Pathway to Japanese Literature

First Meeting

“Um, there is a guest here, sir.”

Oki, his wife, came to inform him.

“Huh, who’s there? That Tsutaya fella?”

Kyōden abruptly looked up.

In the sunlit second-floor study—winter being the season—a kotatsu was set up.

“It’s a samurai we’ve never seen before who said he was Mr. Takizawa.”
“He says he absolutely wishes to meet you?”

“This isn’t some vendetta, is it?
“I don’t recall doing anything worth getting killed over.
“Though mind you, I’ve killed plenty of folks in picture books till now…”

“He says he wants to become your disciple.”

“Huh? Wants to become *my* disciple?
“Even worse than a vendetta.”

“Then shall I tell him that and refuse?”

“Can’t rightly do that.
“Who gives a damn? Just show him in already!”

As the wife withdrew, a samurai entered through the sliding door.
Large topknot, black formal kimono with family crests, age around twenty-five or twenty-six, muscular and large-framed yet corpulent—an imposing figure.
For Kyōden—small-framed, skinny, pale, and looking every bit a merchant—he must have been nothing but an adversary.

“I am Takizawa Seizaemon, an unworthy man, but I humbly request that you remember me hereafter and especially grant me your favor…”

“Can’t have this—too stiff, eh?
“Ain’t no way I can hold a candle to you.”
“Hey hey, no need to stand on ceremony.”
“The Santō-an Kyōden you’re lookin’ for—that’d be me, right here.”
“Let’s get goin’ to Baraken.”
“Ahahahaha! How’s that sound?”

“Well now, such a casual greeting—I find myself all the more humbled.”

“Not at all—the opposite! The one who should be obliged here is me. ……Now then, what’s this matter you’ve come to discuss? Well then, let’s get goin’ with one thing, shall we?”

“Ah, regarding that matter—though it is an impudent request from one such as myself, I am an aspiring gesaku writer and therefore humbly wish to join the ranks of your esteemed discipleship……”

“Oh? Is that really true?”

“I make no claims to skill.”

“Even so... you’ve got no sense...”

“Huh?” The samurai widened his eyes.

“What? That was just a slip of the tongue.”
“Even so, you’re being reckless.”
“When I look at you—a proper samurai standing above farmers, artisans, and merchants—”
“Why on earth would you take a liking to being some jester…”

“Jester?” said the samurai in a puzzled tone,

“Are gesaku writers jesters?”

“It’s a popularity business, see?”
“If not jesters, then entertainers at least.”
……”

Kyōden smoothly stroked his chin.
The words he himself had spoken seemed to have found favor with him.

“My view differs slightly.”

“All right, all right—I’ll hear your arguments proper-like in good time. But second off, this gesaku racket ain’t near as easy as it looks from some lofty perch.”

“Nay—on that score I stand resolved…”

“Say now—you ever penned anything resembling proper writing before?”

“Hah,” said the samurai, thrusting his hand into his breast pocket—only to produce a sheaf of papers.

“Though this wretched scribbling scarce bears viewing—mere trifles dashed off for practice—should you condescend to glance at a page or two when leisure allows, ’twould honor me beyond measure……”

“Well now, this’s a surprise. Can’t say I expected such efficiency. A true Edoite’s gotta act this way, eh? I’ve taken quite a shine to you. Hmm... Titled *Mibu Kyōgen*, eh? Alright then, I’ll give this a look-see. Come back in five or six days.”

And so the samurai departed—but this samurai was none other than the future Kyokutei Bakin.

“Having come all this way, Mount Fuji isn’t half as grand as they say.”
“The renowned Santō Kyōden of Edo was also a more shallow man than he had imagined.”

This was Santō Kyōden’s impression as reflected through Bakin’s eyes.

“What a strangely arrogant stiff-necked samurai with no charm.”
“…First off, that body’s way too big.”

The attitude of Bakin as perceived by Kyōden was by no means favorable.

As if it were a great bother, Kyōden picked up the manuscript Bakin had left behind but began reading it with apparent disinterest.
However, before he read even ten pages, he was completely captivated.
And when he finished reading it all the way through, he even let out a deep sigh.

"Well now… This one’s truly taken me aback."
No—this is truly sweet.
How about this powerful prose?
And the breadth of his references... If he progresses at this seasoning, I can’t help but imagine what five or three years hence will bring.
First-rate, I suppose.…… In thirty or fifty years, there’ll be no one left even uttering the name Santō Kyōden.…… This… this must be what they call a truly heaven-born gesaku writer."

Having thought this through, Kyōden suddenly felt lonely and even began to feel impatience.
That said, he felt no jealousy.
Rather, he couldn't wait to summon Bakin immediately and shower him with effusive praise.

Fifty days in handcuffs

Not waiting until the next day—that very day, immediately—Kyōden sent a messenger rushing to summon Bakin to his house.

“Mr. Takizawa, that’s splendid, ain’t it!”

Right from the start, he bombarded him with exclamations—

“That’s splendid work.”
“I was plumb surprised.”
“You’ve already carved out your own style with ease.”

Kyōden silently bowed his head.
“A disciple? That’s out of the question.
Let’s form a partnership—or become friends!
No, no—it is I who should learn from you!”

This was how Kyōden praised him.

Bakin listened silently but did not make a particularly happy face.
He merely stared fixedly at Kyōden’s mouth—ceaselessly spewing forth an extravagant stream of grandiose words—with an ironic gaze.

“Now, putting that aside—the matter we need to discuss…”

With that, Kyōden—who had been chattering away with effortless fluency as if delivering a rakugo performance—with a deft motion diverted the flow sideways there,

“How ’bout it, Mr. Takizawa—why not come to my house?
“Why don’t we set up desks together in one room and work side by side, shall we?”

“Oh, that would be most welcome.”
“It would indeed be most proper for me to come.”

Bakin smiled faintly for the first time.

“Of course ya gotta come.”
“Don’t wait ’til tomorrow—get over here today.”
“…Hey! Hachizō! Hachizō! Lend a hand with movin’!”

He clapped his hands and summoned the servant.

Bakin’s father, named Kōzō, served as a retainer to Matsudaira Nobunari but died during Bakin’s early childhood.
The household was inherited by his eldest brother Kōshi, but due to certain circumstances, he left his lord’s service to become a masterless samurai.
Yet Bakin alone remained and served as the young lord’s companion.
However—as might be expected—the young lord proved to be a dim-witted brute who would strike and beat Bakin.
Even absent such treatment, Bakin was a man of resolute determination and unblemished integrity.
Indignantly flicking his sleeve,

Resolved by the wintry wind—a divine journey.

After inscribing this single verse on the wall, he left his lord’s household with resolute detachment.
He was fourteen years old at the time.

*“Enough! I’ll have no more of court service!”*

Bakin had firmly resolved, but he couldn’t make a living that way.
He had no choice but to become a foot soldier for Lord Toda or wander between hatamoto residences; he suddenly aspired to medicine, serving as medicine chest carrier for Yamamoto Sōei, the shogunate’s chief physician; then shifting course, he sought to study Confucianism under Kameda Hōsai, composed mad verses unsuited to his nature under Ishikawa Gozan, and learned calligraphy from Tachibana Chikage—yet none of these endeavors brought success.
Thus the final path he chose was that of a gesaku writer he loved, and here for the first time his genius was recognized by Kyōden.
Bakin was twenty-four years old at this time, and Kyōden was thirty.

One day, Tsutaya Jūzabō, the publisher, visited Kyōden’s residence in Ginza with an air of busyness.

“Oh! Mr. Kōshodō!”

“We’ve both been through some terrible times, haven’t we?”

Tsutaya let out a booming laugh.

It was in the final years of the Tenmei era that picture books (kusa-zōshi) touching upon the shogunate’s administrative policies were put out of print.
Top gesaku writers of the time—such as Koikawa Harumachi, Shiba Zenkō, and Hirasawa Kisanji—fell from prominence during this upheaval, leaving Kyōden alone to reign supreme and relish his triumph. But the witty books prohibition edict of Kansei 2 (1790) robbed Kyōden of his very limbs.

Yet abandoning the name they had painstakingly promoted until now seemed far too regrettable. After consulting with publisher Tsutaya, they changed the title to *Educational Reader* and had Tsutaya publish it with the same witty books content under this new guise.
Their scheme was a resounding success, leading to reprint after reprint in a booming market—but sure enough, the hammer of justice came down.
For their misconduct—blinded by profit, neither fearing authority nor heeding decrees—Tsutaya was punished with confiscation of half his assets, while Kyōden received the harsh lesson of fifty days in handcuffs.

“Well then,” said Tsutaya as he adjusted his posture and peered at Kyōden’s complexion—
“With half my assets confiscated, even I, Tsutaya, cannot continue as before. Yet if we let things fall into ruin like this, I couldn’t die in peace knowing I’d failed this business’s very purpose.”
“That is why I’ve come to consult you. With year-end fast approaching and New Year preparations needed, it pains me to ask—but might you write picture books without opposing the authorities’ directives?”

He made the request with an air of resignation.

Kyōden listened with his arms crossed but did not offer an immediate reply.
He had been thoroughly chastened.
The fifty days of iron handcuffs had been a bit too heavy for him.
Should I just wash my hands of gesaku and open a small shop—maybe deal in pouches or something?
Moreover, while I may be popular now, there’s no guarantee it will last forever. And if I were to transgress again this time, there’s no telling if I wouldn’t end up in jail.
He was thinking how dangerous it all was—so dangerous.

"But I can’t help feeling sorry for Tsutaya."
"Losing half his assets must be hard on him."
"Given how obstinate he usually is, he’ll endure all the more in times like these."
"Moreover, I’ve relied on Tsutaya a great deal over the years."
"I can’t just abandon him here without a shred of decency."

And so, Kyōden said.

“Alright then, I’ll write one piece for you.”

Dedication to the Path of Gesaku

“Alright, I’m swamped! Swamped!”

After Tsutaya Jūzabō left, Kyōden exclaimed dramatically while hurrying to his desk, but his inherent slow writing remained as slow as ever—he could do nothing but gnaw on his brush.

The one who lumbered into the room was Bakin, their houseguest.

“Ah, right—this guy’ll do!”

Whatever had come to mind, Kyōden thumped his brush against the desk—

“Mr. Takizawa, I’m counting on you.”

He had said it out of the blue.

“What could this be about?” he said as he plopped his six-foot-tall frame down heavily, though Bakin blinked in bewilderment.

“I’ve shouldered this grand burden, you see—here’s my rescue boat in a proper fluster.”
“Well, actually…” After this preface, Kyōden outlined his talk with Tsutaya to Bakin and then—

“Even if they call it New Year’s, it’s pressing down on us something fierce.”
“Four volumes I’ve got to write no matter what.”
“It’s beyond these hands of mine, yet backing out now ain’t an option—left me sweating bullets here. So what d’you say, Mr. Takizawa? Care to lend your brush for this ghostwriting?”

He had finally broached the matter.

“Ghostwriting?” he said, making a sour face.

Bakin seemed unable to grasp the meaning.

“So, ghostwriting—you won’t do it?”

“……And what of the plot?”

“Ah, the plot? Close to my heart—I’ve got it right here.”

He thumped his chest, then began narrating the “plot” in his signature rakugo-style tone.

Bakin listened in silence, but occasionally let a cold, watery smile flicker across his cheeks.

When he had finished listening, he gave a slight nod,

“Very well, I shall undertake the ghostwriting.”

“So you consent to this?”

“At any rate, as a warm-up, I shall attempt to write using that plot.”

“Oh, that’s a lifesaver! Of course, we’ll split the manuscript fee fifty-fifty.”

However, without replying to this, Bakin lumbered to his feet, then went to his desk and immediately took up his brush.

The so-called style of Bakin was such that if he cast down his brush, it would generate wind and instantly produce a hundred words—to Kyōden, who revised repeatedly, this had to be called nothing short of a miracle.

Within about a month from that day, Bakin indeed completed five stories with remarkable ease.
Moreover, Kyōden’s proposed plot was hardly incorporated—no more than a garnish on sashimi—and most of it was Bakin’s original creation. This both astonished Kyōden and instilled a private dread within him, yet it was not something he could rightfully complain about.
So without a word, he received them, added the two stories he had written himself, and passed them to Tsutaya.

The seven volumes of picture books were released to the market by Tsutaya under Santō Kyōden’s signature early in the new year and indeed enjoyed such explosive popularity that this time they drew no censure from the authorities—marking a grand success at first; however, with this as his final venture, Kyōden withdrew from picture books and witty books, turning instead to didactic works, old tales, and *Commentaries on Practical Words for the Young*—
He diligently sought out a world within such earnest works.
This was partly because he had learned his lesson from the handcuffs but also because he came to fear Bakin’s immense talent and realized that competing in the same arena would be an unwise strategy.

Not long after this, Bakin was earnestly requested by Tsutaya Jūzabō and swiftly rose from being Kyōden’s dependent to become manager of Kōshodō Booksellers—a promotion owed to the unprecedented success of the ghostwriting from this period.

“What brings me the most joy since coming to Tsutaya’s is being able to read books freely.”

Bakin expressed his joy with these words, for indeed—as befitted a bookstore—Kōshodō Tsutaya maintained a library where war chronicles and antique storybooks were amassed in abundance.
Bakin perused these volumes during lulls in his duties, sating his insatiable intellectual appetite.

As a gesaku writer, his physique was so imposing that some earnestly suggested—not in jest—that he take up sumo wrestling, but he merely laughed it off without engaging.
Recognized for his unblemished spirit and dignified presence, he was sought after by a brothel owned by Tsutaya’s relatives to become their son-in-law, but Bakin paid no heed.

He devoted himself to the path of gesaku without casting a sidelong glance.

It was not long after this that Kyokutei Bakin published *Spring Flowers: A Louse’s Journey* through Kōshodō under his pen name, and propitiously, this debut work lauded considerable acclaim.

Encouraged by this success, Bakin went on to publish work after work. As it happened, Kyōden was in a period of transition, and with no other promising competitors in sight, it became literally Bakin’s stage alone. Given his mastery of prose and inexhaustible vigor, it was only natural that he rose to become the preeminent figure in the field.

However, before long competitors emerged from an unexpected quarter.

That Jippensha Ikku and Shikitei Sanba appeared in the gesaku world brandishing their comedic works must be said to have presented Kyokutei Bakin with truly formidable rivals.

The Talking Bathtub

It was New Year’s Eve one year, and already dusk, when Kyokutei Bakin walked alone through the bustling main street of Fukagawa, weighing one idea against another for a new picture book.

With a bonk, he collided.

“Ouch!” he involuntarily cried out. When he swiftly raised his bowed face, there stood a stationary bathtub looming upright right before his eyes.

“Hey, you fool! Watch where you’re going!”

From inside the bathtub came a human voice.

“Since I’m wearin’ this tub on me head, ’course I can’t see a damn thing!”
“Why the hell’d you go collidin’ with a blind man?!”
“Hey, watch out! Watch out!”

The man in the tub reviled him in a foolishly vigorous, rolling tongue, but Bakin recognized that voice. Moreover, on this broad daylight of New Year’s Eve, there could be no person parading through Fukagawa’s streets wearing a bathtub on his head other than that man.

So Bakin tried calling out to him.
“Hey, you! Aren’t you Jippensha?”

“Huh?”

The man in the tub looked utterly astonished, but suddenly burst into guffaws,

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I recognize this voice!”
“It would be Mr. Takizawa, wouldn’t it?”
“Ahahahaha! What a coincidence! What a coincidence!”
“Behold! Yours truly, Jippensha Ikku, casts off this helmet and now stands revealed!”
“Well, well, well, well! There, there, there, there!”

Along with his shout, he gradually lifted the stationary bathtub higher, and when he suddenly peeked his face out from under the hem—

“When dawn breaks on the new-jeweled year, I thought I’d draw the first bath—so I came to borrow a bathtub.”
“Now then, Mr. Takizawa—by all means come try the first bath tomorrow as part of your New Year’s visit.”
“I made a firm promise.”
“With that settled—yes yes, pardon me!”
“Well well well! Peek-a-boo peek-a-boo! Splash-splash splash-splash! There there there there!”

He plopped the bucket back over his head and soon began swaying from side to side as he walked.

Kyokutei Bakin, who had watched him go, could not even bring himself to laugh.
It was because Ikku’s approach was so utterly removed from his own.

“Well, that’s utterly absurd.”

Bakin, walking quietly, inadvertently let slip out in a mutter.

“They try to pass this fleeting world like a dream through wit and eccentricity.
Is that truly acceptable?
Every gesaku writer residing in Edo today—even the esteemed scholar Ōta Shokusan—possesses such tendencies.
In the end, is this truly acceptable?
I simply cannot comprehend it.”

Bakin felt somehow lonely.
He drooped his shoulders, hung his head, and walked with a shiver.

"Kyōden is a philistine; Ikku, a dandy; and Sanba, a petty cynic.
...I alone differ from those fellows.
This is truly a lonely state of affairs."
However—Bakin declared proudly, vigorously lifting his head—larger than most—upon his shoulders—

"People are people, and I am I!
I will go my own way after all.
Benevolence, justice, propriety, wisdom... instruction... guidance... I will press forward through morality.
My purpose is to save the world and rescue the people!"

He started walking briskly.
He seemed to have no anxieties whatsoever.

The very next day, the rigid Bakin visited Ikku’s house in formal New Year’s attire as promised.

“Well, well, well! Mr. Takizawa, what an honor to have you grace us with your presence.”
“First things first—come now and take your inaugural bath posthaste!”
“The water’s perfectly tempered, cooled precisely to the tenth degree of propriety.”
“We’ll exchange New Year’s pleasantries afterward—heh heh heh—to the bath with you now!”

Ikku frolicked about wildly and pressed him incessantly to take the bath.

*Shank’s Mare Along the Tōkaidō*

“Very well then. As you command—I shall take a bath, shall I?”

Bakin stood up cheerfully and went to the bathhouse guided by Ikku; then, quickly removing his formal attire, he first moistened his skin with a towel before sinking into the bath.
The water temperature seemed somewhat lukewarm.

"It seemed I couldn't get out immediately.
If I were to exit carelessly, I would catch a cold.
This was rather troublesome, I must say."

While feeling somewhat at a loss internally, Bakin remained silently submerged, but this was no ordinary public bath; one couldn't stay soaking forever.
So he wiped his body with the towel and tried to hurriedly put on his clothes.
What was going on? The clothes were gone.
Not a trace remained of his formal attire—everything down to his undergarments had vanished.

When the startled Bakin clapped his hands, the servant slowly poked his head out, but—

“Oh, sir, do you require something?”
“Where have my clothes gone?”
“Oh, I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“What has become of your master?”
“He hurried off somewhere.”

“What? He left? Are you abandoning your guest?”

“Ain’t nothin’ unusual ’bout that.”

“I can’t bear this cold. Do you have any spare clothes?”

“There’s an old padded garment.”

“That old padded garment will do fine—lend it to me.”

Putting on the padded garment the servant had brought, tying the unfamiliar three-foot sash, and sitting down solitary in the center of the room, Bakin waited for some time—but Ikku showed no sign of returning home.

As New Year’s Day drew to a close, lamps began being lit in every house.
At that moment, the gate finally opened and Ikku appeared—brazenly clad in Bakin’s formal attire.

“Ahahahaha!” he first laughed,

“I have borrowed your formal attire.”
“Thanks to that, I was able to make my New Year’s rounds to all the neighboring houses.”
“Well, you see—when it comes to formal attire, if just one friend has it, that’s handy for every occasion! No need to hold back—borrowing’s the wisest course of action, isn’t it?”

He said this as calmly as if he were the one lending something.

The dumbfounded Bakin said nothing, and after some time had passed, his departing and returning home became an utterly ridiculous incident.

Ikku’s father had been a dōshin—a low-ranking samurai officer—in Sunpu, living out his days in obscurity until his death. Perhaps this legacy passed down to Ikku, for from his boyhood years he had been cunning and grown cynical toward life.
Though he lacked original talent, that he made his mark as a unique eccentric in the literary world of his day could indeed be called extraordinary.

Midsummer arrived in Edo.

Kanzeon’s Forty-Three Thousand Days, the straw markets, and even the Obon festival had passed in an instant, drawing near to the Day of the Ox in Doyo.
Every day the sky was clear and bright, yet the city sweltered in muggy heat.

Troubled by a slight toothache, Ikku, unusually for him, rose early; then, stepping out casually from home, he turned his steps toward Nihonbashi.

Standing on the bridge and looking down, he saw the river’s surface shrouded in mist, the moored ships still slumbering, with nothing moving save countless seagulls soaring and wheeling about.

“Ah, what a refreshing view this is.”

Before long, the toothache had subsided, and Ikku’s heart had grown brighter.

“That which passes is like this, never resting day or night—so Master Confucius was said to have declared. Truly, watching water changes one’s state of mind.”
…The water now flowing beneath this bridge pours into Shinagawa’s sea, and that seawater laps against the shore, continuing along the Tōkaidō onward and onward to foreign lands.
“Oh my, how splendid!”

In an uncharacteristically earnest frame of mind while pondering such matters, he found himself suddenly overcome with wanderlust.

“Ah, how splendid it would be to walk the Tōkaidō in summer.”

He began walking unsteadily.
His feet headed toward Shinagawa.

When he looked around, groups of travelers walked through the morning mist—some ahead, some behind him.
People hurried by in palanquins, while near Shinagawa post station, packhorses stood ready; their bells chimed *chirin-chirin* to the rhythm of the “Bamboo and Sparrows” drivers’ song, the sound awakening tree spirits along the pine-lined path—stirring his wanderlust all the more.

Passing through Kawasaki, Kanagawa, and Hodogaya, by the time he entered Totsuka post station, the sun had fully set; he lodged at an inn called Sasaya—this being the first day of the long journey that would see him leisurely traversing the Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō over three months, and marking the inaugural day that would become the model for *Shank’s Mare Along the Tōkaidō*, the work that immortalized Jippensha Ikku’s name.

The No-Mind Stance of Kendo’s Ultimate Secret

"I'm not young anymore."
"It's time I began my life's work—my immortal work."

It was in the spring of Bunka 11 that, under such strong resolve, he took up his brush to write *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.

At this time, Bakin’s popularity was truly remarkable—as the foremost figure in the gesaku world, there was no one who could rival him. Publishers sent people nearly every day to inquire after his state, striving to cater to his stubbornly independent spirit.

As soon as the first volume of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* appeared on the market, it demonstrated an unprecedented sales boom—ten thousand copies sold out instantly. From morning till night, artists and engravers crowded into the study’s adjoining room; as soon as a single page was written, they would draw and engrave just that one page, and as soon as a single volume was completed, they would compile and release just that one volume as a book—yet even so, readers grew too impatient to wait, their demands flying forth urgent as arrows.

When he had released four volumes in this way, Bakin suddenly hit a wall.

"I was a samurai by status," he thought, "yet somehow I'd always scorned martial arts and never studied them." To write tales of martial heroism without knowing combat techniques—this was naturally doomed to reach an impasse.

Though troubled by this realization, being Bakin—a man of inexhaustible vigor—he refused to yield to discouragement. He resolved to present an offering to Asari Matashichirō, the swordsman of that era, enter his school, and devote himself to mastering the sword.

Asari Matashichirō accepted Bakin's earnest petition.

“First, learn the forms.”

Matashichirō said this and personally took his hand to instruct him.
After Bakin had sufficiently practiced the forms, Matashichirō spoke once more.

“You must attain enlightenment into the essence.”
“It means a state of no-mind.”

“By ‘state of no-mind,’ you mean…?”

Bakin did not understand the meaning.

“You must not think when facing your enemy.”

“Wouldn’t that leave one’s entire body riddled with openings?”

“There it is,” Matashichirō nodded,

“The entire body being all openings—that is precisely what’s good.”

“Ah, I see. That must be how it is.”

“The entire body being openings means it’s the same as having no openings at all.”

“Ah,” Bakin widened his eyes.

“When defense becomes disordered, it creates openings.”
“If you don’t protect your body from the start, there can be no openings created.”

“Ah! Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

“Now, the sword—you should adopt a lower stance.”
“Aim for the opponent’s abdomen.”
“It’s not about cutting—it’s about thrusting through.”
“Keep your eyes on your own feet.”
“And then remain perfectly still.”
“When the enemy’s blade grazes your body with a chilling sensation, thrust your sword forcefully.”
“Let them cut the flesh and strike the bone.”
“Do not end up in a mutual strike, no matter what.”
“The clash of swords is hell itself; only by abandoning oneself can salvation be found.”
“That is the song of Ittō-ryū’s secret principles.”
“You are already past middle age.”
“Even if you begin learning swordsmanship now, you can never attain first-rate mastery.”
“You would do well not to waste your time.”

“I am most humbly grateful for your instruction.”

Bakin bowed his thanks and withdrew, though a seed of dissatisfaction took root within him. His comprehension of the secret principles had seemed within reach yet remained elusive. As a result, he found himself unable to advance the next installment of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. Days stretched into weeks of oppressive gloom.

Yet before long, an unforeseen incident would erupt into Bakin’s life like summer lightning. And through this sudden strike, his very spirit would be utterly remade.

One night, Bakin was walking alone along the embankment at Yanagihara.

When a young samurai suddenly emerged from the shadows of the dark willow trees, his face wrapped in a Sōjūrō hood and wearing a black-crested kimono.

Bakin, though feeling uneasy, found himself unable to turn back, so he kept to the edge of the road, muffling his footsteps as he walked softly onward.
Then, just as he had secretly feared, the masked samurai drew near.
The moment they smoothly passed each other, the gleam of a sword flashed.

"He's drawn his sword," Bakin realized, but still he did not run.
Instead, he came to a halt.
Then he quietly drew his blade, kept it lowered in stance, calmly pivoted his body, swung around to face behind him, and stood confronting the street-slaying samurai.

“Hmm, this is it—no-mind state!”

Bakin mentally whispered these words, deliberately avoiding sight of his opponent’s form as he fixed his gaze upon his own feet. He anchored his consciousness below his navel and stood motionless in perpetual silence.

The opposing samurai likewise refrained from attacking. Maintaining his blade in the seigan stance, he remained utterly still—not so much as a tremor disturbing his posture.

The Eight Dog Chronicles progressed.

At that moment, the samurai’s whispering voice reached Bakin’s ears.

“What an astonishing no-mind stance. A mutual strike would be futile—now sheathe your sword.”

At the moment the words ended, there was a clang—the sound of sword guards clashing. The samurai seemed to have sheathed his sword. However, Bakin did not move. He kept his sword poised steadily without attempting to break his immovable stance. He did not attempt to respond—for he feared his voice would tremble.

Then, the samurai’s voice came again.

“I am one who trains in martial arts—Chiba Shūsaku Narimasu.”
“Might I inquire after your full name?”

Yet Bakin gave no reply.
He maintained his state of no-mind.

“Under whose tutelage did you study?”
“Would you honor me with that knowledge?”

The samurai’s voice spoke once more.

“My master is Asari Matashichirō.”

Bakin said this for the first time, but his voice showed no tremor.
At this moment, his mind had become perfectly clear like still water.

“Ah, so it was Lord Asari.”
“That explains everything,” the samurai murmured.

“I concede defeat tonight. Forgive me,” he said—and almost simultaneously came the sound of departing footsteps.

When the sound of those footsteps faded, Bakin raised his head for the first time.
The samurai’s figure was nowhere to be seen.
There was only darkness there.

When he returned to his own house, Bakin immediately took up his brush.
Inukai Genpachi’s exorcism of the monstrous cat—the climactic battle in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*—was completed in an instant, yet from that moment onward, the vast and monumental story continued to be written without interruption for twenty years.