Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Swish-swish-swish went the tea whisk, thickly frothing the green tea; the tea bowl too was a splendid masterpiece.
The whiteness of the fingers supporting it!
And the tea bowl was placed down.

The one who prepared the tea was a beautiful woman, her tatehyōgo hairstyle adorned with a ryōtō garment, her obi tied at her chest.
She was a dignified and refined courtesan.

Facing her was a beggar, wrapped in tattered rags.
But how splendid his face was!
A defiantly high nose, a tightly pressed mouth, eyes holding a thread of fervor.
He appeared to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

He took the tea bowl, twisted it sharply, drank it in three and a half sips as etiquette dictated, then quietly pushed it to the edge of his knees.

The tea kettle hissed steadily.
Smoke rose from the incense burner.
But covering it all was a straw-mat-covered kamaboko hut—quite filthy, weathered by rain and dew.

It was spring, the third month—broad daylight.

“It’s been a month since we settled here—our reputation seems to have grown quite a bit.”
The one who said this was that beggar.

“You’ve had to put up with me time and again.”

“I have had an excellent rest.”
“This humble one has been the one imposing on you.”
The one who said this was the courtesan.

“A rest, you say? Hmm… indeed—one might call it that.”
“No—truly a fine view.”
“Rapeseed blossoms, cherry trees, skylarks’ song, horses and palanquins along the highway… yet we must bid farewell to this scenery.”

“In that way... with this humble one as well?”

“Hmm... guess that’s more or less how it’ll go.”

“What a sorrowful farewell this is.”

“You might not weep, but you mustn’t.”

“If you bid me weep, I shall weep; if you bid me not, I’ll hold back.”

“You’ve got to celebrate for me.”

“Then I’ll laugh.”

“There’s no need to force a laugh.”
“Then I shall remain expressionless.”

“That’s it,” smiled the beggar.
“Ah, that’s it.
“An expressionless face serves best... Grind the inkstone—we shall compose something.”

A makie inkstone case lay nearby.
Next to it lay a poem strip.

The beggar wrote fluently.

“Go on, read it—it’s Tang poetry.”

“The wind howls coldly over the Yi River”

“The brave man departs once and does not return.”

A green bamboo lay at his knees.
The beggar picked it up and swiftly drew out the blade.

“Aren’t you frightened? It’s Muramasa.”

Spring sunlight struck the blade, and from it rippling and rippling, heat waves rose.

“There may be those who find it frightening, but this humble one feels no fear.”

The beggar stared at the sword.

"The forging showed straight grain—the temper line narrowed at the tip，the boshi tightened with a calm habuchi pattern，a slightly pointed irregularity at the end．It looked sharp enough．It had better cut when needed."

He slowly and smoothly sheathed it and placed it by his knees．

"A splendid procession will pass through．Ah，that’s right—heading toward Edo．But well—it’s as if they’ve seen it coming．They’ll undoubtedly botch it．After all，he’s a man of his caliber．That’s where I’ll strike．And that’s where the Muramasa will prove its worth．"

The spring day was gradually deepening toward dusk.

The footsteps of travelers passing along the highway were hurried, perhaps rushing to find lodging.

Two

“Well now, what a peculiar beggar.”
The one who had said this was the samurai with the topknot.
“The one at the kamaboko hut on the Yodo River embankment, isn’t it?”

“They say he prepares tea, burns incense, keeps a courtesan in attendance, and lives quite leisurely.”
The one who had said this was the samurai with the thick beard.
“Moreover, they say he possesses a magnificent renowned sword.”

This conversation took place in a back room of the Osaka Shinsaibashi Matsuya inn.

"So, what do you make of this?"

The one who asked this was the samurai with the topknot, his tone seeming to test his counterpart.

"The one who had said 'Ah, precisely' was the samurai with the thick beard."
“A samurai with a vendetta reduced to beggary…”
“Is he planning to avenge some parental grudge or something?”
“What do you think of this assessment?”
“What led you to that conclusion?”

“Given that he possesses a renowned sword…”

“But isn’t it said he sometimes whips out that renowned sword to inspect it?”

“Does that… amount to anything, Your Excellency?”

The samurai with the topknot laughed. “Even a marked enemy would take flight.”

“Ah…” he said, though he clearly didn’t understand.

“I’m on a vendetta—a vendetta, since it’s practically a public performance.”
“After all, aren’t you doing the same?”
The samurai with the topknot sneered mockingly.
“Living in a kamaboko hut, wearing rags, possessing a renowned sword he whips out—he’s properly carrying out his vendetta.”
“If you let such rumors reach your ears, the enemies being targeted will take flight.”
“Otherwise, we’d rally our men and slaughter them in a counterattack.”

“I see,” he said, seeming to understand this time.
“If it’s not a vendetta… then perhaps some dignitary, in a drunken whim…”

“That theory misses the mark entirely.”
The samurai with the topknot delivered a sharp kick.
“Preparing ceremonial tea with a courtesan in attendance, burning incense while residing in a kamaboko hut—”
“It could pass for refined elegance, but what follows doesn’t suit it at all.”

“But why, then—what of the latter part?”

“After all—that’s it, the renowned sword.”

“Ah—so the renowned sword proves inconvenient?”

“Fundamentally, this thing called refinement serves to make people leisurely and absent-minded—to turn them into timid mice. That’s precisely where refinement’s virtue lies.”
“But that thing called a sword—it serves to make people stubborn and obstinate, and gets them sticking their elbows out defiantly.”
“As long as he’s hauling around these diametrically opposed things, you can’t call it some dignitary’s drunken whim.”

“That’s quite reasonable,” said the samurai with the thick beard, wearing an embarrassed smile, “but I’d very much like to hear Your Excellency’s assessment.”

“It’s nothing. He’s trying to make a name for himself.”
“In other words, he’s trying to build a reputation.”

“Ah… reputation?”
“For what purpose?”

“He’s aiming to sell high—something that bastard’s got?”

“Ah—then the renowned sword?”

The samurai with the topknot chuckled dryly, his smile acidic. “Now now, there’s no need to fixate on that—yes, precisely. Only the renowned sword, you see?”

“Ah, so that’s how it is! You blasted sword—useless this time around, weren’t you? …Then what in the world could it be?”

“Hmm,” said the samurai with the topknot, his expression turning grave. “It must be the man himself.”

“Ah! Now I see,” he replied. “Is he posing as Taigong Wang?”

“This assessment cannot be wrong.”

“Then there must be a King Wu.”

“That King Wu is precisely us.”

There, both of them fell silent.

The room was hushed and still.

Then, abruptly lowering his voice, the samurai with the topknot began to speak.

“With Osaka Castle Deputy Toki Tango-no-kami, East Town Magistrate Inoue Suruga-no-kami, and West Town Magistrate Inagaki Awa-no-kami now suppressed, we may consider eighty percent of our scheme achieved today.”
“As for the remaining two parts—proceeding in this order should make them manageable enough.”
“Now then—when our scheme finally bears fruit, it will mean momentous changes for us all.”
“We could rise from ronin to daimyo in a single leap.”
“So then,” said the samurai with the topknot, wearing his characteristic sardonic smile, “all manner of samurai hunger for official posts. That one… that beggar—label him a position-crazed wretch and you’d scarcely miss the mark.”
“He’s undoubtedly a post-chasing fiend.”
“Moreover, he stages eccentric spectacles to blaze through rumor mills—ensuring we catch wind of his fame while awaiting our summons.”
“This admits two interpretations.”
“Swindler or samurai of substance?”
“Either prospect holds promise.”
“That’s precisely why I propose...”
“To take that baitless hook he’s cast—I’ll bite with pleasure.”
“We require capable allies ourselves. Therefore—though it pains me to ask—you shall proceed directly to the kamaboko hut and ascertain that one’s true nature.”

Having been told this, the thick-bearded samurai nodded deeply and rose slowly.

“But wait,” the samurai with the topknot interjected.
“It’s a harsh world—even a base yakuza might stage some unseemly act just to scrape by.”
“Should that wretch prove such trash, spare him no thought—cut him down.”

III

At Matsuya’s entrance were lined up twenty matchlock guns and fifteen spears; a guard post built at the gate’s entrance, where officials stood watch.
To the right of the gate stood red-and-white striped curtains, with spiked staves and arrest hooks arrayed in martial formation.
To the left of the gate stood a diamond-patterned fence of fresh-cut bamboo, its cypress plaque—free of woodgrain irregularities—bearing bold jet-black characters: "Lord Tokugawa Ten’ichibō’s Temporary Lodgings."
Stretched taut across the entire frontage, a purple curtain emblazoned with the Tokugawa hollyhock crest bore the glimmer of tall paper lanterns, exuding an air of ceremonial solemnity.

The thick-bearded samurai appeared abruptly.

“Lord Akagawa Daizen is going out.”
“Fetch a palanquin!”

Restraining with his hand the one who had called out,
“No attendants needed,”
he dashed out.

After walking two or three blocks, he took out a hood from his pocket.
As he looked, there stood a single palanquin shop.
Akagawa Daizen swiftly entered,

“One palanquin—make it quick.”

He hopped in with a thud and had them dash off.
The reason he hadn’t taken a palanquin from the main camp was likely to maintain secrecy.

Lord Yamauchi Iganosuke was indeed shrewd—he'd seen right through the ploy.
He'd built his reputation waiting for us to welcome him!
That high-profile beggar must have aimed for exactly that.
So I would go to meet him.
Now then—how should I test his true nature?
If he turned out someone great, I couldn't bear disgrace.
If a yakuza—I'd cut him down.
No need for formalities.
I'd wield my bandit-era savagery and finish him cleanly.
"...Wait—where am I now?"

He opened the palanquin door and peered out, but—

“Very well, set it down here.”
He stepped out of the palanquin.

“That’s your tip.”

“This is truly... far too generous.”

Abandoning the happily departing palanquin bearers, Akagawa Daizen proceeded ahead.

Like pale ink, the Yodo River embankment lay stretched out long before his eyes.
There were no houses, nor any signs of people.
Looking down, dried reeds swayed in the wind on the riverbank.
What shone pale white under the moon nearing dawn seemed to be the river water.

“It should definitely be in this direction.”

He walked upstream.

And there indeed stood the kamaboko hut—its hem fluttering in the wind, pale and dampened by moonlight—forlornly present.

“Hmm… this must be it,” he stopped—but then wondered—“Now then… what should I say to get his attention?”
He had no choice but to deliberate.
Calling him a beggar felt odd.
Saying “excuse me” felt strange too.
He surely wouldn’t demand an apology or anything of the sort…
…Now what?

With that—he took a deep breath—
For a fragrance had come wafting through.

"They say he burns incense—ah yes, this is indeed the scent of incense.
"Moreover, it seems to be an extraordinary renowned incense."

That said, of course, Akagawa Daizen—bandit-bred and uncouth—had no idea what kind of incense it was.

Even someone like Akagawa Daizen—uncouth as he was—could not help but be moved by this peerless incense; there could be no doubt it was something of extraordinary value.

This compelled Daizen to feel reverence.

“Honorable Ronin!” Daizen called out.

Yet there came no reply from within.
He tried calling again: “Honorable Ronin.”
Still no response came from within.

“Is he asleep? Or has he gone out?”

He strained his ears but detected no breathing.

“Excuse me, sorry,” he called out, and Daizen lifted the hut’s curtain.

The pale light of the sinking moon faintly streamed in from the side, but when he looked, there was no one there.

Yet a pale white sheet of paper lay upon the mat.

When he picked it up and examined it, it was a poem strip.

The wind howls desolate, Yishui runs cold.

A hero departs once, never to return.

“Ah, so he’s left then?”
Akagawa Daizen fell into deep thought.
“Then Lord Yamauchi Iganosuke’s assessment of him as a career-obsessed specter must be deemed mistaken.”
A beggar capable of disrupting Lord Iga’s observations—he truly did not seem ordinary after all.
Judging by how the lingering traces of burnt incense still hung hazily in the air, he must have departed mere moments ago.
It was cold!
“Might as well head back.”

IV

The vanguard was Akagawa Daizen, who positioned two leading boxes at the front, had nine foot soldiers carry a single set of black-lacquered equipment, rode in a black-lacquered palanquin with sliding doors, held a bag-covered umbrella, led a draft horse, and advanced with grandeur.
Behind came a white-lacquered Chinese-style chest—adorned with an oiled cloth bearing the Aoi crest in white against pale blue—guarded by eight samurai wearing black crepe haori; this was the item of evidence.
Then came Yamaoka Kazue in noshi-me asa kamishimo formal attire, his daisho swords bundled—the custodian entrusted with the evidence.
He held a single naginata with a white wood handle wrapped in a purple cloth, keeping watch ahead and behind.
Next came the blood ritual monk.
Following them were Shimamura Saheiji, Tomura Jirōzaemon, Ishikawa Takumi, Ishida Tensan, Furuichi Kizaemon, Yamabe Yūsuke, Nakagawa Kurando, Ōmori Danjō, Saitō Ichihachi, Amemori Shizuma, Rokugō Rokutarō, Enomoto Kinpachirō, Ōkawara Hachizaemon, Tsuji Gorō, and Akiyama Shichizaemon, accompanying them as guards.
Following next was Ten’ichibō’s palanquin—an amber-colored woven-bamboo kick-out structure—with a vermilion-lacquered clasp-folded umbrella being respectfully held aloft.
Slightly apart from them moved Tenchūbō Nisshin, who had likewise positioned two leading boxes and was having a single draft horse pulled.
Following next was Fujii Sakyo, accompanied by a contingent of guards.
The one proceeding last on horseback was none other than Yamauchi Iganosuke, wearing noshi-me linen formal attire, his pallid face framed by a full topknot, hawk-like sharp and piercing eyes, a broad forehead revealing strategic cunning, a squared jaw demonstrating resolve, high cheekbones exuding rebellious spirit, and tightly pressed lips where mockery and scorn flickered.
This too was accompanied by a single set of leading boxes and tools, proceeding without draft horses.
Issuing commands to restrain the footmen, the entire force of two hundred departed Osaka and entered Edo.
It was Tokugawa Ten'ichibō’s procession.

When they reached the Yodo River embankment, Yamauchi Iganosuke looked upstream.

The kamaboko hut stood there.

“What a farce,” he muttered, but an uneasy expression flickered repeatedly in his eyes.

"The Yishui poem composed by Jing Ke, and the beggar who left it behind—it weighs on my mind."
"Jing Ke failed, after all."
"That’s right—he meant to be an assassin."
"He tried to stab the First Emperor of Qin."
"...Of course, our scheme isn’t about assassinating the shogun."
"No—it’s rather the opposite."
"We aim to become the shogun."
"Yet in terms of peril, ours surpasses even Jing Ke’s plot."
"...The Yishui poem!"
"A verse of failure!"
"This bodes ill from the start."

This was the first time Iganosuke had ever felt such emotions.

"Who cares what happens? It's all just a gamble anyway.
The very notion of striving for success was mistaken from the outset.
But even so...not meeting that beggar leaves me with lingering regret."

Issuing commands to restrain the footmen, the procession advanced grandly forward.

"I had thought it ninety-nine percent achieved, but somehow it's started feeling precarious."
This timidity—it's unacceptable!
I must drive it away no matter what... The most fatal thing for me was that my once-unerring, confident discernment had gone astray.
One thing goes awry, then two; two go awry, then three.
How could anyone claim it wouldn't go awry until the very end?
"The man I took for a career-obsessed specter not only wasn't one—he posed an inexplicable riddle and vanished without a trace."

The more he tried to drive it away, the more the beggar remained lodged in Iganosuke’s mind as an obsession.

Iganosuke surveyed the procession.

Just advancing into Edo with such a grand procession alone—is this not truly a man's ultimate ambition? But when I think about it, it's pitiful—each and every one of them believes in success. They all believe in me. They believe I will rise to prominence. Not a single one of them notices that I—the crucial one—am wavering.

The stronger one's confidence, the more that which shatters it wounds its possessor.

Who is he? I must meet him. And having left behind the Yishui poem—I want to hear that beggar's state of mind.

Like that of a monomaniac, Yamauchi Iganosuke came to think of nothing but that.

And so, even when that plot collapsed and he found himself surrounded by constables at the palace beneath Yatsuyama in Shinagawa, Edo—right up until the moment he slit his belly—it had gripped his heart.

Five

“Hey, Akagawa, it’s over.”

It was Iganosuke who said this.

“Is there truly no way, Lord Iganosuke?”

It was Akagawa Daizen who said this.

It was the palace beneath Yatsuyama.

“What will come of this? Look at the sea—they’ve completely encircled us exactly as you see.”

When he opened the window, Shinagawa’s sea lay before them—dozens of ships with bonfires lit floated in a semicircle.

“They may look like fishing boats, but they’re undoubtedly constables’ ships.”
“Even at sea, it’s like this.”
“The land security must be even tighter.”
“There must not be even a crack for an ant to slip through—that’s how it stands.”

“Even so,” Akagawa Daizen said to Iganosuke with evident puzzlement. “While our major plot was exposed, what could be your reasoning in sending even Ten’ichibō, Tenchū, and Sakyo to the Town Magistrate’s Office?”

“Hmm, that one, huh?” Iganosuke frowned bitterly. “They’re all villains, you see. Starting with Ten’ichibō—not only did he kill his master Kannōin, but he also strangled Osanba-san to death and committed other murders besides. As for Jōrakuin Tenchū—though a monk, he was utterly shameless; after murdering his predecessor master, he even killed a young acolyte named Ten’ichi. As for Fujii Sakyo, it’s much the same—he killed his aunt’s husband, Kanbe Yōsuke, you see. To think these three have killed their superiors. They’re scoundrels unforgivable by both heaven and man. So I deliberately had them captured and delivered into Magistrate Ōoka’s hands to let them meet their judicial deaths. Compared to them, you’re somewhat different. In your bandit days, you may have run wild, but you’ve never slain any superiors who showed you favor. And as for me—I’ve never killed anyone. That should earn us some leniency. So I had you feign illness, and I too feigned illness—that’s why just the two of us remain here. ……Come now, Daizen, let’s cut our bellies. If we dawdle, the constables will come.”

“Even so,” Yamauchi Iganosuke said, his face clouding with anguish. “The beggar who lived on the Yodo River embankment—I can’t get him out of my mind. He saw through it all! Today’s affair! The exposure!”

With a deafening roar, a war cry erupted outside at that very moment.
Then came the sound of violent intrusion!

"It’s truly hopeless now. Come, Daizen—the constables are upon us. Let’s cut our bellies!"

Iganosuke, having drawn his short sword, was about to thrust it into his belly when constables swarmed in.

"You?!"

Akagawa Daizen leaped up and, swinging his longsword, lunged.

"Halt! Halt! Official business!"

While shouting—perhaps startled by Daizen’s murderous aura—they swiftly pulled back.

“It’s no use anyway! Stop chasing! Stop!”

Leaving Iganosuke’s shouting voice behind—whether thinking Let’s flee while we still can or not—they gave chase.

“Halt! Halt! Official business!”

Voices retreated into the distance!

Two or three sharp cries rang out.

Daizen had apparently cut down the constables.

“You should’ve held back! What a bloodthirsty brute!”
“We’ll be captured regardless—it’s inevitable.”
“Those unprepared disgrace themselves at the final moment.”
“But for me, this proves fortunate—now then, let’s cut our bellies in this respite.”

When he thrust Iganosuke’s sword decisively into his left flank,

“Magnificent!”

A voice came from the adjacent room.

The one who slid open the sliding door and appeared was a strikingly handsome beggar clutching a green bamboo cane.

“You!” exclaimed Iganosuke.

“I am one who resided on the Yodo River embankment.”

“You’re the one? Why are you here?”

“I humbly request to receive your honorable head…”

“My head? What do you intend to do with it?”

“I shall go to a certain person’s residence, approach that certain person, and intend to settle my grudge with at least a single strike…”

“Hrm,” Yamauchi Iganosuke grunted. “State your status! State your name!”

“I am a loyal vassal of the daimyō of the Western Provinces who was destroyed through the instigation of a certain person.”

“What of your elegant pursuits on the Yodo River?”

“I merely intended to make known to Your Excellency the existence of this humble individual.”

“Hmm, precisely so.”
“Was it you who left behind the Yishui poem?”
“Did you perceive our plot’s failure before it could take form?”

“Precisely so—that’s one reason!”
“But at the same time, I wished to convey my true sentiments to Your Excellency.”
“I see.”

Iganosuke spoke, but gradually grew more distressed.
His face turned pallid; blood streamed forth.
"I see... Your Excellency... shares Jing Ke's fate!"
"But this time, I shall declare—that certain person is a peerless figure! Your Excellency's scheme shall meet failure!"

But the beggar calmly said, “Fortune resides with heaven. I merely wished to exert human effort…”

“A noble heart,” Yamauchi Iganosuke said, thrusting his neck out forcefully. “If it serves your purpose, take my head! The death flower blooms! An honor indeed!”

It was at that moment—from outside,

“Akagawa Daizen! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!”

The voices of the constables reached them.

"You incompetent fool!" Yamauchi Iganosuke sneered, though—

"Finally flaunting your death shame!"
"In contrast, I am splendid!"
"I shall die by a loyalist's second strike."
"Even after death, the head will still be of use!"
"Now then—strike off my head!"

and swung around.

"Forgive me."

With that, the strange beggar drew his concealed sword.
A flash gleamed, a clean slice whispered through, and the head thudded to the ground.

"Iganosuke! You're under arrest!"

The voices of the constables grew ever nearer, yet the strange beggar remained unalarmed.

After neatly arranging the corpse’s form and pulling the nearby screen around, he embraced Yamauchi Iganosuke’s severed head.

With that, he slid smoothly out into the corridor.

A sound of a sliding door being kicked down rang out, and those who came rushing in were constables.

The strange beggar glanced back and swiftly raised his right hand into the air—as if a colossal dawn star had plunged from the sky into the room, bathing the interior in momentary radiance.

When the constables—blinded and reeling—regained their wits and scanned their surroundings, only Yamauchi Iganosuke's headless corpse remained; of the beggar there was no trace.

VI

Now then, one year passed.

Spring came to the Yodo River embankment.

In that same filthy kamaboko hut lived that same beggar.
And there was that woman.
However, the woman’s attire was not that of a resplendent courtesan, but rather the same beggarly appearance as the man’s.

No tea was being prepared.
No incense was being burned.
There was no maki-e inkstone box, no poem strips.
And of course, there was no tea kettle either.
The green bamboo containing the Muramasa sword was the only thing placed by the beggar’s side.

A white wooden box had been placed.

It seemed to be an important item.

Spring sunlight streamed into the hut.
Travelers could be seen passing along the highway.
The Yodo River flowed on.

White sails sailed upstream.

“As expected of Yamauchi Iganosuke—his discernment held no error.”

It was the beggar who spoke.
A lonely wry smile floated at the corners of his mouth, casting a melancholy shadow over his entire face.

“For this humble one, that was preferable.”
“Because it means I can live with you.”

It was the woman who had spoken.
Her eyes shone happily.

“When it comes to Magistrate Ōoka—he’s a man you can’t boil or roast into compliance.”
“When I brought Iganosuke’s head, he instantly grasped my true intent—summoned me in my beggar’s rags, treated me to an outrageously lavish feast, then lectured me exhaustively on governance’s complexities and officials’ hardships before granting this crested kimono set.”
He glanced at the rectangular box. “Ahahaha! What a farce! When it came to me then—I’d grown so solemn I didn’t even attempt to strike him down!”

“But did not Magistrate Ōoka say at that time, ‘You should think it over for a year’?”

“Ah yes, he did say that.”
“And today marks one year.”

“What have you decided?”
The woman asked with a trace of unease.

“I’ve come to think this way.
“The very act of taking a year to consider was itself the mistake from the start.”
“…If you spend a year thinking, even a taut spirit will slacken.”
“Revenge is the sort of thing you should carry out in a blaze of passion.”
“Once you think about it, the passion ends up cooling.”

“Then at least take that crested kimono and run it through with your sword.”

“Right then—bring out the crested kimono.”

The woman stood up, took the box, and opened its lid with a decisive pop.

As the beggar's outstretched hand moved forward, what appeared was a crested kimono set.

Just when it seemed he would fluidly draw his sword and thrust it with force—he neither drew nor thrust, but instead lightly donned the crested kimono.

“How do I look?”
“Does it suit me?”
“It does not suit you in the slightest.”
“Of course it does, naturally it does—it seems without the town magistrate’s dignity, the town magistrate’s garments do not suit.”

“Please do take off such garments.”

“Hmm,” he said, then threw it off.

“Do not resent this single stroke.”

“Call me a fool,” he laughed.
“I won’t stoop to Yu Rang’s level.”

The scent of rapeseed flowers wafted in.
In the distance, a dog barked.
From between the grasses, a small snake slithered out.
It must have been the season when insects emerge from the earth.
It hid itself on the other side of the embankment.

“What will you do now?”

“Yeah… I’ll become a bandit.”

The woman naturally fell silent.

“How about that?” the beggar smiled. “Afraid? You object?”

“From courtesan to beggar, beggar to bandit—that would seem to be the natural progression.”

“From samurai to beggar, beggar to bandit—this seems about the right progression.”

It was a spring day.
It was warm.
A skylark continued its ceaseless chattering.

“Well, this too…” the beggar said listlessly.
“That bastard—it’s all a front for Ōoka.”
“I’ll become a bandit beyond my own capacity and blow them all away—that’s the plan.”

It was not long after that the great bandit known as Gyōsei Goro began roaming freely through both Kanto and Kansai.
He was reputed to wield pyrotechnics.
It was also reputed that a beauty accompanied him like a shadow clings to its form.

(The Forest Chronicles state:) The great bandit Gyōsei Goro, whose true name was Shirasu Shōzaemon, being a former retainer of a certain western domain lord who had grievances against Tokugawa officials, primarily targeted daimyo and hatamoto retainers. Having associated with Hanabuki, a courtesan from Shimabara, he formed a gang that shared his unpredictability in appearing and vanishing. Though Gyōsei Goro committed countless robberies, he frequently distributed spoils to aid the impoverished masses, et cetera.

It appears to be fact that Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami hesitated several times in attempting to apprehend the bandit known as Gyōsei Goro.