Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

"That's a fight!"

"They're both rōnin groups!"

“Danger, danger! Run, run!”

With a roar, the crowd stampeded and split left and right all at once, yet maintained a watchful perimeter while observing.

The rōnin group’s leader Fukami Jūzaemon and his son Jūsaburō headed one faction’s contingent, followed by twenty to thirty men—all martial arts practitioners of unshakable resolve.

Their opponents were Toki Yosaemon and his band of rōnin—numbering some thirty to forty men.

It was spring at the peak of cherry blossom season, and the location was none other than Asakusa Kannon’s precincts—Edo’s liveliest district even in that era. Midday throngs swelled to their utmost bustle.

“Ah, Lord Toki,” declared Jūsaburō, stepping forward brusquely.

At this time he was twenty-eight years old, fair-skinned and handsome.
His swordsmanship was of the Ittō-ryū school, and he possessed licensed mastery.

“Some days past, one of our faction members—a man named Moroto Shingo—engaged in a duel to the death with your subordinate Lord Yabe Tōjū, arising from a sheath-crossing incident. Yet Lord Yabe, in cowardly fashion, conspired with several men to defeat Moroto Shingo and inflict humiliation upon him. Consequently, Moroto left behind a testament of his resentment and committed seppuku several days ago.”
“Since that time, we have repeatedly sent envoys demanding you hand over Lord Yabe, yet to this day we have received no response.”
“A subordinate’s disgrace is his leader’s disgrace. Now that we’ve met here today by chance, I, Jūsaburō alone, wish to challenge you.”
“Lord Toki, provide your answer immediately.”
“Will you hand over Lord Yabe?”
“Or will you resolutely refuse?”
“If he is handed over, then that will suffice.”
“We will duly mete out punishment ourselves. If he is not handed over, we have no choice.”
“You and I shall cross blades in a fair duel here and now!”
“How about it? Now, your answer!”

He declared with solemn intensity.

“Regrettably, I must refuse.”

The one who said this was Yosaemon. He appeared to be in his mid-forties—a tall, imposing figure with a ruddy face framed by thick sideburns.

"It is true that Yabe Tōjū of our faction did engage in a duel with your subordinate Lord Moroto, but he absolutely did not act in any cowardly manner. The colleague who accompanied him merely wielded his sword in assistance out of comradeship—a natural act when one considers that having formed this group through shared resolve and undertaken joint actions, there is nothing strange about aiding and being aided. Should we hand over Yabe, you would punish him. Having fully acknowledged your words as stated, should I hand Yabe over to you, my honor would be utterly destroyed. I refuse! I refuse! I shall never hand him over!"

He delivered this refusal with equal conviction.

“I see,” said Jūsaburō.

“Upon hearing your words, they are quite reasonable—but we shall not needlessly hand Lord Yabe over to our side,” said Toki Yosaemon.
“Since this matter cannot be avoided, you and I shall settle it with a duel here.”

“Very well,” said Fukami Jūsaburō, though Toki Yosaemon had no choice but to accept.

“Very well, I shall face you.”

Toki Yosaemon then shot a sharp glance at his subordinates,

“You there—no backup needed. We two alone shall cross blades.”
“Is that acceptable? Take heed.”

Though he said this, his eyes signaled the opposite.
His men drew their swords as one and closed in to strike them down.
"Ready? Ready?" he urged.

"Now!" declared Toki Yosaemon as he swept his great sword from its scabbard.

With a powerful grunt, he assumed the high overhead stance—a posture that overwhelmed the opponent.

With a shout of “Now!”, Jūsaburō drew his sword and assumed a mid-level guard stance at the same instant.

A tense silence—both men stood motionless.

Bathed in spring sunlight, the two great swords glittered fiercely—glittering and glittering.

Falling petals danced toward them.

With a roar, the crowd raised a war cry—but immediately held their breath. Then, as if recoiling from the sound itself, the Asakusa precincts fell silent, leaving only the timeless cooing of pigeons standing out distinctly.

Toki Yosaemon too bore a master's license in his school—the Munen-ryū—tempered through decades of battlefield experience, his mind honed to consummate cunning.

He glared at his opponent's stance.

"I mustn't drop my guard.
Impressive technique.
But let's bait this whelp."

Swaying slightly, he took a step back.

Just as intended, Fukami Jūsaburō pressed his attack—

With a guttural grunt muffled in his throat—his battle cry—he simultaneously leaped as he initiated his strike. A flash of steel aimed at the chest—flattening his stance, he thrust one-handed! But a metallic clang rang out: Yosaemon brought his sword down and, with the momentum of a sweeping strike, deflected it three inches in an instant.

Did Jūsaburō drop his sword?

Had he dropped it, Yosaemon would have pressed his advantage with a Munen-ryū rock-splitting strike—aiming to cleave through the shoulder in one swift slash!
Yosaemon watched intently, but contrary to his expectations, Jūsaburō leaped back and—still maintaining the same mid-level stance—remained unshaken.
And in that instant he thought—but Jūsaburō's youthful vigor prevailed as he smoothly advanced.

2

With settled hips, a fixed gaze, and an overwhelming aura of vigor, Jūsaburō smoothly advanced. Pressured by this onslaught, Toki Yosaemon felt compelled to retreat—stepping back three quick paces—before rasping out:

“Now, gentlemen!”

In response to his command, thirty or forty of Yosaemon’s subordinates drew their swords in unison and swarmed around Fukami Jūsaburō.

“Coward!” shouted Jūsaburō’s subordinates. They too drew their blades all at once, pushed through Yosaemon’s men, and with a low hiss formed a single line.

Sixty to seventy swords now stood perfectly aligned in this deadly duel—no wasted cries, only positioned blades gleaming whitely as they caught the spring sunlight while murderous intent permeated the air.

The hatamoto-yakko, the machi-yakko, and the rōnin groups that were equally renowned—their garments splendid and flamboyant, all of imposing stature.
Their numbers combined totaled sixty to seventy men, all poised to clash in a spectacular display amidst the bustling springtime thoroughfare in broad daylight.
It was both terrifying and beautiful.

The crowds kept their distance in a wide circle.
They had all raised a war cry and fled at once, but now retreated even further away, watching intently to see how the battle would unfold.

The ones to be pitied were the shopkeepers.
With a clatter, they slammed the storm shutters closed.
They had done so out of fear of getting caught in the crossfire.
There were several officials as well, but if they were to carelessly intervene, they’d get hurt!
And they could only stare in blank dismay.

Was there truly no one to mediate?
If there were none, a rain of blood would fall—there would be dead and injured.

As the crowd’s commotion subsided, a profound silence claimed the temple grounds. Within this stillness stood the Kannon Hall—straining its massive frame yet appearing to tremble with terror.

And then, at that moment, from the direction of the Nio Gate came a cheerful shout—utterly incongruous with the carnage—intermingled with Buddhist chant singing, reaching all the way to this spot.

They drew gradually closer.

Upon looking, it was lavishly adorned.
A huge temple bell was mounted.

It had been donated from Yoshiwara Twelve Streets.
They had come to bring the temple bell.

The procession came to a sudden stop.
The rōnin groups stood poised.
Gleaming blades were lined up.
There was no way to push through there.

The lively fanfare abruptly ceased, and the spectators who had been watching it held their breath.

Even now, the two rōnin groups pressed forward with swords at the ready; soon their blades would clash, the precincts would be dyed crimson with blood, and the losing side would surely flee.
The winning side would surely give chase.
If this turned into an all-out brawl, there would be injuries among both spectators and innocent bystanders.
The consecrated bell would be defiled, and the many donors might be injured.

“Run away! Run away!” some were shouting.
“First, turn the procession around!” others were bellowing.
It was a dangerous, dangerous moment.

“Move aside, move aside! Let me through!”

Calling out in a voice thick with menace while pushing through the crowd to either side, a man approached the procession.

A man in his thirties with a topknot hairstyle, wearing a flamboyant kimono scattered with cherry blossoms, a single sword in a sharkskin scabbard at his waist, one inro case, horse-sole clogs on his feet, close-set eyebrows and a prominent nose—a portly figure.

With a polite yet guarded demeanor, he swept a piercing gaze over the assembly,

“This has turned into quite the commotion, hasn’t it? You must all be terribly inconvenienced—though I may be a stingy fellow, I’ll bare my shoulders and step in as mediator. But how to put this... I’ll strip naked and dance for you. Therefore, I’ll be borrowing this temple bell. It may get scratched, but at least it won’t be defiled by blood—absolutely not!” No sooner had he spoken than he untied his white Hakata sash, swiftly stripping off his garments until he stood completely naked save for his loincloth. What an imposing physique! Bulging muscles rippled across his arms, his torso taut and waist solidly built, with thick black chest hair growing abundantly. Yet his skin was brilliantly white.

He stretched out his arm and firmly grabbed the temple bell's dragon head, pulling it down. In the blink of an eye, he hooked both hands onto the bell's rim and hoisted it overhead with peerless strength.

He hurled it into the midst of the rōnin group—a thunderous boom shook the ground as the sound lingered stubbornly in the air.

The astonished factions of rōnin scattered swiftly left and right. Seizing the moment, the naked man nimbly leaped in, lifted the bell upright, then flipped it over with a clang. Planting his foot on the bell's dragon head, he stood firm. After surveying left and right with arms spread wide, he began to speak.

“From what I observe—these rōnin groups! The now world-renowned Lord Toki Yosaemon and Lord Fukami—though I know not what grudge moves you—to brawl in Asakusa’s bustling precincts at the height of cherry blossom season! What strange logic guides this? Were Master Kikaku still living, he’d surely compose: ‘Beneath flower-viewing crowds—a forest of naginata? What madness is this?’”
“You’ve brought this quarrel—now hand it over to me!”
“As for me—a labor broker by trade, the spineless foster son of Tomita Seiroku residing in Shiba Hamamatsu-chō—I’m called Yasaemon, just a low-ranking underling. But my boss counts among his sworn brothers Banzuiin Chōbei, Tōken Gonbei, Hōkoma Shirōbei, Yume no Ichirōbei—men of such caliber.”
“Hand it over! Hand it over!”
“Or else...” he said, crossing his arms.

“If you say this mediator lacks gravitas—my naked leap’s proof enough! I’ve long since staked my flesh on this gamble.”
“Chop me into sashimi garnish, offer me up as your blood sacrifice—then have your precious fight to your hearts’ content!”
“While breath remains in me, I’ll not yield an inch—that’s a man’s way! Not one inch!”
“Well then? Will you hand it over? Or carve me into mincemeat? Your answer—let’s hear it!”

The machi-yakko who hones men.
In the midst of dozens of glinting blades, a crisp, thunderous note rang out.

With a thunderous roar—the crowd erupted in commotion, likely involuntarily venting their pent-up frustration at his dashing demeanor.

3

The rōnin groups, their focus stolen, exchanged glances—but there stood veteran Yosaemon.
He considered it quite fortunate.

“Might as well leave this to him.”

Thereupon, he slackly lowered his drawn blade and stepped briskly forward before speaking.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Master Yasaemon. I have long been aware of your esteemed name.”
“First, my gratitude for mediating this conflict—no, rather, since the root cause lies plain before us, we could reach accord if willing.”
“Moreover, should we seek to preserve dignity, we must force settlement however reluctantly.”
“That said—your unparalleled strength! Above all, that magnificent stance taken stark naked! Entrusting this matter to such a man for peaceful resolution honors us indeed. Yet whether Lord Fukami’s faction—”

Then Jūsaburō also stepped forward briskly.

"Nay, I am of the same mind."
"If it's Master Yasaemon's handling, there can be no objection."
"If it were the handling of Shirae-gumi or Kichiya-gumi—those hatamoto-yakko—we would have all manner of objections. But being Lord Chōbei's associates, they are rather allies to us. As for Master Yasaemon's esteemed reputation, we have long been aware of it."
"If Lord Toki is of that mind, then we shall cleanly leave everything to you!"

“Well then… will you entrust this to me…?”

Yasaemon gladly bowed.

“Now then, first and foremost—return your drawn blades to their sheaths.”

“Very well,” said Toki Yosaemon as he surveyed his assembled subordinates, but—

“Now then—given how this matter has been heard by all—come now, please sheathe your swords,” he declared, snapping his own sword neatly into its scabbard.

“To your side as well,” said Jūsaburō, “it would be best to sheathe your swords.” With that, he snapped his sword into its scabbard.

The great bloodbath that should have seen a rain of blood was thus peacefully settled.

“This resolution came about all thanks to this temple bell having been of use to me—auspicious temple bell! Grateful temple bell! Now then, back to your original place!”

Grabbing the dragon head, he hauled it up with a mighty heave, then shouldered it and gently placed it atop the pedestal.

“Come now, everyone—cheerfully make your offerings and donations!”

When he called out, the beautiful women and men burst into cheers of delight, immediately followed by lively festival music, and then pulled out their offerings.
The offerings were successfully collected.

The watching crowd also applauded,

“Lord Bell!
“Master Yasaemon!”

“Boss of the Bell!
“Tsurigane Yasaemon!”

From that time on, people called Yasaemon "Tsurigane Yasaemon," but even such a Tsurigane Yasaemon had to acknowledge as his senior a machi-yakko named Higoi no Tōbei.

4

Though I say 'one day,' it was much later—during the Kanbun era.

“Big brother, are you here?” said Tsurigane Yasaemon as he came visiting.
“Well now, Bell—this is a rare occurrence.”
The one who said this was Higoi no Tōbei, sitting before the long brazier.

Tsurigane Yasaemon sat facing him—completely listless today.
Come to think of it，Higoi no Tōbei too was utterly devoid of energy.
The two men did not speak for a while.
“Lately，the world’s lost its spark.”
It was Yasaemon who eventually spoke.
“Yeah，I suppose so．I’m the same way.”
Higoi no Tōbei also appeared listless.

“Ever since Boss Chōbei ended up like that, everything’s gone dark before my eyes.”

“That Mizuno faction’s alive and kicking just as they are, without facing any punishment at all.”

This was deeply disagreeable to Yasaemon.

“Moreover, ever since Brother Tōken and his men charged in to take down Mizuno but botched it when their plan went awry, the authorities’ methods have come to look downright one-sided and biased.”

Even to this, Yasaemon seemed discontent.

“Yeah, that’s exactly it—downright biased.”

Higoi no Tōbei also seemed discontent,

“Ever since then, the authorities have been treating us like enemies and keeping us down.”

“The majority of our sworn brothers have been sentenced to exile on distant islands.”

“The machi-yakko’s power has plummeted to the ground.”

“That’s also thanks to Mizuno and his Shirahata-gumi cronies.”

“Those bastards—lately they’ve been acting more and more high-handed.”

“Who stalks through the dead of night? Kagatsume Kai? Thieves? Or Sakabe’s Thirty?... The people of Edo have even made songs about them, trembling in fear.”

“The authorities’ partiality has grown truly extreme.”

Both Brother Higoi and Tsurigane Yasaemon suddenly intensified their tone, but—

“Still, we can’t help but find it strange—when Brother Tōken’s group stormed Mizuno’s residence, we were away on a journey and couldn’t join in, but you should’ve been in Edo at that time, yet you didn’t join the faction and instead stayed apart from the comrades—what exactly was the reason for that? Since it’s you we’re talking about, Big brother, I don’t think it was out of cowardice—but we just can’t figure out why.”

As if demanding to hear his true intentions, Yasaemon fixed his gaze intently.
“Hmm, that’s it?” Tōbei said, but then fell silent for a time.

“We clearly foresaw it was bound to fail.”

After a brief pause,

“Given that our opponents are of that sort, it’s too soon to think things will be settled in one move. If the first group fails, we must have a second group prepared.”

“I see,” said Tsurigane Yasaemon, nodding as he heard this.

“So then, Big brother—you’re taking command of the second group to avenge Boss Chōbei and Brother Tōken’s enemies?”

“Our wrath burns hottest for the hatamoto-yakko—Mizuno Jūrōzaemon and his Shirahata-gumi crew above all.”
“We can’t let them keep swaggering about unchecked.”

“By the way, Big brother—what’s the method?”

“It’s here,” he said, thumping his chest.

“Close to my chest—I won’t tell a soul.”

“Won’t you even let us in on it?”

As if to placate the visibly irritated Yasaemon,

“It’s work I can handle alone—pointless bloodshed doesn’t sit right with us.”
“But,” Tōbei said gravely, “if anything happens to me—well, you could ring that Asakusa bell you’re tied to and hold one of those Buddhist memorial services.”
“And when I die, the machi-yakko will fade for sure. That’s why you’ve gotta survive—keep our spirit burning bright. That’s what really matters. But enough gloom.”
“C’mon now—let’s get ourselves a drink!”

5

Tōbei lived in Yanaka.
Therefore he was also called Tōbei of Yanaka.
He was the leader of the Kingyo-gumi.
Therefore he was also called Higoi no Tōbei.
He was tall and well-built with fair skin, possessed a dignified bearing and handsome features, wore lavish garments of light-blue crepe embroidered with crimson carp, styled his hair in a parted pompadour with a goldfish-shaped forelock, and carried a long sword in a lacquered sheath thrust through his obi—truly an imposing figure.

He was from a distinguished family as well.
His biological sister had been patronized by Kasuga no Tsubone and became Yajima no Tsubone—the wet nurse to the fourth shogun Tsunayoshi. Due to this connection, even officials below the town magistrate could not afford to look down on him.
However, though he made use of this influence, Tōbei never acted arrogantly.
He maintained humility within his ambition, and carefulness within his boldness.

However, Boss Banzuiin Chōbei had been deceitfully killed by Mizuno Jūrōzaemon.
Not only that—Tōken Gonbei, Yume no Ichirōbei, Dedeshiri Seibee, Kobotera Kohee, and Chōbei’s most distinguished subordinates, hardened by their single-minded resolve for vengeance, stormed Mizuno’s residence. Yet despite their unfortunate failure and subsequent sentencing to exile on distant islands, the Mizuno faction—owing to their status as Tokugawa direct retainers—faced no reprimand whatsoever and continued to wield their violent authority unabated, which proved intolerably galling.

“By all means, I want to make Mizuno slit his belly and bring down the Shirahata-gumi—first to avenge our boss’s grudge, second to appease our comrades’ anger, third to eliminate the citizens’ anxiety—and put an end to this long conflict between the hatamoto-yakko and machi-yakko.”

This was the long-cherished wish.

However, the opportunity to finally fulfill that long-cherished wish had arrived.

"I would very much like to see these machi-yakko who dare oppose the hatamoto."

It was Shogun Tsunayoshi who had uttered these words.

"Very well," said Matsudaira Izunokami—the renowned Wise Izunokami.

“A man called Tōbei residing in Yanaka—the biological younger brother of Lady Yajima no Tsubone—is said to be Edo’s foremost machi-yakko.”
“I shall arrange to have him summoned to the Ōoku.”

“Ah! I see—that will suffice.”

Thereupon, Tōbei was summoned.

It was Tōbei who was elated.

"Ah! How grateful! My long-cherished wish—could it finally be fulfilled? With the Shogun-sama before my eyes, I'll act exactly as I please!"

Now, as for Tōbei on that day—though he dressed modestly in a black formal kimono with family crests and hemp summer attire—he concealed a nine sun five bu dagger inside his clothing, subtly bid farewell to his wife and children, and attended the Ryōei Ōoku.

Though he was a townsman, as Yajima no Tsubone’s biological younger brother, he was courteously given a seat befitting an honorable samurai status. Looking around, there was a finely woven bamboo screen directly ahead, behind which the shogun seemed to be present.
The vassals were slouching about listlessly.
The announcer was Matsudaira Izunokami—it was an honor beyond his station.

With that, Izunokami called out.

“First, I wish to hear of the machi-yakko’s spirit—answer immediately and concisely.”

“Ha,” said Higoi no Tōbei. “Crush the strong and aid the weak! That is the spirit of the machi-yakko!”

The way he spoke was coolly composed.

“However, according to rumors, there are dissolute machi-yakko who—instead of crushing the strong—oppress the weak and torment citizens.”

“They are of the inferior sort.”

Tōbei showed not the slightest surprise.

“To rephrase—it is my belief that those who are not true machi-yakko merely don the guise of machi-yakko to commit misdeeds.”

His reply grew ever more composed.

“There is the unconventional machi-yakko style that disrupts public morals—how do you respond to this matter?”

Izunokami pressed sharply.

“This is we, the machi-yakko, for self-restraint. To put it plainly—if we were to commit misdeeds through unconventional means, it would immediately draw people’s attention.”
“If we naturally adopt an unconventional style, then even if we wished to commit misdeeds, would we not refrain from them?”

“I see,” Izunokami nodded, but—

“What constitutes your machi-yakko’s trade?”

“Supplying servants to feudal lords and wealthy patrons constitutes roughly our trade.”

“Then would you accept unscrupulous requests from daimyo and wealthy patrons and turn against hatamoto or paupers?”

“That is an outrageous proposition!”

Tōbei straightened his back.

“Our patrons are our patrons—we attend to their various needs—but we do not accept requests that deviate from propriety.”

He declared it admirably.

“Is that so?” Izunokami pondered—
“Then what we call machi-yakko—they’re society’s blossoms! Gallant souls!”
“Precisely as you state.”
“And when speaking of machi-yakko famed in recent times—who would they be?”

In response to the voice, Higoi no Tōbei seized the moment and declared in a booming tone: “The greatest machi-yakko of recent times—Banzuiin Chōbei.”

“Hmph. Is that so? Banzuiin Chōbei?” Izunokami tilted his head. “This Banzuiin Chōbei—though a mere townsman—behaved insolently toward Hatamoto Mizuno Jūrōzaemon and was rightfully cut down for his disrespect. How can such a man be called great?”

“I will speak,” said Higoi no Tōbei, smoothly sliding his knee forward at this moment.

And then he began to speak.

“Banzuiin Chōbei was the chivalrous soul of his generation and leader of the machi-yakko."
"In Edo, every last one of the hundreds—nay thousands—of machi-yakko dwelling there relied upon Chōbei as their head, dedicating their lives to him as if they were his own limbs—not a single exception existed."
“Now, what manner of man was this Chōbei? By birth a samurai; a master martial artist; bold in spirit yet gentle as an elder; brimming with chivalry while entrusting life and death to heaven’s will; in loving his followers, he showed a mother’s tenderness alongside a father’s sternness—truly balancing mercy with justice, generous in dispensing wealth yet unshakably upright.”
“However—” said Higoi no Tōbei, sliding one knee forward again—

“On the other hand, Lord Mizuno Jūrōzaemon—though a hatamoto of the realm—formed a group called the Great and Small Divine Guards, commonly known as the White Hilt Gang. At every turn, he made enemies of us machi-yakko and forced unreasonable demands, picking baseless quarrels both in town streets and theater quarters, causing us great hardship.”
“Naturally, we too had to devise means of self-defense, and it was Chōbei who worried over how these measures inevitably led to constant clashes. As he agonized over finding some path to reconciliation, Lord Mizuno issued a summons—a clear ploy to eliminate Chōbei. When all his subordinates urged him against attending, this Chōbei declared, ‘If discarding my very life can bring peace, there could be no greater joy,’ and resolutely attended. The result unfolded exactly as feared.”
“Lord Mizuno Jūrōzaemon and over a dozen of his White Hilt Gang cut Chōbei to pieces, wrapped his corpse in a coarse straw mat, and cruelly dumped it into the river—yet they now prosper without a shred of punishment, my lord!” As he spoke, Tōbei slid smoothly forward—then pressed his forehead against the tatami.

6

When he raised his forehead from the tatami mat, Tōbei began to speak.

“Chōbei was a true man. In contrast, Lord Mizuno is a cowardly samurai.”

He gulped down a mouthful of saliva—
“I’ve always understood the realm’s governance to prioritize fairness above all! Yet Chōbei—a true man—died for nothing, while that coward Lord Mizuno remains unpunished!”
“Lord Izunokami!”

With fearsome eyes, he glared unflinchingly at Lord Izunokami.

“Your Lordship sits among the shogun’s senior councilors—how can this stand?”
“Answer me!”
“Let me hear it!”

What boldness! What audacity—he said all this before the shogun himself and the senior councilor!

“Hmm,” said Izunokami, but he fell silent as if perplexed over how to respond.

At that moment, a retainer approached Izunokami’s side and seemed to whisper something to him.

“Ha,” said Izunokami, nodding once and smiling.

He called out “Tōbei” with amiable charm.

“The valiant spirit of the machi-yakko has thoroughly pleased His Highness.”
“Therefore,” he said, straightening his posture,

“By His Highness’s edict, you are to perform some extraordinary feat befitting a machi-yakko.”

When he heard this, Higoi no Tōbei replied with evident delight.

“I shall borrow your garden and perform a feat befitting a machi-yakko.”

“Ah, very well. Proceed as you wish.”

Thereupon, Higoi no Tōbei descended to the garden and performed a single splendid extraordinary feat.
As a result of this act, fair governance was implemented: Mizuno was made to commit seppuku, his house abolished, and all members of the White Hilt Gang subjected to land and stipend reductions.

What could this extraordinary feat have been?

Tōbei committed seppuku and died.

“Behold the guts of a machi-yakko!”
As he shouted, he grabbed his entrails and placed them on the ground,
“In the afterlife with Banzuiin Chōbei, I shall await the downfall of Mizuno and the collapse of the White Hilt Gang!”
And thus, he died splendidly.

On the day Higoi no Tōbei's funeral was conducted with great solemnity, the bell tolling at Asakusa Temple produced a strange sound.
It did not resemble the sound of a bell struck by an experienced temple worker.
That was only natural—for it was Tsurigane Yasaemon who struck it.