hurled it out the window.” “State your case truthfully—”

“Boss!”

At the piercing voice of Yokichi, who came flying in, Oto languidly raised her eyebrows from beyond the long brazier.

“What is it? Making such a racket.”

While remaining in a kneeling position, she stroked the tatami with one hand, likely searching for her pipe.

This was Kushimaki Oto’s hideout. “No good—can’t stay calm!” shouted Yokichi, still gasping for breath and unable to even undo his straw sandals—but inside, Oto yawned hugely. “There you go again.” She showed no sign of taking him seriously, yet even so, when she saw Yokichi’s travel-stained appearance as he suddenly rose up, Oto tightened her face in faint surprise—

“Oh! Setting off somewhere?”

“Heh heh heh.” Yokichi chuckled in short bursts like a rogue and said, “Oh, nothin’ much. Just went to put on a little show.” “A show?!” “Yep.”

Yokichi plopped down heavily, gulped down the cold sake in the bowl Oto offered, and then—in high spirits—began to speak...

The matter of Sazen's letter. In that rain-lashed night of chaotic blades at the monster mansion, seven lay slain—all gambling companions who had been lodging there—while the injured numbered nearly ten, with Sazen's minor wound being the least severe. Moreover, before Eizaburō and Taiken could cross swords even once, that incomprehensible group in fireman's attire came storming in. Against this threat, even Sazen and Genjūrō temporarily joined forces with Eizaburō's faction to resist them—yet during this struggle, Taiken slipped away from the mansion.

The leader of the fire-attired group, brandishing his sword, had declared that they too sought the Night-Crying Swords—the twin blades Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru. In other words, this grotesque band posed an equal threat to both Sazen’s Ken’unmaru and Eizaburō’s Konryūmaru. There, the swordsman Sazen twisted his left arm once again and fought fiercely for hours until dawn approached—but! At that moment, the odds turned against Sazen; the five fire-attired men had seized the rare blade Ken’unmaru. When he rushed beyond the walls in pursuit, the five palanquins had already vanished without a trace—or so it was said.

Ken'unmaru had been taken away. Now the extraordinary blade Ken'unmaru had slipped from Sazen's grasp and was likely concealed within one of those five mysterious palanquins! Oto bit her lip hard against her pallid face. "Yokichi, is that true?" Yokichi—who'd been nodding repeatedly—continued his account: With Ken'unmaru no longer in Sazen's possession, there was no need to pointlessly clash with Eizaburō. Thus ordered to secretly deliver Sazen's letter stating this intent, Yokichi had spotted Eizaburō amidst the year-end market crowds and successfully slipped the missive from his sleeve... but...

“I was mistaken for a pickpocket and had a terrible time, I tell ya. I pulled out a gleaming sword and charged forward, but... Nah, that was one hell of a stunt! Hahahaha!” Yokichi laughed nonchalantly, but as she listened, Oto’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. If that were true, Tange Sazen would have visited Eizaburō himself to propose reconciliation outright. That would be just like him—who knew how much more so.

First of all—would Lord Tange, who had staked his life on that Ken'unmaru, let it be taken so easily? But in all things, there was such a thing as timing. Even Tange Sazen was no demon god... As she turned this over in her mind, Oto found herself unable to believe that Yokichi was lying—or that Sazen had deceived him. In short, Oto couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it.

“Is that so?” She muttered with feigned disinterest, then began massaging her temples as if nursing a headache. No sooner had she done this than she started meticulously smoothing the ashes in the brazier. Though chaotic thoughts raced through her mind, outwardly she maintained the leisurely composure of a concubine feigning boredom. A tanzen robe hung carelessly from her sloping shoulders, its black collar faintly smudged with white powder... The scene preserved the lingering allure of a woman past her prime—her plump thigh visible where one knee was raised—as lavender tobacco smoke curled lazily through the midday sunlight, tangling with the shelf’s auspicious charms.

Yokichi of Tsuzumi, somewhat flustered in the broad daylight, was watching Oto’s demeanor out of the corner of his eye.

"I can’t fathom Lord Tange—casting aside a woman in her prime like this," she thought. Oto spat out her words. “So you’re saying Lord Tange had his sword snatched by that fire-attired five-man gang or whatever they are, wrote a letter saying he doesn’t have it anymore, and you slipped that into Eizaburō’s sleeve on his lordship’s orders—that’s your story?” “Yeah. “Exactly how it went… Went through hell for it, I tell ya.”

Yokichi felt as if Oto’s fragrance were drifting toward him, still lingering in a hazy dream. Oto suddenly snapped into action and, extending the scorching-hot mouthpiece of her long tobacco pipe, pressed it against the back of Yokichi’s hand. “Get a grip, Yokichi! What’s with that stupid look on your face? This isn’t some summer evening relaxation.”

“Ah! “H-hot!!”

Yokichi leaped back, grimacing exaggeratedly as he licked the back of his hand, “The hell, Sis?! That’s scalding hot! …Goddamn, that burns!” “Isn’t this hot?! So hot!” “Hohoho, how unfortunate for you, hmm?” “So come on—before you get grilled, spit it out!”

“Huh? Confess? What’s there to confess?” “I ain’t hidin’ nothin’ from you, Sis Kushimaki! Then outta nowhere—sizzlin’ hot thing comes pokin’ at me! That’s how it went down. Heh heh, you’re one mean Sis!” “What nonsense you spoutin’?! Then tell me—what’s with that traveler getup of yours?”

“Ah!” “This?” Yokichi scratched his head wildly and said, “This here’s, y’know, my half-baked disguise. Thing is—like Sis knows—I’m a bit of a known face ’round Asakusa as Tsuzumi of Komagata or whatnot. Plus that brat Eizaburō might recognize me too, see? So for today’s job, goin’ in plain clothes just ain’t cuttin’ it.” “But if I go overboard with some fancy getup, that’d just make me stand out more, y’know? After rackin’ my brains silly, I finally settled on this traveler’s guise here—kinda stylish, ain’t it?” “How’s this? Suits me, don’t it? Heh heh.”

“Oh, is that so?” While acknowledging it lightly, Oto shot a piercing glance at Yokichi’s face. “So you’re not planning to run off anywhere, then?” “To be honest, Sis—as long as you’re here in Edo, I ain’t about to abandon the place.” “You’re smooth with your words.” “What about Lord Sazen?” “Well... I reckon he’s over at Mr. Suzukawa’s place.” “What’s this ‘geshou’? Don’t you know any better?” “Lately, the authorities’ve been keepin’ a close eye on that mansion, so I’ve been layin’ low a bit here.”

“If that’s how it is, then fine—but Yokichi, you and Lord Sazen seem to be birds of a feather from the same hole.” “N-no! Th-that’s absurd!”

Oto fixed Yokichi—still flustered—with a piercingly cold gaze,

“Anyway, I can’t fathom what you and Sazen are scheming. “I can’t stand half-baked things—it’s just my nature. “Since I’ve been cast aside anyway, from now on I’ll keep meddling with Lord Tange’s plans at every turn—and I won’t let you out of this house for a good while. “You hear me? Keep that in mind.” “Sis, have some mercy on me here...” As Yokichi bowed his head playfully, crouching to hide his face—a mix of annoyance and delight—Oto peered up at him from below.

“You’ve been targeting Miss Yayoi on Sazen’s orders, haven’t you? Hmm?” “But Yokichi, that girl’s been missing since the other day.”

Yayoi had gone missing!

In fact, ever since that rainy early morning when she dejectedly left Eizaburō’s house in Kawaracho, Yayoi had neither returned to her adoptive home in Banchō—Tamon’s residence—nor had anyone caught so much as a glimpse of her since……. Alive or dead—Yayoi’s trail had abruptly gone cold.

Suspicious!

Speaking of which, there was another matter. On that same dawn, Kushimaki Oto should have been in grave danger after being surrounded by captors before Rokuten Shinotsuka Inari Shrine. Yet despite being a woman of such daring, how had she broken through that heavy encirclement with only her own hands? And now here she was, attempting to turn Tsuzumi no Yokichi into a pliant captive through half-hearted seduction. Mysteries beget mysteries, and everything was incomprehensible—but beyond that, there was one even more baffling matter.

At exactly the same time—

Suwa Eizaburō—whose letter from Sazen had been picked up by a samurai who seemed to be of some importance (though he didn’t know it was Lord Ōoka)—returned listlessly to his home at the back of the alley and absently slid open the lattice door! Ever since quitting her work at the water teahouse, Otsuyu had kept her hair in nothing but tightly wound buns—yet today, for reasons unknown, she had styled it into an elegant ginkgo-leaf twist. Her careless side-sitting posture left her pale upper arms exposed... all reflected in the double mirror.

“Who? “Oh! “If you’re coming in, close it behind you.” “What is it?” “You’re letting dust blow in!” “Tch.” “There you go again with that money-less look on your face.” “Ugh, no! I can’t stand this!” The double mirror reflecting front and back—could this change truly reflect Otsuyu’s true heart?

Heretic of Earthly Desires

In the beginning, when Osayo had moved into Suzukawa Genjūrō’s residence through the mediation of Kizaemon, the landlord of Asakusa Tahara-chō, and Tomigorō, the blacksmith.

Though a 500-koku hatamoto, he held only a Minor Construction Duty and thus did not attend castle service—consequently, he kept neither horses nor grooms. The maid service too was handled solely by Osayo. In a desolate spot where even foxes might appear, the only house was Suzukawa’s mansion. Even as she devoted herself earnestly to her duties, Tange Sazen, Tsuchi Sennosuke, Kushimaki Oto, Tsuzumi no Yokichi, and a host of others would gather nightly—sometimes staying over for days on end to indulge in forbidden pastimes—competing in circle-seated matches: gambling. The residence known among hatamoto retainers as Honjo’s haunted mansion was this Suzukawa Genjūrō’s dwelling.

However, on the morning after such gatherings where they had been kept busy, following the meal service without fail, “Hey, Tsuchi! Last night was your turn to start the game—give Osayo some spending money.” “Alright! “Easy come, easy go. “She can take however much she wants! “Hey, Osayo… I said get over here!” With such words, he would toss out around four hundred coins each time—and from those, she received two or three hundred coins… In Osayo’s estimation, if she saved up these occasional coins she received, even half of them would amount to more than her regular wages. In doing so, she thought that if she endured for three years, the money would even help Eizaburō—the man her daughter Otsuyu loved—purchase a higher-ranking hatamoto position... With such hopes for the future, she worked diligently. But then, by chance, she overheard something: the circumstances and secret mission of Tange Sazen, the live-in guest, along with the dark shadow looming over Eizaburō connected to those so-called Night-Crying Swords.

But even knowing they were comrades from the same domain, Osayo kept this sealed in her heart and continued discreetly observing Sazen's movements—until disaster struck like lightning from a clear sky: her daughter Otsuyu had been abducted one night by Lord Genjūrō and locked away in an inner storeroom.

She had to protect her from the shadows while taking care not to be perceived as mother and daughter. How immense must have been Osayo's hardships.

However. Since Genjūrō had openly expressed his sincere desire to make Otsuyu his lifelong mistress, even Osayo—though she had not switched allegiances out of personal greed—found her aging self first considering the future of herself and her daughter. Now was the time to resolutely separate Otsuyu and Eizaburō; Otsuyu would in reality become the wife of a 500-koku retainer. Though she herself had ardently tried to persuade Otsuyu on Genjūrō’s behalf in hopes of rising to the status of mistress in a prestigious household, Otsuyu—who yearned for Eizaburō—would not consent no matter how she was urged.

As a token of severance, she had privately resolved that they could simply take Ken’unmaru—which Eizaburō was risking his life to find—from Sazen with Genjūrō’s assistance and give it to him. But just as this plan was settled, the very person at the heart of it all—Otsuyu—had secretly slipped away. This was Kushimaki Oto exacting revenge on Genjūrō by leading her out, but Genjūrō—unaware of her scheme—shifted the full blame onto Old Osayo. He confined her in the very storeroom where he had previously kept Otsuyu imprisoned, and began daily interrogations, determined first to extract from Osayo the nature of her connection to Otsuyu.

During this time, Suwa Eizaburō’s rescuing hand had nearly reached her but fell short—all due to Genjūrō’s relentless interrogation. “Yes.” “In truth, I am Otsuyu’s mother—she is my daughter.” When these words escaped Osayo’s lips, Genjūrō erupted in a deep, triumphant guffaw, “No—I had suspected as much! “So it was indeed Otsuyu—the daughter I’d heard whispers of—and that hatamoto’s second son was Suwa Eizaburō after all? “But now that this stands revealed—if you are the birth mother of the woman I covet, then you too bear obligations to this Genjūrō. “You shan’t be handled roughly. “Though ignorance excuses me not, I most humbly beg forgiveness for my prior discourtesies.”

And so, Suzukawa Genjūrō—crafty and cunning—immediately began treating Osayo as if she were his own mother, prostrating himself in apology. He promptly summoned her to a tidy little room, and now Osayo lived without want, even serving Genjūrō in this manner. If you wish to shoot the general, first shoot his horse. As the saying goes, “The real enemy is at Honnō-ji”—and so Genjūrō, having beguiled this mother figure, now sought to gradually secure Otsuyu for himself. Today, just as before, he had dressed Osayo in what seemed a warm kimono and was earnestly keeping her company with idle chatter in the sunlit room—

“Excuse me…”

A voice that sounded like a townsman's requested guidance to the back entrance.

“Hello… Pardon the intrusion.” “Is Ms. Osayo not present?”

Even when Kizaemon shouted loudly, there was no sign of anyone coming out, so this time the blacksmith Tomigorō took over and raised an even greater clamor.

“Osayooo! Osayo Granny!” “Tch! She ain’t here…?” “This is drivin’ me mad!”

As these voices carried through to the inner rooms, even Osayo—despite being in Genjūrō’s company—could no longer remain still. When she immediately tried to head to the back entrance, Suzukawa Genjūrō stopped her with the utmost courtesy one might show one’s own mother. “Now, now—leave it be. Just leave it be. “They’re likely just a merchant we deal with. “This humble one will attend to it.”

With his hands tucked in his sleeves, he lumbered to the kitchen—and there, through the waist-high lattice window by the water inlet, two faces peered in. When landlord Kizaemon from Asakusa Tawaramachi Third District and blacksmith Tomigorō from Mikamachi—Osayo’s two guarantors—had come forth together, Suzukawa Genjūrō thought, *So they must have caught wind of some unfavorable rumors*, and inwardly he found this most disagreeable. “What? “Do you have some business with Lady Osayo?” Looming over them, he stood like a wrathful temple guardian. “Lady Osayo! “And from the lord’s own mouth!” Kizaemon and the blacksmith Tomigorō, who had been terrified by what they heard, found it more than a little unsettling.

With only cursory greetings exchanged, while gauging Genjūrō's expression, they stated that if it suited the mansion's convenience, they had their own reasons for wanting to take Granny Osayo back temporarily—and so today, with guarantors lined up in attendance, they had come to make this request... or so they declared!

Genjūrō raised his eyebrows menacingly, his presence fiercely imposing. “What?! You came to take back Lady Osayo over some trifling reason? You there—Kizaemon and Tomigorō, was it?” “Yes, yes—Tomigorō the blacksmith, Kaji-Tomi at your service.” “Enough. Both of you—step forward. I’ve words for you.” With that dismissive remark, Genjūrō strode off into the inner rooms—Huh!

What was about to begin? As the two men trembled with fear and shrank back, Genjūrō immediately returned. When they saw him clutching a long sword along with its cord in his left hand—likely having gone to retrieve it—his face resembled a wrathful demon, making it clear the situation was anything but calm.

Though Kizaemon and Tomigorō couldn’t make sense of what was happening, they looked ready to flee at any moment.

Thereupon came Genjūrō’s furious voice. “Hey! Step forward a bit more! Step out! Hey! I said step out!” True to his reputation as Suzugen the yoriki, his voice bore an affected gruffness—his intimidation honed to perfection, more than sufficient to make these townsfolk quake. “Yes. We’re coming out, coming out. Is this acceptable?” As the two trembling men edged forward an inch or two, Genjūrō rattled his long sword’s guard and barked.

“It seems someone spoke unnecessary words regarding this mansion, and you took them as truth due to the gullibility of common townsfolk.” “Is that not so? Hmm?” “Huh?” They asked in return, but since neither understood well, they fidgeted and stayed silent—then Genjūrō continued, “Even if I keep Lady Osayo under my care as before, I will not allow any inconvenience to befall you all.” “Genjūrō, though unworthy as I may be, am aware that elders should be respected.” “Now I’ve got something to show you bastards—get your asses to the garden!”

With a sigh of relief, Kizaemon and Tomigorō left the back entrance. When they looked to their left, there was a folding door leading to the central courtyard. Pushing it open, they cautiously crouched before the step-off area at the edge of the inner tatami room, “Both of you! “Look up!” “It’s Lady Osayo.” At Genjūrō’s voice, Osayo followed after,

“Oh. “Mr. Kizaemon and Tomigorō. “It’s been an age since we last corresponded, but how splendid to find you both in such robust health… yes…”

What the—?! When they looked up and examined closely, there was Granny Osayo—who was supposed to be in service—acting for all the world like the lord’s own mother, putting on airs of elegance as she gazed down demurely from atop a plush cushion.

With a look that seemed to permit precisely as she saw fit—as if to say— As Kizaemon and the blacksmith Tomigorō, each quietly jabbing the other with their elbows to stifle their snorts of laughter, struggled to contain themselves, Suzukawa Genjūrō beside them composed himself with dignity and began to speak solemnly. "They say coincidental resemblances are uncanny—Lady Osayo here is the very image of my late mother... People talk of 'splitting a melon in two,' but this is more like placing two whole melons side by side! Ah, when you yearn to show filial piety, your parents are gone—yet you can't dress a stone in quilts... Even as I gaze upon Lady Osayo now, I find the back of my eyes growing strangely warm with nostalgia."

Genjūrō put on a theatrical display, blinking his eyes incessantly. Bewildered, Kizaemon and the blacksmith Tomigorō returned home in a daze. "That was something, eh, Kizaemon-don?" "Well now—that was something else, Tomi." "What in blazes was that all about? Heh heh, just like a retired matron. Both in robust health—most auspicious... But when it comes to somethin’ like this—tehehe—I swear my head’s spinnin’, honest!"

“Well now—what His Lordship says is that Osayo here looks just like his dead mother, so he’s treatin’ her like his real ma outta filial duty… But I dunno—maybe it’s just me—somethin’ stinks a bit about it.” “Stinks? What’re ya gettin’ at?” “Can’t help thinkin’ there’s some trickery at play here—though maybe I’m just borrowin’ trouble. But speakin’ plain to you, Tomi—old folks like me always feel like we can see clear to the horizon… and the worry never lets up.” “Thankless role, ain’t it?”

“But even Granny Osayo—if there ain’t no real connection ’cept lookin’ like His Lordship’s dead ma, there’s no reason she’d be gettin’ such fancy treatment. Reckon you’re right, Kizaemon-don—might be somethin’ shady brewin’ here.”

“His Lordship ain’t right in the head, I tell ya.” “He’s a swindler, I tell ya. That samurai.” “That samurai…”

Whispering in hushed tones, they left the mansion and were about to reach the street at Hōonji Bridge when one side stood Suzukawa's wall, and facing it lay a vast field.

Since it was the heart of winter, no trace of green met the eye—only undulating earth stretching as far as one could see... Here and there, stacks of straw were faintly lit by a cold, sunken sunlight that seemed to filter through water. A rotting scarecrow stood with crows clamoring around it—a desolate chill crept into one’s collar. In the far distance stood one or two thatched-roof peasant houses…

There was a voice calling out somewhere. Wind.

“Brrr! So cold!”

Without thinking, the two of them blurted out in unison—and as Kizaemon and Tomigorō the blacksmith started to quicken their pace into a trot—! By the roadside in front of the field stood a stone statue of a roadside guardian deity. From its shadow suddenly leaped two or three people! When they looked up in shock, they saw men wearing chain-studded headbands and white cotton armbands, their legs firmly protected—were these not arrest officers on a manhunt? They scattered around them, and one of them—

“You just came out of that Suzukawa mansion over there, didn’t you?” When pressed, though startled and flustered, Kizaemon—true to his reputation as a master negotiator—quickly regained his composure and responded clearly. “Yes. I am Kizaemon, landlord of Asakusa Tawaramachi Third District. This here is Tomigorō, blacksmith of Mikamachi. We came regarding having arranged a maid for Lord Suzukawa’s residence—”

“Truth is, the mansion’s reputation ain’t too good,” added Tomigorō the blacksmith. “We came today to quit our service there—but that granny’s set herself up all high and mighty, goin’ on about ‘Oh, how robust you both look, most splendid indeed…’” “What nonsense are you spouting!”

After scolding them, the arrest officers exchanged a few words of consultation— "No—this is no trivial matter. Just now, someone submitted a letter in a woman’s handwriting to the Asakusabashi guard post. According to its contents, the reverse-kesa street slasher—long sought by Her Majesty’s government—is said to be hiding within this mansion. Did you notice any such suspicious individual inside?" "No!"—as the two men shook their heads with force, perhaps deeming them not worth detaining—

“Alright, let them go. Stopping you was regrettable.” Having been permitted to leave, Kizaemon and Tomigorō raced off as if fleeing, each vying to be first… Out of morbid curiosity. When they peered around the corner of the wall, arrest officers in matching attire—two or three each—appeared to have fully encircled the estate, lying flat against the ground around its perimeter beneath tree shadows and in hollows of the terrain—their numbers roughly twenty to thirty.

“This has turned into a real mess.” “That’s why we should’ve just grabbed that old hag’s hand earlier and dragged her out by force when we had the chance.”

As they kept talking and peering in, the arrest officers suddenly raised a hand to signal. No sooner had they seen it than they swiftly slithered along the ground, closing in on both the main and rear gates.

However, neither Kizaemon nor Tomigorō—nor any of the officers—had noticed that since earlier, a viper-like eye had been gleaming in the dense foliage of a great zelkova tree overhanging Suzukawa’s wall, watching their every move from above. Bright sunlight fell upon the shoji screens where bird shadows flitted with soft rustling sounds. Genjūrō gazed absently at them for some time. A thin, chilly silence permeated the air.

In the depths of the monster mansion—after Landlord Kizaemon and Blacksmith Tomigorō had departed, their guts shriveled by Osayo’s unflappable composure and their minds gripped by a sense of having been hoodwinked—lay a single inner room. Genjūrō, lost in thought while picking flecks of dust from his body, found the room suddenly filled in that instant with the sound of Osayo sipping her tea. “Now, Osayo,” Genjūrō began resolutely, humbly inching his knees forward. “As I explained to those townsfolk earlier, I do not consider you a stranger.” “Not only do you bear a striking resemblance to my late mother—and I say this with some shame—but I too caused her nothing but worry while she was alive. No—I should have been more filial while she lived. These are just idle complaints now; it’s all water under the bridge.” “So then, dear Osayo—if I take good care of you in your old age, who so resemble my late mother, thinking that Mother in her grave would surely rejoice—I shall henceforth treat you as my true mother. You too must not hesitate to rebuke me should I ever overstep.”

The silver-tongued Genjūrō, having rattled off all this in one breath, stole a furtive glance at Osayo’s face. Osayo—already thoroughly hoodwinked up to this point—had no means of discerning his deeper schemes. Now fully convinced she had become a 500-koku retired matriarch, she merely bowed her head with demure grace, as befitted the role.

“Oh no, my lord, it is I who should—” came the reply with a deference bordering on ecstasy.

The First Scheme. "My plan is half-complete," Suzukawa Genjūrō thought as he squared his shoulders and assumed an expression that said today's discussion would be somewhat formal. "Now then, Madam Osayo..." Genjūrō stiffened uncharacteristically. "Yes." "Having heard your circumstances in detail—this matter of adoption... it's rather like a lottery. Nothing proves more disappointing than an unsuccessful ticket." "Your own situation serves as the most recent example." "To grow old serving as a maid like this—if I may speak plainly—demonstrates that Otsuyu's man lacks proper mettle." "Wouldn't you agree, Madam Osayo?"

“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 consent to let your daughter become my lifelong concubine?” “Though I say ‘concubine,’ that’s merely for appearances. In truth, she’d be a 500-koku lady of the house—and you yourself would effectively be her mother. How does that strike you?” “Well… if that were truly so…” “Hm. If that’s so…?”

“If that were indeed the case, it would be the greatest advancement not only for myself but for my daughter as well—and yet…” “But—what is it?” “Yes. However… there is someone called Suwa Eizaburō—” “Hmm. I am aware of him. But Suwa remains Suwa.” “But Lord Eizaburō has been disowned by his family because of Otsuyu. To secure a divorce now would require a certain sum… Otherwise, I fear the matter cannot be settled.”

Genjūrō stiffened abruptly. “Severance money? Well, of course.” “Let’s make this quick.” “How long until Suwa issues that divorce letter?” “That is correct.” “We once received a lump sum of fifty ryō all at once, but it was after that that things became unpleasant with your elder brother. So if we were to hand over fifty ryō now, Lord Eizaburō would also cut ties with Otsuyu…” Recalling that fifty ryō from before—the gold he’d temporarily obtained by using Yokichi the drummer at the Komagata temple grounds, only to have Taiken immediately reclaim it—Genjūrō stifled a knowing smirk,

“Alright, understood. Then I’ll handle securing that money.” “That’s all well and good, but who will handle the negotiations?” “Well, in that case... I shall handle the negotiations without naming names.” “I see. Then, I’ll leave the matter in your hands.” As Genjūrō bowed with a quick dip, Osayo swiftly brought her mouth to his ear— “And then, um… the thing that Eizaburō is risking his life to obtain—” “Yes, yes! A sword, I suppose? But Madam Osayo, that—that’s Sazen who…”

“But my lord,”

Osayo sidled closer and whispered something to Genjūrō, but the instant her Adam’s apple finished bobbing up and down—Suzukawa Genjūrō let out an involuntary gasp of astonishment—!

Suddenly, a shadow fell across the shoji screen accompanied by the fiend Tange Sazen’s hoarse voice. “Oi! Genjū! The Hatchōbori police have arrived! Another bloody sword dance!” Thud! “Agh!” The shouts of “Agh!” resounded throughout the mansion grounds! “Halt! Police!” “Halt! Police!” “Halt! Police!” Suzukawa Genjūrō heard the voices suddenly welling up around him and kicked open the shoji screen—only to find the one-eyed, one-armed Tange Sazen before him. With Ken’unmaru having been seized by the fire-attired five-man group, he now wielded an ordinary longsword. As a left-handed swordsman, he had thrust it firmly into his right waist and was deftly retying his obi over it with his single remaining hand.

On the upper and lower levels of the veranda, Genjūrō and Sazen locked eyes like prowlers, their silence stretching for a long moment.

A mountain storm loomed imminent, filling the wind tower.

Sazen had sensed some commotion outside and stealthily slipped out of the detached room—only to catch a glimpse of constables' white sashes moving beyond the fence. Without hesitation, he nimbly scaled the great zelkova tree jutting out from the wall into the thoroughfare beyond and peered down below... A wave of jitte glittering in the sun approached. The wind of authority skimmed the ground as it drew near. So they'd discovered the reverse-kesa street slayings! Before the thought could fully form, what flashed through Sword Demon Sazen's mind was this: Who in hell's name had informed on him to send this swarm of constables? Though suspicion and bewilderment lingered, Tange Sazen—the towering swordsman—realized that rather than dwelling on such conjectures, his immediate priority was to physically cut through this endlessly crisscrossed net of arrest ropes. With no path left beyond the wall, he clutched the old trunk with his left hand, slid down into the garden, and immediately rushed to the veranda where Genjūrō sat facing Osayo.

Sazen’s pale face—etched with deep sword scars and quivering like a hound catching fresh blood’s scent—bared white teeth in a razor grin. “They’re here, Gen!” “Superior officers?” “Killing ’em’d be easy enough...” “But the cleanup’d be a pain.”

“Even so, there’s no choice.” “Hmm… It cannot be helped.” Before he could speak, numerous footsteps closed in from all sides. The sword fiend Sazen had barely bared his shoulder when—snap!—a vividly colored woman’s undergarment caught on his left finger! Though it wasn’t the demon sword Ken’unmaru, he pushed open the koi-guchi. Snap! The moment someone caught sight of movement in the trees behind them—whizz…! Through the air they came—skilled hook ropes vied with each other as though alive, poised to ensnare Sazen’s neck! The instant they grazed him, he sprang diagonally like a silver current, severing the serpentine ropes mid-coil—only for the cords to writhe through the lower air in an unnaturally elongated wave.

At the same time. The thrower, caught off balance by the recoil, staggered two or three steps while still gripping the rope’s end, lurching forward as if being dragged—when! Sazen’s longsword came down like lightning—Crunch! A voice rang out as a severed fragment of skull tumbled across the ground. Brains scattered across the grass—like a bowl topped with a topknot had been flung aside—. Swish! Sazen, drenched in a spray of blood, “Pah! Stinks like cheap wood!”

As he wiped around his mouth with the back of his left hand, “Submit quietly!” A constable bellowed and kicked off the ground to leap at him—but in that instant, Sazen dropped his stance, “Th-this one too?!” A groan became a battle cry, shifting into a thrust deep into his torso—Zak! He drove the blade home. No sooner had they registered it than Sazen pivoted again—toward the master of the jitte that had flashed beside him—unleashing a lightning-fast two-handed thrust that buried half the blade into the constable’s chest. He raised one leg and yanked the sword free, toppling his foe as he spun three—four—five times, his cursed blade carving through blood-mist. Thus did Tange Sazen, the sword demon, commence his divine martial dance beneath the midday sun.

But the attackers were numerous. Like ants swarming to sweetness, like tightening the mouth of a casting net, they brandished their silver-polished jitte in hand—when they seemed to press in, they would leap up; when they feigned retreat, they closed in… their crimson and violet sashes blooming like flowers out of season. “Grah!”

Sazen assumed a freely mobile lower stance and swept his single eye across all directions... seeking a path to break through the encirclement. The winter sun hastened toward dusk.

And the evening moon.

The trees, houses, and people's faces were all bathed in a sunset as crimson as blood. Amidst the fading daylight, the moon had not yet begun to glow. Like flames from a sword's edge blazing toward heaven, some unidentified bird let out a shrill cry and took flight from the roof. Genjūrō stood on the veranda, entranced by the ferocious battle—perhaps so intoxicated by the metallic tang of swords that he'd even forgotten to draw his own blade. As for Old Osayo having stealthily slipped out of the room long before, he remained utterly unaware.

Should I defy the authorities and rescue Sazen… or abandon my friend to ensure my own safety?

Torn between these two paths, Genjūrō vacantly stared at the bloody tableau unfolding before him in the garden—a living picture scroll of the swordsman’s life-or-death struggle.

He held a great sword in one hand and stroked the veranda pillar with the other—each time Sazen’s blade was stained with the fresh blood of constables, “One-uh!” “Two-ah!” “There! Three-ah!” “Three-ah!” “Ho! Four-uh!” “Four-uh!” cried Genjūrō, thrusting his finger out like a child counting chestnuts fallen from a tree, delighting in each tally!

Beneath sunset clouds stretched like a single brushstroke of a sash from west to east.

Scattering that crimson afterglow across the entire garden, trampling it underfoot alongside the slender shadow dancing across the ground—Tange Sazen, the sword demon, now displayed his ferocious prowess. “You lot! Come! Gather and come at me!” “Damn…!” Exposing his blood-drenched figure halfway up the artificial hill, Sazen held his left sword in a high stance and scanned both sides with his blazing single eye in a piercing glare.

Looming dusk. Fearing they might lose track of their enemy in the gathering darkness, the constables thrust their well-practiced jitte forward in a circular formation, resolved to capture him at once—yet though they burned to charge uphill, the left sword poised at that height could plunge down unpredictably at any moment, leaving them all hesitating at second and third steps… Meanwhile, Sazen—whose breathing had grown ragged in the flint-spark sword clashes—now steadied himself completely, settling into a perfectly still stance with shoulders calm.

Seeing this, one man who appeared to be the leader of the captors—a constable—shouted loudly from behind the semicircle. “Hey! You so-called Tange Sazen— “The authorities have known full well for over a winter now that you’re the street slasher who’s been terrorizing the shogun’s very capital! “Now then! If you’re truly a master swordsman, why not swiftly grasp your predicament, recognize there’s no escape, and humbly submit to the ropes?! “At this critical juncture, futile resistance will only compound your crimes!”

Sazen’s ashen-white face turned toward the source of the voice and smiled. “What’s this about street slashing? Who the hell turned informant and revealed my whereabouts? Tell me that! Tell me!”

he forced out in a low, cold voice from the corner of his mouth.

The constables maintained their loud, authoritative tone. "Such matters are not for your ears!" he barked—but then seemed to reconsider. "But—" he lowered his voice—"the informant... came from someone unexpectedly close to you." Sazen's single eye blazed with heightened cruelty. "Wh-what?! "So... "So I've been sold out by a friend... Hmm! "Amusing! "So—this 'friend' who reported me—where's he from? Who the hell is he? "Tell me this!"

But the official did not wait for Sazen’s words to end, “Enough! “Enough of your stalling!” “If you want to hear it, listen after they’ve bound you with ropes—now, all of you—attack!” And then—“Under arrest! “Submit quietly!” The furious shouts swirled into a chaotic vortex, but through a lull in the uproar, Sazen’s hoarse throat could faintly be heard struggling to voice a plea. “Hey! “I’m beggin’ ya!” “T-Tell me!—Hey!” “Wh-who… who betrayed me?! You think I’ll let myself be trussed up in arrest ropes without knowin’ that?! Huh!” “One word!” “Yo!” “Name! Give me the informant’s name! The na—!”

But the officials, already desperately focused on their jitte techniques, had their lips tightly sealed with no moment to spare for showing any intention of responding. Amidst the tempest of rain lashing down and wind howling like a storm of official jitte, what suddenly caught Tange Sazen’s eye was Suzukawa Genjūrō—standing on the veranda in a dazed stupor, watching his own calamity unfold.

The moment he saw this, something flashed through Tange Sazen’s mind—

“Hey! Genjū! You bastard—it was you who ratted me out!” Though not wielding Ken’unmaru, Tange Sazen’s blade sharpened with newfound precision as he instantly scattered two or three constables flanking him—Thud! No sooner had he cut them down than he fixed Genjūrō with a single eye blazing like vengeful embers, charging through the swarm of jitte-wielding officers toward the veranda in one earth-splitting dash. The moment he moved— Boooom! A cannon roar from beyond the mansion shook winter-bare branches, its subterranean rumble rolling through the air.

In the overgrown garden of Honjo Bakemono Yashiki, waves of jitte churned with blood spray and the gale of a left-handed blade... Though the extraordinary sword Ken'unmaru was no longer at hand—having been seized by an enigmatic faction—the sword-mad Sazen’s prowess surged forth unimpeded, needing no aid from Ken’unmaru.

And then. At the very moment when Tange Sazen—now scattering shadows and disrupting formations—broke through the swarming constables, charged across the distance in a single leap, and lunged toward Genjūrō on the veranda, utterly convinced that Suzukawa Genjūrō, master of this house, was unquestionably the one who had secretly reported him! Bang!

A single shot resounded explosively through the indigo twilight atmosphere—the sound of a pocket pistol.

Gah! “Ranged weapons!...”—the startled cry escaped the constables’ lips as they were caught off guard, and all present instinctively turned their gaze toward the gunfire—. A woman’s figure—her snow-white right hand extended straight out as if mimicking a foreign-made pistol, her left hand clutching her sleeve—was approaching stealthily through the garden’s standing trees.

It was none other than Kushimaki Oto! "That’s her—the wanted criminal Oto!" The constables realized this and stirred with renewed agitation, but Oto proceeded slowly, using the trunk as a small shield as she swept her pistol muzzle across the line of constables arrayed before her, “Now, Lord Tange! Hurry!—It’s Oto.” “I’ve come to retrieve you.” “I’ll hold them here—you must escape through the rear gate… I’ll be right behind you!”

Upon hearing the shrill shout, Sazen—since escaping was now his top priority—ignored Genjūrō, who still stood at the edge of the veranda, and... “Hey, Suzugen! I never thought I’d get bit by the likes of you!” Genjūrō coldly retorted,

“Don’t be absurd! That I reported you as an informant is a complete misunderstanding on your part! That’s pure conjecture!” “Shut up! We’ll find out soon enough when we investigate. Sooner or later I’ll repay this—you can count on that!” “Exactly! It will become clear once we investigate—but more importantly, Tange, you must leave this place at once...!” “What’s with this fake benevolence?! I don’t need your damn help!”

Sazen and Genjūrō exchanged this brief conversation even as, “You lot, move and I’ll shoot!... This foreign toy’s got a quick temper, ho ho ho.” As Oto thrust her pistol forward, the constables’ formation momentarily let their guard down and stood dumbfounded—whereupon Sazen smirked sardonically with his single eye and swiftly circled around behind Oto, but... Snap! Snap! He brushed off his hem and adjusted his collar, then—still vividly stained with splattered blood—blended into the descending night’s veil and nonchalantly exited through the rear gate. He let the other large sword—not Ken’unmaru—drop as though nothing had happened.

And then, instantly— Oto—using the muzzle of her pocket pistol to trace a circle before the constables—flung a pale, meaningful smile at Genjūrō on the veranda, then retreated through the trees for four or five *ken*. No sooner had she distanced herself than—*snap!*—she leaped after Sazen.

The two shadows of the Sword Demon and the Female Fiend rapidly receded into the distance. “After them!”—the fierce command rang out. But by the time the constables jostled forward to follow their footprints, no trace of human presence remained beyond the wall. Dusk’s mist clung to fields bordering the road, while far in the distance, smoke from evening meals drifted white and long from thatched huts—and at the foot of Hōonji Bridge, a single stray dog bayed at the pale visage of the evening moon. But where exactly did Kushimaki Oto intend to take Sazen after rescuing him?

And then—what of Genjūrō, left behind? No—! But more importantly—where was Osayo—? Even had there been no tale of the Heaven and Earth blades—the Night-Crying Swords—it went without saying that Tange Sazen’s heart grew profoundly unsettled upon learning that Yayoi, who believed herself rightfully his after triumphing in last autumn’s match at Akebono Village, had become increasingly drawn to none other than his sworn enemy in swordsmanship: Suwa Eizaburō.

Therefore, Sazen’s feelings toward Eizaburō were laced with resentment born of a love entangled with swords—but…

But that was beside the point.

For Sazen—who bore his lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke’s secret orders—there was one matter he found utterly perplexing no matter how he considered it. It was none other than this: When Eizaburō and Taiken had launched their raid on Suzukawa’s mansion and spent a night of chaotic clashes amid drizzling rain until nearing dawn—at that very moment—five palanquins materialized like phantoms. The fire-attired warriors within not only crossed blades with us but also with Eizaburō himself before vanishing into daybreak’s streets… Their true identities and purpose.

They too sought to unite the Heaven and Earth blades into one! That they too sought to unite the Heaven and Earth blades had been made clear during the fray by what appeared to be their leader—an elderly man—but this was a matter so supremely baffling it defied comprehension. In the first place… Originating from Tange Sazen’s secret orders, a great struggle for supremacy had erupted between Suwa Eizaburō and Sazen—a conflict that should have been known to none but the two principals themselves, the few surrounding them, and the gods of fate who govern the workings of the world—!

And yet—! The five fire-attired warriors—as though they had been observing everything from the very beginning—had abruptly intruded upon the scene at that precise moment when Konryū and Ryūmaru, gathered in a single courtyard, were locked in their spiraling clash. A five-man unit of burly swordsmen of formidable skill had undoubtedly been plotting in the shadows with predatory intent—aiming to seize Ken’unmaru from Sazen and Konryūmaru from Eizaburō. Assuming this to be the case,

Now, even if they managed to gather in one place the two swords—Heavenly Cloud and Earth Dragon—that drew each other together, what on earth did this five-man group intend to do with them? But now, the doubts circled back again—to guess this group’s purpose, one had to first know their true identity above all else.

Who were they? Or perhaps they’re someone’s agents! No matter how much he sat racking his brains, Sazen could not discern their identities. Eizaburō’s swordsmanship had always been formidably sharp, his skills honed with extraordinary speed through life-and-death battles in genuine combat arenas. Moreover, he now had Gamō Taiken—a veritable demon wielding an iron club—at his side. Thus, Sazen’s Ken’unmaru could not easily summon Eizaburō’s Konryūmaru as before. To compound matters, Suzukawa Genjūrō—with whom he had forged an alliance of mutual aid—proved, judging by his habitual conduct, to be an increasingly unreliable prospect. And into this vortex had now swept that enigmatic band of five warriors.

Thus Sazen too found himself frequently compelled to set aside his sword and deliberate deeply—this being a day soon after the raid itself—but being one who had scarcely exercised his mind beyond gripping blades with his single arm, he now sat utterly perplexed in the thatched hut and turned to Yokichi, who sat there spouting idle chatter.

“Hey there, Yokichi.” “Huh.” “Exactly.” “Hmph!” “What’s ‘exactly’?” “I haven’t even said anything yet!” “Oh! Right.” “But my lord, those bastards… y’know, the ones in fireman’s gear.” “Hey! Bullseye.” “Nailed it, didn’t I? These bastards—” “Hmm! Dead on target.” “You’ve got some mind-readin’ knack.” “Heh heh.” “Yer jokin’.” “Don’t know squat ’bout fancy tricks.” “What’re we s’posed to do ’bout this mess?”

“Well, that’s it. What the hell should we do?” As they deliberated—Yokichi, whose knack for resourcefulness had earned him the nickname “a drum that resonates when struck and answers when beaten”—pondered and devised some scheme through twisting thoughts. After whispering two or three suggestions, Sazen immediately accepted his counsel. A glint of delight surfaced in his single eye as he struck his knee with satisfaction.

Though they likely vowed 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 Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen, appeared at Asakusa’s end-of-year market and obtained Sazen’s letter addressed to Eizaburō… In other words, it was still before the new year had begun.

And so, the wicked scheme of Yokichi—he of the drum—was as follows.

Now, through the machinations of Yokichi—he of the drum—Sazen immediately took up his brush and penned that very letter addressed to Eizaburō. The wording stated that the five-man group had stolen the secret sword Ken’unmaru, and it was now no longer in his possession. And now that I no longer possess Ken’unmaru, there remains no purpose in us remaining mortal foes locked in mutual pursuit. Furthermore, from this day forward, should I lend my sword arm to you, Eizaburō—using the magnetic pull of Konryūmaru still at your hip—we might summon Ken’unmaru once more and outwit those fire-attired rogues. Let all past matters vanish like mist! Would you not cast aside old grudges and take this Sazen anew as your ally?

It was a truce letter brimming with fraud and deceit—and simultaneously, an utterly self-serving proposal for alliance. By delivering this letter to Eizaburō and temporarily restraining Konryūmaru’s movements— “Now—what do we do in the meantime?” At this critical juncture, Sazen and Yokichi pressed their discussions further until— Now Tange Sazen found himself pitted not only against Eizaburō—wielder of Konryūmaru—and his ally Taiken, but also against that utterly inscrutable fire-attired five-man group. Peerless swordsman though he was, Sazen stood on precarious ground alone. To compound matters, Suzukawa Genjūrō—master of the house where he had taken refuge—had become wholly absorbed in currying favor with the elderly maid Osayo to drive Otsuyu and Eizaburō apart. His initial fervor—that resolute determination to take up arms alongside Sazen and eliminate Eizaburō—had been steadily waning of late.

Indeed, Suwa Eizaburō was Sazen’s sword foe. For Genjūrō... a rival in love. Yet contrary to Sazen’s initial assumption—that he could simply seize both swords and abscond to his home domain of Nakamura without difficulty—Eizaburō of Konryūmaru proved more formidable than anticipated. Then came the emergence of Taiken, that gallant warrior, and now the appearance of this five-man group. As these unforeseen obstacles multiplied and Suzukawa Genjūrō began employing tactics diverging from Sazen’s own, Tange Sazen—isolated and unsupported throughout all Edo—found himself growing unusually uneasy. In the gloom, he could not help but stroke Ken’unmaru with his single arm.

Suzukawa Genjūrō was so utterly unreliable! When he realized it at last—that the root cause of all his trials lay in Lord Sōma Daisanryō’s burning ambition and strict orders—Sazen knew he had no choice but to summon several dozen stalwart swordsmen from his home domain. This would both counter the five-man group and enable a sudden assault with overwhelming numbers—crushing Eizaburō and Taiken in one stroke to seize Konryūmaru! With the situation grown this critical, speed was key.

A day's delay meant a day's loss! We must race against time to summon swordsmen from Sōma Nakamura! "Ah, my lord! That's the wisest scheme—the perfect plan for this crisis..." And so Sazen, promising rich rewards upon success, secretly sent Drum Yokichi to infiltrate Oshū Nakamura.

So...

The fact that Ken'unmaru had been stolen and was now out of Sazen’s grasp was merely a temporary desperate measure—nothing more than an attempt to maintain a state of truce with Eizaburō through this false letter until reinforcements could arrive in the capital. If Yokichi brought along their clan’s swordsmen? The rest was as good as his! But if only Taiken and Eizaburō would take this letter at face value and remain still during that period… Half-apprehensive, half-praying, Sazen handed the letter to Yokichi—

Everything had originated from his own mind—Yokichi of the Drum, his sworn brother, knew every detail. “My lord, if I may be so bold, please rest assured. I’ll take care of deliverin’ this letter to Eizaburō, then set out for Oshū right away.” “I see. Then, regardin’ the message when ya go to Nakamura…” Sazen painstakingly spelled out the mission’s intent. “Listen sharp—explain these circumstances proper-like, gather the crew, and though it’s a damn shame for ya, I’ll need ya to hightail it outta there that very night and come rushin’ back to Edo. You can claim whatever reward ya fancy later.”

“Whoa! You’re too stingy, my lord. Between you and me—who needs rewards? Heh heh heh...” With that settled, Yokichi soon returned home to begin preparations—and at that very moment! In the dead of night, under cover of darkness, Sazen stealthily—with utmost stealth—dug a hole in a corner of Suzukawa’s estate and buried Ken’unmaru, the great night-crying sword— He thought no one had noticed!

There was one person here who had secretly witnessed Tange Sazen burying Ken'unmaru.

Several days had passed since then.

Now then, Yokichi of the drum had prepared that ostentatious travel attire. By now, would he indeed be hurrying ever northward along the Oshū route? In any case, up until today, Tange Sazen at Rian had continued to lead a vaguely precarious existence. Yokichi of the drum, who had become the secret envoy seeking reinforcements for Sazen. Having promptly prepared for his journey and wandered through Asakusa’s year-end market in hopes of somehow tracking down Eizaburō, he had managed to spot Eizaburō by chance and deliver the letter—a success up to that point, but—

Mistaken for a pickpocket and chased through the streets, he had barely managed to dart into Kushimaki Oto’s house and sigh in relief—only for his travel attire to immediately rouse suspicion of collusion with Tange Sazen. Oto’s beguiling charms had reduced him to a spineless captive. Yokichi—who had melted into submission under a single seductive gaze—thus betrayed Sazen’s expectations and was likely still loitering about Oto’s second floor even now.

For someone in Sazen’s position, there could be no greater blunder than this. But then—how had Eizaburō considered Sazen’s letter? Had he not taken Sazen’s claims as truth? And what measures had he decided upon hereafter? That matter would remain a guarded secret for now. Moreover, that Eizaburō had dropped Sazen’s letter—and that it had been picked up, of all people, by Lord Echizen Tadasuke, now in his possession—would not be questioned here...

However, it was Oto. Upon hearing from Yokichi that Ken'unmaru was no longer in Sazen’s possession, she had immediately seen through the ruse and burned with resentment that even Yokichi had taken Sazen’s side. My longing for Lord Sazen—that remains unchanged even now, but only when requited does love become true love. To be so utterly despised yet still secretly cherish a man was neither in Oto’s nature nor within the capacity of her no-longer-maidenly years—a feat she could never have managed from the outset.

Not only that. When Oto thought of how Sazen's heart raced solely toward Yayoi without sparing her a glance—and recalling how he had harshly rebuked her—she found herself waiting for any chance to retaliate against him. If I can't have him, I'll break him! If he's nothing but a stranger now, why hold back? I'll curse Sazen to oblivion and reduce every last shred of him to ruin!

Having thus resolved herself, the jealous Oto tricked Yokichi into staying put—then slipped away herself and flung down a complaint exposing the whereabouts of Tange Sazen, the ronin perpetrator of street slayings! She tossed it into the police box at Asakusa Bridge. The handwriting was feminine, but it boldly bore "Suzukawa Genjūrō" as the complainant. It was this that had sparked that police raid—the official uproar!

The moment the swarm of constables descended upon the Honjo Monster Mansion, Oto found herself utterly powerless against the inexplicably lonely feeling that surged up within her chest. Arrest Lord Tange! And all of it—just because I did a little tampering!

The moment this thought struck her, Oto could bear it no longer—this unbearable restlessness being but a natural outpouring of human emotion. Abruptly tucking her cherished pistol into her kimono, she dashed out toward Honjo.

Why? To rescue Sazen from the trap she herself had laid! There was no mistaking that Kushimaki Oto combined a witch’s venom with an Edo native’s passionate devotion—but if both were inherent aspects of her nature, then this frantic rush to rescue him by chasing after the very constables she’d unleashed could only be called a meticulously calculated panic. Yet it held no contradiction— Why…? To explain— This thought had struck Oto as she ran through the streets: if she personally saved Sazen now, she’d be placing him under an immense debt of gratitude. Should she later demonstrate her devotion thoroughly, even Lord Tange might finally cast aside Yayoi’s phantom and become truly bound to her. No—this outcome was inevitable.

Moreover, since the complaint bore the name of the Honjo lord himself, this would splendidly drive a wedge between Sazen and Genjūrō—ensuring that sooner or later, Sazen’s blade could stain itself with Genjūrō’s blood! You treacherous Lord Genjūrō—breaking our bridge-sealed pact, thinking only of yourself! A favor! A favor! I’ll put him in my debt! That man was neither wood nor stone—especially when samurai were said to feel gratitude above all else—

Oto, her longing for Sazen now burning ever more acutely—A favor! A favor! On! On! Keeping rhythm with her silent scream that filled her heart to bursting, she leapt into the air toward Sazen’s peril and unleashed a single pistol shot. At the critical moment, she rescued Tange Sazen, and then—! As for where... she would take him, she had a clear destination in mind. That place—to that land known only to Oto and no one else!

At Suzukawa Genjūrō’s mansion in Honjo, amidst the stagnant clash of jitte and gleaming blades encircling the Sword Demon Sazen…

Kushimaki Oto had abruptly materialized and, with a single pistol concealed in her robe, shielded Tange Sazen as they fled together—this had transpired mere moments prior.

A dusky haze like thin mist enveloped the surroundings. In the skies above Oshiage and Yanagishima, the afterglow of sunset lingered only briefly before fading. First came Hirakawa-san Hōon-ji, followed by the many nearby temples—Shinjō, Daihō, Reizan, Honpō, Eiryū, and Honbutsu—their bell towers alive with the sound of swung bell strikers. These tones drew long trails through the twilight hour before vanishing between heaven and earth.

The sixth hour of dusk. Behind Suzukawa’s Monster Mansion, beneath an ancient chinquapin tree that towered like a madwoman with disheveled hair, stood a modest storage shed—forgotten and buried under old firewood and brushwood—alongside a crumbling folding door. It was that very place where Kushimaki Oto, upon hearing from Yokichi of Tange Sazen’s affections toward Yayoi, had transformed into a green-faced female yaksha. Now. In the creeping twilight darkness, only the clangs of blades and guttural shouts flowed from the inner garden—while Tange Sazen likely performed his one-armed swordplay against constables on the lawn before the main hall, here on the secluded rear side, not a soul stirred. Just the wind passing low through the sky, and chinquapin treetops groaning as if suddenly remembering, their branches merely caressing stardust scattered like agar.

A desolate evening scene.

Snap! At this moment.

As if possessed by some spectral entity, a black-robed figure appeared unsteadily in this corner of the garden. For a while, she pressed her ear to the storage shed door and listened toward the front and surroundings. Then, upon seeing that the mansion was now consumed by the official commotion with no one approaching, she quietly slipped inside the shed—and emerged immediately. 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 hands, she gripped the hoe she had retrieved from the storage shed.

Taking out a hoe in the evening... What could she be doing in such a place? Just as one wondered—! Osayo did not hesitate for even an instant—abruptly raising the hoe, she began digging at the base of the chinquapin tree in the shed’s shadow—

Strange! The soil appeared recently disturbed by someone’s hoe—its surface had only begun to harden. With each strike—one, two—the soft earth piled effortlessly onto the metal blade and spilled out at Osayo’s feet.

In the dim twilight, the hoe's blade glowed white, and with each dull thud of metal biting into earth that shattered the surrounding silence, the hole steadily grew larger. "Hah! Hah!" The old woman Osayo, shoulders heaving with each breath—stealing away from prying eyes—what was she trying to unearth in this shed's shadow……?

It was—

One night some time ago.

Osayo, who as was her habit as an old woman had stayed up late, suddenly rose to use the toilet and happened to peer out through a small window into the darkness outside—only to see Tange Sazen, who should have been asleep in the detached quarters, now digging into that very spot and trying to bury a long, narrow object wrapped in layers of rags and oiled paper. Under cover of midnight, Tange Sazen—the guest samurai—had engaged in suspicious behavior… This was part of a covert scheme to temporarily conceal Ken'unmaru here, then falsely claim it had been stolen by that fire-attired group—thereby deceiving even Suwa Eizaburō and others within the mansion. Yet Osayo, who had witnessed everything from start to finish—just as she had reported earlier to Suzukawa Genjūrō—now intended to take advantage of the current chaos to unearth the sword. She planned to swiftly deliver it to Eizaburō as partial severance from Otsuyu.

The number of hoe strikes brought down by old woman Osayo’s hands!…. Soil flew. Pebbles scattered. And finally—not an earthbound dragon, but Ken’unmaru buried in the soil—when it appeared before Osayo’s eyes! The gunshot fired by Kushimaki Oto to rescue Sazen resounded. For how many days since their parting had this counterpart of the night-crying swords—wept in lonely sorrow for Konryūmaru, sated on human blood—driven people toward tragedy and ceaselessly stirred wicked desires? Now, for the first time, Ken’unmaru had left Tange Sazen’s hands.

……Osayo crouched as if she might fall and lifted the heavy sword from the bottom of the hole. In the darkness, a sharp *flap* resounded—the sound of dirt being shaken from its wrappings. After Oto and Sazen, enveloped in the evening darkness, departed, the constables too hurriedly exited the garden in pursuit. Suzukawa Genjūrō stood alone on the veranda for a long time, blankly. At any moment, the constables might return, and there would likely be an inquiry directed at me as well. I may possibly be ordered to appear at the magistrate's office, but since I must first make arrangements with Lord Aoyama Bizen-no-kami, Head of Minor Construction, and follow proper procedures, tonight should be safe for now. Suzukawa Genjūrō dismissed it all—if he took this time to carefully craft his excuses, talking his way out would be trivial—and waited for the officials to return. But the pursuers seemed to have already crossed Hōonji Bridge and scattered along Yokogawa’s riverbank with startling speed. A cold, oppressive wind brushed his temples as he stood there. Across the garden surface—which until moments ago had been surrendered to a whirlpool of blades and tides of spears—reddish-black stains, likely blood from the official casualties being carried away, now dotted the grass roots.

The deep hues of night had fully settled.

Genjūrō remained motionless for a long time. Tange Sazen stubbornly maintained that he himself had been betrayed by an informant; yet how exactly the officials had pinpointed his whereabouts remained as much a mystery to Genjūrō as it did to Sazen. “That bastard seems to hold a grudge against me... What a damn fool.”

A soliloquy escaped Genjūrō’s lips. At the same moment, he shuddered as something beyond mere coldness crept up his neck—vividly conjuring Sazen’s indescribably ferocious sword strokes and that single serpent-mad eye. But he looked up at the twilight sky and smirked. “Sazen! What’s the big deal! First off—whatever you say ain’t my damn business!” Mumbling the latter part like excuses under his breath, Genjūrō moved to enter the room—yet what struck him as truly inexplicable was how Kushimaki Oto had burst forth at that critical moment.

Hmm! So... Oto. The moment he savored and chewed over this single word, it seemed to Genjūrō as though all pathways had become transparent. Leaning against a pillar, he spun his back around in a swift motion, shifted his weight, and let out a stifled chuckle. No sooner had he done so than—Bwahahaha! A great laugh welled up from the pit of his belly, “Oto.” “Ahahaha, so this is Oto’s doing—” And so he indulged in endless amusement—but.

Eventually.

“Osayo… Lady Osayo…!” When he called out and peered into the room, discovering the absence of the old woman’s figure there, Suzukawa Genjūrō abruptly stopped laughing and pricked up his ears.

Only the sound of evening wind rustling through the trees—the hush of twilight cut deeper to the bone than midnight.

Flickering, flickering, flickering—white specks danced in the pitch-black darkness; it seemed snow had begun to fall. Genjūrō suddenly remembered something and hurriedly stepped down into the garden. Earlier, Osayo had whispered about Ken'unmaru... She had seen Tange Sazen burying that sword behind the storage shed and intended to secretly dig it up immediately. Under the pretense that it came from Genjūrō, she wanted to deliver it to Eizaburō as compensation for Otsuyu. Osayo had said this—but she might have already dug up the earth and taken something away. If so, the repercussions would eventually come from Sazen to him. Sword Demon Sazen—who had staked his life on the Night-Crying Swords—there was no telling what he might do—.

As he considered this, Genjūrō grew slightly uneasy, so he thrust his feet into garden clogs and hurried around to the rear.

Snow struck cheeks, only to vanish.

Chinquapin tree. In its shadow stood a rotted firewood shed.

Looking at the tree roots—! There was indeed a hole dug there. Into the dark, narrow earthen hole, snowflakes like white butterflies flew one after another. “Osayo! You’ve finally outsmarted Sazen and made off with Ken’unmaru." “This has turned into a bit of a problem regarding Tange!”

Repeating this in his mind, Genjūrō brushed the snow from his head and returned to the room. However, he was at a loss—more than over Ken’unmaru—to procure the fifty ryō in severance money he had promised Osayo today for Eizaburō. That a five-hundred-koku hatamoto would be hindered by fifty ryō… It seemed unthinkable, but Genjūrō, drowning in debts and unable to make ends meet, lacked not just fifty but even a mere five ryō. Desires drive men to evil paths.

Hmm... Maybe I should kill... As he mimed wild sword swings in the dark and stepped onto the veranda, Tsuchi Sennosuke’s off-key humming could be heard beyond the shoji screen—when had he arrived?

In Edo, it was the evening when the first snow of winter fell.

Two Tears

“Oh yes. “After all, I’m just a lowly woman, you know. “Well, I certainly can’t measure up like some swordsmanship master’s daughter, now can I? “Hmph! “What a shame for you.” Otsuyu pursed her lips into a taut line and glared resentfully at Eizaburō.

A sulky sideways slouch―― Eizaburō gazed painfully at the two slick heels tinged with red that lay spilled across the tatami as if flung out, then averted his eyes.

A dull, cloudy winter day. Beneath a sky threatening to weep, the damp laundry from the main street’s haberdashery flapped limply in the wind, visible through the gaps in the window frame… deep within the grimy, poverty-stricken alley of Kawaramachi’s tiled-roof tenements. Then, suddenly, the shrew’s shrill voice erupted from the plasterer’s house next door. “What the hell is this, you brat! Scattering ashes here again, are ya?!” “Really, really—you never learn your lesson, do you? “Just like your father!”

Following that—smack! the sound of a blow striking someone’s head. Ow! The child’s wail rose shrilly—slap slap slap—the wife’s palm flew recklessly toward the child’s cheeks.

What a dark, dank world this was! …Young Eizaburō’s heart felt unable to endure that tormenting weight, and he turned a smile—forcibly made gentle—toward Otsuyu. “Dreary weather. “Rain… no, it might turn to snow. “How’s your headache?”

Otsuyu—hmph! She turned her face away, and the headache plaster on her temple caught Eizaburō’s eye as if flaunting itself. He once again bitterly furrowed his brows. Plop— In the unnaturally severed silence, an ominous air enveloped them both.

Truly an ominous atmosphere—rain, snow, no, perhaps even a storm could brew…

A pause. Otsuyu tugged lightly at her collar and bit her nails as she began speaking in a somber tone, half to herself. "No matter how foolish I may be, for a mere teahouse girl like me to be called—well—'your honorable wife' or 'madam' of such a splendid samurai... even someone like me knows full well that's a rare treasure to cherish." "But you see, humans aren't creatures who can be content just scraping together enough rice to survive each day." "Even I sometimes wish to wear one or two pretty kimonos like any proper woman in the world."

Here we go again!— With that thought, Eizaburō grimaced and involuntarily glared around the room, his eyes sharp as thorns. How transformed Otsuyu had become! The once-diligent Otsuyu had not once picked up a needle or broom in recent days, and both Eizaburō and she wore nothing but frayed, stained garments… Before long, dust piled high in every corner of their one-room dwelling, discarded undergarments lay overturned to reveal their faded crimson linings, while beside them, an obi brazenly coiled like a serpent—such was their wretched state.

It was as though they’d plucked a post-town prostitute and enshrined her as the Great Wife Deity——. But that wasn’t all. From her demeanor and tone to everything she said, Otsuyu had undergone a complete transformation into self-indulgence. This wasn’t how it had been. It hadn’t been like this until recently. As he pondered this, Eizaburō wondered—what had changed Otsuyu so utterly? Rather than puzzling over the reasons behind this change, he now found himself increasingly irritated by daily trivialities, inevitably glaring in anger.

Because of this, their marital squabbles—unchanged from times past, so petty even dogs wouldn’t touch them—blossomed into full force, and today was no exception…

Earlier, with the peeling-lacquered tray between them, the two had begun their breakfast. Even though there must have been other ways to prepare it, when Eizaburō failed to bring the miserly miso soup and pickled radish ends—pared down to the barest minimum—to his mouth with any particular relish, Otsuyu, as usual, was first to ignite the fuse, as if she had been waiting for this very moment.

“Oh! What a disgusted face you’re making! Why are you making such a face?” “…………” “Is what I made really so filthy?!” “Well, you—there’s no need to be so—” “No! I shouldn’t say this, but… if only we had money, even I could manage a bit better… Hmph! That’s how it is.”

What followed was... Eizaburō averted his gaze, trying to distract himself with other matters. "Lord Taiken hasn't shown his face in quite some time. I wonder why he remains..." "Living on a boat under this frigid sky must be quite trying." As if suddenly noticing the words "frigid sky," he shuddered violently and tried to add charcoal to the dying brazier's embers. "You!" Otsuyu's voice contained something at its core that still threatened to erupt, which she was desperately holding back.

“You!” “What?” In Eizaburō’s hand, the fire tongs holding charcoal remained suspended in midair. “What’s with that face?” Otsuyu glared sharply at Eizaburō with a pale glance and remained silent for a while before— “This face, that face—this is my face, you know. It’s not like I can just peel it off and put on a new one now, is it?” “What?” “No, well—it’s just that I can’t manage everything like that Negishi girl.”

“Otsuyu, what are you saying?” “Even a packhorse driver can clean up nice with some clothes and a hairstyle——If I went all out and dolled myself up, even you’d have to take another look at me like this. But it takes money! And for that… you need mo-ney! Do you understand now?” “Don’t be absurd! You’ve been acting strange lately!” Eizaburō quietly began adjusting the arrangement of the charcoal without attempting to engage, but his inner turmoil seemed uncontrollable; the tips of the fire tongs trembled violently, crumbling the charcoal as soon as he set it in place.

They both had ashen faces. Lips white as paper——. As if determined to escalate this quarrel without fail, Otsuyu suddenly lunged forward with force—her knee collided with his knee, and the coarse-tea bowl overturned violently. Grh! Eizaburō recoiled, “Wh-what are you doing?!” “What the hell is this?!” Otsuyu grabbed the corner of the tray once more and shook it fiercely. The ceramics clashed together, letting out a violent noise.

“Otsuyu!” “But isn’t that exactly how it is? Is there a single thing in this world that money can’t accomplish? When I decided to be with you, I never imagined things would get this bad… Looking as wretched as I do these days—” Otsuyu tugged sharply at the patched sleeve of her tattered yellow Hachijō kimono, “—I’m too ashamed to even go out and buy tofu! When I pass by fabric shops, I have to cover my eyes and run past them.”

“...Forgive me.” “What’s the point of apologizing? This house creaks and groans year-round—it’s utter destitution in here.” “Even with New Year’s here, we can’t pound a single rice cake! Everything we scrounge up gets hauled straight to the pawnshop—hah! All we accumulate are these worthless tickets—look!” “Don’t tell me we’ve run out of even those damned pledges now?” “Now stop this shrill nagging. Think of the neighbors.” “There it is!” “All your talk of ‘something’—this ‘shame’ and that ‘propriety’—hmph!” “Samurai are supposed to be different, aren’t they—ha!”

“Hey, Otsuyu!” “Yes?” “You—what the hell has gotten into you lately?” “It’s nothing.” “Is that so? From what I can see, your demeanor has completely changed—”

“No. “It’s not that anything’s wrong... but there’s something I’ve been pondering deeply.” “Hmm. What might that be? Speak your mind.” “…………” “If you’ve grown weary of this humble one, declare it plainly! Why not lay all matters bare?”

Without a word, the profile of Otsuyu—her head hung low—appeared to be on the verge of tears, and Eizaburō too suddenly softened his heart. “Come now, speak. Now, I’ll listen properly.” As he peered in—Hohohoho!— With a carefree, coquettish laugh, Otsuyu shook off Eizaburō and casually remarked: “You there—stop this. Things like searching for swords… they’re not in fashion these days.”

Otsuyu’s words—urging him to abandon his quest to recover Ken’unmaru, the Night-Crying Sword—were akin to telling someone to discard worn-out sandals. At this sudden remark, even Eizaburō couldn’t help but flare up— he snapped. But as a prudent man with grave matters at hand, he didn’t let his fury show so easily. Yet the deliberately quietened low voice betrayed his composure, trembling faintly.

“Why? Why bring this up now?” “You knew from the start I’d stake my life to reclaim Ken’unmaru.” “Did you not enter into this… with this humble one… knowing full well?” “Yes—I knew.”

Burying her chin in her collar, Otsuyu glanced up at Eizaburō from under her brow. When silence fell, the water in the iron kettle emitted a high-pitched chiiin like wind through pines, and though they sat in Edo's very heart, this secluded corner of a hidden alley gave them the sensation of dwelling in a mountain hut severed from human habitation. Through opposite eaves, an apologetic sun strained through clouds to faintly illuminate reddish-brown tatami mats frayed at their edges.

A helpless sensation like the high tide of morning cold seeped and swelled within Eizaburō’s chest.

Otsuyu continued. “I am well aware of that. "But when I see you putting our life together second or third, so engrossed in that sword..." “Are you saying… you’re sick of it?”

Eizaburō’s voice was dry and strained.

“…………” “Hey!”

“My! What a tone you’re using!” Otsuyu said reproachfully, then immediately sneered through her nose— “Yes.” “Yes, it is!” “Exactly so!” Her voice, having declared this, neared a scream. Then she slumped her body even more sloppily at an angle and began speaking rapidly in a shrill voice, like a broken dam. “Yes! Exactly so!” “I hate people like you—trying to play nice with both sides!” “You want the sword, you want me—it’s like balancing two weights on a scale! Isn’t it obvious one will get neglected?”

“What...?” “What do you mean by ‘playing nice with both sides’?” “When have I ever neglected you?” “You are neglecting me, aren’t you?” “Is that sword more precious to you than I am?” “Once you get that blade, you won’t care if I rot in a ditch!” “Fool!” “Do as you please!”

Muttering as if spitting out the words, Eizaburō slowly rose to his feet. Otsuyu glared sharply up at him from below, "You—!" "What’s all this racket?!" "Of course I’m being a nuisance!—When we were together, you doted on me this way and that, but now my ‘noisiness’ is too much for you to bear!" "When things start looking bad, you’re always ready to make yourself scarce." "Don’t you dare slink away like a coward—if you’re a samurai, act like one and settle this properly!—Where do you think you’re going? …I know exactly where!" "The northwest." "Kōjimachi, isn’t it?" "Ohhh, that young lady is your superior, and given her noble birth, there’s no feminine art she hasn’t mastered—why, compared to me, she’s as different as snow and ink, the moon and a mud turtle!" "Do take the utmost care of her, won’t you?"

Eizaburō pretended not to hear—wearing a twisted smile as he wound his sash around and retied it. As the frayed end of the sash brushed against the tatami and slid toward Otsuyu, she raised her knee and pressed down firmly. “Hey! Make up your mind already! One of two choices—Ken’unmaru or me. Which will you…?” “Otsuyu!”

Eizaburō's eyes were sorrowful. "—You're a sensible woman. I must go now—look! These matters demand my attention. It's chaos. Hahaha! Don't torment me like this—just wait quietly at home. Understood?"

“I refuse!” “Enough with your jokes already.” “I am Otsuyu the Arrow-Pierced—a woman of repute!” “You’re not the only man in the world, you know!”

Eizaburō’s eyes narrowed, taking on an eerie gleam. “Otsuyu! Y-you… Sit down right there!” “But I am sitting here already!” “Why don’t you sit down yourself?” “You really do have a retort for everything.” “You’ve been acting strangely of late.” “You must have some grievance festering in your heart—that’s why you’re picking fights over every little thing and defying this humble one.” “How about it?—No, vulgar words breed ugly conflict.” “Enough of this!”

“How convenient for you!” “I can’t just leave it at that!” “You’ve become a completely different person.” “Why wouldn’t I want to change?” “Living in this wretched poverty changes anyone!” “You harp on ‘poverty’ with every breath… Do you despise being poor so deeply?” “Perhaps my nerves are frayed—I don’t feel even a shiver.” “But enough of that… What will you choose? Ken’unmaru or me?”

“Silence! You wretch, Otsuyu! For someone who claims to be a samurai’s wife—even in direst poverty—to show no grasp of right and wrong, of love and duty! To let you speak is to invite endless prattle—how dare you spew such drivel! Since you are possessed by a demon, this humble one will not engage with you earnestly. Sit alone with your hand on your heart and reflect!” “Another sermon! You always harp on samurai this and swords that—thanks to you, even I, Otsuyu the Arrow-Pierced, have learned these stiff phrases! But I’d rather be tenderly cherished by someone—townspeople or farmers matter not—who treasures me alone than waste my days with those who starve themselves chasing after a mere sword!”

“Hmm… Did I misjudge you—” “Ohoho, that makes two of us.” “So—what would you have me do?” “First, you should nonchalantly forget about Ken’unmaru, then gracefully discard those intimidating swords of yours, tie your hair up fashionably, and dress in something crisp like striped cloth to make it all delightfully…” “Y-you fool! What drivel are you spouting! You… Th-this is your genuine intent?!” “It most assuredly is my true intent. I’m not wholly blind to what lies before me, you realize. You wish to wed Lady Yayoi, don’t you? Yet without that blade, you can’t even become her live-in groom! So until it falls into your grasp, you’re exploiting me as your pawn—and once you seize the sword, you’ll discard me and offer it as a bridal gift to settle into her household. Isn’t that so?” “I’ve known this scheme of yours for ages.” “Ohohoho.”

“Otsuyu! Y-you... You’ve lost your mind!” “The separation of the Night-Crying Swords began with this humble one in the first place.” “Therefore, reclaiming Ken’unmaru from Tange Sazen and presenting both this Konryūmaru and that blade before Lady Yayoi, head of the Onozuka household—no, more than for Lady Yayoi… It is the greatest tribute to Master Tessai, who fell to Sazen’s blade—a matter of honor, an obligation!” “As a human… as a man…” “Ah-ah!—Oh, excuse me.” “Just yawning…”

“Tch! You know this humble one’s true heart a hundredfold—nay, a thousandfold—yet you seize upon every pretext to pick quarrels... Women and petty men are hard to nurture! You contemptible wretch!”

“Stop it!” “I’m sick of this!” “What?” “What did you say?!” “I’ve had quite enough of your lectures.” “I’ve grown calluses on my ears from hearing them!” “I do not wish to speak of such matters again, but… I have betrayed my late master’s will, brought grief upon Lady Yayoi, and now provoked the wrath of the Toriage brethren—all of which has led me to dwell in such wretched alleys…”

“Oh—! You want to claim it’s all for my sake, don’t you? How tragic for you. With that head of yours, it’s no wonder you care more for your sword than for me—I don’t want to hear another word!” “What a vulgar way of speaking! Ugh… What base…” “Ohohoho! What’s this now? Behold the elder sister of Sansha-mae—this is the uncalculating nature of Otsuyu the Arrow-Pierced. If you were to see my true metal, even your fondness would surely rust away, wouldn’t it?”

“How dare you…” “What’s this? Like some paper-mâché tiger—how utterly disgraceful!” “How dare you—how dare you keep up this meek act until now!” “Young master, have you finally noticed? Ohohoho. But you know, there are those who say even someone like me must remain Otsuyu. The world works in mysterious ways—it seems I’m not entirely without admirers.” “I-I’ve… I’ve been deceived! Tch!”

“Take Lord Suzukawa nearby—without me, he couldn’t get through a single day or night.” “Wh-what?! S-Suzukawa Genjūrō?!” “Suzukawa Genjūrō… You mean that Suzukawa Genjūrō?!” When Eizaburō glared at her and raised his voice, Otsuyu covered her small mouth with her hand and laughed elegantly.

“Indeed, there is only one Lord Suzukawa, is there not?” “The honorable hatamoto before Hōonji Temple in Honjo—”

Otsuyu's words, which she had just begun to speak, were brutally cut short midway. Without waiting for her to finish, Eizaburō's arm shot out and seized Otsuyu by the collar and hair, then yanked her down with all his strength.

“Otsuyu!”

Kneeling on one knee and firmly pinning Otsuyu down, Eizaburō’s voice clouded with sorrowful anger, his eyes already misty and harboring bitter tears.

“Otsuyu… I—this humble one—have long known of Suzukawa of Honjo’s obsession with you. But that you—my wife—would entrust even a sliver of your heart to that wretch… I… I never dreamed such a thing, not even in my darkest nightmares!” “——” Her pale cheek crushed against the tatami as though it might shatter, Otsuyu could not make a sound.

“H-however! If I remain silent and listen to you brazenly boasting before me—your husband—about Suzukawa’s infatuation... Otsuyu!” “You know, when you were confined in that Honjo mansion the other day—” Eizaburō’s words, tangled in jealousy and burning passion—as Otsuyu listened to his heartrending voice, she lay half-entranced, her cheek pressed against the tatami as he shoved her down… A single large teardrop broke free from the corner of her eye, moistening her long lashes before tracing down her cheek and vanishing into the sun-baked tatami surface. A streak of white light trailed behind.

And then, at that moment.

“You bastard!” “Well, when you were confined in that Honjo mansion the other day—” Eizaburō’s voice trailed off ambiguously as he spoke—! Otsuyu—seemingly enraged to her core, hair disheveled and chest exposed—suddenly tried to leap up, but as Eizaburō’s arm surged with force, she was instantly forced back into her original position. In place of resistance, she strained a voice frayed by tears. “Are you saying that I… with Lord Suzukawa or something…?” “This is too much—no matter how you look at it, this is too much!” “Th-that alone—no matter who you are, I cannot let that pass unheard!” “Please let go of me.” “Wh-what evidence do you have to say such—such... No, I will ask you plainly.” “I beg you—release me—”

And now, devoid of even a woman’s modesty, writhing in frenzied madness born of genuine remorse, Eizaburō pulled her closer still to his knees as though to crush her beneath his weight— “Shut up! If the unveiled you of late is the real you, then whether you cozy up to Genjūrō or anyone else, Eizaburō won’t be surprised in the slightest!” “Wh-what a… Ugh!” “What an adulteress—!” “W-wait, please!” “Adulteress! Sorceress!” “Harlot!”

Eizaburō, his scalding tears now beyond restraint, groaned in fragmented bursts as fists born of tormented affection—intermingling with falling teardrops—pelted down upon Otsuyu like hailstones.

The agony of being unable to refrain from striking the one he loved precisely because he loved them… Even if he had swung it down with all his might in that raised instant, by the time his hand touched Otsuyu’s body mid-descent, it had naturally lost its force—becoming like a caress. Rebounding from his grasp, Otsuyu slipped free and leapt back to the base of a pillar. “It’s not as if Lord Suzukawa is the only one who dotes on me,” she said. “There’s Mr. Tomigorō the blacksmith—and even that young master from the grand shop who frequents Atariya…”

“You slut! You dare say more?!” When a cry rang out, Eizaburō’s hand unconsciously gripped the hilt. Seeing this, Otsuyu laughed palely.

“Hohoho, are you planning to cut me down? Oh, how amusing—but you know, since Otsuyu has so many admirers, there might be some complaints later.” “………!” In silence, Eizaburō suddenly raised Musashi Taro—quietly drawn from its sheath—and with a cry that seemed to weep, unleashed a blade cold as ice and a killing wind—Thrust! It struck deep into Otsuyu’s shoulder. Ugh—!

Otsuyu clenched her teeth, twisted her supple torso in an instant, and scraped the tatami as she lay face down.

Thud!

It was a back strike.

At this, Otsuyu immediately tried to rise up, her face contorted in pain, but Eizaburō had already sheathed Musashi Taro snugly into its scabbard and stood blocking her path with both hands on his hips, staring down at her fixedly.

His eyes...!

Oh, those eyes—as though they had gathered all human love, desire, hatred, and resentment into one—imbued with emotions that defied words—drenched in an eerie light—seeming to weep, yet when looked at again, to laugh.

In the brief silence, the man and the woman’s eyes—each frantically attempting to decipher the profound meaning hidden in the other’s depths—fiercely intertwined, grating as though about to emit a sound.

It was Eizaburō who broke the silence.

“Otsuyu! I cannot believe you—who swore so solemnly and maintained unwavering faith until this very day—could be such a fallen woman. No—I refuse to believe it no matter what. But—” “………?” As Otsuyu looked up at Eizaburō—frozen mid-sentence—a fleeting look of utter despair crossed her face. But before Eizaburō could notice, it dissolved into an audacious smile. With silent mockery, she urged him onward.

“…………?” “But since your very nature has transformed so drastically of late, this humble one must reluctantly acknowledge your change of heart.” “For 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. Would you not agree?” “What’s this—are you weeping? What cause have you to shed tears now?” “Yes… no.” “This humble one has come to understand as well—hahahaha! No, now that I clearly perceive your heart has abandoned me, as a man I cannot take pleasure in clinging to a lifeless shell stripped of its soul.” “Therefore, let us discuss this—shall we make today our final, decisive parting?”

Even as he spoke—what would her response be? Before he knew it, Eizaburō—despite his words—leaned forward in a half-crouch to peer closer, his face now clearly brimming with fragile unease, as though still harboring abundant reluctance.

“S-sorry.”

At Otsuyu’s halting voice—Eizaburō, who had clung to some hope of “Surely not…”—What?! As he recoiled in shock, an irrepressible surge of newfound longing welled up violently in his chest— “I see.” A low voice choked with suppressed emotion. Tears she tried to force out as pretense involuntarily spilled forth— Waah! Otsuyu collapsed there weeping. “For your kindness…”

“What?” “The kindness you’ve shown me—Otsuyu will never forget it, even in death.” “Hmph! Spouting nonsense.”

Eizaburō regained his composure. Feeling along his sash at the hilt of the great sword Musashi Tarō Yasukuni, he sheathed Konryūmaru and the wakizashi together in one smooth motion. After giving a light shake to adjust the loosened sash bearing the swords’ weight, he corrected the positioning of his long and short blades, then swayed down onto the earthen floor. In one hand, a ronin’s sedge hat. He slipped on his footwear... and unsteadily began stepping through the lattice door.

“You! Lord Eizaburō!”

Otsuyu’s voice desperately chased after him. But he did not even turn around, “Farewell—”

“What? Let me see your face one more time!”

Otsuyu, choked by sorrowful tears, her disheaved white knees digging into the tatami mats, staggered toward the entrance step with both hands grasping emptily upward— “Hah! Stay well!” A single snap! The lattice door slammed shut, and before Otsuyu—collapsed weeping at the entrance—could fully register how the man’s figure had momentarily blocked the sunlight, she found herself listening as if in a dream to Eizaburō’s footsteps receding across the alley’s gutter planks. A dream? Truly, truly a dream. What an endless dream!

Otsuyu—her eyes swollen from crying—turned her gaze back into the room and, upon seeing Eizaburō’s haori cast aside, started up in surprise.

Oh my! Without his haori in this freezing air!

If he were to catch a cold! No sooner had this thought struck her than Otsuyu could no longer maintain any pretense of composure. Barely securing the end of her slipped obi sash, she ran from the house with the haori tucked under her arm, tear-streaked face unchanged. Even after rushing to the alley entrance clutching the haori, Eizaburō’s figure was nowhere to be found.

Across the hushed thoroughfare, a line of horses laden with cargo passed by.

A damp, cold air pressed down upon the entire town. To Otsuyu, standing there blankly— “Auntie, where ya goin’ with that haori?” The children from the tenement called out, but Otsuyu acted as though she hadn’t heard a word. “Hey! Auntie’s cryin’! “She’s cryin’!” “Whoa! Lookit the weirdo!” As children suddenly jeered at her feet, Otsuyu snapped back to her senses and pressed her face into the haori.

“Good boy, such a good boy. “Auntie isn’t crying at all, you know. “Now, run along and play over there.” The children ran down the main street, glancing back over their shoulders in puzzlement. Otsuyu, unaware of the haori sleeve dragging behind, held it in one hand and trudged dejectedly back home.

She entered and tried to sit down, but... Though the house was not particularly spacious, the emptiness left by Eizaburō’s departure was unbearably lonely. The feeling of loneliness pierced relentlessly into her chest. “Lord Eizaburō...” Even if she called out, there was no way he could hear. Startled by her own low voice, Otsuyu looked around her surroundings—but upon noticing Eizaburō’s haori on her lap, which she had been unconsciously fumbling with, she now began murmuring solemnly. Was she talking to herself? No. She was speaking to the haori.

“I am deeply sorry.” Her voice trembled as she clutched the haori. “For inciting such anger in your pure and unclouded heart—though I tell myself it was all for the Night-Crying Swords and poor Lady Yayoi’s sake—when I reflect upon it, I too am a woman weighed down by grievous sins.” Her words dissolved into muffled sobs. “But if things remain like this, when will this ever end? In the end, I’m only dragging you down to ruin—please, I implore you, cast me aside and devote yourself fully to your cause.” She pressed the garment to her tear-streaked face. “Secure Ken'unmaru at once and be with Lady Yayoi—with Lady Yayoi—”

Prostrated on the floor, Otsuyu kneaded the haori as she pleaded through her tears. “This is Otsuyu’s lifelong entreaty! But... but, please try to understand just a little of Otsuyu’s true heart—that she had to go so far as to list out these wanton lies that weren’t even in her heart and incur your wrath. Later, you will understand everything—then, just say one word to this wretched one—Lord Eizaburō! Weep for me, weep for me…”

Writhing as if on the verge of madness, Otsuyu collapsed with a thud onto the tatami and clung to the haori. The lingering scent of the man she had parted from without a proper farewell faintly brushed Otsuyu’s nose as she buried her face in the haori.

That invited fresh tears once more, and Otsuyu let out a loud, guttural wail— She wailed without restraint, but as luck would have it, neighborhood children had gathered at the house next door and were playing noisily with gleeful shrieks, allowing Otsuyu to lose herself in heartrending sobs to her heart’s content beneath the cover of their commotion. Round and round the little Buddhas Round and round the little Buddhas The din next door only swelled louder—Otsuyu, for some reason slipping into a childlike state, wept like a little girl drenched in tears.

Eizaburō’s tears as he left and Otsuyu’s remaining tears—.

Her father had abandoned his stipend early and wandered the back alleys of Edo, and after losing him, she had been separated from her mother and endured every hardship of this fleeting world—for Otsuyu, nothing carried more weight than the two characters spelling "duty." The separation of the swords and Yayoi’s grief—all of it stemmed from Eizaburō caring for her. When Otsuyu thought this, she resolved: even if it meant abandoning her own love—! Having resolved herself thus, she truly embodied that archetype—a woman who prays in the shadows only to curse in the light, such a master of feigned courtesy... Otsuyu too was an Edo woman.

Some time passed.

Otsuyu remained perfectly still.

She was asleep. Exhausted from crying, Otsuyu had at some point dozed off into a peaceful slumber. If only Eizaburō were here—he would have at least covered her with a light coverlet.

Round and round the little Buddhas Round and round the little Buddhas Next door, the children were engrossed in play.

With a clatter, the lattice door opened, and there came the gruff voice of the renowned Beggar Sage, Gamō Taiken—heard after so long. “Bwahahahaha! Well now, this place feels a bit too grand for the likes of me! Long time no see, long time no see!”

Otsuyu, startled awake, bore a crimson tatami imprint on her cheek. Swirling tatami patterns

That night.

Having wandered who knows where and how, Eizaburō returned to the house in Kawaracho with white stuff piled from head to shoulder.

It had turned to snow unnoticed. He nearly— “Otsuyu, I’ve returned.”

He suppressed the words that nearly escaped his lips, brushed the snow from his body, and stepped up... pitch black. With numbed hands, he struck the flint. With a soft poof, the pale yellow wick light spread into the darkness, and the unusually tidied state of the room came into Eizaburō’s view.

Otsuyu was not there.

It was clear she had hastily bundled up two or three kimonos and hair implements and rushed out of the house. The room, devoid of any feminine presence, had lost all traces of red hues; the biting cold of the snowy night seeped into Eizaburō’s bones. But he was no longer grieving. "She’s run off—that filthy wench—I never imagined she’d go this far—" Muttering as if spitting out the words, he wondered—was there some note left? He glanced sharply around the area. There was nothing.

Eizaburō, who had now cleanly severed his lingering attachments,

"This was all that remained." He sat in formal seiza and took up Konryūmaru. A flat silk-wrapped scabbard—a shakudo hilt carved with a rising dragon. Draw it closer—draw Ken'unmaru closer! No sooner had he uttered it like a spell than he let out a long breath. It wasn't as though he'd been drowning his sorrows in drink—young Eizaburō was slightly intoxicated; he must have had a drink somewhere. That wench! It was better this way. It had been destined from the very beginning! Damn it! Now there was nothing left but to exert every ounce of his strength and reclaim Ken'unmaru! Right—he would do it! He would see it through to the end!

Under the dim light, his eyes shining with strong resolve, Eizaburō quietly stroked Konryū’s hilt. Just wait. Soon I’ll seize Ken’unmaru and reunite them both. You too have lost your pair, but this humble one has also parted from her—both of us single now. Hahahaha! What a strange comfort. He had been standing dejectedly with folded arms when suddenly he kicked off the tatami and leapt up, the gleaming scabbard of Musashitarou already in motion in his hand. The blade’s light blazed fiercely—a streak of cold air!

“Damn you, Tange Sazen!” He glared fiercely and pressed toward a corner, but all that awaited was his own shadow cast upon the wall... Had Suwa Eizaburō gone mad with heartache after being abandoned by his beloved? No! Overwhelmed by the sudden surge of fighting spirit that welled up within him, he visualized Sazen right there and began brandishing his sword alone. “Hear me, Sazen! You sent word claiming Ken’unmaru was stolen by that fire-attired five-man group, but even this unworthy Eizaburō won’t swallow such lies! You scheming cur—playing petty tricks! Mark my words—I’ll soon come and settle this by the blade! Hahahaha!”

Laughing dryly as he slid the blade into its scabbard… But—!

At this moment! Eizaburō remained unaware that a black shadow—startled and panicked—had peered through a gap in the back door at his sudden drawing of the sword. A woman who had crept close amidst the snow had been pressed against the kitchen’s shoji screen for some time now, quietly observing the interior.

Who? There was no need to look again. Even through night-adjusted eyes, her stylish figure was discernible—Kushimaki Oto, wearing a headcloth arranged like a traveler’s. Startled by the sudden sword flash, she had momentarily retreated from the door. But upon realizing it was an empty flourish with no opponent present, she stealthily returned to the water entrance, held her breath, and resumed peering through the gap. Snow fell soundlessly, steadily accumulating.

It was the first night of snow in Edo that winter.

Eizaburō spread out the bedding and pulled the night quilt over himself. A muffled, drawn-out drone—the sound of a bell tolling the hour somewhere far away. “Four bells already?”

He tried not to think—and yet, Otsuyu's face bloomed like a flower behind his eyelids, she who had left. In this snowfall—where could she be?—memories from the Atariya days flashed through Eizaburō's mind like a revolving lantern for an instant.

That day during his absence, Taiken had come and been told Otsuyu's true intentions by her own lips. Whether he had found something worth pondering or not, after some deliberation he had willingly taken responsibility for Otsuyu's situation and left the house with her—this was something Eizaburō could never have known. What discussion had passed between Otsuyu and Taiken—and where had Taiken taken her?

...Eizaburō fell asleep. Exhausted, he sank into a deep, sound sleep.

The dead of night.

The lattice door at the front clattered repeatedly, and a woman’s voice—someone’s—…. “Lord Eizaburō...? Lord Eizaburō—” At the back entrance, Kushimaki Oto snapped to attention. “Lord Eizaburō… Eizaburō!” The voice of a woman he tried to forget but could not—hesitant and hushed in the late hour—reached the sleeping Eizaburō’s ears. Tap-tap, tap-tap—someone seemed to be knocking on the lattice door from outside. Eizaburō had been listening in a dreamlike state at first.

But—

“Lord Eizaburō!” At that cry, Eizaburō—who should have resolved to have no lingering business with that woman—first thought perhaps Otsuyu had returned... only for an attachment he himself couldn’t control to coil in the depths of his heart. In a flash—even before he could kick off the night quilt and leap up—he found himself standing at the earthen entrance as if stumbling forward, “O-Otsuyu?!”

He pulled open the door—and WHOOSH—a blizzard wind swept through the alley. Six snowflakes whirled in a tomoe pattern through the pitch-black night.

Buffeted by the wind, the standing figure of a woman—seemingly wearing a white hooded cloak—... _Snow woman?_ As Eizaburō rubbed his eyes—the woman stepped into the light leaking from the doorway. “Otsuyu… No.” “Who are you?!”

“It’s me, Mr. Eizaburō.” Now that she mentioned it, this was indeed Osayo—Otsuyu’s mother—still wearing the same attire she had fled Suzukawa’s mansion in, clutching what must have been the bundled form of the unearthed Ken'unmaru. She was cradling a long, narrow object as though it bore significant weight. “It’s Osayo, you see. “Yes, coming so late at night—I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed your rest.” “Well… and Otsuyu?”

Eizaburō was asked this, “What’s the—” he began, but couldn’t bring himself to say “Mother.” Nor could he comfortably address her as “Lady Osayo.” “No—regarding Otsuyu, there is a matter I must discuss thoroughly with you. Still—to come through this midnight snowstorm—has some urgent business arisen?” “Brr! Freezing!” Osayo shook off the snow. “Oh, do let me in! I don’t know what mischief Otsuyu’s done, but I’ve urgent words about that matter... Ah, but Osayo’s brought you a fine gift! How pleased you’ll be! Hohohoho! Admire my work! Do praise me!”

Talking to herself, she stepped into the earthen-floored entrance. Though mother and daughter—how could their voices be so alike? Under such circumstances, no wonder he'd mistaken her for Otsuyu and leapt up—Eizaburō wore a bitter smile at having been duped like a water rail lured by tapping... "Please, do come in."

And he himself led the way—

Earlier—!

After Eizaburō went to open the lattice door.

Sliding open the kitchen shoji without a sound and peering out from the water inlet was Kushimaki Oto, who had been hiding in the back since early evening. When she looked, the pillow lamp cast a dim glow, illuminating the single short sword placed beneath it! A scabbard bound with flat silk thread, a shakudō hilt adorned with a vividly carved ascending dragon... Musashitarō had grabbed [it] when Eizaburō stood at the doorway, so all that remained now was Konryūmaru—just the single blade! The face of Oto, who had peered in, smirked slyly.

This sorceress—who had whisked Sazen away to who-knows-where they now nested—knew that if she let this chance slip while Eizaburō was exchanging a few words with Osayo at the lattice door, there would be no better opportunity to secure Konryūmaru for Lord Sazen’s cause! Ah! That's it! No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she began moving with stealthy steps—lifting and placing her feet with care— In a flash! Seizing the moment of distraction, Oto slipped inside—no sooner had her hand grasped Konryūmaru than she swiftly tucked it into her sleeve and darted back toward the rear entrance!

A split-second event. Swish! The kitchen door shut with a swish, leaving only the faint echo of Oto's trotting footsteps crunching through the snow from behind. Eizaburō kept ushering Osayo inside while talking loudly, completely unaware.

“Well.” “You’ve ventured out resolutely through this heavy snow.” “Some urgent matter, perhaps…”

“This snow is truly dreadful, isn’t it? I fell three times on my way here from Honjo, Mr. Eizaburō.” “Ha ha, well, that’s… But you’re unharmed… Now, regarding this urgent matter of yours—” “It’s really coming down, isn’t it? No, from this gift…” Old woman Osayo gasped, her breath catching as she began unwrapping the bundle containing Ken'unmaru.

“It truly is falling heavily. “By tomorrow, there should be considerable accumulation.” Eizaburō spoke solemnly and, as if listening to the snow beyond the door, quietly focused his hearing while staring fixedly at Osayo’s hands. Rustle! Rustle! The sound of a slender, elongated package being unwrapped—. Rustle, rustle! As layer after layer of oilpaper and ragged cloth wrapped by Osayo’s hands came apart—all while Eizaburō swallowed thickly, his gaze unwaveringly locked on her movements—a sudden glint flashed before his eyes!

A section of the scabbard wrapped in flat silk thread! Next, a shakudō hilt in the jindachi-zukuri style! The moment he recognized it as none other than Ken'unmaru—the Night-Crying Sword—Eizaburō let out a choked scream, shoved Osayo aside like a madman, and tore into the remaining bundle with a rip rip rip! Faster than tearing through the wrapping, he grabbed Ken'unmaru from within and glared with bloodshot eyes— and fixed his gaze. No matter when one looked at it, this was a blade forged by Magoroku Kanemoto of Seki—a sword whose frost-soul pulsed with the turbulent vigor of the Warring States period….

“Ugh—” Eizaburō involuntarily groaned, then whirled to glare at Osayo beside him and began edging closer. “You! How did you come by this Ken'unmaru...?! Wh-what of Tange Sazen?!” “W-well—you’re asking me that—that’s exactly it!”

Overwhelmed by his fierce demeanor, Osayo could only fluster about, utterly at a loss for how to begin explaining. “W-well, that—that’s…” “Hah! I demand you speak clearly—clearly!” “First and foremost—under whose orders was this done?” While saying this, Eizaburō pulled Ken'unmaru close and directed his gaze toward the bedding—! Eizaburō's flushed face turned deathly pale all at once. Be that as it may, no sooner had he thought to reunite Konryūmaru—now in his possession—with its counterpart Ken'unmaru than the short sword Konryūmaru, which had until moments ago lain clearly beneath the lamp, vanished without a trace.

“Yah! Konryūmaru—!” “Konryūmaru—!”

Eizaburō cried out and sprang up simultaneously. With a clattering rush, he kicked the pillow. Impossible! Even as his burning gaze swept every corner of the room—how could Konryūmaru possibly lie about here now? That very blade Kushimaki Oto had stolen after sneaking in! “No! “No... Konryūmaru’s gone!” “Strange...” Eizaburō staggered, leaning on Ken'unmaru like a staff. “So... does that mean the other sword has disappeared?”

Osayo’s panicked voice failed to reach Eizaburō’s ears. The dragon in his grasp—Konryūmaru—had secretly summoned Ken’unmaru, the cloud at heaven’s edge. Just as Eizaburō thought the twin blades of Heaven and Earth would finally reunite here after their long separation, he lost hold of the dragon in that very moment. Having resolved to temporarily wear both swords paired at his hip, he now stood dumbfounded—utterly speechless—.

Snap! He abruptly noticed the back door. He dashed out in one leap and found the kitchen’s dirt floor soiled with snow—clear signs of someone’s stealthy intrusion! “Damn it!”

As Eizaburō placed his hand on Ken'unmaru's hilt and slid open the oil-paper door... white petals of snow danced aimlessly in a fluttering cascade.

Enveloping midnight Edo in a single sweep, the snow showed no sign of ceasing. Was this karmic destiny—or mere fortune? This stood as proof that the time for the twin swords to rest united and know peace had not yet arrived—for Ken'unmaru descended like a dance at the front gate while Konryūmaru slipped out the back. Ken'unmaru entered; Konryūmaru departed. It was truly an unfathomable twist of fate, but Eizaburō finally patted Ken'unmaru’s hilt and smiled.

Just imagine! Until this day, Ken'unmaru—the keen blade that had resided in the single arm of the blade-demon Sazen, sated with the blood and fat of countless men, its shakudō luster deepened by the grime of the sword-fiend's grip—now transformed into a blade of evil-slaying within the grasp of young swordsman Suwa Eizaburō, stood poised to demonstrate its unique prowess in battles twice as fierce as before.

And in Tange Sazen’s hand was that Konryūmaru!

When would Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru meet again to slumber in permanent repose?

Until then, like the snow of this night swirling in a tomoe pattern, their comings and goings formed an unfathomably chaotic maelstrom. “By the way—Mr. Eizaburō—there’s something we must discuss.”

At Old Osayo’s voice, Eizaburō snapped back to reality and returned to the tatami room.

Where had Kushimaki Oto—who, like a night serpent, had slipped into Eizaburō’s moment of vulnerability, snatched the short sword Konryūmaru, and fled—vanished to after kicking through this midnight snow?

That Oto...

Frequenting Honjo’s “Monster Mansion”—a lone red blossom amidst verdant foliage—she had competed in gambling circles with corrupt hatamoto and disgraced gokenin when, of all people, she fell for Tange Sazen, the one-eyed, one-armed sword demon lodging in a detached room. She had asked Lord Suzukawa Genjūrō to mediate their relationship, but upon his betrayal, she came to deeply resent him. Then, hearing that Sazen himself desired another woman, she transformed into an avatar of jealousy. On that rainy night, she schemed to secretly vent her frustrations by making Sazen—who had brought along his unrequited love interest—clash horns with Otsuyu, whom Genjūrō yearned for, using Eizaburō as an intermediary. Yet not only did her plot backfire when Yayoi and Otsuyu dissolved into tender tears as women united— ——

Oto, banished from Edo, found herself unexpectedly surrounded by a swarm of police officers at the stone steps of Dairokuten Shinotsuka Inari... Had she vanished with a poof? Be that as it may.

Soon.

Seeming to possess the supernatural powers of a demon cat, how had she slipped through the mesh of that police net? Kushimaki Oto—the White Kimono Ironfire Boss—had somehow settled into a stylish hideout, idly tapping her pipe against a long charcoal brazier, when Yokichi’s sudden arrival reignited her delusions about Sazen. Her feelings remained unchanged, though this time they took a different form. Love turned to a hundredfold hatred—if this ill-fated romance could never be realized, she would oppose him in all things and smash every last part of him to pieces... With this resolve, Oto had filed a report against Tange Sazen under the name of the equally detestable Suzukawa Genjūrō. Yet no sooner had she done so than regret seized her, and she rushed to save Sazen from peril—for Oto, this too sprang from her unwavering devotion that had remained constant from the very beginning.

Love moves in manifold ways.

For a woman like Oto, the distinction between all that exists and all that does not meant nothing—even killing someone with the very hands that embraced them held no contradiction. Yet despite this, she had refrained from going through with killing and instead rescued Sazen. Now that she kept him close day after day, far from disliking him, she found herself enduring these hardships in perilous Edo without abandoning it—all ultimately stemming from Sazen’s influence. Thus Ubazakura Oto, employing every trick and stratagem at her disposal, exerted all her skill to align herself with Sazen’s will and seize his heart.

Moreover, now that Yayoi—whom Sazen longed for—had vanished without a trace. Now was the time to drive Yayoi’s phantom from his heart and make Sazen her own—and so Oto, taking advantage of the snow that had begun falling since evening, staked out Eizaburō’s back entrance and stole the short sword Konryūmaru for Sazen’s sake!

Just where were Sazen and Oto hiding now?

Oto’s hideout in Asakusa? No! Since then, Oto had not returned home even once, and at her vacant residence, Tsuzumi no Yonokō must have been waiting anxiously for her return today or tomorrow. Thus, where in this vast Edo were the sword demon and female demon lurking? Far away? Or perhaps it was unexpectedly close. In any case, it was a pit-like realm of pitch-black darkness where neither morning came nor day ended.

Darkness? Indeed. A pitch-black abyss. It was a secret hideout that Oto—a wanted criminal—had covertly prepared long ago so that by fleeing here whenever needed, she could always give her pursuers the slip and continue evading the authorities to live in the light of day. The exact location was unknown, but it was undoubtedly somewhere within Edo—a subterranean hideout known to none. For Sazen, hunted by the police, this proved an incomparable advantage in these times.

Pitch-black darkness enveloped Sazen.

In that darkness, the strange life with the woman who loved him continued. Pitch-black darkness—the impenetrable gloom of jet-black obsidian. It was also the embodiment of Sazen—who lost all reason to the sword—and Oto—who abandoned herself completely to love. Sazen, now living under a woman’s protection and unaware of the heavy snow outside, paced restlessly within a cramped, dark hole barely three mats in size.

Oto had not yet returned. When he first escaped from the heavily surrounded monster mansion through Oto’s pocket pistol, Sazen.

While being guided by Oto through the darkening towns toward that hideout, he had been thinking to himself—Given that Genjūrō was unreliable and Tsuzumi no Yokichi would soon come seeking reinforcements for a sword fight from Sōma Nakamura, he would resign himself to being sheltered by this woman for the time being. By doing so, he could blind the eyes of the authorities and keep himself safe. Moreover, since no one should know that Ken'unmaru had been buried in the shadow of the storage shed at the base of the chinquapin tree within the Suzukawa residence, this too should be secure.

It was with this mindset that he had readily allowed Oto to lead him into... a cramped cellar resembling the space beneath a floor—its exact location unknown. “Oh Lord Sazen,” she said, “this place is known only to me—my hidden abode, you might say. When the time comes, I’ll lure even officials here and, hohohoho, show you Oto’s ninjutsu in action. So do stay without a care, my lord.”

At these words from Oto, Sazen was at a loss,

“Much obliged.”

With those words, he looked around again, but all that met his eyes was impenetrable darkness—a dim underground room. A low ceiling; the surrounding walls and floor were tightly covered with rough-hewn planks. Nearby, simple cooking utensils seemed to be scattered alongside straw mats, nightwear quilts, and the like—this much became clear even through groping around. In one corner stood a crude staircase—the secret entrance through which they had just entered.

Unaware that Oto’s report had sparked that commotion, Sazen took Suzukawa Genjūrō’s accusation at face value and was about to storm into the Suzukawa residence in a rage when Oto restrained him, “Oh, please wait just a little longer. I would never do anything to harm you…”

While she was calming him down.

In the narrow darkness, the woman’s scent spread until it threatened to choke him... Tange Sazen—how had he endured this situation?

Now, tonight. As he sat in the darkness, the snowy night was all the more silent. Sazen, having warmed himself at the kotatsu Oto had prepared and now stretched out on the futon, found that remaining alone like this unexpectedly brought all manner of things resurfacing in his mind. The two swords of fate—pursuing each other! Entwined with them was his own secret mission. Above all... Yayoi's gaze. "Have I gone soft in the head?"

The moment Tange Sazen inadvertently let slip a mutter tinged with self-mockery! Tap, tap, tap—footsteps echoed across the ceiling's upper floor. No sooner had the mechanically rigged trapdoor atop the ladder stairs snapped open than Kushimaki Oto, her entire body coated white with snow, came tumbling down as though falling.

“What’s the matter? Snow?” Sazen kept his eyes fixed on the pitch-black darkness, making no move to rise. “Yes. Terrible snow!” Laughing as she approached, Oto pulled Konryūmaru out from under her winter coat and thrust it nonchalantly before him. And then, “Wh-what the...? This?”

To Sazen, who was puzzled, “This is Konryūmaru, you know. I just stole this from Eizaburō’s place. This is the extent of Oto’s skills—I mean, with just a single sword, is there any need for four or five grown men to come rushing out and make such a fuss?” With that, Oto cackled strangely and handed *Konryūmaru* to Sazen, who received it, “What? *Konryūmaru*?” With that shout, he gripped it in his left hand and fixed his darkness-accustomed eye intently for a moment. The instant he recognized this as *Konryūmaru*, he nearly knocked Oto aside as she began to speak—then Sazen immediately kicked the door open and leapt outside.

Ken'unmaru is buried in the corner of the garden!

With this thought, Sazen quickened his pace through the driving snow, girded with Konryūmaru, and hurried toward Honjo—

At the same time. Along another road leading to Honjo, Suwa Eizaburō—having grabbed Ken'unmaru—was racing headlong toward the Suzukawa residence as well. Having been implored by Suzukawa Genjūrō for Otsuyu's hand, he had dug up Ken'unmaru—which Tange Sazen had concealed—as the initial act of severing relations. This was none other than compensation for Otsuyu bestowed by Lord Genjūrō! The instant he heard this from old woman Osayo's mouth, blood surged into Suwa Eizaburō's cheeks.

“Hmm! A trade of swords and women… So he himself once proposed this to me, and now that person has conspired with Genjūrō to steal Tange’s *Ken’unmaru*?” Eizaburō gritted his teeth, brushed aside Osayo’s panicked hands trying to restrain him, stood up straight, and swiftly began preparing. Though the dragon calls to the cloud and the cloud awaits the dragon, it is only when warriors seize them through skill and clash blades in rivalry that mutual honor as samurai may be upheld—

What madness was this! How could I shamelessly accept something an old woman had taken out like stolen goods? Moreover—this was called payment for selling my wife! To compound this outrage further—had Otsuyu herself not already left home? I could not accept this under any circumstances! Were I to meet Genjūrō and denounce him face-to-face yet still accept this improper act—taking *Ken'unmaru* that ought by rights be returned even temporarily to Sazen’s hands—then Eizaburō would forfeit all dignity as a man…

Having made this snap decision, he girded Musashitarō and Ken’unmaru at his waist and dashed out into the snowy depths of night. Leaving behind Osayo’s shrill voice calling after him.

Enveloping heaven and earth in white, snow fell thickly without a sound—snow, snow, snow. At all costs, he would thrust this Ken’unmaru into Sazen’s hands without delay—and then, tonight of all nights, ride out alone! He would not let Musashitarō at his waist go silent! Kicking up snow as he ran toward Honjo, Eizaburō dashed onward—while along another road, Tange Sazen, clutching Konryūmaru that Oto had stolen, was also hastening toward the same Honjo!

Tange Sazen’s state of mind was inherently distinct.

Tange Sazen—a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals. No matter what path had led him there, now that he had obtained the companion blade Konryūmaru, Tange Sazen was determined to dig out Ken'unmaru—buried at the base of the chinquapin tree—as soon as possible, reunite the Night-Crying Swords as a pair, and depart Edo by dawn for his home domain of Sōma Nakamura. Yet— Tange Sazen had no need to go all the way to the storage shed at the Suzukawa residence and discover that Ken’unmaru had been dug up.

The reason was...

It was when Sazen, turning his face away from the raging blizzard, half-opened his single eye and approached the approach of Hōonji Bridge with his body tilted, still gripping Konryūmaru in his left arm.

One side was Shinsaka-machi, home to the government office. The other side was Shimizu-cho’s row of townhouses—all equally with their large doors closed, sunk into profound slumber alongside the snow in the depths of midnight.

From the opposite direction, driven by the snow-laden wind, there was a shadow approaching at a trot. Whether Ken’unmaru and Konryūmaru had pulled their strings once more—Suwa Eizaburō girded with Ken’unmaru and Tange Sazen clutching Konryūmaru—it must be said theirs was a strange reunion indeed. On the snow-buried deck of Hōonji Bridge, the two warriors of cloud and dragon nearly collided— “You! Suwa… Eizaburō, isn’t it?!” Tange Sazen, the Sword Demon, peered through the snow at Eizaburō. Recognizing the voice, Eizaburō halted in his tracks and stood waiting as Sazen approached.

“You! So you’re Tange Sazen, aren’t you?!” Sazen’s single eye, now facing him, visibly glistened with unexpected joy as snowflakes struck the sword scar on his cheek, only to vanish. “Hmph! I ain’t hearin’ no complaints! Ain’t got no use for a greenhorn like you now that I’ve snatched this Konryūmaru. Serves you right, bastard!”

Even so, as a hand already reached for the sword’s hilt, Eizaburō quietly restrained it,

“Hold on, Tange! Indeed, it was this humble one’s failure that allowed Konryūmaru to be stolen by someone. However, even you cannot afford to grow too complacent. Now, do you recognize this greatsword?!” Before he had even finished speaking—as Sazen beheld Ken’unmaru unexpectedly gripped in Eizaburō’s outstretched hand—the towering swordsman staggered back two or three steps, bracing himself against the bridge railing. “This?! How did you get your hands on that blade?!”

As the sword demon gasped in agony, the accumulated snow slid smoothly from the railing into the river, while at the same time from Honjo's direction came a group of figures approaching with loud laughter. Tsuchiya Sennosuke and the regulars of the monster mansion were on their way home, their gambling having broken up. "Ugh! You—h-how is Ken'unmaru in your hands...?"

No sooner had he regained his footing than Sazen lunged forward, glaring at Eizaburō. Eizaburō smiled. “Are you acquainted with an old woman by the name of Osayo——?” “Wh-what? Osayo! …Hmm, so she saw where I buried it after all, eh?” “Indeed. “To begin with—this humble one cannot accept something stolen with impure intentions as it stands.” “So by first returning it to you, I shall have it graciously accepted.”

A sarcastic smile settled on Sazen’s cheek as he fixed his single eye on Eizaburō and stared, lips tightly pursed for a time—but when the pure-hearted young samurai’s true intent finally dawned in his mind like the first light of morning, he suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter, “Hmph! Amusin’!” “Ain’t no way I’m takin’ stolen goods from some wenches—that’d just be shameful.” “Gah!” “Only by snatchin’ ’em with this arm does Ken’unmaru stay Ken’unmaru ’n Konryūmaru stay Konryūmaru!” “Well said, pup!” “If that’s how yer playin’ it, I got somethin’ to give back too.”

Even as he spoke, Sazen thrust Konryūmaru—which he had concealed—before Eizaburō with a sudden “Yah!” As Eizaburō gaped in astonishment, Sazen flashed him a knowing smile, “A certain woman’s doing. Don’t take it personal.” Though he had reveled in holding Konryūmaru and dashed out into this snowy midnight intending to unite it with Ken’unmaru, now that Ken’unmaru had somehow come into Eizaburō’s possession—and with the man offering its return—he too was bound by samurai honor. With a resigned laugh, he found himself forced to exchange the Heaven and Earth blades.

“You and I may be sworn enemies to the end, but… Hmph!” “You’ve got some nerve being happy… But know this—the moment Ken’unmaru is back in my hands, I’ll cut you down right here and now. Got it?” “It’s a pity, but there’s no helpin’ it.” With that, Sazen grabbed Konryūmaru with his left arm and thrust it toward Eizaburō. Eizaburō silently accepted it and, in the same moment, returned Ken’unmaru to Sazen—!

Graah! With a roar—a beast-like groan— Uncertain who had emitted it, the two instantly split to either side of the bridge. The utterly mysterious bond of the Night-Crying Swords. No sooner had Heaven and Earth been swapped than, that very same night, Heavenly Cloud returned to its original master Sazen, and Earth Dragon to its former wielder Eizaburō…

And now—!

Through a silver curtain of driving snow, Eizaburō and Sazen locked fiery gazes upon Hōonji Bridge. At the same moment he leaped back, the cold blade of Ken'unmaru—long familiar in Sazen’s hand—glinted sharply. At the same time, Eizaburō lowered his stance and had already quietly drawn the sturdy sword Musashitarō Yasukuni from its sheath. This time—it ends! —while silently invoking the spirit of his deceased teacher, Onozuka Tessai, in his heart.

And—! At this moment—

No sooner had clamorous footsteps gathered behind Tange Sazen than his allies appeared through the driving snow—led by Tsuchi Sennosuke! “Hey! Tange! “It’s been a while, Tange.” “Hmm—so you encountered Konryūmaru here?” “The opponent stands alone. No second will come—yet we cannot merely watch.” “With our forces assembled, we’ll encircle him from afar to block escape.” “Strike freely!” But before these words fully faded, Eizaburō—deeming preemption vital—launched a reckless slash, its edge honed to lethal sharpness,

“Eiyah!”

With a battle cry, he leapt forth like a hurled stone—suddenly! Feigning an attack on Sazen, he instantly pivoted to the right and split one of the reinforcements who had begun to spread out around him like a bamboo stalk—Musashitarō, its hilt deeply drinking human blood, rang out with a *klang*! “The hell with this!” Sazen, bellowing fiercely, raised Ken’unmaru high with his single arm in a jōdan stance and stealthily closed in from behind—but Eizaburō, nimbly sidestepping the gleaming blade just as it seemed poised to strike down in a flash, now turned his bloodied sword toward Tsuchi Sennosuke, who had faltered before him, and pressed the attack.

Take out the rabble first! That was his resolve. Tsuchi Sennosuke, finding no opening to draw his blade, raised the entire scabbard to block—Hsssh! Though he caught the strike, the splendidly split black scabbard burst apart in both directions, making him stagger back involuntarily with a gasp. In that instant—even as he lifted one foot—Eizaburō kicked two or three nearby men into the water below. Flipping his tsuba to parry Sazen’s Ken’unmaru, he wasted no time: with this interference, survival became his paramount concern. Brandishing his gleaming blade with a great splash, he leapt into the moat.

“Tch!” With a single click of Sazen’s tongue piercing through the ink-splattered darkness, the sound carried across the railing.

In the midnight moat, darkly churning with floating snow, a great whirlpool surged away.

Truth and Illusion: The Crow and Heron Discourse

The extraordinary separations and reunions of Seki no Magoroku's matched long and short blades—the Night-Crying Swords...

Ever since Tange Sazen—the mad swordsman serving Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke—defeated the rightful owner Onozuka Tessai and absconded with the greater blade Ken’unmaru, Suwa Eizaburō of the Shinpen Musō-ryū school had patrolled Edo’s streets bearing the lesser blade Konryūmaru in relentless pursuit of Sazen, weathering countless whirlwinds of clashing steel. Now came a fleeting moment when Osayo stole Ken’unmaru and Oto snatched Konryūmaru—an instant where unification of the twin blades seemed imminent—only for fate to reverse their bearers: Eizaburō now carried Ken’unmaru while Sazen wore Konryūmaru at his side, leading to their climactic meeting amidst swirling snow upon Hōonji Bridge—

At the proposal of Eizaburō—whose spirit burned with chivalrous pride—the two men exchanged the Cloud and Dragon blades: Heavenly Cloud returned to Sazen, and Earth Dragon to Eizaburō, each restored to where they had been stolen from. However— As for items that women had brought here like thieves, exploiting a moment of vulnerability—no matter the circumstances, he could not allow himself to retain them. Here, even if he returned it to Sazen once, he would reclaim it by sword and arm a second time… Sensing this fiery resolve in Eizaburō, Sazen willingly surrendered Konryūmaru—a scene so beautiful one could only say it was because both men were true samurai.

But immediately after, a grand melee—a blizzard of blood and snow—unfolded. However, that too lasted but a brief instant. At that very moment, as Tsuchi Sennosuke’s group appeared to reinforce Sazen, Eizaburō—judging that prolonging the chaotic blade clash would endanger himself—secretly prayed in his heart for the day he would meet Sazen again, then leapt into the dark currents beneath the bridge—the snow-swollen river—to escape mortal peril.

Afterward, Tange Sazen and Sennosuke’s group could only shout to one another and scramble frantically across the bridge and both banks……

That too, soon— Having lost sight of Eizaburō in the pitch-black waters, they let out a long sigh and—clenching their arms in vain—began to disperse in scattered groups. “Now, Ken’unmaru! “As long as you’re in my hand, sooner or later there’ll come a time I run into that Earth Dragon whelp—when Cloud and Dragon draw near each other… Tch!” “I’m countin’ on ya—stay sharp.” And Sazen—tapping the red copper hilt with one hand carefreely—now, in which direction did his feet turn—?

And thus, once again—

Bound by ill fate, the paired Cloud and Dragon blades—the sword Ken'unmaru (Heavenly Cloud)—returned once more to Tange Sazen, the one-eyed, one-armed sword fiend. And thus, the short sword Konryūmaru found its place at Suwa Eizaburō's waist—.

That was the strange and mysterious cycle of karma—an intricate pattern that circled back to its origin.

If one turns over in their mind and looks back to the original genesis—

As the legend of the sword’s destiny proclaims: While the two blades remain sheathed together in one place, all lies tranquil—but once Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru are parted, it becomes tantamount to drawing a cursed lot. Blood would inevitably spill there ere long, unleashing a tempestuous maelstrom of terror. And the swords weep. When separated, Ken'unmaru (Heavenly Cloud) and Konryūmaru (Earth Dragon) would choke back sobs—come the deepest hour of the Ox Watch, when house eaves seem to sag three sun under midnight’s weight. It is said these twin blades—Cloud summoning Dragon, Dragon craving Cloud, each yearning for its counterpart—begin weeping in fragile unison through the selfsame midnight hour.

These two fate-bound blades. Once separated—so it was said—these Heaven and Earth blades would stir winds and summon rains when Cloud and Dragon converged，potentially unleashing raging storms，violent waves，or even hell on earth．Yet even now，they remained apart．

Not only that.

Yokichi, the pleasure-seeking idler of Komagata known as Tsuzumi, was undoubtedly racing under Tange Sazen’s secret orders to summon a band of master swordsmen to Oshu Nakamura’s castle town. At the very moment this group of dozens arrived in Edo, Tange Sazen was plotting to crush Eizaburō’s faction in one fell swoop and seize Konryūmaru.

On the other hand—what of Suwa Eizaburō’s forces opposing them? Gamō Taiken-sensei—his sole swordsman ally—had bitterly rebuffed Eizaburō and left with Otsuyu, who had departed the house in Kawaramachi. Where in the world did he go after that?

The two blades, once again separated—a new omen of calamity!

A mountain of dead flesh arises! A river of fresh blood flows as well. A forest of swords stands; a field of chaos opens.

And! Across that mountain of corpses and river of blood—bound by inexorable karmic fate—the two cold blades yearned for each other and sobbed!

A golden morning came to snow-covered Edo.

Not long after that.

On a plum-blossom weather day in mid-afternoon—at the official residence of Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of South Edo and Lord of Echizen. Sunlight filtered down like mist from a cloudless blue sky, casting the shadows of garden trees into hushed stillness, while the frost-thawed earth showed crisp broom marks where it had dried. The verdant green of evergreen trees delighted the eye. What resembled coral inlay revealed itself as winter camellias’ crimson hues—two, three, four blossoms counted—when an unidentified bird pierced the silence with a sharp chirp and slipped through the branches.

By the deep and secluded inner garden lay the tea room of Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Echizen’s official residence. One might call it a sukiya-style tea room—a four-and-a-half mat space crafted in the tradition begun by Higashiyama Dōjinsai. The tea preparation area, a raised alcove with a bordered edge, storage niche, and hanging shelf—all were authentically constructed. Across the sunken hearth before the utensil mat sat the host Tadasuke and Gamō Taiken facing one another. A faint breeze stirred incense smoke that drifted serenely through the air. Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen—his stout frame enveloped in a crested formal kimono—sat silent with bowed head after having spoken, stroking the water jar in his hands.

The tea whisk, scoop, ladle, feather broom, and other utensils were arranged within reach as Tadasuke served tea to his rare guest Taiken after so long a time. Now that I think of it—this being the season of first snow and the jar-opening ceremony—it seemed they had unsealed the tea jar for the first time that very day. In a silence as abrupt as a snapped thread, Tadasuke’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he looked at Taiken. “My tea owes much to Ōguchi Nyoshinken of Osaka… In today’s tea ceremony world, none surpasses him. Steeped in enviable artistic refinement—Kabuki, Flower and Moon, One-Two-Three, Circling Charcoal, Circling Flowers, Dawn Seat, Scattered Tea—these are called the Seven Procedures, elegant antiquities. Yet Nyoshinken has sought out ancient traditions and transmitted them to his disciples—”

Having said this, Tadasuke smiled again. But whether Taiken found talk of tea ceremonies uninteresting or had something else weighing on his mind, he listlessly turned sideways, narrowing his eyes against the bright light streaming through the shoji paper...silent.

Tadasuke remained unperturbed. He continued speaking without concern for niceties. “They say water is crucial for tea—some insist on only using the Kamo River in Kyoto proper and the Tama River in Edo—but someone like me doesn’t mind any source.” “They may not have reached that point yet, but I consider quibbling over water to be trivial.” “To give a recent example—this is the mansion’s well water—but ultimately, it’s about the heart.” “Indeed, the true value of tea lies in this tranquil state of heart and mind.” “How about it—shall I serve you another bowl?”

“The tea’s fine, but your lectures afterward are too damn much to bear. I yield.” When Taiken finally surrendered honestly and scratched his head, Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen, barked, “There we are!” He threw his head back with a booming “Ha ha ha!” laugh, but instantly sobered his expression and drilled Taiken with a razor-sharp glare.

Silence persisted—Taiken had come with some purpose yet found himself unable to broach it, while Tadasuke, though largely understanding the matter, refrained from addressing it himself. An awkward stillness lingered between them. Only the low sound of Tadasuke polishing a tea bowl with a cloth flowed through the room as Taiken crossed his arms in vexation. Gamō Taiken—who always came through the garden late at night—might have been thought to have scaled the fence again today, but such was not the case. For him, this marked an unprecedented act: he had entered openly through the back gate in broad daylight earlier. Whether through some sorcery he possessed, not a single household member noticed him as he stepped along the plantings into the inner grounds and abruptly appeared outside this tea room.

His appearance remained that of an officially licensed beggar—his nearly six-foot frame hung with a pauper’s flask, his massive topknot still bound with straw. At that moment, Lord of Echizen—who had secluded himself in the tea room, quietly listening to the sound of boiling water—suddenly rose to his feet, startled by a shadow cast on the shoji. “Hahaha! The people of this mansion are all like sleeping cats! As you can see, I swaggered right through without a soul to stop me. Thanks to that, I’ve managed to meet you without trouble, Magistrate—I’m utterly humbled these days. But enough of my spiteful tongue—it’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

Such was the unceremonious voice of Taiken. “Oh! You’ve come!” While welcoming him with a smile, Tadasuke glanced behind him and frowned slightly, feeling somewhat troubled. Taiken was not alone.

In his shadow crouched a young woman with hunched shoulders and bowed head... Even now she remained hidden small before the tea room's edge, prostrate.

Needless to say, it was Otsuyu who had slipped away from the house in Kawaramachi. Not only had I dragged my beloved Lord Eizaburō into the depths of poverty like an old swamp, but my very self had become shackles hindering his efforts to retrieve Ken'unmaru from that terrifying samurai Tange Sazen and reunite the Night-Crying Swords—how much was I impeding his work... Moreover! When I reflect that all of this began with Lord Eizaburō caring for me—betraying Lady Yayoi’s heart and suffering defeat on my account—I realize that were it not for this wretched Otsuyu, Lord Eizaburō’s sword would have flourished freely, its power growing until he soon retrieved that Ken’unmaru blade to present to Lady Yayoi. And had that come to pass, she—being the sole heir of the late Master, her status and character perfectly suited to him in every way like imperial dolls—would have… As for a mere teahouse girl like myself, whatever became of me would matter little. Yet precisely because I adore Lord Eizaburō with my very life, no joy of mine could surpass his success and happiness.

But while this self sowed seeds of trouble, keeping Lord Eizaburō all to myself like this left nothing but unsettled debts on all sides—I felt nothing but shame toward those around me today, a terror too dreadful to name.

If only I weren’t here, everything would settle smoothly. To hold was love; to release was love. That night when we had wept together—though Lord Eizaburō remained unyielding even in his awareness of Lady Yayoi’s tears—here I must first give him the cold shoulder and be hated…

That was all for Lord Eizaburō’s sake—more than anything. Next came duty to the swords and Lady Yayoi. Moreover, steeling her heart with resolve that this too embodied Edo women’s mettle and the transient world’s laws of affection, Otsuyu—hands clasped in prayer toward his retreating back—after displaying such brazen coquetry and driving that earnest young Eizaburō to rage through their bitter quarrels, found her own heart scalded more cruelly than if she had gulped boiling water.

Lord Eizaburō must surely have been lamenting—*Ah, what a long, wretched dream I’ve endured*—taking Otsuyu’s change of heart at face value… Yet when she considered this, Otsuyu—who had armored her fragile heart with duty to become a demon—found her resolve dulling; she chastised herself for nearly crumbling into apologies and longing to return to how things were. After Eizaburō departed, she confessed everything to Gamō Taiken, who had arrived coincidentally, and entrusted him with determining her future course.

Silently listening with arms crossed like pine trunks, a large teardrop spilled from Taiken’s eyes onto his knees; flustered, he scrubbed at them with his fist, turned away, and immediately burst into loud laughter. His cheek beard rippled like waves as Taiken continued his tearful guffaw endlessly.

And finally, “Nah. Might be interestin’ that way too.” “Worthy of Lord Eizaburō’s devotion y’are, Lady Otsuyu—that’s some damn fine resolve ya got.” “From here on, his lordship’ll pour everything into that blade—bound to reclaim Ken’unmaru soon enough. When that day comes, we’ll talk proper. Won’t let things go sour—count on this Taiken.” “I’ll see ya settled proper everywhere needed—just hang tough a while longer… Hard on both his lordship an’ you, I know—but let’s clear outta here quick as we can.”

Thus it was decided—Otsuyu, sobbing while bundling her few belongings, departed the humble dwelling in Kawaramachi together with Taiken, who kept sniffling loudly, both leaving in unison before Eizaburō could return.

Otsuyu, her heart heavy with reluctance, and Master Gamō Taiken, laughing heartily while unable to suppress sympathetic tears within his breast—

Several days had passed since then.

Otsuyu, who wove dreams night after night in Edo's streets like a stray dog, was fiercely protected by the gallant Taiken in place of Suwa Eizaburō. This woman was a charge from Lord Eizaburō... Once this thought took hold, Taiken knew he had to see Otsuyu settled, even if only temporarily. Yet for a homeless man, this female charge had become a burden too heavy even for the ever-optimistic Taiken to bear.

There, after struggling to find a solution, what he finally hit upon was Gamō Taiken’s close friend—the renowned Edo Town Magistrate, Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen—.

“Today I’ll do you the favor of guiding you to a rather troublesome place—stay silent and follow.” Having said this, Gamō Taiken left behind the small boat at Shubi no Matsu with his pauper’s flask and Otsuyu in tow, entering this mansion through the back gate in broad daylight. *Where could this place be…?* Hiding in Taiken’s shadow, Otsuyu timidly made her way to the inner garden’s tea room. Amidst the friendly banter between the portly, refined-looking lord and Master Taiken, she realized this was none other than the Lord of Echizen himself. Following Taiken’s instruction to wait here, she prostrated herself on the ground beneath the veranda—shrinking into utter insignificance as her pale forehead pressed into the soil.

The silence within the room still lingered—. “Kuro!”

Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen, called through the open shoji panels across the veranda. In the garden where sunlight danced, a large black dog sat with its front paws neatly aligned, watching attentively. This was Kuro—a renowned dog from the neighboring domain of Tosa, gifted by Lord Date, Governor of Tōtōmi of Uwajima—Tadasuke’s beloved and clever companion. “Kuro!” “What have you done?” With leisurely composure, Tadasuke addressed the dog again from within the room. Kuro wagged his tail.

A spring day lingered slowly, a tranquil scene. No sooner had their tea conversation concluded than attention turned to the dog. Taiken sat facing him, appearing disinterested yet silently watching Kuro... uncharacteristically discontented. Though the two inside couldn’t see Otsuyu prostrated on the earth beyond the veranda, she faintly raised her face at an odd sniffing sound—only to find an enormous black dog she’d never seen before snuffling beside her. Overcome with terror, she nearly cried out and leapt up, but stifling the impulse, pressed herself flat against the ground once more.

But the dog was well-trained.

Even though it seemed unlikely to cause harm, it was just as Otsuyu let out a sigh of relief. Inside the room, Tadasuke maintained his dignified bearing, his slightly raised knees kept aligned as he appeared to face toward the garden. The rustle of robes being adjusted sounded, and then, “Kuro!” “Come here!”

The authoritative voice of the honorable magistrate.

The dog pricked up its ears innocently and opened its mouth as if to answer... Woof! Woof! Woof! “Ah, I see—” Lord Tadasuke smiled and cast a quick glance at Taiken beside him,

“Come! Get up here! Kuro…” The dog kept twisting its neck and licking around its shoulders—evidently, even the divine magistrate’s words could not reach the beast’s simple mind, for it remained utterly indifferent, let alone obedient. Despite this, Tadasuke remained utterly serious.

Even while calling him his beloved dog, did he truly mean to summon Kuro into the tea room...? Tadasuke sat in proper seiza facing the veranda edge and issued his command without so much as twitching an eyebrow. "Now, Kuro! When I say 'come up,' you come up!"

And, as if speaking to a human, “Come now, get up here and come inside. We can’t have people seeing you. Once you’ve properly come up, close the rear shoji behind you—ha ha ha ha ha!” “Right!” Gamō Taiken—who had only just noticed this—now leaned forward from beside him and added his voice to the chorus, “Kuro, come up!” “Kuro, quickly get inside the room!”

A chorus of voices... Even after Kuro had departed, sniffing the ground with apparent disinterest, the voices of Tadasuke and Taiken continued to intertwine. Kuro! Come up! "Come up—don’t hold back!" Otsuyu’s heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be Lord Ōoka is clearly using the dog as a pretext to invite me in? How awe-inspiring—the Magistrate of the Realm who firmly maintains his position under Lord Ōoka’s authority could never openly allow a mere townswoman like myself to sit beside him! Thus he deigns to convey this gracious command through Kuro!

*What profound compassion!*

Though seeing his face might strike her blind, to refuse further would only compound her rudeness. Otsuyu—mouthing a silent *Yes*—brushed dirt from her hem with a woman’s practiced efficiency, adjusted her hair, and timidly stepped up into the room before pressing herself flat in a corner, hands planted firmly against the floor.

Far from being able to behold his face, her vision flared white, and even her hands trembled uncontrollably as she closed the rear shoji. She remained as such, shrinking back into Taiken’s shadow. And Ōoka Tadasuke, the magistrate of Echizen, paid no heed to Otsuyu who had entered, having already turned composedly toward Taiken and smiled guilelessly. “Wahaha!” For reasons unknown, Taiken suddenly let out a smoke-like laugh. Then, after a short while, Tadasuke also looked up at the ceiling and laughed in the same manner.

“Ah ha ha ha!” The honorable magistrate’s dry, rasping laughter... As Otsuyu cowered further, Tadasuke himself stood up and retrieved a Go board from the alcove.

“Taiken, it’s been an age,” said Lord Tadasuke of Echizen with deliberate formality. “Allow me to have you instruct me in a game.” “The nerve!” Gamō Taiken barked back, his voice rough as gravel. “I’d sooner gut myself than play Go with some pompous lord—but with you? Aye, we can spar as comrades.” He slapped the tatami mat. “Come!” The magistrate’s gaze sharpened like drawn steel. “This ‘comrades’ talk—private bonds stay private, public duty remains public… Do not blur the lines.” Taiken’s retort died in his throat.

Lord Tadasuke of Echizen set the board before him and immediately placed two stones—one black, one white—precisely on its surface,

“Now, Gamō! These black and white stones—they long for each other, bound by a fate that draws them together. How about that—?” Taiken’s face colored with astonishment—Hmm! He groaned and looked up at Tadasuke. Click!... Two stones landed on the board.

One was white; the other, black. At these words from Ōoka Tadasuke—who unexpectedly seemed privy to every particular—declaring this to be the bond of fate through which they yearned for and sought one another, Taiken groaned, lowered his gaze from Tadasuke to the board, and locked his arms across his chest. Behind them, Otsuyu felt her breath catch as something inexplicably gripped her heart.

But Tadasuke remained composed…

He gazed intently at the two stones on the board for some time, then turned his face toward the sunlight shimmering through the shoji paper and continued speaking as if recounting a dream.

Bright light filled the cozy tea room, and lingering incense smoke entwined around the alcove pillar.

The unseasonable warmth that had suddenly turned spring-like these past two or three days—even sitting here like this, one hardly missed the fire—carried the gentle warmth of plum blossoms unfurling one by one. In the depths of a stillness that seemed congealed, separated by the board were Taiken and Tadasuke— “Black and white—it can only be called a strange bond…” “But if these two stones are separated like this…?” Tadasuke languidly reached out and moved the two stones further and further toward the corners of the board.

Taiken, who had taken the Go stone container while remaining silent, violently shook it without warning. The sound of countless stones clashing together echoed tumultuously through the room.

“Hmm…” Tadasuke closed his eyes. “One might call it turmoil—calamity—indeed.” “Then, what if they’re brought together like this?” As he spoke, Tadasuke aligned the two stones until they fit tightly together. Taiken smiled and quietly placed the Go stone container down. And then, properly placing both hands on his knees, he looked directly at Tadasuke. “First, like this.” “Hmm…” “The aspect of calm, order, courtesy, and harmony?” “I see.” “Interesting.” "But, you—" began Taiken, suddenly thrusting his upper body forward and glaring up at Tadasuke. "How do you know that?"

And—!

Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen, shrugged his shoulders contentedly and burst into hearty laughter. “Go! Go! Taiken—it’s about Go! The game of Go!” “Ah…right. “It was Go.” “About Go—about Go… Seems I’ve stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong.” “But even so—” “Gamō!” Though his voice remained low, Tadasuke’s tone now carried a cold, glacial edge. “I know everything—everything. “From tenement squabbles to the senior councilors’ secret maneuvers—nothing escapes these all-hearing ears.” “Now then—to Go. Come—let us play a game.”

“Hmm.” Though he nodded gravely, Taiken continued to stare fixedly at the board, remaining motionless for a long while. Once more, the silent ritual—.

Even though this was nothing new, Taiken found himself struck anew with awe and reverence for his revered friend Ōoka Tadasuke’s vast knowledge and meticulousness, unable to prevent his head from bowing of its own accord.

Throughout all ages and regions, those who have held magistrate positions are beyond counting—yet none could surpass Ōoka Tadasuke in talent and ability, who now occupied the weighty office of South Edo Magistrate after gathering unto himself the complete trust of Yoshimune, the Eighth Shōgun... To judge a person requires a person of equal caliber. This, Gamō Taiken keenly felt, and was struck by a profound sense of reverence from the depths of his heart. Enveloped in this awe, even the audacious Taiken Koji now found himself utterly immobile, as if bound by an invisible chain—a statue frozen in place.

The renowned Gamō Taiken of the streets had involuntarily stiffened.

Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen, wore a warm smile. “What’s wrong, Gamō? Do you intend to lower your flag without a fight…? Come on then. During our Go discussion—a good idea or two might well come to mind.” He laughed heartily. “Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Tadasuke clicked the Go stones provocatively. What had come over him? This time, he suddenly began to speak in a low voice, as if talking to himself.

"Lord Tōshōgū once instructed the magistrates of his time thus: 'If magistrates hold themselves too loftily, the people of the land will not approach them of their own accord, and thus they will remain ignorant of good and evil.' The character for 'judgment' (sata) is such that when sand is mixed with unseen stones, if one washes it with water, the sizes of the stones, both large and small, will become known, and the soil will flow away. If they do not come into view, there is no means to wash them. Thus, if magistrates put on too much of a sage-like demeanor, matters cannot be judged, and there will be no way to investigate things—so it is said. This magistrate’s duty is a troublesome thing indeed, ha ha ha ha ha! Gamō, you must understand."

Gamō Taiken, for the first time since coming into this world, lowered 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 others nowadays gravely misunderstand if they believe they can achieve military victory merely by setting up formations while seated on camp stools, commanding troops with batons without dirtying their hands, and barking orders. A general who views the backs of his allies’ heads cannot triumph over enemies… This is a military teaching, but the duty of magistrates in times of peace is none other than a battle of law against wickedness." “Therefore, if the magistrate—commander of this righteous army—does nothing but sit idly on his camp stool, wave his baton to command others while keeping his own hands clean, and posture with mere words, he will achieve nothing.” “Rather than wasting time gazing at the backs of people’s heads and spouting idle legal theories, one must advance several steps to the front lines to discern the enemy’s wickedness—in other words, cast oneself into the streets.” “Taking the people’s hearts as my own and closely listening to their voices—no, this Tadasuke himself is already one of the people… The perfection of the kingly way resides here, or so this Tadasuke has always believed, hahahaha—oops!” “This too is Go strategy!” “Now, Gamō—I’ve known everything from ages ago. Not only have my investigations reached every last detail, but I’ve already made all the necessary arrangements. So rest assured—”

“Rest assured—shall we have a game of Go?” “Exactly. Rest assured—let us play Go.” The two quickly exchanged glances and simultaneously burst into explosive laughter, but Taiken immediately became serious, “But while we’re leisurely playing Go like this, are you sure the big fish in your net won’t get away?” “There’s no need to worry about it escaping.” “Is that so… However,” Taiken said, pointing at the black and white stones on the board, “like this—if they tie up the opponent now before both these stones return to our side, we’ll be in trouble.”

“Now, that is where personal matters and public law intersect.” "My dilemma lies precisely within that space." “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 things as they are for now and simply observe?”

“Hmm.” “Sooner or later, I’ll make it happen just like this.”

By Taiken’s hand, the two stones became one once more.

“I see. But for now—” Tadasuke pulled the black stone to his side and placed another black one beside it with a click. “This belongs here.” “Then I’ll do this.” Even as he spoke, Taiken arranged a white stone among the others and placed it with force, fixing his gaze on Tadasuke.

“Hmm!” Tadasuke folded his arms. “But Taiken, black has its own allies too.” With a clatter, he grabbed the black stones and spread them flat across the board, encircling the original black stones completely.

“Not surprised.” “Not one bit.”

Taiken smiled and immediately took a white stone to add to his white group. "If you're set on that approach, let's try this move. I'll handle it alone... as they say."

“Hahahaha!” Tadasuke burst out laughing. “Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the stone you just placed looks a bit dirty. You truly are an eccentric from Tengaimujū, aren’t you? Hahahaha!” “Well, color me impressed! So even to your eyes, it looks that filthy, eh—”

With that, Taiken pulled his head back and scratched it, “That may be so, but this stone you first claimed as your own—truly a manly display... No, wait, we shouldn’t judge a stone’s character.” “It’s chipped—hahaha! The right side’s missing.” “Oh! “You’re right.” “The pot calling the kettle black—then how about this?”

Tadasuke said this, took a chipped black stone from the bottom of the stone container, and placed it in the center of the black group. “This flawed stone—its name, place, and lineage have all been laid bare." “Wash it with water, and the soil will flow away—revealing every stone’s true measure, quality, and worth… Now then, Taiken, how shall we proceed?”

With a tone as pressing as an advancing force, Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Echizen, discussed matters through the metaphor of Go.

Precisely because he was the Magistrate, and precisely because Taiken was his sworn confidant, they maintained public-private boundaries while intertwining them—spanning strategic warfare tactics across two minds that knew each other completely. Thus began their crow-and-heron debates of feints and truths. Otsuyu, concealed behind Taiken’s shadow, held her breath in anxious uncertainty. The previous evening, amidst Asakusa’s year-end market throngs. The forged missive Tange Sazen had dispatched to Suwa Eizaburō via Yokichi the drummer... When Eizaburō dropped it en route, Tadasuke retrieved it and immediately recognized the left-handed script.

Left-handed writing meant the left arm. What naturally came to mind was the left-armed perpetrator of the crosswise street slayings that were filling the shogun’s capital with the scent of human blood at the time. Moreover, the letter’s contents spoke of something moving covertly in the shadows! Having grasped this lead, Tadasuke commanded his retainer and took personal action to thoroughly investigate everything—from the circumstances surrounding the struggle over the Heavenly Cloud and Earth Dragon swords to the intricate romantic entanglements intertwined with them.

However, while the crimes of Tange Sazen—the Ōshū rōnin—and Suzukawa Genjūrō’s household’s spectacle of demons walking in daylight (he being a 500-koku kobushin-group hatamoto residing before Hōonji Bridge in Honjo) were indeed grave, exposing these matters now would sap the vigor from Taiken and Eizaburō, who were currently fired up to confront them—and worse, it might even force these two men to be summoned to court over their sword-related entanglements. Moreover, behind Suzukawa Genjūrō stood Aoyama Bizen-no-kami, the head of the kobushin group responsible for minor construction works—unlike apprehending common rat thieves, bringing Genjūrō to justice would require prior arrangements with this authority. As for Tange Sazen, being under the direct command of Sōma Daizenshō, a legitimate daimyo lord of Nakaura in Ōshū, even Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Echizen overseeing Edo’s towns, could not recklessly intervene.

Thus, while Tadasuke intended to have Suwa Eizaburō somehow reclaim Ken’unmaru from Sazen’s grasp and then deliver a decisive blow upon those vile wretches all at once, as a magistrate, he could not recklessly involve himself in private affairs. Even someone as capable as Tadasuke found himself somewhat perplexed lately, caught between public duty and personal involvement—

Just at that moment, No sooner had his trusted friend Gamō Taiken burst in like a sudden gust than Tadasuke caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman hiding in his shadow—and through his study of physiognomy manuals, he instantly recognized her as Otsuyu of the Piercing Arrow, the very woman who had earlier petitioned Kizaemon, landlord of Tawarachō Second District, regarding a missing persons inquiry. Since this Otsuyu had been cohabiting with Suwa Eizaburō, wielder of the Earth Dragon blade, he had deliberately kept silent even after learning her whereabouts! Having intentionally kept Kizaemon uninformed about this matter, why would she now appear here alongside Taiken? Tadasuke found himself mildly suspicious of this development.

Such was the general state of affairs. Ōoka Tadasuke was a man whose prodigious memory encompassed even the most trivial affairs of the common folk, and within his mind he perpetually enfolded every ripple—each surge and retreat of men's and women's lives—in the vast sea of the transient world. Lord Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of the Southern Edo District. Like a deity of subtle discernment, he had thoroughly tasted both the bitter and sweet of worldly affairs and human nature, perceiving good and evil with unclouded clarity. His mystically unfathomable investigative gaze possessed a fearsome quality—one might even call it demonic—that seemed to envelop everything.

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 stormed the monster mansion in Honjo—palanquins that seemed privy to everything from start to finish. Five warriors in fireman’s attire, swift as the wind! Even now their true identities remained unknown—but that old man who had led them! As this realization struck him, Taiken somehow sensed that Tadasuke had already discerned everything. Raising his face from its glare at the Go board, he flashed a sharp grin at the magistrate.

However, Tadasuke did not return the grin. “Say, Gamō!”

With that, he stared fixedly at the board, "What do you intend to do with that Go game of yours?"

“Of course I’ll pursue this to the bitter end! Until I unite these two fated stones into one!” “That’s just like you.” Tadasuke murmured quietly, took a single black stone from the board, and deftly shifted it aside while—

“Now then, Taiken—one piece here races to summon reinforcements like this.” “Well? What will you do? How will you respond?” “What countermeasures have you prepared?” “What?! Reinforcements? Who goes where—?” Gamō Taiken reflexively leaned forward, abandoning the Go match entirely as Ōoka Tadasuke tapped the board with his stone— “Taiken! The game! Focus on the game—but first, from which quarter will these reinforcements come...” “The game remains paramount—but first, the direction of their approach...” “Hmm. That direction would be...” “That direction would be...” “In that case—northward, perhaps.”

Having declared this, Tadasuke shot a piercing glance at Taiken. A single stone was dashing ahead to seek reinforcements—and that direction lay north! At Tadasuke’s words, Gamō Taiken snapped and glared at the board. Indeed, one black stone appeared to have broken away from its group by Tadasuke’s hand, now hastening on a solitary journey toward the corner of the Go board. Was this not the very image of Tsuzumi no Yokichi—who had been piling up nights under makeshift pillows as he raced toward the castle town of Sōma domain in Nakaura, Ōshū—desperately seeking to rally swordsmen for Tange Sazen?

“Now! What will you do? What’s your plan?” With this urging—repeating his demand like stones striking iron—Tadasuke looked at Taiken.

Staring fixedly at the arrangement of stones, Taiken remained motionless. Otsuyu, who had been huddling in the shadows, found herself gradually drawn into the deadly serious stratagems hidden beneath this Go battle. Forgetting herself, she peered sideways, watching and listening with rapt attention.

Outwardly, it remained nothing but a serenely elegant contest of black and white...

A cloud must have passed over the sun, for the sunlight that had been streaming through the shoji screens flickered away, filling the room with a chill akin to clear mountain stream water—Otsuyu shuddered and hunched her shoulders. “Taiken, they say a fool’s plans are best left unmade.” “Well now, what do you intend to do with this stone?” Governor Echizen’s voice held a faint note of sarcasm.

But Taiken did not answer. The slight trembling of his large knees suggested he was deep in contemplation. Then Tadasuke abruptly took out a handful of black stones and arranged them around the stone said to be seeking reinforcements. “Behold now. As you can see, they have successfully gathered their forces and now attempt to return. What countermeasure have you for this?” “Hmph! No trouble at all. I’ll settle it like this.”

No sooner had he spoken than Taiken took one of the white stones at hand and snapped it right into the center of the new black formation.

Tadasuke tilted his head,

“Ah, I see. “So you intend to march out and confront them directly?” “Indeed. “Thus on their return journey, I’ll cull their numbers as thoroughly as possible.” “First, I’ll eliminate them one by two whenever opportunity arises—”

While saying this, Taiken removed two or three black stones from around where he had just placed the white one. “By doing this, I’ll make sure that by the time they return, they’ll be back to square one.” “Hmm! That’s the way!”

Tadasuke struck his knee and declared: “You must pursue them posthaste and dismantle these reinforcements... Above all, we cannot let these troops reach the enemy’s stronghold. As the proverb says—‘the few against the many’—for even a triumphant campaign may yet meet defeat. But will this truly unfold as smoothly as we hope?” “What’s that?” “This strategy of yours—to secure their retreat route and methodically slaughter the reinforcement corps—” “It all hinges on this stone’s capability!” Taiken slammed the Go stone onto the board. “This stone! This stone! This—what you call your tarnished stone!”

When Taiken abruptly slapped his chest and let out a hearty laugh, Tadasuke also broke into a gentle smile,

“A most dependable stone, I must say.” With a quick glance at Taiken’s face, he then—

“If we speak of the north… there lies but a single road.” “Were we to depart at once, we could easily overtake them.” “A northern trek to Araya—perfect ground for bloodletting.” “But guard this vital stone well—let there be no misstep.” “Waste no worry!”

Having declared this, Taiken first fully took the cluster of black stones called "reinforcement stones" into his own hands, then no sooner had he abruptly grabbed two white stones than he thrust them into the black mass at the corner of the board—simultaneously sweeping everything away.

The two remaining stones on the board—one black, one white—were perfectly aligned at the center. “Enough! Understood.” Tadasuke leisurely tucked his hands into his sleeves, “As for my own task beyond that... I will surely take care of the rest, so until then, lend me your strength and unite these two stones into one.” When the Go discussion abruptly ceased, within the pale stillness of midday, the sound of their beloved dog Kuro barking could be heard somewhere beyond the garden.

How Tadasuke knew with such precision—as if pointing at his palm—about the reinforcements encircling Ken’unmaru without even stirring from his seat was indeed strange, if one considered it strange. Yet given Tadasuke’s current tone, there could be no doubt: someone from the Honjo Monster Mansion was racing toward Northern Domain’s Nakamura to seek swordsmen for aid. Right then—"I’ll head out immediately!" As Taiken started to rise, Tadasuke arrested him with a look. “Gamō! You’ve forgotten something…” And then, a swift glance was directed at Otsuyu. Taiken feigned ignorance.

“When traveling, traveling light is paramount—Ha ha ha! I’ll leave this luggage in your care for now!” And then, leaving behind Governor of Echizen Tadasuke—who wore a bitter smile of utter exasperation—and Otsuyu—who had shrunk down as if ready to vanish under the weight of her own unworthiness—in that very instant, the garden-facing shoji screen had already swallowed Taiken whole.

Northern Country Travel Diary

“Hey there! Return horses here! Take one for a ride!” “Take one for a ride!”

Along with that nasal voice, as the drawn-out jingle of a bell reached his ears through the reed screen of the roadside tea house, a young, spirited traveler who seemed to be an Edo native put down his half-finished tea bowl and turned around.

Clad in a striped kimono with arm and leg guards, wearing a travel cloak and single sword, his customary hat tossed onto a nearby bench—he might have passed for some infamous provincial moneylender who’d abandoned his domain over a petty squabble and now wandered in straw sandals. Yet one glance at his face revealed… none other than Asakusa Komagata’s own Anikotsuzumi no Yokichi. This rascal was supposed to be idling away at Kushimaki Oto’s hideout, but one morning he’d suddenly remembered the crucial mission Lord Tange had entrusted him with—Damn it! I can’t keep lounging around here! Being the sort who leaped before looking—the very embodiment of impulsiveness—Yokichi seized the opportunity of Oto’s month-long absence and the favorable weather, hastily tightened his sandal cords, and thus embarked on his journey to Oshū Nakamura.

A journey shared with his shadow—a truly harmonious travel companion...

Well, no matter how much Lord Tange might be hurryin', it ain't my problem. I'll make sure to blow all this travel money on havin' a grand ol' time, and on the way back, I'll swagger into Edo playin' guide to those samurai—ain't no sweeter deal than this. 'Sides, since there ain't a soul who knows 'bout my trip to Nakamura, there's no worry 'bout Eizaburō sendin' pursuers—oh well, a true Edoite's carefree journey, might as well take it nice 'n' slow.

With this mindset, even when hurrying, he didn’t particularly push his pace, instead taking his time with overnight stays until he arrived precisely at midday in Koganei, Yashū. The town of Koga was the domain of Dōi Ōi-no-kami, an 80,000-koku lord, sixteen ri from Edo. Having departed Koga that morning, he passed through Nogi, Mamada, and Oyama before tackling the long two-ri stretch to reach this Koganei. According to the travel guide, the distance from Edo to Nakamura measured seventy-eight ri—meaning Tsuzumi no Yonokō still faced a vast journey ahead. Yet with his mind set on sightseeing, he made no effort to quicken his pace, instead planting himself at a tea shop while the sun still blazed high, holding forth in his Edoite manner to the elderly proprietor.

The sun blazed down relentlessly on the white highway. Though he had braced himself for bitter cold while journeying north in midwinter, today felt almost warmer than Edo itself.

Even so, an icy wind from below blew in sand and grit, making the vaunted local dango feel rough against the tongue. Groves and dwellings with subtly shifted atmospheres, the darkened faces of distant paddies, unfamiliar dialects from children noisily crowding the roadside...

Edo natives are bold as Benkei at home, yet turn utterly spineless when journeying abroad. Yokichi proved no exception to this—as an inexplicable unease crept over him, he desperately tried to steel himself. “Travel’s all well and good,” he declared, “but us true-bred Edoites suffer mightily once we stray beyond His Majesty’s seat—the fare and womenfolk hereabouts ain’t fit for decent folk!” “Even if the wenches go blind scrubbin’ their hides with foul water—you! The grub here’s plain wretched!”

“Oh.” “Is that so?” “Tch! The hell it ain’t! Let me tell ya straight—these dango, th-this crap ain’t edible! And this is supposed to be some famous local specialty? What a joke! C’mon, in Edo, even the cats’d turn up their noses at dango like this!” “Oh come now! Well, even the cats round here don’t eat much of these dango.” “What the—! Don’t mock me! Well, in Edo, you never hear of such things. The Kinkato Mochi from Kinryūzan Sensōji Temple’s famed shop—Kikyōya Yasubei under the great enoki tree at Denbōin—they’ve moved locations and are booming like never before! At the corner entrance of Third Block, Umamichi—between Nishikibukuroen and Nijūkenjaya Tea House. You better remember that!”

While putting his all into advertising Asakusa mochi—something no one had even asked him to do—and holding forth by himself, “Hey there, boss! How ’bout some horses? I’ll give ya a good price!” came yet another horse handler’s voice.

Yokichi grew extremely impatient, snapping, "What?! A horse? You bastard! What's with the damn horse?!"

As he barked defiantly and turned around, Tsuzumi no Yokichi's face instantly drained of color.

From the tea shop across the two facing establishments, a bizarre man was staring fixedly in this direction! A familiar beggar-like figure with a shabby sake flask… Having successfully foisted Otsuyu’s custody onto Tadasuke, Taiken was just about to step down into the garden when Tadasuke called out to stop him. “Here, Gamō! “Something has been dropped here.” So, when he turned back and peeked into the room, there were several koban coins where he had been sitting!

Tadasuke, who had perceived Taiken’s predicament, threw them out unasked—his intention being to subtly provide travel funds. Such thorough consideration that it could draw tears...

The two said nothing. Taiken merely lumbered back inside to submit the gold coins, bellowed with laughter, and strode out again—no bow, no courtesy. Between the hearts of these two kindred spirits existed something that communicated as simply and naturally as the wind.

And then.

While Otsuyu remained prostrated, Taiken—having left Lord Ōoka’s residence without even stopping by Lord Eizaburō’s place in Kawaramachi—departed Edo that very day and embarked on a northward journey.

It was said that someone had been dispatched to seek reinforcements for Ken’unmaru and was now hastening straight toward the northern provinces—but who could it be? They likely hadn’t reached Sōma yet—if he overtook them and saw their faces, he would surely recognize them. Moreover, depending on the opponent’s disposition, there were countless strategies he could employ—and so, each time a figure appeared ahead on his path, Taiken single-mindedly quickened his pace.

The bustle of the post town took on a rustic charm, with travelers constantly coming and going.

However, Master Taiken—who owned no residence—might as well have been traveling day and night even while in Edo. Thus, even as he left the capital in this manner, he had not a single item of proper travel gear—only his threadbare sparrow-colored cotton jacket and that ever-present one-shō sake flask as his sole companion on the road—.

A remote narrow path.

While it might sound poetic, Taiken was restless. Driving his exceptional stamina to its limits, he had covered over ten ri in a single day.

Ōshū Kaidō. From Edo, two ri to Senju. Likewise, two ri to Sōka. Then Koshigaya, Kasukabe, and Satte—last night’s lodging was in Kurehashi. Having departed Kurehashi in the early morning, passed through Nakada and Koga’s castle towns, and come straight along the main highway—this was Koganei.

At the outskirts of the post town, he tried to briskly pass straight through without stopping.

Suddenly, from one of the tea shops, came an incessant voice shouting “Edo! Edo!” as if peddling the city itself. When Taiken absentmindedly glanced over, he saw a townsman he recognized putting on a spirited display. Huh?!

As he tilted his head quizzically, the first thing he recalled was the man who had snatched the wallet from Suwa Eizaburō’s pocket beneath the Furisode Ginkgo at Shōkaku-ji Temple’s gate and run off. This was one of Honjo Suzukawa Genjūrō’s lackeys—and his name was known… Tsuzumi no Yokichi! Taiken instantly realized this, but feigned ignorance, stationing himself near the entrance of the tea shop across the way—neither hiding nor spying—openly glaring over from his position——.

The moment he turned around after yelling at the horse handler, Yonokō noticed the unexpected presence of Taiken—and in the same instant he gasped, he shriveled up like spinach doused in salt.

The man who had been frighteningly full of vigor until just moments ago suddenly crumbled into incoherent mumbling—the one shocked by this abrupt change was none other than the tea shop proprietor.

“What’s wrong? Did your stomach start acting up?” Because the old man kept pestering him with questions, Yokichi seized the opportunity. “Huh? Nah… ’s nothin’.” “Nah, my gut’s killin’ me.” “It’s ’cause you made me eat these damn dango!”

“What’re you on about? This guy’s only nitpicking ’bout the dango, I tell ya! Even though you had as many as three platefuls of refills…” Grimacing and groaning, Yokichi darted a glance! A glance! When he glanced back, there across the road sat Master Taiken on a camp stool, utterly composed, staring fixedly in this direction without so much as a blink. Yokichi’s back burned as if searing, and he couldn’t sit still. Like a frog stared down by a snake—of all people, why did that biggest troublemaker have to pop up here like this?! This has turned into a real mess! For a moment, Yokichi was shocked enough to be thrown into disarray—but ah, whatever. The road ahead was still long. He resolved to neatly shake him off somewhere before reaching Utsunomiya,

“Gramps! Here—tea payment. I’m leavin’ it right here!” As he stood up vigorously—as if Taiken had been waiting for precisely this moment—the swordsman likewise began rising from his seat at the tea shop across the way.

A chill ran down his neck, and Yokichi nearly froze in place. The feeling was just like walking down a desolate path with a fierce dog snapping at one's heels. His spine went cold, and the hinges of his hips felt ready to give way at any moment. Unable to break into a run yet equally incapable of looking back, Yokichi staggered onward half-dead, letting the highway guide his faltering steps.

Right behind him, Master Taiken followed leisurely and unhurriedly, a one-shō sake flask dangling from one hand and a smile playing on his face that seemed to sprout from his beard. A bizarre and outlandish two-person procession. There they were—proceeding along the Utsunomiya Highway bathed in radiant sunlight, front and rear maintaining perfect synchrony whether hastening or halting, an inseparable pair advancing endlessly onward. To any observer, it might have seemed a rather amusing spectacle. But for Yokichi himself, it was quite literally a sweat-drenched ordeal, his nerves frayed to the point of utter frenzy.

It was truly the most unnerving thing imaginable. If he had kept a bit more distance while following, I—Yonokō of Komagata—might have mustered the wit to shake him off somehow. But with him stuck to me like this, practically stepping on my heels, I couldn't even begin to think of a way out. And yet.

"Hey!" or "Oi!" If he would at least say something, it might still be bearable. If that were the case, then I'd at least have a way to respond—oh! "Well, well! Master Beggar, what a rare sight!" "Well now, where to?" Now, it wasn't that Yokichi couldn't come up with something like that smoothly—in fact, he had two or three such retorts prepared in his mind. But being followed in such oppressive silence by someone he'd always found intimidating left Yonokō utterly paralyzed, his spirit drained like a living corpse.

Yonokō, who looked like a living corpse, and Gamō Taiken, as fearsome as Yama himself, trudged aimlessly along a lone path through open fields, moving in a staggered V-formation like wild geese.

Departing Koganei for Shimoishibashi, they made the two-and-a-half-ri journey to Utsunomiya... They passed straight through the main road, jostled by people and horses. Though dusk was deepening, Yokichi couldn’t bring himself to take lodgings at an inn with such company. So after passing through the town, he began to quicken his pace along the night road. No good!

He was still scampering after me.

Silent as a shadow, he pressed close from behind, looming over Yokichi as he followed. Yokichi was utterly at his wit's end with this situation. If he so much as tried to glance back, he felt a punch might come flying his way that very instant. Once, when he squatted down to retie his straw sandals on the road, Taiken simply stood calmly nearby waiting—leaving Yokichi of Komagata’s famed drum completely exasperated, as if he were shouldering an enormous burden.

In silence, the two travelers pressed on.

Midnight in Shirasawa. Ujiie.

Kitsuregawa—the castle town of Lord Sama no Kami of Kitsuregawa.

Having recklessly pushed himself to walk through the entire night, upon the utterly exhausted Yonokō now came the first stirrings of dawn’s hues around Mount Saku. His legs turned to logs. His vision blurred. Having become like a hunted wolf, Yokichi thought that if Taiken were to say even a single word, he would immediately surrender and spill everything, turn straight back to Edo—or perhaps even dash off anywhere right then and there... Taiken remained utterly composed.

Occasionally tilting the cheap sake flask to take a swig, he hummed a passage from a Noh chant under his breath.

The bright moon hung over the mountain ridge as if forgotten, and today too seemed splendidly clear. In the pale purple morning mist, rooster cries drifted through what seemed to be nearby dwellings, and at the edge of the distant fields lined with cedar trees, the clouds of dawn burned crimson.

In the distance, lingering snow clung to the mountain range. When a horse's sudden whinny sounded nearby and rustling came from the grass ahead, Yokichi stopped in surprise—then two or three grazing horses thrust their muzzles forward in unison from the thicket.

“What the?! Don’tcha go scarin’ me like that! Quit scarin’ me! Hey! Move, move! Shoo!” Realizing they were horses, Yonokō suddenly puffed himself up with false bravado—a display so absurd it must have seemed utterly ridiculous to someone.

“Ha ha ha…” Behind him came Gamō Taiken’s laughter.

Yonokō finally turned around with a tear-streaked face and let out a shriek. “Sir! “Master! “You’re so mean, chasing me like this—come on, they say travelers should show each other kindness!” “How about we have ourselves a little discussion?”

Yokichi, like a street vendor who had snagged a customer, bent slightly at the waist and rubbed his hands together.

“What’s this ‘discussion’...?”

Upon Taiken’s ragged form—standing imposingly as he looked down at Yokichi—the refreshing morning light gradually crept up. Yokichi was stroking his neck, scratching his head, and flitting his hands about restlessly as he... “Heh heh heh, really now—Master, Sir, no, Lord—though that’s a bit strange—but with you stubbornly dogging me like this, I can’t walk straight to save my life.” “Let’s just hash things out here once and for all—then I’ll change my tune, sir!”

“Settle it? ...Though I say that, I don’t recall tailing you, you bastard.” “First off, you’re the one always standing in front of me, making it impossible to walk.” “Where the hell are you going?” “Heh heh heh, you’re joking.” “This isn’t a laughing matter—I’m asking where you’re headed.” “Oh.” “Actually, that—well, it’s to visit Matsushima, you see.” “Matsushima! Ahh, Matsushima! Matsushima!...”

“Heading into spring for Matsushima sightseeing—quite the splendid position you’re in.” “Oh, it’s nothing so grand.” “No, it’s splendid. To distance yourself from worldly dust and cleanse your spirit with nature’s exquisite wonders—that’s commendable dedication.” “You honor me.” “No need for honors. I’m headed to that Matsushima myself. Seems you’re eager to come along.” “Huh? Then... uh, Master’s going to Matsushima too?” “Indeed. A place worth seeing once in your lifetime.”

“Tch! There’s no helping it.” Yokichi had given up. “I’ll serve as your splendid escort, sir!” “Now now—you said your name was Yokichi, didn’t you? What was that little performance just now?” “Oh it’s nothing—on my part—if I accompany you, that would be acceptable, wouldn’t it? Yes, I’ll come along with pleasure! Matsushima or wherever—if it’s come to this…” “Hey now Yokichi—keep quiet and come along.”

And so.

Yokichi with his sullen face and Taiken—who bit back laughter while maintaining a stern expression—had begun walking side by side in an odd manner, which was all well and good until villagers heading out early to Sakuyama Town on errands took fright at this bizarre pairing and scrambled to clear their path. “Master!” “Master—when did you leave Edo?” “You have quite the swift stride there!”

“Hahahaha! When I heard you were heading to Matsushima, I suddenly decided to come out myself.” “You’re the fast one here—were your parents couriers or something?”

“I can’t keep up with you, Master!” They walked on, somehow maintaining a decent facade of coordination— Yokichi of Tsuzumi secretly thought to himself. No matter what, this guy’s trouble. If I make a wrong move here now, he’ll latch on like a tick and things’ll get even more unpleasant—so I’ll keep humoring him for now and slip away in Fukushima Town, where I’ll branch off from the Ōshū Main Road toward Sōma.

Taiken, for his part, was harboring his own scheme. Having heard that someone from the Suzukawa faction in Honjo had set out to summon reinforcements to Nakamura—who could this messenger be?—he had been spurred by the prospect of significant gains and eagerly given chase, only to find his target was Yokichi, a mere drummer who couldn’t hold his own against a proper opponent. Taiken felt somewhat let down. Even if I nabbed this runt, even if I beat him dead, it’d be a waste. Since deigning to engage such trash was beneath him, he instead resolved to accompany Yokichi all the way to Sōma Nakamura—there, he’d let the fool guide dozens of swordsmen back toward Edo, ambush them en route, and after so long finally cut loose to erect a mountain of corpses in one grand slaughter. It was this very plan that let him maintain such a carefree facade.

“Hey Yokichi, go fill this sake bottle.” “Hey Yokichi, while you’re at it, go exchange the money.” “Hey Yokichi—I’m worn out from this slope. Push me from behind.”

“Hey Yokichi, hey Yokichi”—Master Taiken kept bossing Yokichi around. Yokichi, too, thought that angering Master Taiken now would only lead to trouble, so he obediently followed every order for the time being. Ohtawara—the castle town of Ohtawara 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 area lay sixty-six ri from Edo.

...and so they entered Nihonmatsu Town—said to lie four post towns away from Fukushima—on the evening of the eighth day since departing Edo. While browsing the inns lining both sides of the street, he suddenly noticed that Master Taiken—who had been walking right beside him until now—was nowhere to be seen! Yokichi of Tsuzumi—success! Seizing the moment, he suddenly leapt into both Yanagiya and the lantern-lit inn right before his eyes. “Welcome—you’ve arrived quite early.”

Two or three maidservants raised their shrill voices in unison.

Nihonmatsu Town. The front second floor of Yanagiya, a travelers' inn for people from all provinces. Yokichi of Tsuzumi, having just finished washing his feet and come up, was shown to a dimly lit room and immediately started finding fault. For an Edo native, a sharp tongue was par for the course… and now that he was out on the road like this, his opportunistic nature—compounded by the urge to vent every petty grievance—had convinced him he’d deftly shaken off Master Taiken. Yokichi was already thoroughly pleased with himself,

“Tch! You only have this shabby room? You’re messing with me!” With that, he glared around the place and made no move to sit down. The maid who had guided him here was well-versed in her duties. “If you were to spend a bit more on lodging, there are plenty of fine rooms available over there.” At this, Yokichi gulped in defeat. “Well, of course. It has to be that way—can’t have it otherwise. In this world, everything’s about money, eh? Ha ha ha!”

To put it bluntly, Yokichi was already a loudmouth who couldn't stay silent for a moment—and now that the persistent nuisance called Taiken was gone, he grew even chattier than usual, positively buoyant. When asked whether he wanted his meal or bath first, he started spouting selfish remarks like wanting to eat while soaking in the tub... until the maid finally left in exasperation. Later, after changing into the inn's tanzen robe, Yokichi leaned against the flimsy second-floor railing—so rickety it might snap under his weight—and peered down at the street below.

Though desolate, it was precisely the hour when travelers heading up and down the road were scrambling to secure lodgings—the voices of touts clamorous—and even this town along the Ōshū Highway grew bustling as evening fell. Stained white walls. Low-hanging eaves and a continuation of tiled roofs. Shop curtains forgotten to be taken in, their colors faded at townhouse entries; oil-paper doors seeping lamplight. Horse dung and stones... What kind of shops were these? A broad-fronted house, seemingly long-established here, labeled "Wada-ya" in bold brushstrokes—such structures cluttered haphazardly under the encroaching dusk, lined up like a withered grove of scrub trees, forming a truly bone-chilling vista...

The inn during the time when the communal bath was dry. Yokichi, uncharacteristically recalling such a poetic phrase while feeling somewhat dispirited, wondered: What had become of that beggar teacher? He must be in a panic searching for this Yokichi right about now—serves him right! Just as he inwardly shouted in triumph, the sliding door facing the corridor opened and someone entered.

"My apologies, but we must ask you to share this room," greeted the inn clerk—making Yokichi gasp! As Yokichi turned around, a poison peddler from Echigo was pushing his way in with his bundle.

This left Yokichi somewhat put out, but even so, the maidservant brought in the evening meal and served it. “Miss, ain’t there any meal girls around here?” “If you’d like your rice served, I can do it for you.” “Hey! This ain’t the food! Ugh! Grass mochi. Ha ha ha! How ’bout some grass mochi, eh?” “We do not have grass mochi, but persimmon rice cakes are our local specialty.” “Quit laughin’ at me! Persimmon rice cakes instead o’ grass mochi? Ya gotta be kiddin’. This place don’t understand Japanese at all—how heartless. Well then, missy, what’s it gonna be? I’m sneakin’ over tonight, eh? Huh? That’s fine, right?”

“Oh? I don’t know anything about that.” “What? How could ya not know? A looker like you’s rare even in Edo.” “Oh ho ho, you flatter me too much—if you go around sprinklin’ such sweet nothings, that woman won’t let it slide.” “What’re you yappin’ about?!” After wolfing down his meal while spouting his trademark idle chatter—ordering a massage under the guise of taking a quick dip—Yokichi slung a hand towel over his shoulder, slapped on his clogs, and stepped into the corridor... just as the twang of a rather unpolished shamisen drifted from some room.

In the twilight drizzle over Asajigahara’s fields—two, three cries of wild geese—the bitter sorrow of one awaiting news——.

Just as it reached that part, meddlesome Yokichi covered his ears,

“Scram!”

Shouting, he rushed down the dark back stairs—only to find the bathhouse right there, its interior echoing with a clamor of voices. Mixed bathing... It wasn’t quite Kunisada’s artwork, but even so, the sight of naked figures—like bodhisattvas—twisting into all manner of poses visible through the thick steam left Yokichi utterly delighted. “Hey there! Everyone, sorry ’bout this!”

With all his dashing vigor, he jumped in! Along with the sound of a familiar Noh song, a single mugwort-like chonmage head lolled in the corner of the cramped bathtub.

No sooner had he thought Ha! than Yokichi—having barely dampened his body—tried to slip stealthily through the women, but it was already too late. “Bwa ha ha! I’ve been waiting for you!” With an ear-splitting shout, Master Taiken surged upright from the bathwater, forcing Yokichi into an awkward crouch at the washing area,

“Oh! Master! Is that really you? I was truly worried about what might’ve happened—ehehe... But thank goodness you’re safe and sound!” “That’s some greeting—like we’ve been apart for years.” “No, really! Just now—out front of Yanagiya—I thought I saw you, Master! Then poof! You vanished like smoke! Agh—!”

“You thought you could sneak into this house unnoticed, eh? Not a chance!” “Not so fast!” “I figured you’d come crawling in here too—so I made sure to get here first!” “You’re up to some rather low-quality mischief, aren’t you? You nearly gave me a fright!” “It’s not a surprise—it’s a disappointment.” “Anyway, once you’ve warmed up properly, get out and come scrub my back.”

“Aye. Got it.” Though he answered this way, all the vigor Yokichi had when entering was now gone; he slumped dejectedly, floating his neck in the whitish murky water as he glanced around, but even the snow-covered landscape in his sight brought him no joy whatsoever.

At the back and entrance, fish oil lamps burned dimly, illuminating a crowd of old and young, men and women resembling the Five Hundred Rakan.

Perhaps because it was closing time, there were many women. An elegant woman sitting with one knee raised while smoothing her chignon, a girl clinging to the corner wainscoting, a middle-aged matron who had commandeered a small bucket to lay out her array of toiletries, a baby sneaking into a momentary gap to lick bath powder, a mother discovering this and scolding them—it was nothing short of pandemonium. A clamorous uproar of shrill voices rose with the steam... Amidst this, exchanges of flattery and the curved beauty of feet being wiped—Yokichi, feeling quite content, soaked his chin in the water and lazed about—

“Ah, there there Yokichi! Get out before you boil yourself alive and scrub me down!”

Here we go! Since there was no help for it, he began vigorously scrubbing the large back in proper bathhouse-attendant fashion, “If you keep that up, it’s just ticklish and unbearable—put more strength into it! More! More!” Yokichi strained until his face turned crimson, huffing and puffing, but Taiken showed no sign of noticing and kept urging him to scrub harder still. Thanks to this, Yokichi had become completely lightheaded—which was one thing—but looking every bit like Beggar Master’s lackey, he drew endless scornful glances from the female patrons present.

Moreover, no sooner had Yokichi finally finished scrubbing than—"Ah, come now, Yokichi! Fetch water!" "Ah, come now, Yokichi! Massage my legs!" "Ah, come now, Yokichi!"...—until it reached the point where no number of Yokichis would suffice. When Master Taiken got out first, Yokichi—finally pardoned—returned to his room not rested but utterly exhausted! Master Taiken was in the downstairs back room. Moreover, seeing that his roommate—the poison seller—was sound asleep and unlikely to raise suspicion, Yokichi suddenly resolved to depart. Still reeking of bathhouse steam, he readied himself for travel—a scoundrel to the core, having already slipped the poison seller’s tobacco pouch into his waistband as a parting trinket. Brother Tsuzumi here wouldn’t wake even if he tumbled over! Tonight, he’d break through four waypoints: Nihonmatsu, Hatchōme, Wakamiya, and Nekkochō. By morning, he’d turn onto the Sōma Highway from Fukushima—preparations flawless, he was just stealthily slipping out of the room when...

“Good evening. Is this where your massage request is? I apologize for the lateness.”

The masseur he’d ordered earlier at dusk arrived, and at the sound of his voice, the sleeping poison seller began to mumble and stir. Flustered Yokichi slid open the edge of the shoji screen and slipped into the hallway—suddenly feigning blindness with poor instincts. Hearing faint murmurs continuing behind him while already resolved to skip out on the lodging fee, he leapt down along the eaves to the back alley 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 time for sure—I'd shaken him off perfectly.... Yokichi started walking with an involuntary smirk of satisfaction. When he glanced back, the willow branches of the inn's sign were illuminated by its flickering light, and the night breeze felt pleasant against his post-bath cheeks.

Through the silent expanse between heaven and earth lay five ri and seventeen chō (approximately 12.3 miles) to Fukushima Castle's outskirts.

The moon hung low beyond the peaks of Iinoyama, and it was a night when stars seemed to rain down.

*Bloodbrush Ledger*

The moat's water harbored pine shadows as it lay dark and still. Within pitch-black darkness that seemed painted over, faintly white stone walls continued in a tortoise shell pattern. Beyond trees that rose and fell like great waves, the castle keep's roof pierced the night sky, visible against its expanse. The sound of wooden clappers announcing the hour lingered distantly, their echoes carrying through the castle grounds. As a non-hereditary daimyo commanding sixty thousand koku, Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke's impregnable stronghold—the outer defenses of Nakamura Castle—dominated the northeastern seaside.

Cold stars twinkled in the wind; the deep night's frost bit with piercing severity. The townhouses and castle both fell asleep, and a pitch-black silence spread boundlessly……. Snap!

Startled by something, the sleeping waterfowl took off low with a splash against the water’s surface!

Staggering down the tree-lined main approach, he dashed forward—clatter! With two or three hurried steps clattering across the drawbridge planks, a lone figure attempted to force his way into the castle.

Several guards noticed and challenged. In an instant, they scattered out in all directions, crossed their six-foot staffs into an X-shape, and pinned them down precisely at the bridge’s center. They adopted the techniques of Kaifuchi and Hayashi Suruganokami of Awa—executing the Kaifuchi-ryū staff maneuver known as "Seaweed Entanglement"—.

“Who goes there?!... Insolent cur!” “Back off!”

Though sharp, they had lowered their voices out of consideration for the late hour, which instead made them resonate all the more terrifyingly. "Huh?!"

Without even answering, the man—Yokichi of Tsuzumi—was pushed back and plopped down heavily onto his knees right there, disheveled and gasping for breath. It was only natural. After abandoning Master Taiken at Nihonmatsu late last night, Yokichi had desperately raced five ri through mountain paths to reach Fukushima by dawn, then cut eastward to cross the Miharu River at Funaji Town, traversed four and a half ri of the zigzagging Sōma Highway in a daze, passed beneath the castle of Tachibana Izumo-no-kami—a domain yielding ten thousand koku—and sprinted another five and a half ri through night-cloaked slopes at mortal peril… Now, having finally arrived at Sōma Nakamura, even the indomitable Yokichi lay limp as laundry wrung dry and beaten flat.

A full day and night without food or drink, traversing fifteen ri of treacherous roads—and if Yokichi were honest, this was less about valuing Sazen’s orders than his sheer terror of Master Taiken—. Yet no matter how many times he glanced back, there was no sign of Master. But as the Yanagiya Inn incident showed, Yokichi knew Taiken could circle ahead and materialize at any moment. Glaring warily at the transport office’s rest area while driving his bony shins onward, it seemed Taiken remained oblivious to his escape—snoring thunderously in Yanagiya’s back room—and by the time Yokichi reached Nakamura, not a trace of Taiken lingered.

Yokichi had splendidly managed to slip free of that feather-laced snare. Even if he looked like that, getting involved with this Tsuzumi was asking for trouble—so Yokichi quickened his pace even more, trotting along constantly as if pursued by the unseen Taiken.

And now. In the middle of the drawbridge, Yokichi thudded his hands down. “Water… I beg you, water…!” “I-I’ve come from E-Edo… from L-Lord T-Tange Sazen… on an errand… humbly.” “P-Please… just a cup of water…”

Upon hearing this, the guards exchanged startled looks. Though unaware of the details, they had been strictly ordered by their group leader to immediately admit any urgent messenger from Tange Sazen—even if the absconded swordsman himself were to return and face expulsion—into the guardhouse with due courtesy and report directly. Recognizing Yokichi as that messenger, they permitted him entry into the castle grounds. At once, one guard relayed the news through multiple intermediaries to the night-duty officer. From the senior official to the tea attendant, from the attendant to the page in attendance—following protocol—and then into the ears of Lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke...

“Bring him here at once!”

As a result, there was an unusual flurry of activity within the castle grounds. Yokichi of Tsuzumi—who had been temporarily warming himself at a bonfire—was summoned while still in his travel attire. Following an attendant bearing a flaming torch, he wound through a garden where firelit tree shadows danced vividly—a place thick with shrubbery and pond waters, so elaborately designed with eccentric artistry that it felt like wandering into the forbidden gardens of an imperial retreat. It was like some dreamlike nightscape... In his dazed state, Yokichi kept glancing about bewildered until he suddenly emerged from a cluster of plantings onto a wide expanse of lawn.

The young samurai leading the way barked a sharp “Shii!” Startled, Yokichi hurriedly bowed his head. When he looked up again, he saw bright lights shining clearly on the distant veranda, where two or three figures stood lined up as small as beans. They were still quite far off, but even so, he switched to shuffling his steps from there onward.

It was a sudden audience on a bone-piercing cold night. Near the edge of the veranda by the threshold, with thick night garments spread out high beneath him, Provincial Lord Daizen-no-suke lay prone, his chin propped on a pillow—a corpulent, irritable middle-aged man who appeared to be around fifty.

A broad head, large eyes… The corners of his mouth twitched incessantly, and whenever he spoke, his entire face contorted sideways. His large tea whisk hairstyle—bound with scarlet thread, befitting his reputation as a famously eccentric figure—had the cuffs of his white silk nightclothes wrapped around his fingertips as he kept scratching out earwax and blowing it away with sharp puffs. But his eyes remained fixed piercingly on Yokichi approaching through the gloom. The candlestick’s light blazed brilliantly across the gold-lacquered doors, setting countless shadows dancing—shadows that seemed to whisper of ancient tales long forgotten.

It was Sōma Daizen-no-suke—lord to the sword-fiend Tange Sazen, that obsessive sword collector who had first stirred the whirlwind surrounding the Heaven-Earth blades—who now granted an audience from his bedchamber late at night to Yokichi of Tsuzumi. Having received Sazen's secret messenger, he prepared to swiftly devise countermeasures... "What could this mean?" he wondered upon hearing that an urgent envoy had suddenly arrived from Sazen—who had maintained radio silence since departing for Edo. He immediately had his bedding moved closer to the edge, but since this proxy came empty-handed, it surely couldn't be auspicious news—and so even while waiting for Yokichi, the short-tempered Daizen-no-suke grew increasingly irritated, clicking his tongue incessantly—

Ahead lay an expansive garden. When from afar the bedchamber's light emerged as a small square—resembling a lantern-lit ark—Yokichi felt his heart pound at finally meeting the Lord face-to-face. But come on—it's just some rural daimyo; nothing to fear... Steeling himself with hollow courage, he repeated the message under his breath while avoiding stepping stones. Bowing deeply, he shuffled cautiously forward until deciding it was time to prostrate himself in the distance—

“Tsk! Closer!” “C-Come closer! G-Get over here!” A voice roared out like a command.

Sōma Daizen-no-suke barked. “T-T-T-T-Tange Sazen… s-sent y-you… S-so you’re his messenger?!” “Y-Y-Yes, m’lord.” Yokichi—unwittingly drawn into stammering—jerked upright and raised his eyes, only to see the hulking lord’s face crack into a grin that seemed to say, “What a plucky rascal.” This called for raw Edo mettle—Yokichi had already seized the playbook.

At the same time, Daizen-no-suke surveyed his surroundings, “Y-Y-You men! This is a confidential discussion!” “Confidential discussion!” “Withdraw! Withdraw!” When he barked out hurriedly, though it was too dark to see clearly, everyone from the chamberlains and senior councilors lining the corridors on both sides to the pages inside the room withdrew without making a sound, as if vanishing into thin air.

After urging Yokichi onward and leading him directly beneath the veranda, the young samurai guide too withdrew in haste. All that remained now were... Sōma Daizen-no-suke and Yokichi of Tsuzumi now faced each other in an uninterrupted tête-à-tête. Sōma Daizen-no-suke had only his head sticking out from the futon, while Yokichi remained prostrated on the ground below. The bizarre conference was first opened by Daizen-no-suke.

“H-Here... th-this... T-T-Tange... is he unharmed?” “Pleasure meetin’ ya for the first time.” “Uh, as fer me—I’m from Edo’s Asakusa Hanakawado—no, wait—Komagata’s Yokichi of Tsuzumi... though folks call me Yonokō an’ treat me kindly-like...” “Sh-Shut up! Shut up! “Wh-Who asked fer yer name?!” “Yes, sir!” “T-T-T-Tange! I’m askin’ if he’s unharmed!”

“Huh. “That he is, Your Lordship.” “Well, Your Lordship—bein’ a lowly servant before ya, I gotta say there ain’t a soul ’round that person who’s safe and sound, sir.” “Wh-What are you saying?” “Y-Your words make no sense to me!” “After all, it’s swordsmen like him who’ve got that level of skill, ain’t it?” “Even if every swordsman in Edo came at him all at once, they couldn’t lay a finger on Lord Tange—or so the talk goes among us lot… Not that Your Lordship needs me tellin’ ya, what with your sharp eye and all—heh heh heh, beggin’ your pardon.”

What with this and that—Yokichi, utterly absorbed in his own fervor, kept chattering nonstop as if this were his final chance, while Daizen-no-suke peered at him with growing exasperation. “Y-You... have you lost your mind?” He began to say—but then the cold-sensitive Daizen-no-suke, catching a night breeze at his collar, unleashed an enormous sneeze—Hack-SHOO!

Startled by this, Yonokō stared blankly.

As Yokichi gradually regained his composure, edging ever closer beneath the veranda, he began recounting repeatedly the instructions he had received from Tange Sazen! Sōma Daizen-no-suke—who had been listening in silence, his large face contorting visibly as his eyes flew wide open—began coughing violently. Unable to speak, he worked his mouth beneath his nose and leaned forward from his bedding. Meanwhile, the light flickered eerily.

—The Seki no Magoroku Night-Crying Swords... Ken'unmaru and Konryūmaru. Starting from how Tange Sazen had destroyed Onozuka Tessai’s Shinpen Musō-ryū dojo in Akebono Village the previous year and cunningly stolen the great Ken’unmaru, Yokichi prattled on without order—leaving out no detail, major or minor—about all that followed: the emergence of a masked group in fireman attire; Suwa Eizaburō, wielder of Konryūmaru, unexpectedly gaining aid from Gamō Taiken; and how matters failed to progress as planned due to Suzukawa Genjūrō—the Honjo hatamoto under whose protection Sazen had placed himself—proving thoroughly unreliable. Though Ken’unmaru still remained in Sazen’s possession, the separation of the twin blades now heralded turbulent times ahead, leaving Sazen in circumstances closer to hardship than triumph… After laying everything out in his own words, Yokichi finished with a theatrical “Ahem!” and straightened up slightly,

“Now then, my lord... This is what Lord Tange said to this Yonokō.” “Hey Yonokō, what the hell should we do here? What would *you* do?” “So then, since he consulted me like this, I squeezed out what little brains I don’t got and made my pitch—‘That’s it, Lord Tange!’ I says.” “Well now, Lord Tange—if you’d proceed thusly.” “You’d request reinforcements from your home province here... Yeah!” “Brilliant idea!” “That’s the one!” “And Lord Tange was quick on the uptake.” “Yeah, that works.” “But then, who’s gonna be the messenger?” “So that’s how it got settled! If this Yokichi of Tsuzumi can be of service, why, it’d be a godsend—so I says, leanin’ back like this—” *thumps chest* “—gave one firm pat right here, and oh!” “So Yokichi, you’ll go?” “Well now, Lord Sazen—once this Tsuzumi’s taken on the job, even if I gotta walk through fire or water, even if I’m ground to dust—you can rest easy like you’re on a great ship! Oh, then I’ll leave it to ya, Yokichi!” “Aiyo… or somethin’ like that, y’know? Well, so then, I went dashin’ down the Ōshū Highway… Aah… I’m beat.”

“……” “But here’s the thing, my lord—there’s somethin’ so strange ’bout this beggar master Taiken fella sniffin’ out my trip to Nakamura that even I can’t wrap my head around it, y’know? Ugh!” “I just happened to wander into Koganei, and then I was hauled off with this unexpected burden to carry—no, really!” “――――” “But, y’see… “Rest assured, my lord—I’m Yokichi of Komagata.” “Up ahead at the Nihonmatsu Inn, I managed to shake ’em off cleanly, I tell ya.” “At that time too, you’d think I went to the baths… and what a shock it was! There’s my lord’s eyes seein’ naked women swarmin’ about, and right in the middle of ’em, that beggar bastard Taiken sittin’ there all smug-like, ain’t that just the thing?”

“…………” “Well, my efforts weren’t in vain. “Now—if I may say so—Lord Sazen said he’d ‘make sure to repay the favor proper-like,’ but y’see, it ain’t like I’m owed any thanks! Not that it’s worth thankin’ me for anyhow, heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!” “――――”

No matter how glibly Yokichi spoke, Sōma Daizen-no-suke merely groaned and remained as silent as a rock—until now. Overwhelmed by emotion and left speechless, Sōma Daizen-no-suke perhaps finally broke free from the shock and unease Yokichi had delivered. His bloodshot eyes suddenly rolled wildly as he leaned forward to press the matter. “S-So... T-Tange is... asking for reinforcements, then?” “Well. “So we’d like to request a whole bunch of your top swordsmen.”

“Y-Y-Y-You bastard… are you… saying you’ll guide us back to Edo?”

“Yes. “That’s correct.” “Uu— W-When... when do we depart?” “Well, we’d leave first thing tomorrow morning. Lord Tange is waiting, and with this situation being a matter of urgency…” Daizen-no-suke gave a firm nod of “Umm!” while simultaneously casting sharp glances around. “Th-this! Wh-who goes there?!”

To the dojo of Tsukinowa Gunnosuke—who reigned over neighboring provinces' swordsmanship circles through Tsukinowa Ittō-ryū's piercing winds—located beyond Nakamura Castle in Sōma domain, a lantern bearing the lord's crest flew like an arrow through midnight darkness.

An urgent summons from the castle came for Gunnosuke.

What could this be about? Without further ado, Tsukinowa Gunnosuke—having changed his clothes—was immediately jostled in the arriving palanquin and proceeded to the castle.

And then, when he was promptly shown into the lord’s sleeping chambers... Sōma Daizen-no-suke, the provincial lord, sat rigidly in silent meditation deep into the night—having cast off his nightclothes without a wink of sleep—while Yokichi of Tsuzumi had already been dutifully escorted to a servants’ quarters to rest…

That night, to what extent had Sōma Daizen-no-suke confided in Tsukinowa Gunnosuke, and what orders had he issued? The obsessive and decisive great lord Daizen-no-suke merely stammered out these words: "C-could you... t-take about thirty... men who relish killing... down to Edo?" "You'll grasp the details once there." "A-Ah... th-that's... T-T-T-Tange... Sazen's reinforcements." "I personally implore you—this isn't work for castle retainers to handle openly." "A-and h-here... th-this is... wh-where you must take center stage, Gunnosuke." "S-select iron-willed bastards—m-men tempered in life-and-death duels—with your own eyes. The escort awaits—take thirty and depart for Edo at dawn." "Is this clear? Do you accept without reservation?"

“Thirty men—only those excelling in the Satsukenshū. Ha.” “I fully comprehend your order. Though I know not the particulars, Lord Tange and I share a bond of separate intimacy… Even absent your command, I would have dispatched reinforcements whenever necessity arose. Yet to have caught your discerning eye and received your gracious words—this is an honor far exceeding the station of the Gunnosuke faction.” “Very well. “Th-Then—w-withdraw and—h-hurry to make the arrangements.”

“Ha ha! I shall naturally select those most skilled in fierce swordsmanship from among my disciples and humbly fulfill your will without fail. My lord, may you rest your divine spirit…” “Umm! Y-Yes! Th-th-th-that’s... those very words reassure me. I-I, Daizen-no-suke, am... am most satisfied of late.”

Though Daizen-no-suke’s blind obsession with swords knew no bounds, had he learned that Ōoka Tadasuke—the South Edo Magistrate whose name now resounded even in this remote northern border town—was discreetly sheltering Konryūmaru and granting it favors through his friendship with their enemy Gamō Taiken, even he would have recognized his helplessness. Fearful of future calamities, he might have cleanly severed his delusions here and now, attempting to forget them amid his torment. But Daizen-no-suke, who could not even conceive of Ōoka’s involvement in this twin-bladed conflict, had already obtained the greater Ken'unmaru and now found himself agonizing over merely acquiring the lesser Konryūmaru. Given that these two swords were said to repel each other, his obsessive tenacity simply would not permit him to withdraw and abandon his pursuit at this juncture.

A figure on the brink of grasping his life’s desire—only to have an unforeseen obstacle intrude….

If it holds true that romantic passion between men and women burns fiercer the more it is thwarted, then it must be said that Sōma Daizen-no-suke's heart—consumed by the Night-Crying Swords—burned precisely so. Beyond worldly measure lay this realm—a hell of concentrated desire akin to a rakshasa's very nature. So thoroughly entangled with the blade were these thick, sluggishly writhing flames of karma... As the candlestick's light faintly trembled, Daizen-no-suke groaned like one gripped by raging fever.

“Oh! S-S-Sazen—you did it! Don’t you let go of that Ken'unmaru! Don’t let go! Soon now—G-G-G-Gunnosuke will arrive with reinforcements! You—lead them with him—k-k-kill and kill and slash them all to pieces! What of it? I don’t care! Ha ha ha! I don’t care… Hmm!—What’s this? F-F-Firefighters! You bastards—who are you?! T-T-Take off... your masks?! Ungh! Take off your masks! Grh…!”

And then.

The lamp dimmed in the whitening room as Sōma Daizen-no-suke sank once more into deep slumber—indeed, he was a dream demon of this fleeting world, a sword-obsessed fiend made flesh.

The night was dawning.

Outside the castle, somewhere, the first cock crowed.

Before long, as the morning sun’s shadows began to dance upon the old pine trees along the moat...

At the edge of Nakamura Town, within the Tsukinowa Ittō-ryū training hall of Tsukinowa Gunnosuke, a strange selection ceremony for those to be dispatched to Edo was underway. Tsukinowa Ittō-ryū... Now—

In the Tenshō and Bunroku eras. In Shimousa Province’s Katori District, Iizaka Village, there lived Yamashiro-no-kami Ienao—in his monastic name Chōi-sai—who was revered as the reviver of swordsmanship and founder of the Tenshin Shōden Shintō-ryū style. Among Ienao’s disciples was a skilled swordsman named Morooka Ippa, who resided in Hitachi Edosaki and became afflicted with a malignant disease. While his three senior disciples—Negishi Tokaku, Iwama Koguma, and Tsuchi Doro-no-suke—tended to him, Negishi Tokaku grew weary of nursing duties. Abandoning his ailing master Ippa, he departed for Bushū province to become an arts instructor, establishing his own school under the renamed Mijin-ryū style, which he propagated widely.

However. Koguma and Doronosuke, who had remained behind, did not neglect nursing their ailing master. After Ippa’s death—displeased with Tokaku’s conduct from the outset—they resolved to join forces in a decisive confrontation to vent their deceased teacher’s grievances. Having finally received an inspector from the Hojo family, Koguma confronted Tokaku at Edo’s Ryogoku Bridge, where he pushed Negishi Tokaku from the bridge into the river below, thereby achieving their long-held ambition.

Negishi Tokaku fled from his teacher Morooka Ippa and first emerged in Odawara, Sagami Province. This Tokaku, according to accounts passed down, was tall with hair like a mountain ascetic, his eyes sharp as blades—his fearsome visage akin to an icy blade. He was said to wield mysterious arts, called by people a tengu’s incarnation; none ever saw where he slept at night. Tarōbō of Mount Atago would stealthily visit him night after night to impart secret techniques—or so he proclaimed, thus naming this style Mijin-ryū.

Afterward, he went to Edo and gathered many disciples among daimyo and minor lords. However, three years later, when Morooka Ippa died, his fellow disciples Iwama Koguma and Tsuchi Doronosuke drew lots to determine who would go to Edo to kill Tokaku. Koguma was chosen and made his way to the capital. Doronosuke remained in the province and, without delay, visited Kashima Myojin to submit a written prayer. Respectfully submitted before the sacred treasure of Kashima Myojin: The intent of this vow is thus—I, Tsuchi Doronosuke, disciple of swordsmanship under the departed spirit of Morooka Ippa, who has disciples sworn to vengeance... Should I lose even once in a thousand [battles], I shall return alive to this shrine, cut my belly crosswise before the deity, spill my entrails, stain every divine pillar crimson with this evil blood, become a malevolent spirit, and for all eternity transform this shrine’s grounds into wild grasslands and a den for jackals—so I swear...

Bunroku 2, Year of Mizunoto-Mi [1593], an auspicious day in September: Tsuchi Doronosuke... an eerie and forceful written pledge. This vow likely inspired no particular divine awe or extraordinary spiritual response, yet Iwama Koguma had indeed emerged victorious in the duel at Ryogoku Bridge. However, historical accounts of the match's particulars diverged so wildly across records that ascertaining the truth now remained impossible. What remained certain was the incident's notoriety in its time. According to Iwazawa Uhyōenosuke—who witnessed events from the bridgehead while serving among the magistrates—an elderly samurai named Takayama Bungo-no-kami had been present nearby. Upon observing both men before the duel commenced, Bungo-no-kami twice declared, "Ah, Tokaku has lost." Finding this perplexing, Uhyōenosuke later sought clarification. Bungo-no-kami explained: "Koguma held a wooden sword in his right hand while stroking his head with his left—this was how one addressed Tokaku." Tokaku, having spoken thus, stroked his cheek beard. Herein lay the revelation of their respective standings. Moreover, Tokaku swung his sword toward the castle. How could victory be secured? This had been fate's forewarning—

In any case. At that moment, Koguma had been pressed against the bridge railing by Tokaku and already appeared to be in peril—but being a sumo expert, how did Koguma manage it? Seizing one of Tokaku’s legs, he hurled him beneath the bridge, simultaneously drew his short sword and sliced through the railing while roaring, “Hachiman, behold this!”……This sword mark, they say, remained clearly visible until Ryogoku Bridge burned down in the Great Fire of Meireki 3 (1657).

Now. To quip that "bad sorts perish"—one might think Negishi Tokaku’s Mijin-ryū swordsmanship had thereby been utterly reduced to dust and swept away into the great river. Yet such was not the case.

In Volume Two of Gekiken Sōdan, in the section on Mijin-ryū. As martial arts chronicles documented frequent mentions of Mijin-ryū, it appeared Tokaku's offshoot lineage had continued to be practiced even into the early modern era. Indeed, just as the text states—"Though remnants still linger in remote regions, its name goes unheard in Edo..."—Tsukinowa Gunnosuke's ancestor Tsukinowa Shōgen departed from Negishi Tokaku's Mijin-ryū, relocated to northern territories, founded his own distinct school, and triumphantly named it Tsukinowa Ittō-ryū through an all-out offensive approach.

The current dojo master Gunnosuke was long hailed alongside Tange Sazen as the dragon and tiger of the Tsukinowa school. While Tange Sazen showed signs of diverging to establish his own splinter school, Tsukinowa Gunnosuke—who had preserved the orthodox Ittō-ryū tradition and earned his predecessor’s approval by marrying into the family to adopt the Tsukinowa name—stood as a peerless swordsman now dominating northern Japan with bedrock-like stability in his advanced years, having inherited Mijin-ryū’s leadership through his balance of hard and soft techniques. Transience and Flux Adaptation Through Adversary These were the words known as the Three Strategies of Hereditary Transmission in the Sword School. This described the Tsukinowa dojo where Founder Shōgen’s grandly inscribed plaque bearing these principles hung elevated.

The night drew toward dawn... Though the cold training had ended, the refreshing sensation of working up a sweat in the predawn chill defied description. Young samurai from the castle town—treading frost-covered paths—streamed in ceaselessly; the great hall, which could likely hold fifty tatami mats, rapidly filled with people. Sōma was a major domain in Kitahama renowned for martial prowess. Moreover, given that their lord Sōma Daizen-no-suke so fanatically loved swords, while Nakamura Town might have lacked refinement to appreciate snow-moon-flower elegance, its prevailing spirit burned with fiercely martial valor.

As the Sōma Jinku folk song says. "A man who sleeps and awaits good fortune"—this vulgar saying appeared to hold no currency among warriors, for here they were, passing through the dojo gates in an unbroken stream since this early morning hour.

The clatter of bamboo swords.

Shouts of exertion. The sound of feet stamping on floorboards. This continued for a while, and just when it seemed to have stopped somewhat earlier than usual, "Esteemed disciples, Master has a message for you. Please take your seats in solemn silence..."

At instructor Kagami Bōnoshō’s booming voice, the disciples noisily jostled shoulders and sat down—but when Tsukinowa Gunnosuke slowly emerged through the opened cedar doors at the front, the entire hall involuntarily gasped, "Ah—!" they cried out in shock. Such was his appearance. He was dressed as if he had suddenly resolved to depart this very moment on a journey of vengeance—or so one might say. He wore a boldly patterned kosode over satin split-skirt hakama, a belt of twisted white cloth with his cherished sword laid across it, his legs secured in black gaiters and straw sandals reinforced with thick hexagonal iron strapping, and carried a wooden staff sword studded with nodes here and there—an antiquated yet imposing ensemble...

And there was more to it. Now that Kagami Bōnoshō had announced that the Master had a message for them, the gathered disciples sat in solemn attention—*What could this be about?* Despite everyone holding their breath, Tsukinowa Gunnosuke appeared with unruffled composure. Tightly sealing his lips and briefly surveying the hall, he gave Kagami Bōnoshō a slight nod. Then he strode purposefully toward one wall—only to halt abruptly directly beneath the plaque where the words of the Three Strategies danced in bold inkstrokes.

There, lined up horizontally, hung the disciples’ name plaques.

The first entry was, needless to say, instructor Kagami Bōnoshō.

Second Seat: Santō Heishichirō.

Third: Todoroki Genpachi. Fourth: Okazaki Hyōe. Fifth: Akio Samanosuke. Ōya Ukon. Tōdō Kumesaburō. Inui Manbei. Kadowaki Shūri. The following two hundred or so disciples. Each disciple never neglected their daily training, taking utmost encouragement from even one or two plaques rising in rank—but now, beneath these name plaques ordered by skill, stood the swordsman Gunnosuke. In an instant, as soon as he extended his arm, while everyone stood dumbfounded, flip-flip—he began rehanging the name plaques face down from the start in order… and stopped his hand at Komatsu Kazuma’s plaque, approximately one-seventh of the way through.

Out of the two hundred name plaques, those at the beginning showed the pale yellow wood grain on their backs. When one counted the number of reversed plaques—from Kagami Bōnoshō to Komatsu Kazuma—it came to exactly thirty.

Unless one were being excommunicated, there was no reason for the dojo’s name plaques to be hung face down! As the thirty top disciples and all swordsmen in the hall fell silent. Gunnosuke suddenly barked out a declaration. “These thirty men— “I hereby declare you excommunicated as of today!” Over the heads that had erupted into chaos at the unexpected words, Gunnosuke’s voice—even more unforeseen—rang out once more, clear and piercing. “No! Wait, wait!” “I too shall excommunicate myself!”

The Hour of the Rabbit.

The dawn’s sixth-hour drumbeats flowed through the sunlight—Boom! Boom—! when they echoed through the trees of Nakamura Castle.

Bands of samurai with bizarre appearances were leaving the town in twos and threes as if fleeing, avoiding prying eyes, and hurrying along the frost-dampened road toward Kashima, the foremost inn in the southwest. Each and every one of them was a muscular, young and middle-aged samurai.

The group, uniformly clad in mouse-colored cotton-lined kimono over pale yellow hakama and old-style leggings called ashigatatsu, now presented an ostentatious sight resembling a grand departure for battle.

The ones who were terrified were the peasants along the road and the early departing travelers, “Agh! “Nitta no Jirosaku-don! Step out here and take a look!” “Ain’t the war done started?!” “Agh!” “Which domain’s forces are we up against, ain’t it?”

“Over there! That’s Lord Honda Echizen of the neighboring Izumi domain, I tell ya!”

Amidst all this, some even put on knowing airs, causing a tremendous uproar... The Tsukinowa swordsmen group had been mistaken for the vanguard of an advancing army. Such attire, such resolve to die, such determination never to set foot on their homeland’s soil again—this was their spirit. But for what purpose were they restraining their strength and pushing onward to Edo?

To rescue their comrade—the one-eyed and one-armed Tange Sazen! That much was clear enough—but what exactly had Sazen become entangled in? How had he been driven to such peril? And so—what cause were they championing by aligning with him? Who was this enemy? Why was Sazen even fighting to begin with? Why must they rally behind him to form this bloodstained blade formation in Edo, a city they knew only through hearsay? On every critical point—from their leader Tsukinowa Gunnosuke down to the lowliest disciple—they stood utterly cloaked in shadow. But!

None of that mattered anymore. Merely upon hearing that they could march into the illustrious Edo and kill as many people as they liked, these northern roughnecks were already rejoicing with such fervor.

Whether by fortune or misfortune born into a peaceful age where no matter how much they honed their skills, they could only wield bamboo swords beneath the dojo’s roof... Even when they occasionally wielded real swords, the most they could cut were straw dummies or at best the living torsos of prisoners. These young hot-blooded warriors—raised by Komakine gales and an ocean’s rock-gnashing fury—had been lamenting their idle muscles when they now stepped forth onto their first glorious stage where they could unleash blood-spraying carnage as they pleased; thus every one of them stirred into commotion, their eyes ablaze with fervor.

A murder-for-hire group that moved at others' behest. The northern roughnecks who had spawned the Blade Demon Tange Sazen formed ranks like blood-starved beasts, squared their shoulders, and kicked up dirt from the highway as they marched onward. From gloomy gray heavens and earth toward Azuma's skies where capital birds cried... Had there been someone watching from afar, they would have seen pale plumes of sandy dust rising where these men trod—and along the slope path of a bald red pass between pine rows, sunlight glinting like sparks on the upturned hilts of their drawn swords.

And so. The thirty master swordsmen—Kagami Bōnoshō, Santō Heishichirō, Todoroki Genpachi, and those below them—who had been excommunicated; their master Gunnosuke, who had excommunicated himself to lead them; and the most distinguished members of the Tsukinowa Ittō-ryū school: altogether, they numbered thirty-one men. Sōma Nakamura—shrink down and let us pass! The demon’s lair belongs to Tsukinowa— ...The band of swordsmen exchanged knowing smiles even at the innocent voices of children singing—their guide being none other than Yokichi of Komagata’s Ittsuzumi clan. But poor Yokichi had endured constant threats lately, leaving him dejected and uncharacteristically silent.

To begin with, he couldn’t understand their words well. “Hey! “You there—an Edoite, eh? “Edo must be real big, eh?” “Yes. “Truly, it’s splendid weather indeed, heh heh heh.” “Once we reach Edo, first thing’s first—get us some women! “You lot!” “My most sincere apologies, truly.” “Bwahahaha!” Nonsensical and disjointed—with every exchange fraught with miscommunication, and these intimidating pale yellow linings never seen in Edo noisily clustered around him—Yokichi knew that if he were to be jostled even slightly, his very life would be in danger. Better not to provoke the gods—Yokichi endured his discomfort in silence, leading the way as they now took the Mito Highway through Kashima, Haramachi, Odaka, Takano, Nakatsu, Kumagawa, Tomioka…

From here to Kido lay a two-*ri* uphill climb. At first, Yokichi had been taken down to Oshimogata to rest leisurely, but then early in the morning, a night watch samurai shook him awake—. Having been told, "The reinforcements are ready—so head to the dojo on the outskirts...", he followed the guide and went to the Tsukinowa faction's quarters, only to find... On the vast wooden floor, only thirty excommunicated men remained seated in a circle, in the midst of receiving orders from Swordmaster Gunnosuke to enter Edo. It was nothing short of a fraudulent eastern campaign—preparations layered upon preparations, an immense undertaking—that forced Yokichi of Ittsuzumi to first extinguish his very soul.

Without understanding why, they stirred up a commotion fit for a military campaign—with their abrupt departure came men adjusting straw sandals and others who, without having come an inch closer to Edo, drew their blades with a “Hah!” Hyah! Some were attempting practice swings, creating utter chaos as they milled about—and seeing this, Yokichi secretly thought to himself:

I thought it wouldn’t be this bad—they might look tough enough, but damn, ain’t they just a bunch of damn country bumpkins? Hey! What’s with those outfits?! Patrol samurai ain’t ones to go runnin’ to some daytime fire in Yoshiwara—so quit the damn act already! Was about to say… but wait! With this many good-for-nothings surroundin’ me, even if that beggar monk pops up anywhere on the road back, the return trip’ll be safe as houses—gotta get their outfits sorted out proper before we hit Edo. Till then, just gotta lead these hicks along. Ah well—all just stuff to jaw about later anyway.

Resigning himself to this fate, he had come out together with the whole group—but for Yokichi, a born-and-bred Edokko with a taste for refinement, parading along Nikko's winding highways as if leading some costume procession was mortifying beyond words. Even now it was this bad—he could only imagine how mortifying it would get as they neared Edo. What a miserable task he’d been saddled with, no matter which way it turned! And so Ittsuzumi’s Yokichi grumbled incessantly under his breath... Wedged between hulking shoulders at the approach to Kido post station—as if forewarned by some instinct—he planted feet that refused to advance, step by reluctant step—.

For the return trip, they would change their route to the Mito Highway.

They intended to travel from Mito in Hitachi through Fuchū-Tsuchiura and emerge in Shinjuku, Edo.

Since this route lay in a completely different direction from the Oshū Main Highway, there was little concern they would encounter Gamō Taiken—whom they had left behind at Nihonmatsu. Even if they were to meet by chance this time—now that they were prepared—Yokichi would not be surprised in the least.

From Tomioka to Kido.

The distance between them was two ri of small stone slopes.

It was a splendid view. The highway wound and twisted along the mountain—one side a sunlit hill planted with saplings, the other a sheer cliff as if sliced away.

The giant cedar's summit towered from the pitch-black gorge, reaching down to their very feet. At its base murmured the sound of a small stream tracing the valley. Ahead, Mount Fudō's looming mass blocked the way like a folding screen; gazing into the distance revealed Mihako-no-saki. From Funaohama's shore to Hirata where wave crests washed up—white sands and verdant pines all lay within pointing distance—

It must have been the smoke from a wildfire—in the distance, something white billowed smokily, dividing the azure cliffs.

“What a view! “What a view!”