Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hayashi Fūbō

Head

I “Coward! You coward!!” A loud voice rang out. It was the inner precincts of Edo Castle. It was called the New Guard Station—a large hall where clerks stood ready.

In front of a folding screen depicting storm-tossed rocks, a samurai stood rigidly with squared shoulders, his shout tearing through the air. It was Tobe Ōmi-no-suke—clad in a crested kimono and hemp kamishimo bearing the descending wisteria crest—his pallid face hollow-eyed, lips tinged blue. As Group Leader under Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Chief of the Western Keep Guards, he now gripped his hakama’s knee with rage-trembling hands, thrusting his upper body forward at an aggressive angle. “Y-you... How dare you show such insolence!” “Mr. Kamio! You will apologize—now!”

He stamped on the tatami mats and closed in. At the same time, the seated assembly—each wearing a smug grin—turned maliciously toward the one in the lowest seat. There, Kamio Kyōnosuke pressed both hands down. He was a young samurai who had only recently entered service, serving as one of the clerks. The shoulders of his kamishimo trembled minutely—unbecoming of a samurai—was he perhaps weeping? Kyōnosuke could not even lift his face. Ha! And wave-like laughter boiled up as one from the mouths of the assembled samurai, spreading out in rich ripples befitting early spring. But even if the laughter was serene, it was mockery all the same. It was ridicule. As the group shook with booming laughter, exchanging sharp, satisfied glances toward the lowest seat as if in unison, Kamio Kyōnosuke—now grown even smaller—pressed his forehead to the tatami in such abject shame he seemed ready to vanish on the spot.

“Hmph! Even if you’re some lucky upstart who bagged the Deer of Chūgen, a new appointee remains a new appointee! There’s no need to act so high and mighty—surely even you can manage New Year’s greetings to us veterans!” As usual, gaining momentum from the backing of his seated colleagues, Tobe Ōmi-no-suke remained imposingly fierce. It was this man’s nature to grow even more enraged the longer he stewed in his anger, and when Ōmi-no-suke sneered and declared these words, he appeared utterly overwhelmed by his own fury—now beyond speech. But when he darted glances at their faces seeking agreement, the heads of the assembled Western Keep Guards—Ikenoue Shinrokurō, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, Hyūga Ichigaku, Inomata Kozen, Asaka Keinosuke, Minebuchi Shanosuke, Araki Yōichirō, Nagaoka Tanomo, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Ōsaka Genba, Myōken Katsusaburō, Hori Shōzaemon, Hakata Yūnojō, Kasama Jinpachi, Yazukuri Hikojūrō, and Matsubara Genbei—nodded in unison like pampas grass in an autumn storm, whispering among themselves as their kamishimo shoulders rustled and swayed.

At the same time, voices of various kinds rang out.

“Mr. Tobe’s anger is entirely justified.” “As vulgar gossip goes—men popular with women are often insufferable types—pah!” “That smug face—utterly insufferable!” “Mr. Kamio! You there!” “Silence is rudeness! You should offer proper greetings at once!” “You’ve got a silver tongue to charm Lady Sonoe, but none to answer us—is that how it is?” “On this auspicious New Year—and within the castle no less—even I do not wish to raise my voice thus. Yet truly, your daily conduct has had no shortage of sharp edges that strain the eyes to overlook.”

This was Tobe Ōmi-no-suke once more. Hyūga Ichigaku and Myōken Katsusaburō glared at Kyōnosuke with loathing as they both began to speak at once, their words clashing. “You newcomer—” “At any rate―”

Myōken looked at Hyūga—a silent signal to proceed first. Hyūga closed his mouth and yielded. With a look that said “Pardon the intrusion,” Myōken Katsusaburō gave a curt nod and began: “Be that as it may—the year’s course is set on this New Year’s Day. Should we veterans endure further disrespect from greenhorns, even my magnanimity has limits. This Myōken’s honor cannot abide it.” He swallowed his words theatrically before continuing: “Here and now—no matter what—we demand to hear Mr. Kamio’s intentions—”

He grandly trailed off and passed the moment to Hyūga Ichigaku. Having taken over, Ichigaku began anew—

“For a newcomer like you—” As he began—Booooom! Dooon! It was the signal of eight strikes from the drum tower. From the far end of the long corridor came the rustle of a large group rounding the corner, and a voice announced the Senior Councilors’ departure. With a start, those who had been clamoring moments earlier hurriedly prostrated themselves—then *shh, shh!* While calling out to clear the way, two pages led the procession, holding the official document box slightly above eye level. Behind them came six dignitaries—first Matsudaira Etchū-no-kami, Kuze Yamato-no-kami, Matsudaira Suō-no-kami, Makino Bitchū-no-kami, Iwaki Harima-no-kami, and Mizuno Dewa-no-kami (Personal Attendant for Communications)—each bearing singular offices of high rank. Matsudaira Etchū-no-kami wore a sharp smile on a face like whittled bamboo; Kuze Yamato-no-kami twitched his bushy brows as ever; portly Makino Bitchū-no-kami tilted his chin upward with upturned eyes; short-statured Iwaki Harima-no-kami hunched his bull-like neck into a scowl—tall and gaunt, pale and salt-and-pepper-haired, each face bore its own peculiar stamp. In unison they shook their kamishimo sleeves; swishing their long hakama hems, they retreated single-file like wild geese along the polished wooden corridor.

Mizuno Dewa-no-kami, his cheeks somewhat flushed, brought up the rear with his usual hurried pace.

Two

Next, from the far end of the corridor, another voice rang out. “Junior Councilors, withdraw!” came the call. With this, the Western Keep Guards—who had just begun to raise their heads—hurriedly prostrated themselves once more, as if to lick the tatami. There, the aforementioned Junior Councilors would be arriving. Five or six high officials passed by as a resplendent group, like a gathering of glittering stars. Lord Kōno Etchū-no-kami was immediately recognizable. At the corners of his eyes were his famous black marks. It was said that his tear-like beauty mark earned him the nickname “Weeping Kōno,” but he himself always smiled cheerfully—the exact opposite of this moniker. While whispering something with Weeping Kōno, the one staggering along was Lord Yonekura Tanba-no-kami. His legs were impaired. Immediately after him, Lord Andō Tsushima-no-kami came along silently yet with a bright expression, as though reviewing a Noh chant in his mind. Lord Ōta Wakasa-no-kami waved his hand grandly and quickly caught up. Then, when Lord Ōta whispered something in a low voice, Lord Andō Tsushima-no-kami smiled and nodded repeatedly.

Lagging behind alone, Lord Awaji-no-kami walked forward with detached composure. He cut an oddly otherworldly figure, as though wandering through mountains and fields to admire distant vistas. His tall, slender frame made the New Year’s ceremonial attire hang particularly well. Holding his pale face upright, he walked with a casual sway—as if striking his sleeves with each step—moving at a leisurely pace. He seemed to be waiting for someone. Then from around the corner of the rear corridor emerged a figure. The face was gently rounded. His eyes crinkled in a bright smile. The wrinkles etching his cheeks appeared deeply carved with something human—or perhaps one might say worldly—like the imprint of life experience. Though he seemed ready to smile at anyone, his tightly pressed lips hinted at an unyielding will that tolerated no infringement. He was of average build and height. No—perhaps slightly portly. Viewed from the side, he carried a slight hunch. Both hands tucked neatly into his hakama pleats, he advanced with smooth, shuffling steps. The faint New Year’s sunlight dappled his profile—terribly severe in its austerity—making shadows dance across its planes. He wore a kamishimo bearing the eight-petaled crossed-swords family crest. His gait seemed deceptively slow yet oddly swift. Soon he joined Lord Awaji-no-kami—who appeared to have been discreetly waiting—and after exchanging slight bows, they chuckled in low tones: “Hahaha.” They began walking side by side.

They seemed to be friends. “Splendid weather we’re having—”

Lord Awaji-no-kami began to speak but trailed off. The companion samurai smiled in apparent amusement, “The greatest of blessings.” “However, that would pertain solely to today’s weather, I should think.” “Or perhaps His Majesty’s disposition—”

“Ahahahaha! If you press me that far—it is both.” “It is both.” They had just paid their respects to Shogun Yoshimune and offered their New Year’s greetings. The leisurely mood of the new year, as though urging them to share some jest, had lightened the hearts of the two men.

“You’re quite the mischief-maker, Echizen-no-kami.” “I shall have to admonish that tongue of yours henceforth.” The one exchanging words with this Lord Awaji-no-kami was none other than Ōoka Echizen-no-kami. This was Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, Town Magistrate of Edo South. Senior Councilors, Junior Councilors, Junior Inspectors, proceeding through the Temple/Shrine Magistrate, Finance Magistrate, and Town Magistrate—these are collectively called the Forty-Eight Highs. Among these Forty-Eight Highs, interposed between major feudal lords who ruled provinces and castles, stood Ōoka Echizen-no-kami—a man whose status was merely that of a single hatamoto, yet who had always been held in both first and second regard, receiving exceptional treatment.

To Lord Awaji-no-kami’s remark, he could only manage a stifled chuckle before falling silent. Just as he approached the corridor before the new guard post and saw the guards uniformly bowing with hands pressed to the floor, he passed through with an easygoing air, dipping his head slightly. This seemed to be the last of them, with no further footsteps following. Tobe Ōmi-no-suke and his companions—Ikenoue Shinrokurō, Hannō Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, and others who had been counting tatami seams—rose in relief and were just about to resume tormenting their new junior, Kamio Kyōnosuke, when—Ahem! Ahem! The sound of a cough flowed down the corridor like a herald’s announcement.

It was the Senior Inspector.

When they heard the cough, the palace guards abruptly straightened their postures and stiffened. Senior Inspector Kondō Sagami-no-kami Shigesato—dreaded as the foremost “Thunder Old Man” within Edo Castle—was approaching that very spot.

III Wearing a kamishimo bearing the bestowed hollyhock crest and a circular fan crest, stooped at the waist with his ruddy forehead creased by wave-like wrinkles and hair pure white, Kondō Sagami-no-kami was a seventy-seven-year-old man. He advanced with repeated throat-clearings—ahem ahem—that carried no phlegm. This served as announcement: "I pass through now," granting those slouching time to straighten postures, those misbehaving moments to cease and feign innocence. The Senior Inspector’s role stood among Edo Castle’s most arduous—for though the shogun’s residence in name, in function it equaled a modern government office. With multitudes crowding its halls to conduct affairs, unpleasant matters inevitably surfaced over time. Yet to censure every trifle—needle-tip offenses made public—would yield naught but endless violators. Grave breaches of the Hundred Articles warranted full enforcement and punishment—this being the Inspector’s true duty—but slouching knees, idle chatter, stifled yawns defied easy policing. Discovering such required reprimand by duty’s decree, yet pursuing all left days insufficient—thus successive Inspectors devised this cough through necessity’s crucible. When traversing Edo Castle during entry or exit, the Senior Inspector marched emitting these dry ahems—ahem ahem—particularly near clusters of young samurai where coughing intensified. Hence castle retainers knew: at first ahem heard—signaling approach—they nudged peers to sit upright, adjusted collars in unison, tugged sleeves straight, tidied stations, suddenly busied with documents—fleeting yet effective discipline through one cough’s power. Kondō Sagami-no-kami Shigesato especially—summoned as Inspector at thirty-one and serving till seventy-seven—became Edo Castle’s living institution. As if life spent throat-clearing—just as guards fixed formal faces thinking Here he comes—he passed the front corridor coughing with redoubled vigor.

He worked his mouth silently and let both hands drop into his sleeves. As this was New Year’s and cold—and being an old man—he carried a warming stone within his sleeves to warm his hands. He paused briefly and surveyed the assembled guards at the new post as if through haze—just as one thought he might speak, he departed without a word, leaving behind only a loud cough.

If Senior Inspector Kondō Sagami-no-kami had exited just a little later, that commotion would not have occurred. At the very least, such bloodshed might have been preemptively prevented by that telltale cough echoing from afar.

It was January 1st. It was an era of unbroken peace under His Lordship the Shogun. It was the grand ceremony of the New Year. Ōte Geba-saki had been swept clean, with not a single speck of dust remaining. From the seventh hour of dawn, clans, hereditary daimyo, and officials with stipends of three thousand koku or more arrived in succession to offer New Year’s greetings and present their sword catalogs. Seasonal robes were bestowed upon the Major Counselors, Middle Counselor and Lieutenant Generals, and Fifth Rank court nobles—two garments each. A ceremony featuring rabbit clear soup and tea was held. The O-Shiroshoin accompanied this. After the Three Tokugawa Houses completed their greetings, the Collateral Line Attendants, Ōhiroma Hereditary Retainers, Yanagi-ma Attendants, Yoriai Guards, and Kōwaka Kanze Tayū proceeded in succession—each adjusting their formal attire—to attend the shogun’s New Year’s audience.

It was indeed a scene straight out of a painting.

Warfare was already a tale of the distant past. The world moved at a leisurely pace. It seemed to proclaim that life held no meaning unless one devised grandiose ceremonies for such occasions—establishing protocols and making great commotions. Townspeople made their New Year visits according to their respective stations. Every shop in Edo had shuttered its doors to rest. Drunken revelers staggered forward. Pilgrims streamed toward auspicious directions. Crowds climbed Ōkawa River’s bridges and scaled urban heights to worship the year’s first sunrise. Through Suzaki in Fukagawa, this human current flowed in an unbroken straggling line. Such was the unbearably carefree spirit of the age.

A carefree life was all well and good—or to put it another way, one might say it was unbearably dull. Above all, officials who faced no want thanks to their guaranteed hereditary stipends—provided they avoided major misconduct—naturally filled their ample leisure by amusing themselves with trivial torments of others. They acted like meddlesome mothers-in-law, though none realized they were doing so. They considered it a matter of personal honor—nay, regarded it as a grave affair of state duty.

In short, it was none other than Tobe Ōmi-no-suke leading the palace guards as a group. Admittedly, there were various circumstances behind this, but they had long taken collective pleasure in harshly treating Kamio Kyōnosuke, the newly appointed officer. It was this Kyōnosuke’s failure to formally offer New Year’s greetings to the assembled guards today that prompted Group Leader Tobe Ōmi-no-suke to voice the first complaint. However, the moment Kyōnosuke entered the guard post, he performed a proper greeting. At that time, they had been chattering away noisily and feigning ignorance, only to start saying such things afterward as if they had just become aware of Kyōnosuke’s presence. In short, it was a baseless accusation—Kyōnosuke remained silently prostrate without a word. And yet, no matter how much this side alone raged, if the opponent remained silent, it wouldn’t escalate into a fight. And so, with the conviction that pushing this far would provoke anger—and that such anger would prove entertaining—Ōmi-no-suke bellowed.

“You coward—!” And after shouting, Ōmi-no-suke found himself genuinely enraged.

Four Now, the elderly Senior Inspector left the castle as well, taking his customary cough with him. Afterward, a brief stillness settled over the scene. The palace guards finally began to relax; voices abruptly rose here and there, and when they turned to resume their interrupted torment of Kyōnosuke, they found all others had already lifted their heads—yet Kyōnosuke alone remained with hands pressed against the tatami like a flat spider.

Pulling at their sleeves and exchanging glances, the group surrounded Kyōnosuke.

Yanasaku Hikojūrō spoke in an unpleasantly unctuous tone. “Mr. Kamio, are you dozing off?” “Ahahaha! I’d love to share in that first dream of yours, but here in the palace—if you’re truly so exhausted—I won’t speak ill of it.” “Why don’t you head down from the castle and get some rest?” “Fatigue?” Nagaoka Tanomo let out a shrill cry. “Oh, so you’re *fatigued*, are you?” “Between Lady Sonoe and the guardhouse butterfly, even someone like you must be fatigued, Mr. Kamio.”

The remark was vulgar. Two or three men burst into laughter, but Tobe Ōmi-no-suke wore an unmistakable look of disgust and stood glaring down at Kyōnosuke as if fueled by even greater hatred. Lewd talk was a fixture of guard posts, and Ōmi-no-suke was one of these men. Ōmi-no-suke’s disgusted expression had not been prompted by the vulgar tone of Nagaoka’s earlier remark. That was because it served to further stoke the jealousy toward Kyōnosuke smoldering in Ōmi-no-suke’s heart.

Sonoe was the daughter of Izumiya Gohei—who ran a pawnbroker and oil merchant business in Kanda Mikawachō Sanchōme—and a renowned beauty of the age under her real name, O-Sono. The reason why she came to be called Lady Sonoe, became associated with newly appointed guard Kamio Kyōnosuke, and repeatedly became the subject of gossip in this very palace guard post was ultimately this: Group Leader Ōmi-no-suke and the new ledger guard Kamio Kyōnosuke had competed for the affections of the townsgirl O-Sono.

Izugo was a major establishment in Kanda Mikawachō said to possess a personal fortune of 250,000 ryō. He was a self-made millionaire born in Kashiwazaki, Echigo Province. When he left his hometown, he had not a penny to his name, but by collecting scraps of paper and broken straw sandals, he gradually built his fortune to reach his present state. He employed many servants, and in Edo, there was no one who did not know the name Izugo—but what made this Izugo famous was not merely his vast wealth, but rather his twenty-year-old daughter O-Sono, whose name had become known for occupying the top spot on the rankings of great beauties. It was a time when many idle hands abounded. The practice of creating various rankings flourished greatly, and among them, the beauty rankings in particular repeatedly sent all of Edo into a frenzy of excitement. O-Sono held the top position on that beauty ranking. Even those with no financial need came from distant places to pawn items at Izumiya’s shop just to glimpse her face. They came to buy oil two or even three times daily. Thanks to this, the shop prospered ever more—but it was here that Izumiya Gohei began to ponder.

I was originally of peasant stock. And so he had become master of a grand merchant house in Edo—a city where fortunes could be made from mere dirt—but now resolved to somehow wed his daughter O-Sono to a samurai of repute and secure warrior-class kin. From families equal to or even superior to his own—if they were merchant houses—there would be adoptive heirs coming as plentifully as falling rain. After all，Edo’s foremost beauty boasted a dowry of 250，000 ryō. The pool of candidates for adoption—whether self-recommended or nominated by others—was vast and varied.Yet taking in pampered second or third sons of wealthy families would only invite decline，just as an old senryū went：“The founder races past Iseya’s shop for new bonito；his heir finds fish waiting at Iseya’s door；by generation three，‘For Sale’ signs hang gaudily.” Ruin became inevitable. Rather than risk this，he resolved—after consulting wife Okoyo—to select promising clerks from his shop instead，have them marry into other families，and adopt them as couples. Since O-Sono would leave regardless，he determined to wed her to an unimpeachable samurai.Leveraging connections with Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami—Nishinomaru Palace Guards Commander—he secured an audience and fervently petitioned for this union.

Though they were townspeople, they were wealthy. Moreover, O-Sono’s reputation had spread even among the samurai class, so while Lord Yamashiro-no-kami had taken on the matchmaking as a whim, he found himself perplexed by the sheer number of young samurai seeking introductions to propose marriage. However, in the end, after the two most ardent suitors were winnowed down and competed to the last, the matter had only recently been settled. Tobe Ōmi-no-suke’s rank was higher, but he was too old. In contrast, Kamio Kyōnosuke was not only young but also, most importantly, came from an excellent family. But first and foremost, if O-Sono was Edo’s foremost beauty, then Kamio Kyōnosuke of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards was Edo’s—no, perhaps Japan’s—foremost handsome man. That fact could also be understood from how Izugo and his wife had taken a liking to him even before their daughter O-Sono did.

They made a well-matched couple. Because they were said to resemble imperial dolls, the parents began making a fuss over the novelty of placing two beautiful things side by side. Admittedly, Kyōnosuke had only a young brother named Kotarō and no parents of his own—so when they spoke of “parents,” they meant only those from the Izumiya household—but it went without saying that the two were deeply in love. For his part, Lord Yamashiro-no-kami had taken a particular interest in Ōmi-no-suke and thus showed little enthusiasm for advancing this marriage. However, as there was no reason to openly oppose it either, he acquiesced to Izugo’s request: appointing an elderly vassal under his command named Nami Ichiemon as a stand-in guardian, changing her name to Sonoe, and sending her off to the Kamio residence near Tsukudohachiman in Ushigome.

It had been in the twelfth month of the previous year. Not even ten days had passed. It was no wonder that Ōmi-no-suke, having lost in love, took every opportunity at the office to torment Kyōnosuke, who was likely immersed in the joys of the new household. Moreover, it was only natural—and by no means uncommon—for guards currying favor with superiors to join in mocking newcomer Kyōnosuke. However, on this New Year’s Day, it seemed to have gone a bit too far.

Five

It had been a bit excessive.

Asaka Keinosuke—a newcomer to the fray—stepped forth and abruptly peered up at Kyōnosuke, who remained kneeling with face still lowered and hands planted rigidly against the tatami.

“Finally awake, are we?” “Mr. Tobe is in a particularly foul temper, as you can see—you’d best apologize.” “Apologize properly and perform the New Year’s greetings ritual to all of us. That’d be best.” Kyōnosuke remained motionless as if asleep, stubbornly silent and rigid. He stayed prostrated just as before. “Leave him be, leave him be.” “Why bother? He’s nothing but an effeminate wretch!” A dark-complexioned man named Inomata Kozen interjected from nearby. “It’s infuriating because we think he’s a samurai—but if you see him as some doll dressed in *kamishimo* and *daisho*, meant for a woman’s amusement, then *we’re* the ones being childish for even engaging with him!”

He put on a sanctimonious expression and surveyed his surroundings. It had the semblance of mediation. It would have been better had someone seized the moment to end it here, but Ōmi-no-suke—who had underestimated Kyōnosuke from the start and remained utterly overconfident—was not one to relent. He strode briskly forward, came to an abrupt halt directly before Kyōnosuke, knelt on one knee, and—looming over him—proceeded to dredge up even matters long settled. “The other day as well.” “On every occasion of the relief guard shift, you have claimed confusion with the daytime shift—have you not failed to attend early morning duty even once?” “However attached you may be to your newlywed wife, do you think you can fulfill your duties as a guard by dawdling each morning, reluctant to part from her?” “Not only that—you’ve skipped evening guard duty two or three times now, no doubt because you refuse to spend even a single night apart from your new wife! Ah, well—a man so dazzled by gold that he marries a merchant’s daughter and struts about smugly would naturally have notions as lofty as the heavens compared to rough brutes like us.” “Well now!” “Say something, damn you!”

He was about to lunge at him.

There were three types of guard duties. Relief Guard Shift, Daytime Guard Shift, and Evening Guard Shift—these were the three groups. The Relief Guard Shift went on duty early in the morning and received the watch from those who had been on duty the previous night. The Daytime Guard Shift reported before the Senior Councilors and Junior Councilors entered the castle, while the Evening Guard Shift—essentially night duty—required attendance at the Hour of the Monkey (around 3 PM) and remained stationed in the castle until the morning Relief Guard Shift arrived. Each group consisted entirely of six men who rotated duties, and Tobe Ōmi-no-suke was their Group Leader. He could reorganize guard groups and arrange shifts however he saw fit. This Ōmi-no-suke bore a grudge against Kyōnosuke. Without Kyōnosuke’s knowledge, [Tobe] would alter shift assignments or deliberately withhold crucial notifications—acts that repeatedly led to various inconveniences, each time resulting in Kyōnosuke being publicly humiliated before the entire assembly—a development that could almost be called inevitable. Considering this, it might be said such conflicts were bound to manifest in some form sooner or later—not merely as this day’s unfortunate course of events.

In any case, Kamio Kyōnosuke was a resilient young man whose composure belied his delicate features. The more he was relentlessly provoked before the crowd—harassed with mounting intensity—the calmer Kyōnosuke became, so much so that even he found it strange. While thinking of something entirely unrelated, he simply kept his hands pressed against the floor and his gaze lowered. That demeanor, precisely because he possessed such striking beauty, must have appeared as though he were being wronged. Above all, their fatal miscalculation lay in not knowing Kyōnosuke was a master swordsman of the Kyoshin school.

“Say something!” “Coward!” “Can’t you speak?!” Ōmi-no-suke pressed closer, his lips white. “He’s crying.”

Ikenami Shinrokurō jerked his chin at Kyōnosuke. “Not a single response to an elder—Ugh, what are we to do!” “Well, well—the man himself is crying.” “What’s this? Are you crying?”

When they looked, sure enough, the shoulders of the prostrated *kamishimo* were trembling faintly. “Well now, even a doll sheds tears?” “This is rich! Take a look at this!” “That’s right—pull him up and let’s see his face!” “Never mind—grab his topknot and pull him up!”

The one who reached out and grabbed Kyōnosuke’s hair was Ōsako Genba. With a forceful tug, he pulled him up. A stifled, guttural sound—kuh... kuh... kuh...—escaped Kyōnosuke’s mouth. Ōsako wrenched Kyōnosuke’s face toward the group. They had expected to see a beautiful tear-streaked face, but Kyōnosuke was not crying.

He was laughing. As if he found it utterly, irresistibly funny, Kyōnosuke finally burst into loud, unrestrained laughter.

While the hair remained in Ōsako’s grasp, it was a carefree laugh.

He faced straight ahead and continued laughing insolently. This Kyōnosuke was a Kyōnosuke none of them had ever seen before. Dumbfounded, even Ōmi-no-suke remained silent for a time, staring. “Care to taste this blade?”

Kyōnosuke, still laughing cheerfully, looked around at those surrounding him and tapped the hilt of his sword. He stood up. Startled, Ōsako had already released his grip on the topknot. Like a different person—roughly pushing through the guards while smiling—Kyōnosuke briskly left the guard post.

They all watched him go in stunned silence.

Six

“Hah!” As if snapping back to his senses, Tobe Ōmi-no-suke kicked up the tatami and tried to pursue Kyōnosuke. His face twisted in rage. Minebuchi, Hori, Araki, and those flanking him moved to block his path. “Kamio has clearly lost his mind.” “The act of a coward.” “The medicine may have overstepped its purpose.” “To give chase now would be folly.” They chorused variations of this counsel. But Ōmi-no-suke shook off the clamoring guards and nearly cleared the threshold. That he had provoked this conflict lay plain before all witnesses. And yet I couldn’t even compel that whelp to show proper deference—instead suffering his final insolence. Given this progression, matters cannot rest here. The conviction gripped him relentlessly.

“That bastard threatened to make me eat his blade—he slammed his sword!” “Let go!” “I’ll drag him back and grind his nose into the floorboards!” “Let go!” He finally pushed through the group and left. Two or three people made to follow after him. Before them, Kasama Jinpachi and Matsubara Genbei spread their arms wide and stood blocking their path.

“You must not forget—this is the castle precincts!” This worked. They had not forgotten this was the castle precincts or that it was New Year’s Day, but Kyōnosuke and Ōmi-no-suke, having left one after the other, left behind an air of unease. However, their opponent was after all that Kyōnosuke. It was likely nothing serious, but if they were seen quarreling somewhere conspicuous, it might disgrace the entire new guard post. But this too proved mere groundless worry upon reflection. One of them was Group Leader Mr. Tobe. Surely Mr. Tobe wouldn’t act so foolishly on momentary anger. Having too many people roaming the corridors would cause trouble; they should relax here with idle talk while awaiting dismissal. When dissuaded, they all settled back into their seats at the guard post.

Fundamentally, the bullying of Kyōnosuke was meant to curry favor with Ōmi-no-suke. Thus, when the instigator himself, Ōmi-no-suke, was gone, they naturally forgot about Kyōnosuke, and the conversation rapidly shifted to other topics. The Komaba bird hunt, the difficulty of serving as the clapper during that event, horses, sake, tobacco, swords, women—and so on, and so on. At times, the memory of Kyōnosuke—who had come at the end, laughed in return, and left—would return to someone’s mind and abruptly become the seed of an uneasy silence. Somehow, it could be considered that they had misjudged that Kyōnosuke. Had they gone too far?—the faintest hint of that thought brushed against them.

And Ōsako brought Kyōnosuke back into the conversation again.

“He was laughing,” said Ōsako. “That bastard. Laughing like a madman. Even I got startled and let go of the topknot I was holding. No—it was a bold laugh.” “What boldness could there be?” retorted a samurai. “You’re using your own measure to overestimate that coward, Mr. Ōsako.” “Is that so?”

“Exactly.” “Even if that weakling were to lament with righteous fury, it’d amount to nothin’ more than a puppet’s tears.” “What could he possibly do?”

It was the moment when Araki Yoichiro declared this conclusively.

On the side of the room, facing the garden, there was a window.

Through the tightly closed shoji screens peered a bleak white sunlight. The shoji was flung open from outside by someone’s hand, and in that instant, a large, round object came flying through with a faint whoosh trailing behind it, landing right in the middle of the group’s discussion. It rolled clattering toward Yokochi Hankurō’s knees. It resembled a vivid red pumpkin, entirely covered in hair. Hakata Yūnosuke grabbed the disheveled locks and lifted it up. Dangling it by the hair, he understood at once. A head—a human severed head. It was the severed head of Tobe Ōmi-no-suke, who until moments ago had been alive and talkative, energetically leaving the room.

Seven

“Ah, Father should be back any moment now, so please make yourself comfortable and wait—”

O-Tae stirred up the buried embers in the long hearth while saying this to the guest. Then, while handling the fire tongs, she cast a glance at the man.

The guest was a young man. He sat rigidly beside the long hearth, his knees—clad in dark blue *fundoshi*—neatly aligned and appearing uncomfortable. O-Tae began to regret having let a strange male guest into the house while she was alone. Not knowing his purpose but wishing Father would return soon, she finished adding charcoal to the hearth, hurried out of the family room, and stood solitary in the kitchen. Yet the beautiful face of the guest—handsome enough to be mistaken for a woman—had burned itself into the depths of O-Tae’s eyes and refused to fade.

It was the afternoon of Seven Herbs Day—seven days since New Year’s Day, when Tobe Ōmi-no-suke, Group Leader of the Western Keep’s Guard, was beheaded by an unknown assailant in the castle garden, his severed head thrown into the new guard post, and simultaneously, the young duty-samurai Kamio Kyōnosuke absconded.

At the home of Kabedatsu, the plasterer in Shitaya Kuromonchō, the guest who had come saying he wished to meet Master Kabedatsu was a plasterer by trade and a splendidly handsome man. At that moment, Kabedatsu was away attending a ridge-raising ceremony nearby with his apprentices, so his daughter O-Tae went out to receive the guest—who, as mentioned earlier, was a man so strikingly handsome it could make water drip. Among undercoating plasterers, there were not a few dashing fellows who could effortlessly make women of the lower city swoon. Moreover, given that Kabedatsu of Shitaya was so renowned among his peers, rogue drifters—plasterer warriors on training journeys who fancied themselves challengers with nothing but a trowel swallowed like a bowl of rice—would come barging in for cross-style duels, or unexpected apprentices bearing referral letters from comrades in distant provinces would arrive. Thus, after her mother’s death, O-Tae—who managed all household affairs for her father—had been strictly ordered by Kabedatsu to admit and seat any visitor who came during his absence, no matter who they might be. Moreover, Kabedatsu also performed official duties. He was entrusted with a jitte and was now renowned as a prominent figure in that line of work in Edo. Whatever the case might be—with incidents occurring at any hour and visitors of all sorts potentially arriving—it had been decided that even when Kabedatsu left the house, all guests would be received by O-Tae and made to wait. So even now, when this handsome craftsman stood in the earthen-floored entryway and requested an audience, O-Tae had gone out to meet him as usual, wiping her hands on her apron—but at the man’s excessive beauty, she nearly let out a cry of surprise. She immediately wondered why an actor had come here. No—even among actors, there probably wasn’t one like that—O-Tae now stood in the kitchen, blankly lost in such thoughts.

From the very morning of New Year’s Day，all of Edo was turned upside down in an uproar．After all，it was a sword attack within the castle．Moreover，this was no mere stabbing or slashing—on an auspicious New Year’s Day，a group leader’s head was sent flying，so it was only natural that an immense uproar ensued．Within Edo Castle，even if one were to draw their sword by a mere three sun without any reason—so dictated by the so-called One Hundred Articles—the individual would immediately be ordered to commit seppuku，and their household would be abolished．If someone were found even slightly drawing their sword without consideration for explanations or excuses，they would be thrown into a netted palanquin at Hirakawaguchi and sent back to their estate．To compound matters，an official’s head literally went flying．Moreover，the person suspected to be the perpetrator fled the scene and vanished without a trace．Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami was ordered into house confinement until the case’s resolution due to failure to maintain proper oversight．All samurai retainers also underwent investigations regarding their respective reasons．First and foremost，they had to capture Kamio Kyōnosuke and interrogate him；given that this occurred on New Year’s Day within the shogunate’s domain，if Kyōnosuke was found justified，he had to commit seppuku—if not，they had to sentence him to execution．From Kamio’s residence at Tsukudo Hachiman，Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe and even his younger brother Kotarō were summoned and underwent questioning．Starting with Izumiya Gohei in Kanda Mikawachō，Sonoe’s family home，arrangements were thoroughly delivered by Ōoka Echizen-no-kami to all other places where Kyōnosuke was thought likely to appear．Wanted posters circulated to all inspectors and police assistants across the city，while as a separate task force—dispatched from Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami，who had been placed under house confinement after Ōmi-no-suke’s murder and now ground his teeth in frustration—various retainers and associates disguised as low-ranking ruffians spread throughout Edo，covertly sniffing out Kyōnosuke’s trail．

Seven days had passed, yet peril remained at its peak. Where had he been hiding until now? This Kyōnosuke—clad in striped workman’s garb with leggings and apron, hair altered, hemp-soled sandals tilted forward as if poised to stride—now stood fully transformed into a craftsman’s guise. At the house in Kuromonchō, waiting for Kabedatsu, he exhaled tobacco smoke rings in steady succession.

On the main street, the sound of rhythmic work chants drifted over.

Compassion Wedged Between Cedar Planks

I

In Shitaya Chōjamachi, there was an old-established brush and paper merchant called Fudeya Kōbei. A renowned large shop that supplied brushes, paper, ink, and other writing materials to the scribe’s office in the guard quarters of Edo Castle. Having recently purchased the adjacent plot and hurriedly completed its framework, Fudeya Kōbei’s newly constructed building now stood finished. Owing to his role as contractor for all plastering work, Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō also appeared at today’s ridge-raising ceremony, accompanied by two or three apprentices.

It was precisely Seven Herbs Day. This was truly what one would call perfect weather. A single black kite traced leisurely circles in the deep blue sky. Whether imagined or not, even the wind tugging at the sleeves of passersby seemed to carry the sun’s motion—a gentle promise of early spring. Women’s New Year visits were to commence after the seventh day passed. Townswives and daughters, each dressed in their finest, walked through the streets in small groups accompanied by apprentices who carried spring-yellow furoshiki bundles slung around their necks. It was a tranquil scene.

To the tune of “Seven herbs, shepherd’s purse—the birds of China—” came the *thud-thud*! Thud-thud! The rhythmic thudding of chopping boards striking in time to auspicious customs could be heard rising cheerfully from the rows of houses. The shopfront of Fudeya in Chōjamachi was overflowing with a crowd so dense that the street became impassable—true to its reputation as the ridge-raising ceremony of the ward’s wealthiest household. Small red-and-white ceremonial rice cakes are scattered. Small grains twisted in paper are scattered. Greedy folks swarmed out in full force, intent on gathering them up.

On the second-floor scaffolding, the regular foreman—who had stood up holding a ceremonial tray—grabbed handfuls and aimed downward: *scatter!* Each time he did this, the crowd pushed, kicked, dove—until finally, women and children were trampled underfoot, wailing. A fight erupted at the sight of someone from another ward. Goodness gracious, what a tremendous uproar. Under the eaves, a pole—marked with three thick, jet-black ink lines each at the top and bottom on a four-sun square timber—stood reverently propped up. It was a ceremonial object for the ridge-raising. In the center, white paper was wrapped around it, a sacred rope was stretched taut, and ceremonial cords were tied. In addition, various other items hung from this square timber. First: a mirror, a comb, a hairpin, a hairpiece, and others. Moreover, cotton cloths in four colors—black, green, red, and yellow—hung ceremoniously like decorations adorning the horses of the year’s first shipment. Even today, one might occasionally encounter such practices in rural areas, but in the unhurried Edo period, people would fuss excessively over such matters and observe them with utmost strictness.

The back was also packed with craftsmen, a jostling crowd. In the dirt-floored area, ceremonial sake had been poured out in a row with ladles placed alongside. Large platters of simmered dishes and lacquered tubs of glutinous rice were lined up. For non-drinkers, there were rice cakes.

They drank and ate with great gusto, and before long, each carrying souvenir boxes, they bid farewell to Master Kōbei one after another and headed home.

Standing in the spacious kitchen and personally attending to each guest was a bald man in his sixties—none other than Fudeya Kōbei. With brown silk wrapped around his neck, today alone he shuttled between the inner rooms and the kitchen, single-handedly wielding command. His son Kōkichi was a pale-complexioned, effeminate man nearing thirty. Relaying his father’s commands, he darted about like a kitten while issuing orders for miscellaneous tasks to the numerous maids and manservants. “Young Master’s drink-pouring leaves me quite obliged, it does.” “Oh no, I’ve already partaken without reserve, it does—oh my! Why, Master Kōbei, congratulations on this auspicious day.” “What a splendid affair—no, rather, it’s quite the talk of the town, it is.” “When it comes to this construction project of yours, Master Fudeya—no flattery intended, heh—even the likes of Mr. Mitsui and Mr. Kōnoike, well, not to speak out of turn, but they couldn’t pull off such extravagance! Heh heh—it’s got all Edo’s craftsmen talking, it does.” “heh.”

As the craftsmen showered them with such remarks, Kōbei and his son deftly parried each compliment from left and right, yet still beamed with unmistakable delight. Wading through the crowd, Kabedatsu exchanged greetings with Kōbei, then left behind his apprentices—who clung to the sake and rice cakes with no intention of departing—and exited Fudeya’s shop alone.

The group, buoyed by the hospitality sake, teased the women making New Year visits coming from the opposite direction while loudly chanting work songs as they moved along.

Bright sunlight flooded the streets, and the shadows of the kadomatsu swayed as though flickering flames.

Maddening cheer—. A stray shuttlecock that had flown off course from somewhere nimbly landed on Kabedatsu’s collar. The girl chased after it and began making a commotion. Kabedatsu grinned, grabbed it, and tossed it back.

Navy haramaki layered with stylish cascading stripes—his stern countenance exuded the bearing of a true master craftsman.

Kuromonchō. In front of his home. As he tried to open the lattice door and peered inside, a pair of unfamiliar straw sandals were lined up as if awaiting his return.

II Glaring sharply—he shot a sidelong glare at the guest waiting in the parlor and tried to slip past into the back rooms. But at that moment, something suddenly flashed through Kabedatsu’s core—and he stiffened. Involuntarily, his feet stopped. The guest was inside the room; Kabedatsu was in the narrow corridor outside the parlor—yet their gazes met. Silence. They stood face to face.

The young man dressed like a craftsman—Kamio Kyōnosuke—was someone Kabedatsu felt he had seen somewhere. A familiar face! A familiar face!—In an instant, a whirlwind of deliberation had raced through Kabedatsu’s mind. Snap! He remembered! Snap! And then it hit him. That was him! Ever since he had beheaded Tobe Ōmi-no-suke—Group Leader of the Nishinomaru Guard—on New Year’s Day, thrown that severed head into the duty room, and fled, Kamio had either burrowed underground or vanished without a trace—Kamio Kyōnosuke! Hmm—these days, with the intense official investigation, detailed wanted posters had been circulating.

That wanted poster and this young punk! Though his clothing and appearance had changed, there was no mistake in my eyesight. Moreover, a man that handsome—no matter how vast Edo was—couldn’t be found everywhere. That’s him! This bastard was none other than Kamio Kyōnosuke—the fugitive who’d been outwitting every damn officer in Edo! The moment he realized this, Kabedatsu—who had momentarily stiffened with a sharp inhale—relaxed his guarded posture while keeping hands tucked in sleeves, letting a faint smirk twist the corner of his mouth.

“Bastard!” “Your reckoning’s come!” Did he come here knowing Kabedatsu held an official jitte license—or in ignorance? To march straight into the heart of this airtight dragnet, and of all people, show his face at Kabedatsu’s place in Kuromonchō—like a summer bug flying into flames! This bastard’s luck had finally run dry— Kabedatsu stayed silent, glaring—! He stared into Kyōnosuke’s eyes with scorching intensity.

Kabedatsu’s primary occupation was that of a plasterer, but he also served the authorities in an official capacity on the side. As a police assistant entrusted with the red cord, he was now an unrivaled sharp-eyed investigator in Edo. Had Kyōnosuke come to Kuromonchō knowing this fact—or had he appeared here willingly, thinking Kabedatsu merely a plasterer, intending to blend in among the undercoating workers and evade Hatchōbori’s watchful eyes?

A considerable amount of time had passed.

Silence persisted. Both had hardened their eyes in a mutual glare—but as for Kyōnosuke? When he looked, Kabedatsu—who had climbed up to where his daughter was keeping watch alone—returned home. That much was fine, but the moment Kabedatsu caught a glimpse of him, his expression turned fierce, and now he stood blocking the way. For one with a guilty conscience—this was it! Have I been exposed as the fugitive Nishinomaru Guard?! If I am reported and apprehended here and now, all seven days of grueling hardship and concealment will come to nothing. If he made even the slightest suspicious move, he would thrust with the hidden short sword—his only option—and then flee immediately. Unconsciously, Kyōnosuke raised one knee into the stance of the Kyo Shin-ryū iaijutsu school, his killing intent radiating silently as he fixed his gaze on Kabedatsu.

Kyōnosuke’s posture—uncharacteristic of a wandering craftsman, without a moment’s opening—further compelled Kabedatsu to shift from doubt to conviction: this was unmistakably a samurai, a samurai among samurai, a warrior of formidable skill. No room for carelessness! Kabedatsu, careful not to alert his opponent, slowly and stealthily slid his hand into his breast. There, he gripped the handle of the *jitte* he never parted with even in sleep—poised to lunge at any moment—deftly winding the red cord around the back of his hand and clenching it tightly.

Silence. Their eyes locked firmly, sparks seeming to fly—a silence pregnant with crisis, on the verge of eruption, lingered for one moment, then another——.

Snap!

Something strange happened.

Kyōnosuke smiled gently. He had married O-Sono of Izumiya—Edo’s foremost beauty—and alongside her, now renamed Sonoe, they were been said to resemble imperial palace dolls. Yet far from paling in comparison to this Sonoe, he was in fact a man so strikingly handsome that his sharp bearing as a male made him appear even more resplendent. This strikingly handsome man—who had been tense and flushed crimson—suddenly smiled gently for reasons unknown, revealing a row of white teeth. Had this been a woman’s smile, it would have been called nation-toppling. Kabedatsu, unwittingly drawn in, found himself grinning back.

That said, Kabedatsu—who had always been one to glare coldly—didn’t possess much of a charming smile to begin with. The dark-skinned man’s laughter was like a charcoal briquette tumbling and crumbling—whereas Kyōnosuke’s serene smile—as for Kabedatsu’s—well, how to describe it…

Well, such comparisons were unnecessary. “Hey! Step right in. ’Fraid the place was open—did ya wait long?” Acting every bit the seasoned boss, Kabedatsu said with deliberate calm. “No,” came the reply. “Just got here myself, see. Wanted a quick word with ya, boss—got a little favor to ask.” Where he’d learned it, Kyōnosuke had already transformed down to his speech—a full-fledged craftsman now. Here before Kabedatsu himself: renowned plasterer and gang leader. A mere greenhorn like him had no business speaking up—he knew his place, sitting stiff with deference.

“Ah, is that so?” Kabedatsu replied with feigned composure. “You’ve come all this way. Don’t know what brings ya, but let’s hear it proper-like—just wait a tick.” The mountain rain veered sideways. It was a relaxed exchange. The typhoon having passed, Kyōnosuke bowed his head quietly. Kabedatsu too passed by the tea room with a grin and entered the kitchen—but the moment he smoothly slid the boundary’s wooden door shut behind him with one hand, Kabedatsu’s expression changed as he began to panic.

When he saw his daughter O-Tae standing dejectedly in the kitchen's wooden-floored area, he called out in a hushed voice.

“Shh! O-Tae! To the guard post—to the guard post! Go out through the back—sneak out quietly! Don’t make a sound—go barefoot—”

III

And at the same time, he called out loudly to Kyōnosuke in the tea room... “Not a bad New Year’s, eh? So, where’d you come from—eh? You’ve got the look of a Kanto man.” Then, promptly lowering his voice again, he turned to his daughter O-Tae, “Listen—hurry to the guard post. Tell ’em we’ve got an arrest comin’ up here, so have the neighborhood watch send men over. He’s a tough one—make sure they round up the burliest lads.”

“Um… this arrest—?”

Gasp! O-Tae’s face paled. She staggered back two or three steps as though swimming through air, then looked up at her father with eyes wide as temple bells. The shock struck her like a physical blow—she couldn’t even form words. “Then… that…” “Has… has the young guest done something… something wrong?” “Never mind that.” “This ain’t your business.” “You—do like I said—sneak out quiet through this back entrance and run to the guard post—”

Just as he was about to speak, it was Kyōnosuke who had been addressed from the kitchen. Kyōnosuke thought Kabedatsu had gone to get a drink of water or something—when suddenly, there came that earlier voice: “So you’re from Kanto too, eh? Whereabouts did you come from?”

When he heard this, he reacted instantaneously. He couldn’t even muster a lie. Stammering incoherently, “Huh? Me? Well, uh… that is… I’m from Kanto.” “Yes, I’m from Kanto—Kanto is, uh… that is… the edge of Chōfu, see.” He smoothly, fluently spouted lies. That reached Kabedatsu, who was whispering furtively to O-Tae. Kabedatsu glared at O-Tae with fierce eyes, urging her, “Hurry up and go!” while simultaneously needing to keep up the conversation with Kyōnosuke to avoid suspicion.

“Oh, you’re from Kanto, eh?” *I thought as much.* “Plasterers on our side talk about things like Osaka soil’s sandy undercoating or something. Some say plasterers prefer Osaka’s methods—” He turned back to O-Tae, “What’re you dilly-dallying for?!” *While I keep him here nonchalantly—matching his banter and stalling for time—they’ve gotta have this whole house surrounded and ready.* “Just go already! Ha—hurry up!” he barked again toward the tea room. “But when all’s said and done, craftsmen are Kanto through and through. Throughout Edo—y’know—it’s always the hot-headed ones.” “The foundation and finish are different—what are you doing?! Why aren’t you moving?!”

“Huh? Me? Am I supposed to go somewhere—?” “Uh, you—you ain’t the one.” “Ha ha ha ha ha! Got a little somethin’ to discuss with you—y’see, carpenters, joiners, any craftsman really—it’s all ’bout temperament, ’specially us plasterers handlin’ wet materials. Temperament’s everythin’—” In a low voice to O-Tae: “You really ain’t gonna go to the guard post no matter what?” “What’s that guest done?” “Father, please tell me what’s goin’ on—”

“You idiot! Think I got time to argue ’bout this here?!” “This ain’t women’n’kids’ business.” “Get movin’ to the guard post—!”

“No!” “I want to know!” O-Tae suddenly adopted a solemn tone. “Just who is that young man? Where is he from, what is his name, and what has he done?”

“Never mind that! He’s wanted by the authorities. So listen—listen to your father! Get the Neighborhood Watch here quick to secure the area while I rip off his mask and truss him up. Got it? If you do—” “No! I won’t!”

“O-Tae! What the hell’s gotten into you today?!” “Boss!” Kyōnosuke’s voice came from the tea room. “It seems you’re rather occupied. If I’m causing trouble, I can always come back another time.” “Oh, it’s nothin’! Just tellin’ this one here to run an errand. I’ll be right over.”

At that moment, as if something had come over her, his daughter O-Tae shouted at the top of her voice.

“Father is telling me to report you to the guard post, but I refuse to comply!”

“You!” “What nonsense are you spouting?!” Kabedatsu stretched out his simian arm to cover his daughter’s mouth. O-Tae staggered. Clatter! [She] collided with the shelf, sending dishes and bowls scattering.

Shhinn—a silence fell. In the tea room, Kyōnosuke—who had abruptly stood up—swiftly tightened his obi. When had he drawn it? The coldly glinting short sword (28.8 cm) now clenched between his teeth. O-Tae writhed desperately, trying to shake off her father’s hand.

IV

There was no helping it now. If the guest found out, it was all over. Resolved to confront him head-on and subdue him barehanded, Kabedatsu released O-Tae and reached for the tightly shut wooden kitchen door.

The tea room lay hushed.

There was no sign he had left—but as Kabedatsu steeled himself to throw open the door and leap out, he pulled back his hand. Wait! he thought. —he thought. Wait! This is a man of such caliber that—on New Year’s Day of all days, regardless of his reasons—he beheaded his superior right there in the castle’s inner court, tossed the head out a window, and has remained in hiding until now. He’s got a face that wouldn’t hurt a fly—but when push comes to shove, who knows how wildly he might rampage, or how masterfully he might make a clean getaway? Even I’m no slouch with a jitte—but if by some chance he slips away clean, it’ll bring shame on all of Kurogomechō. Can’t just barge outta this kitchen door half-cocked! Having thought this, he still strained his ears intently to peer into the tea room—

As expected, it remained deathly quiet, as though devoid of any human presence. What in blazes is Kyōnosuke doing?!

What had driven him to show up at Kabedatsu’s place?—Regardless, now that he’d been exposed, there was no choice. He would cut down old man Kabedatsu and hide himself somewhere once more. Bathed in Tobe Ōmi-no-suke’s blood, it was Kyōnosuke—his gentle countenance rendering the demonic strength within him all the more formidable. In an instant, he resolved to slash his way out of the house and stealthily exited the tea room—only to find himself in a narrow three-foot corridor leading straight to the kitchen. Suddenly, something caught Kyōnosuke’s eye: official lanterns hung in a row along the corridor wall. Why hadn’t he noticed those lanterns when entering? Hmm—could it be that this Kabedatsu was also a police informant?—so mused Kyōnosuke, slow on the uptake yet a castle-bound samurai unfamiliar with city affairs. Knowing this for the first time, it was exactly as if he had leaped into the lion’s maw of his own accord. He couldn’t afford even a moment’s carelessness now. Since he had been discovered, he had no choice but to silence Kabedatsu permanently! But that girl—that she refused to report him to the guard post, as if shielding him herself—what could her intentions be? Even in this critical moment—pondering O-Tae’s true motives with growing suspicion—Kyōnosuke stole forward step by step, muffling his footsteps, until he stood on this side of the kitchen door.

On either side of a single cedar door—Kyōnosuke and Kabedatsu—both held their breath, gauging each other’s movements. Both were cautious, and this single door could not be easily opened. Through the oppressive silence, the bird-chasers’ song and shamisen traveling along Onari Avenue just ahead—oblivious to the impending rain of blood—drifted in with New Year’s complacency, utterly carefree. Then, Kabedatsu called out in a coaxing tone. “Young man—no, Sir Kamio Kyōnosuke, was it?” “There’s no need for me to spout clumsy words—you must understand instinctively.” “Will you obediently—though it pains me to say—accept this Kabedatsu’s arrest?” “Or do you intend to disgrace yourself by brawling with this old man?”

Then—just as Kabedatsu had assumed Kyōnosuke’s voice was in the tea room—it came instead from right beyond the door, making him jolt back with a gasp and press against it. “Lord Kabedatsu,” he said—now that Kabedatsu’s true role had been revealed— “however loath I am, I have pressing business that precludes my surrender.” “Therefore, I shall take my leave peacefully as things stand.” “After I have departed, count to a hundred before opening this door.” “Ahahahahaha!”

“Preposterous drivel!” Kabedatsu bristled slightly. “What?” “Still got business?” “You’re talkin’ mighty carefree there.” “What business’s that?” “That’s right.” “I have business.” “I still have business in this world.” Kyōnosuke said in a dreamlike voice,

“That business being—those very guards of the Nishinomaru Palace Hall who, along with Tobe Ōmi-no-suke, tormented me and finally drove me to this predicament today.”

“What?!”

“First, Ōsako Genba.”

“Huh?”

“Araki Yōichirō.” “Hmm…”

With the cedar door as a boundary, a strange conversation continued.

Five. “Ikenami Shinrokurō.” “Hmph.” “Asaka Keinosuke.” “Hah.” “Inomata Kozen.”

“Hey now!” “Yagasaku Hikojūrō.” “Well, well—so that’s how it is.” “Nagaoka Tanomo.” “Huh?” “Hyūga Ichigaku.”

“——” “Myōken Katsusaburō.”

“——” “Hori Shōzaemon.”

“What’re you plannin’ to do with all them folks?” “Shut your trap and listen! —Hori Shōzaemon—I already named him.” “Let’s see… then Hakata Yūnojō, Minebuchi Shanosuke, Kasama Jinpachi, Matsubara Genbei—”

“Wh-what the… This ain’t some damn meeting! You’re just reeling off names!” “Hannō Shume, Yokochi Hankurō—and Yamaji Shigenoshin! It’s these seventeen!”

A voice burned with hatred and vengeance. This tore from Kyōnosuke’s crimson lips as though he were grinding his teeth.

In the kitchen beyond the door, struck by that tremendous force of will, Kabedatsu involuntarily shuddered—and froze. “Those seventeen Nishinomaru Palace Hall guards—what’re you plannin’ to do with ’em?” “This business you can’t afford to get caught over now—the hell is it?”

“Right!” “Those seventeen bastards colluded to torment me alone! And I—I finally snapped the last thread of my patience, bringing matters to this day!”

“Huh.” “I’ve heard those rumors—and so—?” “My grudge isn’t against Tobe Ōmi alone!” “And what might that mean?”

“It’s the remaining seventeen.” “And then?” “I will spend this lifetime—no, if one isn’t enough, then two or three lifetimes—to cut down these seventeen one by one, line up their seventeen fresh heads in a row... Sir Kabedatsu! Only then will I surrender myself to your hands and humbly receive your rope!”

“What?! You’re saying you’ll go around lopping off all seventeen of those Nishinomaru Palace Hall guards’ heads?” “Starting now—those seventeen—you’ll cut them down one by one?!”

“That’s right. The first head to fall will be Ōsako Genba’s.” “So that’s already decided—?” “Of course, the other party doesn’t know.” “But I have decided upon this course.”

“Whoa!” “You ain’t gettin’ out alive!”

“Now, now, Sir Kabedatsu.” “Given that being the case, though it pains me to say so, I cannot comply with being apprehended by you today and handed over.” “Th-that ain’t no joke.” “Even if you ain’t got no reason, I’ve got plenty here—you think I can just sit back while all them lordly heads start rollin’ round like you say?!” “Bearable or unbearable—it makes no difference!” “I will cut them down one by one!” “Shut yer trap! Let you talk, you’ll spew whatever damn nonsense suits ya.” “Don’t care how skilled you reckon—them lords ain’t straw dummies or practice posts! You really think all them fine samurai noggins’ll drop one after another like you’re crowin’ about?!”

“Hmm.” “Very well!” “What if they do roll?” “Ain’t no ‘what if’ about it. “Before that happens, I’ll hogtie you!” “Now, Sir Kabedatsu—have I not laid out the logic clearly enough for you? Given this pressing business of mine, I cannot submit to your rope now. But in exchange—years, no, decades from now—on the very day I take the seventeenth head, the last of these seventeen... I swear I shall return to this house of my own accord. Then and there, I’ll neither flee nor hide. With these hands clasped behind my back, laughing—I’ll take your rope.” “A samurai’s oath!” “No take-backs!” “I swear it, Sir Kabedatsu! What say you?!” “Will you turn a blind eye today—spare us both needless blood—and let me walk through that door?!”

Deadly serious. Each word from Kyōnosuke—now transformed into a demon of vengeance—pierced through the door with razor-like coldness and stabbed Kabedatsu in the chest.

But Kabedatsu started laughing. “Gah! The law’s eyes are glaring at every inch of your body across the eight hundred and eight districts!” “I’m well aware.” “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t ask.” “I judged you as Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō and laid everything bare in making this request.” “Your provocations ain’t workin’.” “Hey, Sir Kamio. Did you come here knowin’ I’m a police assistant?” “――――” “So you thought I was just some plasterer, did ya? Figured you’d disguise yourself as a damn undercoating laborer for a while to blind the shogunate’s eyes?”

“If I were to put it that way—that was indeed my intention in coming here.” “Don’t talk nonsense. You’re too damn soft-hearted—Mr. Kamio! Because of you, your innocent wife, your younger brother, even Izumiya Gohei and his wife—they’ve all been dragged into harsh interrogations! You can’t possibly tell me you ain’t aware of that—I won’t mince words. Without another word, please save this old man’s face. That’d mean seppuku or the gallows for you—your life’d be forfeit. But me—I’m a man known in Kuromonchō. Though this plastering trade ain’t much of a living—after tyin’ you up proper for the last time—I’ll hand back my *jitte* with pride… shave this head clean, I tell ya. Heh—I’ll become a monk and spend my whole life prayin’ for your salvation in the afterlife, I tell ya. Please, please—Sir Kamio—resign yourself and let this old man bind you—I beg you—”

Grrr!—a restraint of emotion stronger than iron.

When Kamio Kyōnosuke’s growl reached her ears, O-Tae—who had been crouching in a corner of the kitchen listening to this exchange all along—now let out a cry! And collapsed in tears.

VI

“Quiet! “O-Tae!” “You ain’t got no reason to cry!” Kabedatsu—first noticing his daughter’s presence—turned toward her and barked these reprimands even as his own nose had already begun to clog with suppressed emotion. But then back toward the door’s far side—

“How about it, Sir Kamio—would you be so kind as to listen?”

“――――”

Kyōnosuke did not answer. Was he thinking—or rather, it seemed he was struggling to swallow back the tears welling up within him.

A clammy silence lingered on both sides of the door.

Before long, Kyōnosuke’s low voice was heard.

“I refuse.” “I do refuse.”

Kabedatsu’s tone changed abruptly. “So you’re sayin’ no—is that it?” “I deeply appreciate your various admonitions, but I have the aforementioned business to attend to. As for the hardships my wife and brother must endure—I can only resign myself to their inevitability.”

“I see.” “You still ain’t gettin’ it after all this talk?!” “Fine!” “Then there ain’t no choice!” “Even if I alone were to turn a blind eye here and let you go, every police assistant in Edo’s got their eyes peeled for that mug of yours right now.” “The moment you step outta here, others’ll sniff you out quick—no doubt you’ll hear ‘Halt in the name of the law!’ soon enough. And besides, my pity aside—you’re a wanted man, I’m a police assistant. If I let you slip away, my honor won’t stand before the authorities.” “And on top of that, you’re the one aiming to take seventeen lives from here on out.” “Now that I’ve heard it, even if I tried to look the other way, this *jitte* won’t stand for it!—Kamio Kyōnosuke!” “Halt in the name of the law!”

As soon as he finished speaking—snap! He kicked down the cedar door. He saw. There, Kyōnosuke stood. Without altering his expression in the slightest—so close their noses nearly touched—he stood rigidly blocking the way.

“Halt in the name of the law!” His prized jitte brandished high—swish!—cut through the wind toward Kyōnosuke’s shoulder, only to veer sideways at the last moment. Kyōnosuke twisted his body clear. “Wait! So you mean to capture me at all costs?!” “No more talk.” Kabedatsu’s voice hardened like drying plaster. “This jitte doesn’t answer to Kabedatsu the tradesman. It serves the shogun’s justice. Submit!” Once more came Kabedatsu’s jitte—Edo’s finest police truncheon—its red cord gripped tight as it hummed through the air. Kyōnosuke abhorred unnecessary bloodshed, but circumstances left no alternative. The short sword Jamaru, hidden in his sleeve despite his nakedness, flashed diagonally like refracted light. In that paper-thin instant—true to its serpent namesake—the blade writhed upward from below, burying itself to the hilt in Kabedatsu’s flank.

Like camellias bursting into bloom, O-Tae threw herself between the two men—sword and jitte—to intervene. “Wait! Please wait!” “Dad, wait!” “Wait!”

“What?! Get outta there! This ain’t no place for a girl! G-get inside ’fore you get hurt!” “No, I can’t just back down!” Uttered by someone utterly unlike the usual O-Tae, she plopped down on the spot and in the blink of an eye clung to her father Kabedatsu’s leg.

“Dad! I’m begging you! Please save him!” “Wh-what did you say?! You—get off! Get off! What?! You ain’t movin’?!”

“No! I won’t back down! Not even if I die!” “What nonsense you spoutin’?! O-Tae—have you lost your damn mind?!” “Even if I’ve gone mad or whatever—this person is... someone dear to me. I—from the moment I first saw him—”

Seven Herbs Day

A shadow shifted at the back door. It had arrived casually, but sensing some commotion of people inside, he had been standing there all along—ear pressed to the drainpipe—eavesdropping on every word and whisper. Upon hearing O-Tae’s words—that she now harbored affection for Kamio Kyōnosuke—Kabedatsu fell silent, Kamio fell silent. In the sudden hush that descended, the shadowy figure at the back door pressed closer against the door, ears pricked to catch every sound.

In this murderous scene, a single word of love—it was akin to pouring hot water onto piled snow. For an instant, a wisp of gentle steam rose, easing the tension in the air and imparting a hint of warmth to the chill. But to hear from his own daughter’s lips a confession of affection for the very fugitive they were hunting—! Kabedatsu shuddered violently as though shaking off a nightmare—yet even so, his voice, thickened by emotion at his child’s pitiful admission in this father-daughter standoff, dropped to a strained whisper.

But what emerged was a harsh rebuke. “The hell’re you spoutin’—love-sick crap and—th-that kinda… I ain’t hearin’ this!” “Hey—move!” “Move or I’ll kick you dead!”

“Wh-what? I won’t back down even if I’m killed!” O-Tae, as though possessed by some demonic spirit, sat wedged firmly between Kabedatsu and Kyōnosuke. Grinding her kneecaps into the floorboards, she pressed closer to father.

“Dad! I’m just a woman who doesn’t understand complicated matters, but aren’t you Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō—the respected leader everyone speaks of? No—aren’t you a true-blue child of Edo? From your usual self, Dad—what do you always say? ‘A man’s spirit is his greatest asset.’ ‘What matters most is spirit and resolve.’ ‘If there’s no coolness in the depths of your heart, even if you’re clad in human skin, you ain’t human.’ ‘You ain’t a man.’ ‘The admirable thing about children of Edo is that they value duty above all else.’ ‘Even if you have someone plaster a single wall, you can tell.’ ‘The plaster applied by someone with a clear heart dries swift, solidifies perfect, and the finish is night-and-day different.’ ‘It’s terrifying’—isn’t this your favorite line, Dad? The one you’re always repeating? And what about it? Where’s the spirit of Kuromonchō’s child of Edo gone? Sure, this man might be a serious criminal hunted across Edo right now. But Dad—this man knows Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō holds a jitte. He didn’t come here knowing this was a police assistant’s house and accepting that risk. He truly came without knowing! Put another way—him coming here was pure chance. Even if you arrest him, it ain’t like you laid any traps yourself—hardly somethin’ to brag about! More than that—I think you’d have a guilty conscience.”

“Moreover, this person said—as a samurai’s word—that once his business is settled, he’ll handle matters himself and will surely turn himself in to you, Dad.” “Hasn’t he made such a resolute promise?” “Where in the world is that ‘admirable spirit’ and ‘heartfelt resolve’ you’re always preaching about?” “They say even a hunter won’t kill a bird that flees into his lap—don’t they?” “Dad, pull yourself together! Don’t go senile on me!” “Isn’t he my dear one?” “How tiresome!”

This was a once-in-a-lifetime showdown. O-Tae declared as though she had completely shed her usual town-girl timidity—snap!— and looked up at her father. Kabedatsu and Kyōnosuke stood dumbfounded.

The shadowy figure in the back—it was Fudeya Kōkichi, the young master of the brush shop, who had arrived unnoticed at some point. He had been persistently courting this O-Tae since long ago, but now that very O-Tae was in love with the fugitive Kamio Kyōnosuke!

Upon hearing this, he swiftly turned around and dashed out to the main street.

Where was he headed? To the residence of Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Chief of the Shoin Guards, to make a report.

A Life of Strife

I

It was the Kōra estate in Ichigaya’s Yakimochizaka.

That was the secluded study within the residence of Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Chief of the Shoin Guards of Edo Castle. It was a room where a pond could be seen beyond the wide veranda. The garden brimmed with sunlight like liquid gold dancing across frost-withered grass blades that mirrored the azure sky. Near the pond’s surface, clusters of scarlet carp gathered here and there, their forms blurring into pale peach smudges when viewed from afar. Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami had pushed an armrest near the veranda edge and sat facing his guest. Yamashiro-no-kami was a man as corpulent as a sumo wrestler. When he moved, the armrest groaned under his weight. His face bore oversized features resembling a Noh theater mask. Moreover, it held not a trace of expression. Thus it appeared artificial—a visage that grew unnerving the longer one observed it.

As though fearing his uncanny face might shatter if moved too quickly, Yamashiro-no-kami gingerly twisted it toward the guest.

It was a voice thick with utter boredom. "I have considered it," he said curtly, "but I will not act hastily." He glared at the guest.

The guest was a bald-headed man of forty-two or three. He wore a dark tsumugi robe with what resembled a tea-brown chirimen juttoku over it. His shaven head gleamed with a tea-brown luster across its dome-like crown. A long face with bulging eyes and faint pockmarks. He had a disproportionately large mouth kept tightly closed at all times, as though perpetually swallowing something. He was a town doctor in 1-chōme, Hirakawachō, Kōjimachi by the name of Murai Chōan. Though his medical skills seemed unremarkable, he was a glib-tongued man with the social deftness of a banquet facilitator, moving through the households of dignitaries like Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami as their physician—enjoying impunity for his impertinence.

Murai Chōan moved his tightly closed mouth. Just when it seemed he was about to speak, he brought his hand to his mouth and stroked his lips. It was as though he wiped the words away. He fell silent and made an ambiguous bow.

Yamashiro-no-kami continued.

“There’s also the Izumiya matter.” “However, I’ve entrusted Kotarō’s matter to you.” “See that it’s handled appropriately.”

“Yes.” Murai Chōan lowered the head. Since he had turned sideways to lower it, the gesture bore no resemblance to a proper bow. He had merely moved his neck. Before his lord, this might have been called arrogance—but Chōan was simply a man who seemed not to regard others as people at all. Yet his words alone dripped with absurd formality. “Yes. As this concerns brothers, and given that Sir Kyōnosuke and Sir Kotarō have always been twice as devoted as ordinary siblings, one must conclude the younger brother knows Sir Kyōnosuke’s hiding place.” “Moreover, seven days having now passed since the incident, Sir Kyōnosuke himself may have grown complacent enough to discreetly inform his Tsukudohachiman residence of his whereabouts—though this remains but my own meager conjecture.”

"However," said Yamashiro-no-kami, shifting his massive knees as he turned slightly toward Chōan. "It seems we conducted a rather strict investigation regarding Lady Sonoe, but it appears to have been in vain." Murai Chōan let out a small laugh. "No matter how thoroughly you investigate Lady Sonoe, it would be fruitless from the start."

“Hmm. Why is that?” “Has my lord not yet discerned the matter concerning yourself?” “What do you mean? If that fugitive Kyōnosuke would inform his brother Kotarō of his whereabouts—Sonoe is his wife! A newlywed entangled in mutual affection! Would he not inform his wife before his brother?” “Precisely so. Given Kyōnosuke’s cunning—evading even the most rigorous investigations since New Year’s Day without leaving a trace—he would exercise utmost caution. Though he might discreetly inform his brother, he would never tell Lady Sonoe. My lord, women are prone to indiscretion—incapable of guarding secrets. What if a word slipped from Lady Sonoe’s lips? Or if her demeanor betrayed suspicion? That is where Kyōnosuke’s meticulousness prevails. Though Lady Sonoe and Sir Kotarō both reside at the Tsukudohachiman estate, I—this Chōan—humbly speculate he has secretly informed only Sir Kotarō through some means, while keeping Lady Sonoe wholly ignorant.”

He spoke with an air of sagacity. Yamashiro-no-kami nodded as if tentatively conceding the point, then— “But if Kotarō knew, he’d likely tell his sister-in-law, wouldn’t he?” “Ah, but you see—his brother has strictly forbidden him from doing so—”

“I see.” “That does seem plausible.” “Both Lady Sonoe and Sir Kotarō have already been investigated and returned to their residence.” “Hmm.” “Since further inquiry proved futile, I withdrew them temporarily.” “Withdrawn but kept under discreet surveillance.” “That is indeed the wisest measure under your lordship’s judgment.” “Then I shall focus entirely on monitoring Sir Kotarō’s movements, while humbly entreating your lordship to manage Izumiya Gohei and Fudeya’s affairs.”

“Ah, as I stated earlier, I have given it thorough consideration—but such matters cannot be rushed through so hastily.”

What they were discussing remained unclear, but Yamashiro-no-kami and the town doctor Chōan were deep in conversation.

Two

The ridgepole-raising ceremony had reached a lull, and those coming and going were beginning to leave. Fudeya Kōbei of Shitaya Chōjamachi—having recalled something about the plastering costs during this celebratory day, not wanting to forget while he still could—emerged from the inner parlor where he had been into the kitchen and searched for Master Kabedatsu, the plasterer who had taken on the wall work.

“Hey, isn’t Kuromonchō around here?” “Are you referring to Master Kabedatsu?” One of the maids present answered. “Oh, he was just here moments ago, but I wonder where he’s gone.”

Since many people still lingered, he searched among them for Master Kabedatsu but found him nowhere. “When might Master Kabedatsu have returned?” “He does not appear to be present, I’m afraid.” “I see.”

With that, Kōbei hurriedly called out the names of two or three male servants. But they were all so absorbed in the feast—perhaps having gone out to play—that no one answered.

“Tch, what a useless lot.” “I don’t mind you all drinking—today’s a blessed day, after all—but if there’s not a single reliable soul around, how are we to get anything done?” Because the kettle was hissing and bubbling with steam, young master Kōkichi, worried from nearby, “Father, what’s the matter?” “Do you have some business?”

“Ah.” “There’s something I forgot to discuss with Master Kabedatsu regarding the plastering labor costs.” “I want to send someone to fetch him, but every last one of them is gorging themselves drunk—not a single soul is home.” “Servants these days are utterly hopeless…” When he heard Kabedatsu’s name, Kōkichi concealed his delight and abruptly stepped forward. “Since I happen to have some free time at the moment, why don’t I make a quick dash to fetch Master Kabedatsu?”

“Hmm, perhaps.” “Since Kuromonchō isn’t far, I’ll have you do it, Kōkichi—though I know it’s a bother.” “Just tell him the old man wants to discuss something—if he’s free, have him spare a moment and come along with you.” “It’s not urgent, but my memory fails me these days—better handle it before I forget. That’s why I’m hurrying.” With his father Kōbei’s words at his back, Kōkichi had already started running out of their family’s Fudeya shop.

Kabedatsu’s daughter O-Tae—that graceful figure like a dew-laden wild lily—was the one whom Kōkichi harbored secret feelings for. Up until now, he had taken every opportunity to convey his feelings time and again, but each time, O-Tae would turn her face away and always maintained an indifferent demeanor. They say this affliction only grows fiercer the more one is rejected—and besides, Kōkichi held considerable confidence in his youthful charm, pale and unblemished as befitted a young master. Convinced that between his dashing looks and his family’s wealth, O-Tae would eventually bend to his will, he dismissed her talk of Kuromonchō and Kabedatsu. After all, they were just plasterers. They were artisans. If I persuade my old man Kōbei and have a proper intermediary make a formal proposal, it’s obvious she’d surrender immediately—or so I think. But I’m a downtown kid through and through. I don’t want to resort to such a crude approach. Because I want to make O-Tae mine through my own efforts alone, the more she feigns ignorance, the more I realize there’s nothing as terrifying as self-delusion. Ah, because she’s still a virgin, she must feel ashamed being approached by a fine man like me. No wonder—convinced in my self-satisfied way that my hopes would eventually bear fruit, and oblivious to how O-Tae utterly detested my advances, I concocted some errand or another to visit Kabedatsu’s place multiple times a day.

Because he harbored such feelings, today as well—upon hearing his father’s words—he had voluntarily rushed out to summon Kabedatsu. But truth be told, for Kōkichi, Kabedatsu was of course irrelevant, and even his father’s errand mattered not at all. It was solely his desire to catch even a single glimpse of O-Tae’s face and exchange even a word with her—but Fudeya Kōbei remained utterly unaware of his son’s true intentions. “Ah, my son is truly commendable.” “Even if he’s surrounded by a crowd of young masters and such, when it comes to my business—while the servants are off carousing—he dashes out himself like that.” “Those who employ others must be just like that.” “Grateful—so very grateful.” “As long as that Kōkichi is here, the foundation of this Fudeya shop won’t waver even a little.” “It’s a blessing.” “If Kōkichi keeps up this diligence, our Fudeya shop won’t just deal in stationery—we’ll expand into pawnbroking and oil trade too. As we’ve long sought Lord Wakizaka’s patronage through Mr. Chōan, soon enough we’ll oust that Izumiya Gohei from Kashiwazaki in Echigo and take over as the ones entrusted with the castle’s official contracts.”

Completely overjoyed, Fudeya Kōbei inadvertently raised his voice and addressed the mistress in the tearoom.

“Granny, rejoice—long live the Fudeya shop! This foundation ain’t budgin’ an inch!” Abruptly called out to and unaware of what he meant, the mistress assumed he was talking about the new building framework. “Well, isn’t that only natural? We only just raised the ridgepole today. How could the foundation start shaking so soon?” She had misunderstood. “What nonsense are you spouting? Granny’s been getting a bit senile lately,” muttered Fudeya Kōbei.

III

“With that, my lord, I shall take my leave—” “Oh, Chōan. Leaving? Well then—I’m counting on you to handle Kotarō and get him to talk.” “Yes. Since this Chōan has taken on the task—though it may sound presumptuous—I beg you to rest assured completely.” “Hmm. You’re as reliable as ever.”

“Much obliged.” “I beg your leave.” As Murai Chōan, having completed his farewell to Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, was about to rise and depart, a corner of the sky had clouded over unnoticed. A pitch-black cloud laden with rain loomed over the garden’s trees like aged cotton batting. Stepping onto the veranda to gaze up at it, Chōan turned back toward Yamashiro-no-kami inside the room. “My lord, it appears we face a fearsome downpour.” “I suppose.” Yamashiro-no-kami’s voice carried disinterest, as though already occupied with other thoughts—or perhaps signaling annoyance. “Rain.” “Yes—it does seem poised to storm.”

“I cannot afford to let my finest work attire get soaked.” “Before it arrives, I must make haste.”

“Hmm. That’s fine.” “Hurry up and go,” Yamashiro-no-kami called out to the page waiting in the next room. “You there—Chōan is leaving. Find someone.” “Have someone escort Chōan.” “No, truly—that would be most improper of me.” “With all due respect, as I am familiar with the layout of your esteemed estate, I shall take my leave alone.” Even as they spoke, a damp wind swept in, and the shoji doors of the room rattled violently. The sound of tree branches rustling came through with terrifying intensity. With a sense that the world was rapidly plunging into darkness, within that gloom, the book lying open on Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami’s desk fluttered palely in the wind.

Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, remaining seated, bent his body and looked up at the sky past the edge of the eaves.

“This appears to be developing into a storm.” “What a dreadful tempest—”

Before he could finish speaking—CRASH!—the roof ridge shook, and with a clatter from somewhere on the roof, the winter rain came pelting down. Already relentlessly striking the eaves—it was a downpour.

“This won’t do!”

Yamashiro-no-kami stood up. Raindrops leapt in from the open veranda, wetting the tatami mats and charging across to nearly strike his knees, so he scrambled into action. He rose and moved to close the shoji himself. Then, noticing Murai Chōan still dawdling in the corridor, “Chōan, you cannot leave now,” “First, get in here.” “Wait inside until the rain passes.” “Right away!”

As Chōan and the page who had risen to escort him began retreating into the room under Yamashiro-no-kami’s urging, the rain grew even fiercer—lashing the ground, pelting the trees—while plop, plop, large droplets began seeping through the shoji screens.

At the far end of the veranda, voices clamored as many hands slid storm shutters into place with sudden urgency. Just then, one of the attendants came hurrying along the rain-battered veranda and threw open the shoji. “My lord.” “What is it?” “A man named Kōkichi—son of the brush shop proprietor in Shitaya Chōjamachi—has come requesting an immediate audience.” “What? That brushmonger’s whelp dares present himself?”

Yamashiro-no-kami and Chōan briefly exchanged glances. Chōan presumptuously stepped forward and spoke. "Oh, Mr. Kōkichi—Hmm, could there be some urgent matter that has arisen?" "Very well, see him." "In here."

Yamashiro-no-kami ordered an attendant. Before long, the pitiful figure of Kōkichi—who had been dashing headlong from Shitaya to Yakinocchi-zaka only to be caught in the rain near the estate, leaving him drenched like a soaked rat—was hesitantly led in. Yet this apparent timidity stemmed only from his sodden garments and unfamiliarity with the grand samurai residence—within, Kōkichi’s heart held no trace of hesitation. He lacked even the capacity for uncertainty. For when ushered into the room and finding Murai Chōan unexpectedly present alongside Lord Yamashiro-no-kami—and knowing Chōan through his father Kōbei’s dealings—Kōkichi forgot all propriety of greeting his lord and instead lashed out at Chōan like a cornered beast.

“Oh, Mr. Chōan—please try to understand! It’s so galling... that O-Tae would set her heart on such a... such a wanted criminal—” “Hush now, Mr. Kōkichi! Do you realize where you are? You stand before his lordship! What exactly are you babbling about in this state?” “Ah!” Kōkichi cried out as if suddenly noticing Yamashiro-no-kami’s presence. “My lord! Urgent news— He’s here! He’s here! That bastard is here! I peeked through the back door’s gap—saw him—heard his voice—heard everything— Ah... ah... I’m worn out...”

“Wh—what do you mean he’s here?” “Mr. Kōkichi, pull yourself together.” “Just what person is where—”

As Kōkichi was about to collapse, Chōan asked while supporting him. What was happening? Surrounded by several retainers who had emerged, Yamashiro-no-kami—large as a sumo wrestler—stood rigidly erect, looking down at Kōkichi. Then—who was it? Where were they? When Chōan pressed him sharply, Kōkichi answered in a threadlike voice. “K-Ka... Kamio—” “Wh-what?!” Yamashiro-no-kami’s face transformed abruptly. The entire group recoiled as if struck before surging toward Kōkichi in a clamor. Kōkichi had been saying.

“Kamio—Kyōnosuke, a samurai called—” “Hmm.” “Where is this Kamio Kyōnosuke?” “Speak quickly!” When Yamashiro-no-kami barked his command, Kōkichi was already going limp, “That way—”

No sooner had he extended his right hand sideways—undisciplined wretch that he was—than he collapsed unconscious right there, spent from having run nonstop for so long.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll have him called back right away.” “If I just attend to him—” It would be disastrous if the man who had come all this way to inform them of Kamio Kyōnosuke’s whereabouts were to stop breathing before revealing that crucial location. Restless with anxiety, while the others floundered in flustered panic, Chōan beamed with pride as if this were the very moment for the art of medicine to shine. He laid the unconscious Kōkichi on his back, “Pardon me.” Muttering something, he began removing his juttoku robe with unnerving calm. Even a quack doctor should be able to revive someone from a mere faint like Kōkichi’s.

Yamashiro-no-kami and all present held their breath, waiting for Kōkichi to regain consciousness through Chōan’s ministrations and speak once more——.

Outside, a violent storm had erupted.

IV

Outside, a violent storm had erupted.

And at Kabedatsu’s house in Kuromonchō too, the storm shutters had been fastened tight since early evening. Kanji and his crew had likely gotten soused on the brush merchant’s free-flowing sake before staggering off to Yoshiwara as usual. Not one had returned yet. In the family parlor, Kabedatsu and Kyōnosuke sat facing each other across the oblong hearth. O-Tae kept her eyes downcast behind her father’s broad back, fidgeting with her sleeves.

The three of them had just finished their evening meal. The reason Kyōnosuke and Kabedatsu had faintly red rims around their eyes was likely due to having exchanged drinks poured by O-Tae before the meal. The three had already become so open with each other, free of any ulterior motives. Because Kabedatsu had raised his jitte toward Kyōnosuke and then casually discarded it. That desperate plea of O-Tae’s—“Pa! The jitte, the jitte, the jitte—does that thing have no blood or tears in it?! Get a hold of yourself! Isn’t this man someone I care for?”—precisely embodied how love strengthens the weak and weakens the strong. For those fierce words, spat from the mouth of a timid girl, carried the immense weight of a thousand jun—enough to soften even the resolute heart of Kabedatsu, a man of iron will. Like a gimlet, it bored through Father Kabedatsu’s chest.

Kabedatsu himself did not believe for a moment that his attempt to arrest Kyōnosuke—he who bore the official jitte—had been in any way mistaken. However—however, it was. Just as O-Tae had said, Kyōnosuke—Kabedatsu here held the jitte. He knew this was the home of a police assistant—it wasn’t as if he’d come rushing in unaware. In fact, at one point, he had intended to disguise himself as a plasterer’s apprentice to evade those harsh searching eyes—and that was precisely why he had now walked straight into the lion’s den himself. “A hunter does not kill a desperate bird that flies into his bosom”—he didn’t know such lofty words, but it was something like what O-Tae had said that clattered Kabedatsu’s jitte to the ground. That’s right. Even if I were to capture this man now, it wouldn’t do me any good. And—and my daughter also thinks of this samurai—Wait! Well, that’s neither here nor there—Kabedatsu’s a man too. I’ll turn a blind eye just this once and either help Kamio Kyōnosuke escape or give him some advice. It was the plea of O-Tae—my only daughter, raised single-handedly with my own care. If things went wrong, I could just tie myself up—so I thought. That was the quick-witted Edokko in him.

Kuromonchō. Suddenly, there came a clatter! Kabedatsu discarded his jitte and grinned. “Hey, O-Tae. That’s some sharp wit ya got there.” “This’s what they mean when they say the kid on yer back shows ya the shallows,” he said, patting O-Tae’s back. “Enough now—laugh. Laugh.” “Even us old fathers get testy with age—c’mon now, Sir Kamio, give us a chuckle.” “Laugh—then let’s have ourselves a nice long talk, eh?”

Like a different person, Kabedatsu himself led the way into the tearoom, sat down neatly, and turned back to smile at Kyōnosuke—leaving Kyōnosuke feeling awkward. Returning the drawn Jamarumaru dagger to its sheath while restoring his face—which had been filled with murderous intent—to its inherent gentleness simultaneously, he found himself overwhelmed by an inexplicable emotion. Why would this girl go to such lengths for a complete stranger like me—and for someone she knows full well is a notorious fugitive hunted across Edo? According to her earlier words, she cares for me—but if that isn’t merely a temporary ploy to dull the sharp edge of her father’s jitte, and if she truly harbors feelings of love for me—that would pose a truly troublesome matter. To begin with, I already have a wife—Izumiya’s daughter O-Sono, renamed Sonoē—with whom I was mutually devoted, and whose very existence led me to clash swords with Tobe Ōmi-no-suke and brought about this present calamity. Ever since taking Tobe Ōmi-no-suke’s head, my reason for evading the authorities’ eyes and moving covertly has mostly been—as I explained earlier to Kabedatsu—to target Ōsako Genba and sixteen others. But another part of it is that because of that woman Sonoē, I now feel that even if I wanted to die, I couldn’t. Last year, we came together and had just managed to set up a house in Tsukudo Hachiman—no sooner had I thought it a success than my patience finally snapped, and that incident occurred. Even while hiding like this since then—never forgetting Sonoē’s visage even in sleep—despite having such a woman as Sonoē in my heart, if this girl loves me without knowing that… And if because of that, I was saved from Kabedatsu’s jitte and the neighborhood’s vigilance, rescued from peril… Then in short, this girl is my benefactor. But given that I have a wife named Sonoē, even if she is my benefactor, I cannot accept her love. This had become quite the predicament. Out of one peril and into another—Kyōnosuke felt that way.

“I am truly indebted indeed.” “I shall never forget your kindness throughout all my lifetimes.” After uttering this stiffly formal gratitude to O-Tae—who sat listless on the kitchen’s plank floor—Kyōnosuke briskly straightened his disheveled garments and followed Kabedatsu back to the tearoom. When they sat facing each other, they were simply two men. There remained nothing to say. Together they raised their voices lightly and laughed—Ahaha.

Five

The first stirrings of love—they were like catching a cold. A sudden chill ran down one’s spine—Achoo! When a sneeze came, it already meant the cold had taken hold—and so it was when O-Tae thought, *Ah, what a splendid man this is!* The moment she saw him and thought this, Cupid’s arrow had already pierced her heart. Or so one might say in modern times. Since this was the Kyōhō period of old, there might have been no modern contraption like Cupid’s arrow—but even without it, people felt no particular inconvenience in falling in love. As proof, there was O-Tae—in any case, this was no trifling matter to be laughed away, for by then, she had already fallen properly in love with Kyōnosuke.

To be sure, she had not thrown herself between her father and Kyōnosuke with such clear intent from the start—not out of any deliberate resolve to rescue her lover from peril. It was simply that the Shitaya-born Edoite spirit inherited from her father Kabedatsu—a true Edoite through and through—had surged up in her chest at that moment. Before she knew it, acting almost unconsciously, she had already taken that bold action. What she had said—she herself could not clearly remember. Amidst it all, there was only one voice that continued to ring deafeningly in her own ears—*This person is someone I care for!*

Oh, why did I say something so shameful?

“In moments of truth, one’s true heart reveals itself unwittingly”—if that were so—as this thought took shape, O-Tae realized she was passionately in love with Kyōnosuke. All at once, unbearable shame surged through her, and she felt her face burning like fire. Having blurted out such things, he must be scorning me now—what a vulgar woman I am. This too she thought.

O-Tae did not answer Kyōnosuke’s thanks. She could not answer. She was desperately trying to push back the unintelligible sobbing sound that threatened to escape. She could not bring herself to look at Kyōnosuke’s face.

For a long time, she remained sitting vacantly on the cold wooden floor like an idiot. Amidst the commotion, none of the three noticed that Fude-ya Kōkichi had been eavesdropping at the back door until just then, nor that he had turned around and dashed out to the front street.

In the tearoom, Kabedatsu and Kyōnosuke were talking in fits and starts. The topics were harmless. Neither of them had yet touched upon the matter of the New Year’s Day incident or how Kyōnosuke should handle himself. However, the voice of her father saying this reached O-Tae’s ears. “We don’t mind you staying here one bit, but what with all the comings and goings in this house, I worry it might do you more harm than good.”

“Ugh, Father!” O-Tae resented him for saying such a thing.

“O-Tae,” her father called. “Let’s have dinner.” “Add a side dish.” “Hurry over to Uo-yasu and tell them to put something together.” When O-Tae, having hastily composed herself, hurried off to Uo-yasu, the clouds raced swiftly across the sky, the weather now threatening to break into tears at any moment.

Six

They likely meant to leave weightier discussions for after the meal. Throughout the sake and rice, Kabedatsu and Kyōnosuke did nothing beyond exchanging trivial chatter. For O-Tae, the mortification of pouring drinks and serving food made her wish to disappear. Kyōnosuke faced his meal with pale, symmetrical features utterly devoid of expression, showing no trace of reserve. Though urged repeatedly, he drank few cups. In the end Kabedatsu poured for himself. Soon the meal concluded. Before they realized it, outside had transformed into a night of fearsome storm.

“It’s really coming down.” “Indeed.” “The wind seems quite severe as well.” The sound of them exchanging such words in the tearoom reached O-Tae, who sat in the kitchen eating cold rice alone. Here I am, so restless I can’t even swallow my rice—so why is *he* sitting there so calmly? Are all samurai really such cold, aloof creatures? Thinking this, O-Tae felt a pang of loneliness.

And then, it happened. At the back door, she thought she caught a glimpse of a flicker of light. On the oil-paper door, the lantern light seemed to move—or so she thought. Oh! Could it be one of his apprentices returning? As she tried to stand up, there came the terrifying roar of wind and rain—a storm so fierce it threatened to tear the house apart.

Amidst the rain, voices could be heard. They seemed to be coming from the front. They were hushed.

“Excuse us. “Excuse us,” they called out two or three times. “Is Mr. Kabedatsu here?” Kabedatsu stood up and went. He opened the clattering lattice. “Kabedatsu’s here, but who might you be at this hour?” As he peered absently into the rain’s depths, a cluster of rain-soaked official lanterns surged forth from the alley’s shadow all at once. A formidable arrest party. Could there have been as many as forty or fifty men—? Others seemed to have encircled the house completely, and with an air of unflappable composure, Mitsutani Kennosuke—a yoriki from Hatchōbori whose very name sounded absurdly formidable—clattered in alongside Otomatsu, a sharp-eyed informant from Kinzanji-ya, and five or six other prominent officials.

The officials were calm, but Kabedatsu remained calmer still. He glanced back slightly and swiftly signaled to O-Tae. She too showed not the slightest sign of panic. Quietly moving to the tearoom, she sat down before Kyōnosuke. He already knew. His bloodshot eyes swept across the room in an instant, but when he realized the house must be surrounded ten layers deep, he stilled his half-risen knees and looked at O-Tae before him. She sat upright, gazing steadily into his eyes.

“They have arrived.” “Who filed the accusation—we do not know either.” “However, please understand this much: we did not detain you only to then turn you in.” Kyōnosuke nodded. It was a quiet whisper. “I understand that perfectly well.” “That you all would have turned me in—I would never even dream of such a thing.”

“Hearing that has truly set my mind at ease.” O-Tae smiled. “So—what will you do?”

Kyōnosuke also smiled.

“Well—since they’ve come, there’s no helping it.” “Though it goes against my wishes, there is no alternative but to make your house a bloodbath.” “In a sword fight, disheveled hair is the greatest hindrance.” “A hand towel—" “A headband, sir?”

O-Tae swiftly took the red-spotted sash she had been wearing and tore it in two. “Do your utmost—” “Much obliged.” “Nah,” he laughed. “Fifty or sixty filthy officials—” As Kyōnosuke began to rise, Kabedatsu—who until now had been standing at the entrance arguing with the yoriki—was heard raising his voice in a loud declaration. “Ha ha ha! If you suspect this Kurokōji district, come right in and see for yourself!”

“You can say ‘Don’t come in’ all you like—we’re coming in anyway.” Mitsutani Kennosuke clattered into the tearoom with Otomatsu from Kinzanji-ya, two or three arresting officers, and Kabedatsu, the master of the house. O-Tae stood before Kyōnosuke as if to shield him. Kabedatsu planted himself at the room’s center and locked his arms tightly. Four or five constables brandished their jitte and tried to strike Kyōnosuke.

Then, Otomatsu of Kinzanji-ya, upon seeing Kyōnosuke, let out a shrill cry. “Oh! Why, isn’t this the quarrel-for-hire master?—No matter how eccentric one might be, no one’d wear such outlandish getup! Well, well—can’t argue with Sir Ibaru Ukon here!” he suddenly forced a chuckle, then turned to Mitsutani Kennosuke, who stood dumbfounded. “Sir—this here’s a case of mistaken identity. This gentleman here—you know—is none other than Sir Ibaru Ukon, the renowned quarrel-for-hire master of Kanda! Right, Kurokōji?”

Quarrel-for-hire—what exactly was that?

At that time, in Kanda’s Obia Alley, there stood a house of refined elegance bearing an unusual signboard that read: “Quarrel-for-Hire.” Beside the signboard inscribed in bold strokes with “Quarrel-for-Hire,” a smaller line read: “All Quarrels Purchased.” Truly an extraordinary occupation. The master was Ibaru Ukon, a ronin from Geishū. The mistress was O-Suzu the String—a woman of fiery temperament swathed in white bridal silks.

Truly, what an odd pair engaged in such an unusual trade—. ┌────────────────┐ │　Quarrel-for-Hire　　　　　　　│ │　　　All Quarrels Purchased　　　│ └────────────────┘

Your Life, Taken

I

Kanda, Obia Alley,

A house with latticework bore an eccentric signboard that read “Quarrel-for-Hire.” “All Quarrels Purchased” might have seemed utterly frivolous at first glance, but this was no jest—it was in fact a genuine and serious profession.— Ibaru Ukon—a ronin from Geishū—served as this quarrel-for-hire master, while across the long hibachi emblematic of their trade sat a single, quintessentially Edo-born female gang leader: robust enough to clang like struck metal, posed in the obligatory raised-knee stance with her red-lacquered long tobacco pipe, puffing leisurely away—O-Suzu the String.

As for why she was called “O-Suzu the String Who Knows No Fear”—this O-Suzu was the kind of woman ukiyo-e artists might dream of: twenty-seven or twenty-eight, in the full bloom of womanhood, an astonishing beauty whose innate chivalrous spirit proved her undoing. Before she knew it, she had fallen into a life of pleasure, her right hand now bearing two lines of indigo-black tattooed characters. It read: “No opinions needed; no regard for life.” This reckless one was the reason O-Suzu the String Who Knows No Fear earned her alias—but that aside.

There, what was truly mysterious was the master, Ibaru Ukon. It was not uncommon for people to bear an uncanny resemblance to complete strangers. Yet this Ibaru Ukon was indistinguishable from Kamio Kyōnosuke—the man who had beheaded Tobe Ōmi-no-suke in the castle on New Year’s Day, hurled the head through the guardroom window, absconded, and now transformed into a demon of vengeance taking refuge with Kabedatsu in Shitaya’s Kurokōji district—so identical they might have been twins split from a single melon. Kamio Kyōnosuke, a Nishinomaru palace guard, was reputedly Edo’s finest—nay, perhaps Japan’s most handsome man. For this reason, even before their daughter O-Sono could take notice, the Izugo couple had become enamored of him first. Reveling in arranging two beautiful things side by side—declaring them a perfect match like imperial dolls—it was indeed the parents themselves who first raised this clamor, as previously recounted.

Moreover, when that Kyōnosuke—after hiding himself for seven days—visited Kabedatsu’s house on Seven Herbs Day disguised as a craftsman, the daughter O-Tae, who had emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands as usual, nearly cried out in surprise at the man’s overwhelming beauty. What’s an actor doing here? she wondered. No—even among the actors of the three theaters, there was likely none like that—she thought. Even her father Kabedatsu, upon returning from the ridgepole-raising ceremony at Fudeya Kōbee’s residence and catching a single glance at this Kyōnosuke waiting in the tearoom, had exclaimed, “That wanted poster and this young man!” Though his attire and appearance had changed, there was no mistaking his keen eye. Moreover, a handsome man of that caliber—no matter how vast Edo may be—wasn’t something you came across every day. That’s it! “This bastard is none other than Kamio Kyōnosuke—the fugitive running circles around every officer in Edo right now!” So strikingly handsome was Kyōnosuke that Kabedatsu realized it in an instant.

Given that Ibaru Ukon was as indistinguishable from the exceedingly beautiful Kyōnosuke as two halves split from the same melon—identical from every angle—it meant Edo now had another man who could claim to be its finest beauty; no—rather, Japan’s most handsome. Truly, Edo was vast indeed. Ibaru Ukon—who could be called Kamio Kyōnosuke’s living double, so identical that even his own kin might mistake him—had established a stylish household with O-Suzu the String in Kanda’s Obia Alley, operating a dangerous venture he himself dubbed “quarrel-for-hire.” But what exactly did this “quarrel-for-hire” entail?

They were not hatamoto yakko. Nor were they machi yakko, of course. But they were, so to speak, chivalrous figures of the streets. They were the town’s gallants. True to the signboard proclaiming “Quarrel-for-Hire,” if it was a quarrel, they would take on any—no matter what. They took on anything. Quarrels directly sold to them went without saying; even in others’ quarrels, if asked to lend a hand, they would rush in anytime, anywhere to side with the party that had reason. However, since in quarrels the weaker party usually had right on their side by default, this quarrel-for-hire couple—Ibaru Ukon and O-Suzu the String—had always found themselves outnumbered, cutting their teeth in clanging, clashing skirmishes! Yet never once had they tasted defeat.

This Ibaru Ukon was a handsome youth—the very image of Kamio Kyōnosuke brought to life. Just as Kamio Kyōnosuke stood as Kyoshin-ryū’s peerless master, Ukon—living up to his status as a Geishū ronin—remained the sole contemporary inheritor of Kanka-ryū’s grand tradition: a unique swift-sword style likened to a celestial steed soaring through the heavens, one that had emerged from the fringes of Futamigaura. Kanka-ryū—a school deriving its name from the Analects’ phrase “In stillness, observe the transformation of all things.”

II

It was not something as lenient as the various schools currently practiced in Edo. In stillness, he calmed body and mind, fixing his eyes on the shifting patterns of all around him—yet once unleashed, his blade became an unyielding force: splitting rocks, cleaving mountains, and crushing men without cease. Such was Ibaru Ukon of quarrel-for-hire. Moreover, though one might declare, “Even amidst a forest of swords, I shall prevail!”—not that he uttered such stiff bravado—there clung to him O-Suzu the String: a beauty hardened by pride and stubbornness, one who had forgotten how to feel fear from the moment she was born.

A demon with an iron club. A couple cut from the same cloth. Given this, it was only natural they never came up short no matter which quarrel they intervened in. Throughout Edo, whenever any dispute—regardless of kind—proved even slightly thorny, every last one would be brought to this quarrel-for-hire. And again, scarcely had Ibaru Ukon and O-Suzu the String saunter out from Obia Alley than most clashes would tip in favor of whoever had hired them—thus their trade flourished splendidly.

Such was their quarrel-for-hire. Ibaru Ukon, the Kanka-ryū swordsman, appeared as a slender, refined man sharing Kamio Kyōnosuke’s exact build. With O-Suzu the String—that spirited female gang leader—residing together in this townhouse-style home on Obia Alley, visitors would find a red-tipped fire-blowing bamboo… affectations of newlywed domesticity in their private world. Across the long hibachi slouched a figure resembling an elder brother abducted by a geisha house—a rough tanzen robe draped carelessly over his frame, his effeminate features twisted in sullen repose. This was none other than Ibaru Ukon: Edo’s renowned quarrel specialist and certified master swordsman of Kanka-ryū.

But he didn’t look the part. With the theaters closed, the *onnagata* seemed to be staying home. He was roasting nori or something while lighting a pipe. “Hey, O-Suzu. This storm’s been raging forever.” “I’ve got a feeling someone’s gonna bring a big quarrel our way today—me, I can always tell when a fight’s brewing somewhere.” “My arm starts twitching, and when I think, ‘Oh, here it comes,’ it always does.” He spoke nonchalantly. O-Suzu, her fingertips likely scalded from retrieving the heated sake, hastily brought them to her ear and pinched her shell-craft earlobe while—

“Is that so?” “That’s a handy talent, isn’t it.” “So what’s this about—your arm’s been twitching today, then?” She asked with a laugh.

Indeed, on the back of O-Suzu’s right hand—the one she had just used—two lines of tattooed text could be read: “No Arguments” and “Reckless to the Core.” “Ah ha ha!” Ibaru Ukon let out a boisterous laugh unbefitting his delicate features. “Well, you see—it’s been twitchin’ nonstop since mornin’.” “See? Twitchin’ so damn much, the sake’s spillin’—can’t even hold the cup proper.” Ukon deliberately shook the hand holding the sake cup to demonstrate. The golden liquid overflowed from the rim of the cup, coursed down Ukon’s hand, and trickled from his elbow to his knee.

“Huh? Oh no, gotta find somethin’ to wipe—a cloth—” “Look here—the water from washing rice! What’s this? What a waste.” “The kimono can’t take it either!” “You don’t have to put on such a show—I already know.” “Honestly, there’s no one as meddlesome as you.” “Here—wipe up with this.” The cloth she tossed over with a soft plop struck Ukon’s face. O-Suzu gazed at the adorable man’s face—now casually clutching that rag and wiping himself down—with such rapt longing it seemed she might devour him whole, a scene as carefree as a spring breeze.

But O-Suzu grew slightly solemn, “But really, if not even one quarrel comes our way today, we’ll be in trouble.” “Absolutely. With this nonstop rough work, first off, I’ll waste away to nothing.”

Being in the quarrel-for-hire business, even their marital grumbling took on an unusual flavor.

At that moment—clatter! The front lattice door swung open with vigor, and an unfamiliar visitor’s voice sounded. “Excuse me.” “Is this the residence of the quarrel-for-hire?” A client for the quarrel-for-hire had arrived.

Here it comes! Ukon and O-Suzu exchanged relieved looks—then Ukon, setting down the sake cup, stuck out his tongue as if to say “Told you so,” laughing while tapping his right arm. O-Suzu twisted her body toward the edge of the entranceway.

“Yes.” “This is indeed the house you seek—but may I ask from where you come—?” “Is the quarrel-for-hire master at home?” Everything he said was too erratic. Even O-Suzu—no stranger to eccentricity—blinked rapidly at his words. “Yes, if it’s Sir Ukon you seek, he is here—”

“That’s a relief.” “I am Kabedatsu, a plasterer from Shitaya Kuromonchō.”

While saying this, the moment Kabedatsu slid open the storm door’s shoji from outside, Ibaru Ukon had already sprung upright. “Old man! What’s this? Hey—lookin’ for a fight?” And then, slowly, “I’ve been waiting for you.” “What’s this? You’re jumping in without even hearing me out.” O-Suzu furrowed her beautiful brows as if to admonish.

O-Suzu’s smiling face turned toward the entrance. “Are you from Kuromonchō? Please—do come in.”

A figure that seemed to be Kabedatsu’s companion moved behind him.

III

Like a summer moth darting into flames—though here the moth was Kamio Kyōnosuke, who likely wouldn’t have been captured so easily regardless—he had unwittingly taken refuge in the home of Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō, a police truncheon-wielding informant leader. Just as a violent clash seemed imminent, Kabedatsu’s daughter O-Tae intervened with her chivalrous spirit and romantic resolve, saving him from peril. Yet this act was overheard by Kōkichi—the meddlesome son of Fudehisa—who, half out of envy and half for showy loyalty, reported it to Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami at his Kōra estate on Yakimochi Slope in Ushigome. The name “Yakimochi Slope” derived from this incident—though such details are mere digression.

However, when Kōkichi was about to reveal Kamio Kyōnosuke’s whereabouts, he had collapsed from exhaustion and lost consciousness. Murai Chōan, who happened to be present before Yamashiro-no-kami, revived him, and through Kōkichi’s testimony, Yamashiro-no-kami learned Kamio’s current location. He immediately dispatched a retainer to relay the information to Hatchōbori. At that word from Hatchōbori, a squad was formed with Mitsutani Kennosuke as arresting officer, joined by Onmatsu of Kanazanshi-ya—a renowned investigator—and forty or fifty of Kanazanshi-ya’s own officers. Braving the stormy darkness, they descended upon Kabedatsu’s home in Kuromonchō—all went smoothly as they surrounded the premises and simultaneously forced their way inside. But when—

Indeed, there stood a man who looked every bit the craftsman, positioned as if being shielded by his daughter—yet for all that, he himself had not altered his complexion in the slightest, and above all, Kabedatsu, the master of the house, had settled down with unshakable composure. This was the renowned Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō. Though a mere craftsman, when it came to arrests, even Mitsutani Kennosuke the yoriki held him in high regard—this was Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō. If this man truly was Kamio Kyōnosuke—the wanted fugitive reported by Lord Yamashiro-no-kami—then Kabedatsu’s men should have apprehended him long ago without any need for our intervention. Yet the atmosphere inside the house was harmonious and convivial, appearing as though the three had been engaged in casual conversation all along. This must be some outrageous case of mistaken identity—

Afterward, something unmanageable might happen to Kuromonchō— Because he thought this—“Seize him!” Even as Mitsutani Kennosuke barked orders, his mind prickling with unease—from the very midst of the officers brandishing their jitte to strike—Onmatsu of Kanazanshi-ya’s laughter suddenly rang out. “Oh! “Isn’t this the quarrel-for-hire master? “I failed to recognize you properly—utterly inexcusable of me. “Ahahaha! You are Sir Ibaru Ukon of Kanda Obiya Lane, are you not?”

Had Onmatsu of Kanazanshi-ya genuinely mistaken him—or was there some ulterior motive behind that suspicious glare? Had he deliberately feigned confusion, recalling a lookalike in an instant to repay a debt to Kuromonchō and shield Kyōnosuke? Regardless, when Onmatsu burst into laughter with those words, Kabedatsu—seizing the lifeline—let out a relieved breath, the tension draining from his taut posture. “Hahahaha! Kanazanshi—you finally noticed, did you?” “Your eyes are as sharp as they say.” “Indeed, this gentleman is the one you just mentioned from Kanda Obiya Lane—”

“Sir Ibaru Ukon of the quarrel-for-hire trade.” “Ain’t no mistake there.”

It appeared he had finally grasped the situation and resolved to aid him. Onmatsu of Kanazanshi-ya signaled with his eyes and expression as he spoke instructively.

Kamio Kyōnosuke swiftly grasped that as well,

“Well, out of curiosity, I’ve donned this absurd attire—though I know not why—and ended up under unfounded suspicion, causing quite the stir among important people.” “Forgive me, forgive me,” he laughed, then turned to Mitsutani Kennosuke. “As this one just stated, officer, I am indeed Ibaru Ukon.” Since he had declared it so resolutely and Kanazanshi-ya had vouched for him, there was no further need for investigation—in fact, the officials were rather put at ease. “Kuromonchō—this was entirely our mistake. Forgive us.” And so Mitsutani Kennosuke swaggered off in high spirits, leading his officers away as they were.

Thus, the matter was settled with laughter over mistaken identity—but as they watched Onmatsu of Kanazanshi-ya walk away, the man who had knowingly extended a helping hand only to feign ignorance and depart, Kabedatsu and O-Tae instinctively pressed their palms together in prayer. As for Kamio Kyōnosuke himself—the very man who had narrowly escaped arrest twice—he later sat with the two of them, all three furrowing their brows in thought.

Though tonight’s crisis had been averted without incident thanks to Kanazanshi-ya’s intervention, remaining in this house was dangerous beyond compare. No matter how she thought about it, Kyōnosuke was someone O-Tae could not let go of—but precisely because she loved him, she did not want to leave him exposed to the peril of arrest. With a slap of her knee, O-Tae had hit upon an idea—the one just mentioned by Kanazanshi-ya: that quarrel-for-hire master from Kanda Obiya Lane, Ibaru Ukon.

As if urging them onward, Kanazanshi-ya had even provided detailed information about the exact location in Kanda.

“Mr. Kanazanshi-ya must have deliberately pretended to mistake you for someone else, but perhaps you truly do resemble him.”

O-Tae said. With this settled, it was Kabedatsu—the boss of Kuromonchō—who arrived at the house on Obiya Lane the following morning, bringing Kamio Kyōnosuke disguised as a craftsman.

IV

“Yes, might you be the quarrel-for-hire master?” “I’m Kabedatsu—a plasterer working in Kuromonchō, Shitaya.” “Please remember me kindly.” “And this here’s the mistress—no, the lady of the house.” “Oh, no need for such formality!” “Hohoho! I’m just O-Suzu—a good-for-nothing hussy who knows nothing at all!” “You flatter me too much.” “Now then, Master—” “Enough with the niceties—I’ve got no patience for this.” “You here about a quarrel?”

“Now, now, you there—no need to rush through talkin’ like that.—Oh no, he’s decent at heart, but bein’ a samurai and all, his words come out rougher’n a sawblade.” “Please don’t mind it none—say whatever you need to.”

“No, you honor me too much. This ain’t just any quarrel—we’re teetering on seventeen proper castle-serving samurai heads tumbling out one after another.” “What? Se-seventeen samurai heads are about to roll! Wh-where? They’re coming now. O-Suzu! Draw your sword!”

“No, no—this is about how they might roll out one by one, in order—” “What? Just talk? Calm down and state your business properly.” “Why don’t you calm down and listen properly?” “So c’mon—first off, who’re these seventeen heads and where they from? And what kinda bastard’s tryin’ to roll seventeen heads, and why? Let’s hear it.”

“Yes.” “This young man standing behind me—he is no ordinary young man.”

“Hmm.” “Y’know, I’ve actually been starin’ at this guy here since earlier—ain’t he the spittin’ image of me?” “Hey, O-Suzu.” “It really is true.” “When this craftsman followed Kuromonchō up here earlier, I nearly gasped—it looked like two of you had walked in!” “Hey!” “The more you look, the more he’s the spitting image.” “Oh, the way he laughs—it’s just… unsettling.” “It’s kinda creepy.”

“I’m startin’ to feel right strange myself, the longer I look.” “Am I me? Or’s that me over there me? Which me’s me? Or ain’t I me at all—”

“Don’t go spouting such convoluted nonsense.” “Things are already tangled enough as it is—” “Hey, you! What the hell are you?” “You can’t possibly be disguised as me, can you?” “No, truth be told, our visit today concerns this gentleman here—what Kuromonchō here’s so dead set on asking is—Sir Kamio, you ought to give some greeting too! Don’t make me do all the talking!”

“No—I too am so stunned by our resemblance that I can scarcely speak.” “Is that ‘I’ me, or is this ‘I’ me? Perhaps that Kanazanshi-ya fellow truly mistook us from the start.”

“Honestly,” said O-Suzu. “I’m beginning to think even this Kuromonchō isn’t what he used to be.” “What are you two marveling at?” snapped Ibaru Ukon. “Judging by his speech, that fellow in the workman’s coat seems to be a samurai—” “Indeed,” declared Kamio Kyōnosuke, stepping forward. “I am a samurai. My name is Kamio Kyōnosuke.” “Wh-what?!” sputtered Ibaru Ukon. “K-Kamio Kyōnosuke? Th-that Kamio Kyōnosuke of the Castle Guard—the one who beheaded a man on New Year’s Day and fled?!” “Precisely,” Kamio replied, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “So it’s Kamio Kyōnosuke—what now?”

“Hah! You’ve come.” “You’ve come.” “You’ve come to visit.” “I see.” “Are you Sir Kamio Kyōnosuke?” “Hah! Well done.” “You really went all out.” “Delightful.” “O-Suzu and I have always spoken of you.” “Somehow, I’ll lend my skills to that Mr. Kamio—Hah! I’ve got it!” “As for these seventeen heads that are about to roll—what’s that, you ask? Why, it’s the remaining seventeen guards.” “Alright! Let’s do it!” “With this, I’ve settled my life’s quarrel—never have I felt so at ease. O-Suzu, rejoice.” “There’ll be no half-hearted quarrels now!”

“Shh!” “What’s that?” “It’s not like we’re in some lone house in the wilderness—shouting ‘Kamio, Kamio’ at the top of your voice has Kuromonchō-san here on edge, doesn’t it?” “Samurai sure catch on quick.” “Master—Master of Quarrels—Kuromonchō here offers his thanks like this.”

“No—rather than Kuromonchō, I, Kamio Kyōnosuke, earnestly entreat your aid anew.” “Now now—your hands, raise your hands if you please—hey, O-Suzu.” “Fetch sake!”

“Right. I’m about to head out now.” “I’m just about to head out now.”

Five

Thus, with Kabedatsu acting as intermediary, Kamio Kyōnosuke found himself taking refuge as a dependent with Ibaru Ukon—a man who made his living through quarrels. It was as though two identical men were living in the same house. To deceive prying eyes, Kamio Kyōnosuke had meticulously replicated Ukon’s appearance down to the last detail—from his hairstyle to every stitch of clothing. So long as the two were never spotted together, the neighbors remained blissfully unaware. No sooner would Ibaru Ukon step out than that same Ibaru Ukon would be inside again. “When did he even return?” one might wonder—but given this was such an eccentric household full of oddballs, nobody bothered to look too closely. All marveled at Ibaru Ukon’s phantom-like movements, passing their days without ever suspecting the existence of a body double named Kyōnosuke.

Yet with two indistinguishable men residing in the same house—as if she had two husbands—one might expect O-Suzu to be flustered. But here lay the marvel: no matter how alike they seemed, they remained distinct individuals. Subtle differences in expression or bearing allowed her to tell them apart effortlessly, leaving little cause for worry that she might mistake one for her husband.

Kyōnosuke recounted in detail to Ukon and O-Suzu the circumstances that had led him to the point where he had no choice but to cut down Tobe Ōmi-no-suke in such a manner—and his current resolve, having transformed his entire being into that of an avenging demon, to target the remaining seventeen heads—leaving nothing untold. “One thing weighs on my mind—since going into hiding, I’ve been unable to visit my humble home in Tsukudo Hachiman. Even my wife Sonoe and brother Kotarō have been arrested—they’re subjecting them to harsh interrogation to force them to reveal my whereabouts.” “Though by now they have likely been pardoned and returned home—when I think of that, I beg you to understand, Lord Ukon.” “Kyōnosuke is in heart-rending agony.” “If I could meet my wife, there would be so much to discuss... Well, this is mere grumbling.” “A complaint slipped out.” “Ah—I beg your indulgence.”

Thus did Ukon and O-Suzu listen. Ibaru Ukon and O-Suzu—they loved quarrels more than their daily bread. Outnumbered and pitted against the shogunate’s might, Kyōnosuke now fled in desperation. Moreover, he vowed to sever seventeen heads one by one. Hearing this alone, it was inevitable that this quarrel-obsessed couple—driven by their chivalrous grit and love of conflict—would pledge lifelong allegiance. Thus emerged two Kamio Kyōnosukes: men so alike in face and swordsmanship that none could say who was elder or younger, concealed beneath the guise of their quarrel-for-hire trade. With O-Suzu’s bewitching smiles and steely resolve beside them, they honed their blades amid the clamor of the streets, ready at any moment and any place to claim those seventeen lives.

Kamio Kyōnosuke was a practitioner of the Kyoshin-ryū school. Ibaru Ukon was the unrivaled sword of the Kange-ryū school. As for O-Suzu—the so-called “O-Suzu Style” (though no such thing existed)—she was a fearsome female gang leader who would plunge into the heart of a brawl and, with a graceful smile, deliver a cutting remark. With all three elements in perfect harmony—and Kyōnosuke and Ukon being utterly indistinguishable—it made for a truly confounding situation. From the perspective of the seventeen men whose lives were targeted, this alliance could hardly have been a blessing.

Now, having heard Kyōnosuke’s heartfelt words about his wife Sonoe directly from his own lips, Ibaru Ukon and O-Suzu—being the savvy sorts they were—quickly grasped the situation. Being a quarrel-loving couple who couldn’t rest until acting on any plan the moment it struck them, they resolved to let Kyōnosuke know he was safe in their home and—depending on how things unfolded—even secretly bring Sonoe to the house on Obiya Lane to reunite her with him after so long. Determined to abruptly bring Sonoe and surprise him, they set out without a word to Kyōnosuke.

They departed by palanquin. With two palanquins lined up, they left the house on Obiya Lane just as evening fell. Edo’s setting sun shimmered through the metropolis’ dust, its crimson hue deepening to violet. Perhaps harried by a kite, a flock of crows wheeled and dipped across the darkening sky.

Attempting to reach Kudanshita, they approached Manaita Bridge. That area was lined with mid-ranking samurai residences, their walls’ overhanging branches casting shadows so deep that even midday felt dim. Moreover, in the twilight hour, an ink-black darkness had already begun to envelop the area, and there were no passersby. The palanquin carrying O-Suzu at the front was abruptly set down by the roadside. The front palanquin bearer’s straw sandals had come loose, so they wanted to pause there briefly to retie them. The front bearers steadied [the palanquin], and Ukon’s palanquin came to a halt in turn, so Ukon, having parted the curtain to reveal his face,

“What’s this? What’s going on?” “Yes. “We’ll just take a moment to retie the straw sandals.” “Tch. What a bunch o’ sloppy bastards.” “Our deepest apologies.”

Six

“Now Kōkichi—because you went spouting all that nonsense and rushed into Lord Wakizaka’s mansion, his lordship took it completely at face value. He promptly ordered Hatchōbori to mobilize a large force—but when they marched out, what do you think they found? Some quarrel-for-hire ronin named Ibaru Ukon from Kanda Obiya Lane who just happened to look exactly like your man! Wasn’t that a fine mess?” “So you shouldn’t go making wild claims like that.” “As the mediator caught up in this affair, I’ve never been so humiliated.” “Thanks to this blunder, until I can redeem myself with some worthy achievement, even I—Chōan—can’t show my face at the mansion anymore.” “From now on, I want you to stop spouting such nonsense.”

Today, Murai Chōan had gone out to Fudekō in Shitaya Chōjamachi, quietly met only with his son Kōkichi, and vented his fury with these words. There was no way that was true—he’d stake his life on it. Certainly that had been Kamio Kyōnosuke! Yet he paid no heed to Kōkichi’s defense about having heard such a story between Kabedatsu and his daughter, “In any case—you’ll exercise more care from now on.” With that declaration still hanging in the air, Murai Chōan—storming out of Fudekō’s shop in high dudgeon—found himself at that very moment traversing the same route home to Kōjimachi Hirakawachō as the quarrel-for-hire group’s palanquin bearing O-Suzu and Ukon.

This Murai Chōan. Now that Fudekōbei—the brush shop—was expanding its business beyond writing materials into the broader oil trade, this presented an opportunity: Izumiya Gohei of Kanda Mikawachō, who had until now exclusively handled the castle’s oil supply contracts, was currently faltering due to the incident involving his son-in-law Kamio Kyōnosuke. By leveraging this moment and making requests through Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, the chief castle guard commander, they could surely oust Izumiya Gohei and have Fudekōbei appointed as the castle’s new oil supplier in his place. Thus, Chōan—commissioned by Fudekōbei—was acting as a bridge for bribes to Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, so to speak.

Fudekō had been supplying writing materials such as brushes, paper, and ink to the Chiyoda Castle Guards and sought to become acquainted with Yamashiro-no-kami. He was a merchant from Kashiwazaki in Echigo Province—the same as Izumiya Gohei—and precisely because they hailed from the same region, Fudekō and Izumiya Gohei had been fierce rivals in their climb up the social ladder since long ago. This was the perfect opportunity to bring down Izumiya Gohei. Moreover, Yamashiro-no-kami had been driven to desperation by Kamio Kyōnosuke’s actions—not only had the man slain his finest subordinate and fled, but he continued to mock him with his very demeanor. The root cause of this entire commotion lay with Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe—O-Sono of Izumiya—so it went without saying that Izumiya was viewed with equal disfavor. With Chōan—who had earned Yamashiro-no-kami’s favor—acting as intermediary, Fudeya Kōbei was certain the matter was as good as settled. Each day, he waited in eager anticipation for the summons from the castle that would surely come tomorrow, formally appointing him to oversee the entire oil supply commission—and yet—

The money sent from Fudekō to Yamashiro-no-kami as a bribe had half of it pocketed by Chōan along the way, so only half the sum reached Yamashiro-no-kami’s coffers—which led him to privately conclude that the brush merchant was a stingy bastard. Moreover, due to Kōkichi’s informant incident this time, Yamashiro-no-kami could no longer face Hatchōbori with dignity. This left the impression that Fudekō was acting improperly, and thus the matter showed no sign of progressing as smoothly as the brush merchant had optimistically assumed.

Because Chōan had pestered Yamashiro-no-kami so relentlessly about Fudekō’s case—though for Chōan himself, this came with the promise of a hefty reward from the brush merchant once the matter succeeded—Yamashiro-no-kami in turn ordered Chōan himself to undertake a certain task. If this succeeded, he would work to secure the brush shop’s oil commission—not that he said so aloud, but the understanding hung unspoken between them. It was the unspoken quid pro quo between Yamashiro-no-kami and Chōan.

The task was to lure out Kyōnosuke’s younger brother Kotarō and, through interrogation or deception—Chōan’s specialty—extract the location of his elder brother Kyōnosuke’s hideout. That was the task.

Seven

Chōan readily accepted the task and withdrew from his lord’s presence, but upon reflection saw no need for earnest effort. A rough-natured archvillain at heart, all he needed was to wait for the right moment to lure out Kotarō and cleanly eliminate him. If he reported that spineless wretch had died during interrogation, Yamashiro-no-kami would consider matters settled. First off, it was precisely because that greenhorn Kotarō still breathed that such troublesome tasks fell upon him. Kill him, and that would end it. Yes— after disposing of Kotarō, he’d seize Sonoe— Kyōnosuke’s wife, that beauty who’d stirred up such commotion among castle guards— no, O-Sono of Izumiya. With Kotarō gone, her fugitive husband couldn’t risk reappearing. Thus took root a vile notion: Murai Chōan began nurturing an outrageous ambition— to possess Sonoe for himself, if only once.

And so today too, on his way back from Fudekō’s shop, Chōan—his shaved head wrapped in a hood, his large face marked by faint chrysanthemum-stone-like blemishes bowed low, hands tucked into the sleeves of his juttoku robe—shuffled along, pondering whether to head straight to Tsukudohachiman and contrive some pretext to meet Kotarō now, or perhaps bide his time a little longer. Lost in thought, he arrived at Manaita Bridge in Kudanshita.

Hearing voices, he abruptly looked up. Two palanquins stood halted in the dusk. And then, at that moment—the face of a samurai peering out from the parted curtain of the rear palanquin!

Huh?! With that, Chōan rubbed his eyes from a slight distance away. Chōan did not know Kamio Kyōnosuke’s face by sight. But given the man’s current notoriety, he could roughly picture his appearance from rumors alone. “Wait—isn’t that Kyōnosuke?” he thought for an instant before immediately dismissing the notion. No—a wanted fugitive like Kyōnosuke wouldn’t dare ride through here in a palanquin at this hour. Yet seeing how closely the man matched the descriptions he’d heard, might this instead be his younger brother Kotarō? Thinking this, he peered into the front palanquin—where a flash of gaudy women’s robes showed through a gap in the curtain. Chōan posed the question to himself, answered it within his heart—Hm!— and gave a solitary nod. Kotarō and Sonoe—no doubt about it— He halted and waited for the palanquin to depart. Soon enough, the palanquin lifted from the ground once more with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap of bearers’ feet.

There, Chōan caught up and called out. “Might you be Mr. Kotarō?” “And would that following palanquin not be Mr. Kotarō?”

At once, a quiet voice answered from the rear palanquin.

“Yes, I am Kotarō.” “And who might you be—?” The palanquin bearers slackened their pace slightly, and the palanquin began to stop. That was the moment Chōan had been waiting for. Though nominally a doctor, Chōan was a rogue through and through—he always carried a nine-and-a-half-sun blade. That blade flashed like fish scales in the darkness and slashed through. At the same time, Chōan let out a terrible groan. “Enough of this shit!” “Kotarō, die!”

He lunged forward and thrust his blade toward the palanquin. But at that very instant, from within the palanquin, a silver straight blade—a three-foot sword—ripped through the curtain and thrust out. A voice rang out. “Look at the tsuba!”

Gah! Chōan, startled, fixed his eyes on the sword’s tsuba thrust toward him—four golden characters on a black ground: “Quarrel-for-Hire.” When Chōan whirled around and frantically dashed off, the palanquin bearing the laughter of a man and a woman had already vanished into the dusk.

It was Chōan who was startled. Breathlessly rushing to flee into some nearby refuge, he passed through Nakasaka-shita and arrived at the corner estate—Ōsako Genba’s residence, a member of the Nishi-no-maru Castle Guards—located where one ascends straight up Mochinoki-zaka slope from Horidome’s side street. And yet, there—another, even greater shock lay in wait for Chōan!

On Ōsako Genba’s front door was affixed a large notice—"Your life, if you please!" Below, in small print: "Presently arriving." Bloodstrike Elimination Line

1

If one were to speak of an ill-omened awakening, Ōsako Genba was its very embodiment.

Ōsako Genba was one of the Chiyoda Castle Guards—a portly man in his forties. Speaking of the Chiyoda Castle Guards, they were akin to what we’d now call a secretariat department, so there were relatively many young men among them. There, they would learn the shogunate’s administrative duties, and those recognized for their talent would be assigned to higher-ranking roles—those destined for promotion would rise. Those who didn’t rise through the ranks didn’t rise through the ranks. Some things never change between past and present—but back in those carefree days, free from complex socioeconomic woes like unemployment or poverty, matters were simpler. When a seat—no, a *zabuton* cushion—among the Chiyoda Castle Guards became vacant, they’d announce the opening in some issue of the official gazette. Thousands of applications would pile up: hundreds from elite scholars who’d aced their exams, hundreds more from Imperial University graduates. But rather than agonize over choosing between them, they’d just pick someone with an auspicious name like “Professor Tortoise-Crane Millionman”… Not that such absurdity ever happened. Once summoned to the Chiyoda Castle Guards, all they had to do was arrive punctually, leave punctually, and—while pretending to work during those hours—idle around efficiently. So long as they avoided major blunders, they would almost never be relieved of their posts. As if believing the Tokugawa reign would endure eternally unchanging—it was truly a leisurely, carefree era—.

“Who’s there—is someone present?”

In the candlelight’s shadow, Ōsako Genba abruptly furrowed his brows.

Huh?! he thought. Creak!—At the edge of the veranda corridor, the floorboard seemed to groan as if under someone’s weight. An auditory illusion?

That must be it. The servants and household members had finished locking up earlier and already retired to their respective rooms. Samurai households kept early hours at night. At this time, there should be no one walking near Genba’s sitting room. It seems I’ve grown a bit neurotic—though “neurotic” is a fancy term from later times, one Ōsako Genba couldn’t possibly know—he thought, baring his white teeth in a self-mocking grin before turning his gaze back to the chant book.

He lightly tapped his knee in formal seiza posture, keeping time. “I am a fisherman dwelling in this area.” As Ōsako Genba—a man of uncharacteristically refined tastes—engrossed himself in rehearsing a passage from the Noh play *Hagoromo*, night fell during the early Hour of the Dog, the fifth interval: what we now call eight o’clock in the evening. The wind had risen. The standing trees in the garden roared—like crashing waves—and above them, the old house’s roof trembled with a sound akin to stifled sobs. The storm’s fury threatened to drown out his chanting voice. Genba raised it higher still—and just as he intoned, “Upon this pine hangs a robe of wondrous beauty!”—

Creak! Once again came the sound of something heavy stepping on floorboards from the veranda outside the paper-paned door. Ōsako Genba was by no means a cowardly man. But he involuntarily gulped, his vacant eyes glancing back at the alcove behind him. There on a deer-antler sword rack lay two magnificent blades—Ōsako Genba’s prized weapons forged by Saheita Kanemasa of Ōsaruhata in Sagami Province, said to have mastered fire and water to create this rare masterpiece among new swords. But as fine as they were—both long and short swords had been crisscrossed from sheath to hilt with sturdy cord by some unknown hand’s doing.

Ha! With that, Genba kicked over the chant book stand and stood abruptly in the center of the room.

No one. Only Genba’s shadow stretched and shrank darkly across the tatami. The sudden movement caused the nearby candle flame to flicker in the gust from his clothing. In the room where pale light sank... When he listened closely, there was no sound but the deep tread of night. But living creatures possess an awareness of life’s presence. That presence now pierced through Genba from beyond the tightly closed shoji. Without taking his eyes off the veranda’s shoji, he began to back away slowly, step by step toward the alcove.

2

Near Nakazaka in Kudan. The corner estate at the intersection of Horidome’s side street and Mochinoki-zaka slope was the residence of Ōsako Genba—a hatamoto with a 2,000-koku stipend serving in the Nishi-no-maru Castle Guards. This Genba. In a guardroom filled with many young men, given that he was already hearing his fortieth year, he undoubtedly lacked administrative talent. Behind his back, his fellow guardsmen badmouthed Lord Genba as a perpetual low-ranking guardsman. Yet this Ōsako Genba—a perpetual low-ranking guardsman—exemplified the adage that Heaven does not bestow two gifts. Even now, it holds true: those devoted to sports like baseball or rugby, all brawn and muscle, rarely rank among the scholarly elite. Conversely, scholars tend to be pale-faced and so gaunt and spindly that on a windy day, one might fear they’d be swept skyward if they ventured outside—not that such a thing would happen, mind you, but they do seem overwhelmingly frail. In the past, it was the same—indeed, Ōsako Genba was a perpetual low-ranking guardsman, one who languished in the corner of the secretariat for years on end, never a man of much influence in the office—but with a sword. He was a master of the sword. The one point on which everyone held Ōsako Genba in awe and respect was—

Given his reputation for strength and swordsmanship, Ōsako Genba—though not particularly sharp by nature—held a relatively high rank among the low-ranking guardsmen due to seniority, and no one in the castle feared him. Thus, though forty was an age of sound judgment, far from quietly shielding Kamio Kyōnosuke—the newcomer whom Tobe Ōmi-no-suke and his cohort tormented over trifles like the Izumiya-Osono affair—this Genba instead spearheaded the bullying. Driven by a desire to flatter Group Leader Tobe Ōmi, he took the lead in harassing Kyōnosuke day after day.

Even on the New Year’s Day when the incident occurred, it was no different. To Kyōnosuke, who had been prostrating himself, “Is he crying?” “What? Is he crying?” “Well now, looks like even a doll’s shedding tears, huh?” “Amusing.” “Look at this!” “That’s right. Pull him up and show his face!” “Pull him up and show his face!” “Never mind that—grab his topknot and pull him up!” They were acting a bit childish. But given the circumstances at the time, there was also an inevitability to how things unfolded. Carried away, he reached out, grabbed Kyōnosuke’s hair with a thud, and yanked! The one who had yanked him up with brute force was none other than Ōsako Genba.

He might’ve gone a bit too far there—even now, Genba still believed he’d felt a flicker of regret immediately afterward. From then on, all hell broke loose.

Kyōnosuke, whom they had thought was weeping, had not been weeping at all—he had instead been laughing with his face buried. And with scornful disregard for the group, he walked out of the waiting room. Even though told to stop, Tobe Ōmi-no-suke pursued after him. And before long, Tobe Ōmi-no-suke’s head was thrown into the gathering place, and Kyōnosuke had since evaded the authorities’ relentless scrutiny and remained at large to this day.

He must surely resent me now. Indeed, I had misjudged that Kyōnosuke alone. I’d convinced myself he was nothing but a milksop greenhorn, good only for making women simper—but that boisterous laughter when he raised his head after I yanked his hair! Not only did he literally behead Lord Tobe Ōmi-no-suke—a man of considerable skill—in an instant, but then with what one might call boldness or sheer audacity, he threw the head through the castle guardhouse window and fled. That Kyōnosuke must be terrifyingly capable…

Was it some premonition? Ōsako Genba could not shake the feeling that Kamio Kyōnosuke was now targeting his head day and night from somewhere. To have a mortal enemy—it made for good theater and fiction—but now that he had become such a man himself in reality, it wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling. He had been cautiously attentive during his comings and goings to the castle.

3

But days had passed. Ōsako Genba was feeling somewhat at ease. That very relief was his undoing.

*Huh?!* A rope was tied around the sword. Like this, even if he tried to draw it in haste, there was no way—What the—? Who had sneaked in and done such a thing—? While keeping his attention fully on the front shoji screen, he first needed to untie the rope from his sword—if it came to that… Ōsako Genba considered this inwardly as he edged backward toward the alcove. Today had been his daytime guard duty. He had returned home from the castle around dusk, bathed, dined, and now that the meal had been cleared away, his wife and children had retired to their rooms, while his retainers had finished securing the doors and withdrawn downstairs not long ago.

He immediately remained alone in this secluded room and began practicing his favorite Noh chants. Not much time should have passed since then. Whether it was still early or already late—if only a temple bell would ring somewhere—Ōsako Genba strained his ears. Faintly, he heard the sound of dishwashing from the kitchen and what seemed like servants’ laughter. With this rough sense of time telling him it wasn’t particularly late yet, Genba let out a sigh of relief and reconsidered once more.

What was strange was this sword. When he had returned from the castle, he had changed clothes in this room, removed the two swords he had been wearing at the time, and handed them to his wife, who had been attending nearby as usual. His wife had taken them to the alcove and hung them on this deer antler sword rack. At that time, of course, they had not been tied with a rope from scabbard to hilt like this. There was no reason for anyone to do such an absurd thing—even if it had been a child’s prank, he himself had not left this room once since returning from the castle, so there could have been no opportunity. Had he truly not left this room even once since nightfall? Hmm—he had no recollection of stepping out. No, wait. I went to the privy once. When I returned then—what state were the swords in? They hadn’t been like this. If they’d already been tied then, I should have noticed sooner—so does that mean I haven’t left this room even once since? I didn’t leave! I’ve been right here all along, practicing Noh chants. Wait—didn’t I just step out to the privy a moment ago? Oh! That’s right—I just went to the privy and came back! Hmm… So someone must have sneaked in during that time—but where could they have entered from? The doors were secured properly—didn’t my comrades check them thoroughly earlier?

Perhaps someone had slipped in before the doors were secured… Hmm… Who on earth could have secretly entered this mansion? Ōsako Genba went to the alcove and picked up his sword. Even he found the situation absurd and let out a fleeting, derisive snicker. Who—what did he mean by “who”? It was him! It could only be Kamio Kyōnosuke—the smile that had begun to form on Genba’s face froze.

He looked at Sahēta Kanemasa Osaruhata’s great sword. The rope had been wound with reckless tightness and secured by a knot of ironclad strength at its end. It wouldn’t come undone quickly.

Outside the shoji screen, the breath of some living creature could still be felt, pressing in. Ōsako Genba, suddenly panicking, frantically tried to undo the knot with hands that had begun to tremble—clattering clattering clattering…

Should I raise my voice and call for the household members? No—a man of five shaku, especially a hatamoto, and moreover one of Ōsako Genba’s reputed skill, could not perform such a spineless act at this early hour of the night.

But something dire was closing in on him. No matter what, he had to hurry and untie the rope around his sword—Genba, unbeknownst to himself, had broken out in large beads of sweat across his forehead as he grew desperate. His nails ached from the effort; the knot refused to yield. Just then, at the front entrance, a shrill cry rang out—

IV “Disaster! Disaster!” It was a voice that shot straight from the crown of one’s skull in shock—the kind no one could produce even if they tried. “My lord! Lord Ōsako! Are you still alive? Is there no one here—?” The question “Are you still alive?” rang out so clearly that even as a joke, it was far too grim. He shuddered involuntarily. Ōsako Genba, drenched in cold sweat—what could this mean? It must be him! While straining his ears and pausing his hands untying the sword’s rope—such a tremendous shout must have reached everyone. Soon, people seemed to gather below—no sooner had the entrance erupted into clamor than clattering footsteps raced down the hallway. They halted abruptly before the room, and once again, a voice burst forth as if spewing from the crown of someone’s skull.

“M-M-My lord…!” he cried. “J-Just… your face, please…” It was the old retainer Genbei. Realizing his delusion had conjured nonexistent figures in the hallway, Genba abruptly regained his courage,

“What’s all this racket? It ain’t like we’re callin’ for the tofu vendor—quit runnin’ around like a headless chicken!” This was Ōsako Genba—a man who delighted in using such rough, Edo-style colloquialisms. He was targeting the very notion of being some fragile lord.

However, Retainer Genbei’s tone was anything but ordinary.

“This is no trifling matter about tofu vendors!” he cried, sliding open the shoji screen to reveal a face as pale as tofu itself. “Ah, my lord… Thank heavens you’re still alive. I am profoundly relieved—” “Shut up! Just now at the entrance, someone seemed to be demanding my life—now even you declare relief at finding me alive? I fully intend to live another thirty or forty years! To hear such words from my own retainer chills me to the bone! How could a man in prime health like me drop dead so easily?!”

“As you command. However, there was such a notice—” “A notice? What notice?” “Yes, my lord.” “It says, ‘We shall now come to claim your life’—” “What? “I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re sayin’.” “Therefore, I must ask you to come to the entrance.” “Just a moment, my lord—please, if you’d just rise—” “Depending on the circumstances, I might not come out—but who exactly was makin’ that racket at the entrance?”

“It is that Chōan fellow, the town doctor from Kōjimachi Hirakawachō.”

“What?!” “Chōan’s here.” “That bastard’s scheming something wicked again—no doubt plotting to catch me off guard.” “Heh heh. Who’d fall for that?” “Alright, let’s go take a look.” At the castle, he was a low-ranking guard, yet as a 2,000-koku hatamoto, Genba acted quite domineering at home. Leaving the rope-bound sword as it was and pushing Genbei aside, he moved his somewhat corpulent body to the entrance. “Oh, Chōan.” “Good of you to come.” “Just as I was roaring like the Hagoromo—perfect timing. I’ve been needing an opponent.” “Come in.”

Genba planted himself on the step and bellowed outside, wearing a black habutae silk kimono adorned with the mitsuhiki crest and a tea-colored hakama tied low at his hips. With his large, ruddy-dark face and ample frame, he cut an undeniably imposing lordly figure.

5

Chōan appeared unable to speak. Clutching his master’s hood in one hand and vigorously shaking his shaven head while gesturing desperately, his demeanor seemed utterly abnormal. Since this clearly wasn’t one of his usual pranks, Ōsako Genba—now suspicious— “What? You want me to come all the way out there?” “The hell’s this about?” Reluctantly thrusting his feet into sandals, he stepped out to the entrance. There he found four or five household members standing agape, each clutching lanterns as they stared up at the outer side of the entrance door with looks of profound astonishment.

“My lord, that—” Chōan pointed. One of the servants raised his lantern high.

Ōsako Genba looked, wondering *What—*, and began to read quietly—but his voice trailed off midway. “What? ‘We shall now come to claim your life—’.” “Hrm.” He swung back to Chōan with a flustered face. “Chōan! This prank goes too far!” “How dare you speak of taking my life?!” “Hey! What do you mean by ‘taking my life’?!” “Huh?!” Chōan thrust his face forward. “Then what are you implying?” “Are you saying *I* posted this notice and stirred up trouble with my shouting—?” “That’s absurd!” “My lord, that’s absurd!” “Your lordship’s residence is as secure as Edo Castle itself—the entrance you speak of is the grand front gate. Though I am but a lowly town doctor of no standing, even I know better than to violate such decorum.” “To demand your life at that very gate—of all places—why would anyone—”

Chōan, rebutting with rare earnestness,

“I came to the mansion, saw this notice, and involuntarily raised my voice.”

Genba read the words again—*We shall now come*—and grunted, “Hmm!” So it’s you! He realized—it was about that sword earlier. He couldn’t let this go on. His trusted strong sword—no matter what, he had to remove the cord and push open the sword collar—but as he hurriedly turned back toward the house, perhaps considering the worst-case scenario,

“Nihei!” Calling one of his comrades, he said, “Send an urgent messenger to Lord Asaka Keinosuke’s residence at Kijibashi Gomon, Hōzutsu Okura-mae.” “Tell Lord Keinosuke to come immediately with four or five retainers… In this urgent matter, convey that Ōsako awaits his arrival.” “Understood?!” “Fly there!”

He fell silent. Then, to the bewildered group: “Check the bathhouse, latrine, water inlet, veranda—all the locks once more.” “Check that the latches, bars, and other fixtures show no signs of tampering.” “Once that’s done, each of you take up your swords and gather in my chambers. Prepare sake—tonight we’ll drink through the night, speak freely at this informal gathering, and wait for dawn.” It was a rather alarming order, but the ones who rejoiced at hearing they could drink were the retainers. Each dividing tasks, they scattered to their assigned duties.

“Chōan, come here.”

Genba, who had started to enter, turned back and called out. But Chōan, thoroughly overwhelmed with deference, “No need for that—I’m quite fine right here.”

“You idiot! That’s outside!” “Yes. Outside’s safer—if they come at me with a blade drawn, I’ll dash off in a flash. As the old saying goes: ‘A wise man does not approach danger—’”

“What are you dithering about?!” “My lord, is the opponent that Kamio Kyōnosuke—?” “Oh, come now—someone like him—” He grew impatient. He had to deal with the sword—

“Chōan! Close up the back properly and get inside.”

Just like that, Ōsako Genba went up into the house alone, briskly returned to his original reception room, smoothly slid open the shoji screen and stepped inside—and then, true to his samurai nature, came a low voice. “What the—?!” “Who’s there?…”

Six

When and from where had he slipped in? Kamio Kyōnosuke—sitting in the alcove of the reception room, grinning repeatedly— He wore a single lined kimono with patched shoulders, a plain wooden three-shaku sword at his side, and a checkered indigo cloth wrapped around his face. Thoroughly soiled by street grime over time, he presented a grotesque figure—neither recognizable as samurai nor ruffian. With a long sword thrust into his obi, he gazed up at Genba, his beautiful face still contorted in a grin. He looked almost devoid of thought.

Already startled as it was! Genba was startled. This only intensified the indescribable eeriness emanating from Kyōnosuke’s vacant-minded demeanor, leaving him unable to speak for some time—but at last, “Hey, you made it. Must’ve been rough.” “Huh? You must’ve had quite the ordeal.” “I can imagine.” “I understand.” “L-let’s just go back to how things were—keep it casual, alright?” Even if he tried to take his sword, not only was Kyōnosuke sitting on it, but it was still bound with rope—so even if he could get his hands on it, there was nothing he could do. If he tried to leave the room or raise his voice, he felt Kyōnosuke’s blade would flash in his hand at any moment. Genba was unarmed. He was completely overwhelmed and, struck by a sudden idea, put on a friendly, nostalgic air. Before long, the people from the estate would gather as he had instructed, and that Mr. Asaka, whom he had asked for assistance, would come rushing over as well. Until then, he thought, he must handle everything calmly, gently, maintaining utmost deference toward this Kamio Kyōnosuke—now a young beast that had tasted blood—but it was dangerous. He could not approach any closer. And so, maintaining his vacant grin from a distance—in such moments, even a career guard must rely on cunning. He tried to say with uncharacteristic amiability.

“Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Kamio, come now—what’s done is done, eh? Ugh… In fact, we all sympathize with you now.” “Indeed, it’s no wonder you finally snapped.” “Now that I think about it, that Tobe Ōmi guy was truly a vicious one.” “You really went through with cutting him down.” “Everyone—well—is grateful to you, you see.” “And so today, we held a meeting of all the guards and decided to submit a joint petition requesting your pardon from Lord Wakizaka.” “So, and I—the one speaking to you now—am the initiator of this. Please accept this gladly—it’s all settled.”

Kyōnosuke was silent. He was still looking all around and laughing.

Because he was laughing, Genba thought his words were gradually taking effect—and now the attendants would arrive at any moment. With his resolve to dart outside the instant they came, he kept flicking glances toward the corridor while—

“We too have regrets.” “Our mischief went a bit too far.” “That too—precisely because we considered you one of our own. Truly, I—though it may be presumptuous—have always regarded you as a younger brother.” “That’s why we could play such pranks—but if we’d thought you an outsider, it would’ve been unthinkable.” “Speaking of pranks—well, things went too far, didn’t they?” “Truly, it was a prank that got out of hand.” “But you must have suffered terribly?” “Where have you been hiding?”

Kyōnosuke did not answer. “The truth is,” “Right after that incident, we resolved to send you a formal apology—so I personally took charge of searching for you. But you’ve been impossible to track down.” “Not showing a single trace of yourself—that’s downright cruel of you.” Though nothing warranted laughter, he forced a chuckle. “Ask anyone! You might not know this, but I’ve always been on your side.” “There was this one time—” “Your inkstone had gone dry. Now, the real story? That Ōmi bastard deliberately dumped the water to parch it. Even after that stunt—what a vile piece of work, eh?” “He said he’d wait for your castle visit to ‘wring you dry,’ so I couldn’t just watch—I secretly refilled it myself.” “Then that Tobe rat noticed and made me vomit it all back up.” “‘Mr. Ōsako—is Kamio your long-lost cousin or something?’ Cousins—ha ha ha! You and me as kin—well, we might as well be!” “‘I’ve always been fond of Mr. Kamio’—when I said that, Ōmi just blinked those acorn eyes of his and shut right up.” “No—I wanted you to see.” “You.”

Still sitting on his sword in the alcove, a single word—as if suddenly recalled—flowed from Kyōnosuke’s grinning lips. “Head—”

Seven

“Huh?!” “Head?” “Heads! Heads! Heeeads!… First head! Second head! Third head—all seventeen heads!” Kamio Kyōnosuke suddenly stood up, laughing with unnatural brightness. “Ha ha ha ha! Heads will roll.” “Heads roll.” “Where?” “There! There—there! Right there—!”

In an instant, Kyōnosuke smoothly drew his sword and stood dangling it loosely in one hand, his gaze fixed on some distant point. His eyes lacked focus; the front of his kimono had split open, revealing his undergarments in a slovenly manner. His words were abrupt and nonsensical—so Ōsako Genba, even more startled, retreated two or three steps back. Madness? That was it. This Kamio Kyōnosuke was undoubtedly insane.

In that case, all the more reason.

The situation had escalated beyond control, but in any case, Ōsako Genba did his utmost, believing that keeping him calm until others arrived was the wisest course. “Ah, you’ve come.” “You’ve come, sir.” “You haven’t forgotten your old friends—grateful for that, huh?” “Not that I’m particularly grateful, but—”

“N-now… th-that… put away that man-slaying cleaver of yours.” “And then—and then—whatever it may be—shall we calmly discuss this?”

Kyōnosuke swayed forward unsteadily, as if chasing butterflies across a spring meadow, his movements fluid yet erratic. The hand towel fluttered at his mouth—its knot undone—while his right hand still held a drawn sword dangling limply. His expression was vacant. The words spilled out as if unbidden: “Give me your head! Hey—gimme that head!” “Gah!” Genba instinctively clutched his own neck. But even without closer inspection, this was undeniably madness—Kamio Kyōnosuke had gone insane from the strain of hiding from the authorities’ watchful eyes. If this was madness, Genba reasoned, then madness could be managed. There was nothing left to fear now. But that drawn blade—was there any way to trick him into dropping it? A madman with a weapon—nothing was more dangerous than this.

Wait— If someone were to suddenly grab him from the side—Genba, seizing an opening, stared intently—but as he watched, he too was a skilled martial artist and immediately saw through it. If this Kamio Kyōnosuke were truly a madman— For one thing, there was no reason for him to take such thorough precautions as keeping his back to the alcove to prevent Genba from drawing a sword—and above all, his body should be full of openings. But now, to Genba’s discerning eye, Kyōnosuke—standing there vacantly like some feigned madman—had not a single opening, down to the last fraction.

He feigned his entire body as though riddled with openings—shambling, stumbling forward slowly as if groping with his nails—yet his whole being was the embodiment of a blade’s spirit, his stance-without-stance the secret essence of swordsmanship. Since this matched perfectly—Kamio Kyōnosuke pretended madness but was anything but deranged; in truth, he lay coiled like a tiger poised to strike, his long blade on the verge of cleaving through the lamplight as it lunged forth…

Not good! Strike first! Having thought this, Genba barked.

“Fake madman! Come at me properly!” The instant his “Come!” ended—whoosh! Along with Kyōnosuke’s exhaled breath, it fell—pitch-black darkness into the room.

Simultaneously came the thudding sound of tatami mats being kicked. A white line flickered up and down two or three times—swish! Crunch!—was that the grating sound of a bone being severed?

Gah! Immediately after, all that remained was nothing but the sound of a child’s wailing, bitterly sobbing. Throughout, Kyōnosuke did not utter a single war cry.

Eight

“My lord, my lord—” Told to enter yet refusing to do so, yet not leaving either—Chōan was the very picture of morbid curiosity. Peering in cautiously from the entrance, wondering if something was about to happen, Chōan heard only the sounds of fellow attendants checking door latches here and there, while the inner quarters remained dead silent—

“What the hell.” There was nothing special happening at all, wasn’t there? It wasn’t interesting at all. “Orders to take lives, demand we show up immediately—but when the hell are they actually gonna come?” There was a terrible fellow who found delight in others’ peril, his heart akin to awaiting the rise of a theater curtain, He strained his ears, wondering if something was about to happen— It was right there before him. A single lantern was placed at the top of the step, leaving the area dimly lit. Cutting through the dimness, a figure like the wind swiftly crossed the rear corridor and appeared. There he was! Just as he tried to flee toward the thoroughfare, someone—or rather, something more akin to a presence—caught up to him soundlessly, like a cat. The presence called out to stop Chōan from behind at the entrance.

“A menial, eh?”

“Yes.” Chōan stopped in his tracks. His knees buckled; though he tried to break into a run, they refused to obey. The sensation of a vicious dog sniffing at his heels. That was it. Murai Chōan, sweat pooling beneath his arms, held himself motionless regardless. But he lacked the courage to turn around. He faced straight ahead and answered toward the darkness before him. “Yes, I am a servant.” “Are you a servant of this mansion?” “No, I am a transient laborer named Orisuke staying in a nearby room.” “You’re certain of that?”

It was pitch dark; they couldn’t even see each other’s clothing. “There is no mistake.” He replied with unnatural stiffness. Then, the presence behind him grinned slyly, “Hold out your hand. I’ll let you have something good.” Upon hearing it was something good, Chōan—who would take anything offered—turned around to inquire. “Sir—who might you be—” Then, in a leisurely voice, “I am Kamio Kyōnosuke.” At that reply—Gah! As Chōan, scared out of his wits, tried to flee,

“Here—take this.” He thrust something forward. Murai had no choice but to take it. He reached out a trembling hand as he tried to back away. What he’d been handed was a large, round object. Something like wet hair brushed against his skin—the whole thing felt unnervingly warm and oddly slimy. It was surprisingly heavy.

“Thank you very much.”

He didn’t know what it was, but since it had been given to him, he was in the middle of expressing thanks when the man who had handed it to him shot out through the gate like a stone and vanished into the depths of darkness in an instant. And just then, from the direction of the mansion’s inner chambers erupted the shouts of people rising all at once. “Gah! L-Lord…! The Lord…!” Now that Murai Chōan had regained his composure—what was this? As he turned back into the house, he noticed he was clutching the watermelon-like object he had just been given as if it were precious, so he tried to examine it closely under the lantern light at the entrance.

But he didn’t need to look closely. Gyaaah! With a strange, choked scream, Chōan hurled the object into the dirt-floored entryway and collapsed against the wall as if thrown back. The severed head of Ōsako Genba—slipping from Chōan’s hands—landed with a dull thud atop the very *geta* he had worn moments before. It stared up at him with vacant bewilderment, as though muttering, *“Hey, Chōan… Look at this pitiful end I’ve met.”*

A severed head wearing geta—. Overwhelmed by the eerie supernatural quality of it all, Chōan momentarily lost his voice—but soon began frantically shouting the same words over and over. “Gah! L-Lord…!” “My lord…!” “My lord—!”

Nine

“What?” “Has Ninpei come as a messenger from Ōsako’s mansion?” “Hmm. He says it’s urgent business.” “No need for formalities.” “Show him to the garden.” Perhaps having grown tired of reading, Asaka Keinosuke—a man in his mid-thirties and one of the Shoinban guards—cut a rather dashing figure. He had come out to the edge of the room near the veranda and, as if suddenly remembering something, was busily cutting his nails.

It was the Asaka residence on Daimyō-kōji Street, beside Kijibashi Gate, in front of the Hōtō Gura armory. Just as he was thinking of retiring for the night, a servant hurriedly arrived with news that Ninpei, their comrade from Lord Ōsako’s estate in Mochinokizaka, had come as a messenger. Promptly, he had someone open one panel of the already-closed storm shutters and bring Ninpei to the outer garden to meet him—and then… Was this someone’s prank, or a genuine threat? It was reported that an unsettling notice had been posted. Moreover, upon hearing that Ōsako Genba was seeking his assistance, Asaka Keinosuke—who took pride in his moniker Kenkai—seemed genuinely amused,

“Ōsako’s gone soft, hasn’t he?”

He laughed. But since they had come seeking help, he could not turn them away. It was bound to be a trivial matter. Though he thought it would likely become a laughingstock tale, Asaka Keinosuke—taking along four retainers from the estate’s dojo who showed promise with their swords, guided by Ninpei—left his residence just as the hour of four-and-a-half bells approached. When he glanced back, a stage-prop-like last-quarter moon hung pale over the forest of Hachisuka Chūnagon’s estate.

From there, they proceeded straight to the main road and soon approached Kudan-shita.

The group of five walked at a leisurely pace. It was a night road. The rigid master-servant formality had unwittingly been shed, leaving them all at ease. They couldn’t walk in silence. Their foolish banter flowed. Their boisterous laughter echoed through the late-night town. As they were about to turn from Kudan-shita toward Nakazaka, a faint figure came into view ahead. But assuming it was just some young samurai out for nighttime revelry, none paid it any mind. Since their target was already frightened, they walked on, boisterously discussing how they would intimidate Ōsako Genba with their numbers and later turn it all into a joke.

They tried to pass by. Then, because the person approaching from ahead stopped first, Asaka Keinosuke’s group also casually halted their steps and watched—

“Well, if it isn’t Asaka—”

At the voice that had called out—who could that be? Puzzled, he wondered— “Hmm, indeed I am Asaka—but who might you be—?”

“Kamio Kyōnosuke.” “Wh-what... Kamio—?” Their blades cleared their scabbards simultaneously—but before the self-sacrificial swordsmanship of Kyoshin-ryū, the four retainers were hurled to the ground in an instant… Kyōnosuke’s ferocious blade, now freed by his abandonment of self, danced like a white serpent as it pursued Keinosuke. Truly, the second head claimed was that of Asaka Keinosuke.

Several hours later.

It was late at night. Kyōnosuke, the quarrel-for-hire practitioner of Kanda Obiya-kōji, returned to Ibaru Ukon’s residence showing no particular signs of fatigue. Ukon and O-Tae—unaware of each other’s whereabouts—were out somewhere until this late hour, leaving the house empty. On the wall was pasted a single scroll resembling a dojo notice, with names written in a row. Just as Kyōnosuke drew elimination lines through Ōsako Genba and Asaka Keinosuke’s names as previously described—marking them as the first and second heads—three palanquins came to a stop outside.

Supernatural Tale: The Inverted Folding Screen

I

The sasa bamboo rustled.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter... The sound of dew scattering. An evening breeze. On the outskirts of Ushigome Tsukudohachiman, at the vacant residence of Kamio Kyōnosuke, former Nishinomaru Shoinban guard.

Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe—once celebrated as the reigning champion of beauty rankings under the name Izuya no O-Sono—was now naked.

Completely naked…

There was no need to panic. It was the bathroom. No matter how beautiful a woman might be, it seemed that in this era, it had been decided one must be naked when entering the bath.

It was a new bathroom fragrant with hinoki wood. From the high lattice window, the pale sunlight of twilight streamed in, weaving stripes through the rising steam. The spacious mansion stood silent, save for Kyōnosuke’s younger brother Kotarō in the back garden—thrusting at a persimmon tree with spirited “Hyah!” cries. Thwack—the only sound was his swordsmanship practice. “A bride skillfully straddles the sunken tub…” So went the senryu verse’s wit. Bending her body into a *ku*-like curve, Sonoe slipped smoothly from the bath. Though alone, she knelt at the washing area, concealing herself here and there—a woman’s propriety demanded polish even without an audience. She scrubbed diligently. Her white-silk skin flushed cherry-pink from the bath’s warmth as her plump body shifted through alluring poses.

A Beauty in the Bath. Truly an erotic scene… yet she was a woman beset by worries these days.

If Lord Kyōnosuke were here—this was the only thing she thought. Involuntarily, she stopped the hand she was washing and—hah! The moment it turned into a small sigh.

Once more, to quote a senryū… Each time footsteps sound, the bride crouches in the bathhouse. That most dreadful of footsteps rustled heavily before the firebox, and—hah! Sonoe instinctively crouched down slightly, “Madam, isn’t the bath a bit lukewarm? Should I add a bit more?” Since that incident of Kyōnosuke’s sword attack, among the servants who had resigned and left out of fear of reprisal, it was the voice of Tadatsuke—the sole young retainer who had remained to manage the household duties—that reassured Sonoe,

“It’s fine.” “You needn’t add more.” Her tone somehow resembled that of a modern girl, though she spoke these words in the language of that time. The old retainer Tadatsuke—who surely wanted to protest how a white-haired man could be called a “young retainer”—had departed.

Later, Sonoe.

Townspeople should remain townspeople—had I married into a merchant household instead, I would never have brought such trouble upon everyone. When I think of it, how I resent Father and Mother for their presumptuous ambition—to seek ties with an esteemed samurai family! And since this calamity began, those from Mikawa-cho have been too fearful of association to even send word, let alone visit. To call Father and Mother excessive would itself be an understatement... Yet a daughter’s heart remains steadfast. When I dwell on it, only Lord Kyōnosuke deserves pity—ah, what dire circumstances must have driven him to such resolve! No—I would never deem his actions rash or unreasonable. You did it—you cut down that detestable Lord Tobe Ōmi-no-suke! That is why I—your wife—rejoice so! Yet when I consider this all began through my own circumstances—how wasteful, how utterly terrifying—the harsh interrogations and punishments I endured afterward pale before your tribulations. Henceforth, my lord, I implore you—guard yourself well. Hide wherever you must and endure. So long as we both live, we shall surely share one home again as husband and wife. When that day comes, I will cast off this stifling samurai life entirely. Together, we’ll return to being townspeople and live joyfully at ease—and until that day when we clasp hands and weep anew, Lord Kyōnosuke, know this: I too will endure every hardship. Hold fast to your resolve! Beware rain, wind, heat, cold—nay, prying eyes and the glint of jitte truncheons... Take utmost care, I beg you... For your safety, I pray fervently each dawn and dusk at Tsukudohachiman Shrine...

Though born a townsman’s daughter, she was now by fate the lady of the Kamio household. They said most beauties were mere playthings with woefully lacking substance—but Sonoe was a true beauty with both bloom and fruit, for the very term *bijin* meant “beautiful person” when written. For people, inner beauty surpassed physical beauty. Physical beauty was but a single layer of skin; inner beauty endured for a thousand ages. Women’s rights expansion and companionate marriage might be splendid products of the times and all that, but Sonoe—who never knew such bamboozling antics as penciling her brows, coloring her cheeks, making faces like she’d just popped from a jack-in-the-box, kicking floors with pillar-like legs while calling it the Charleston or whatnot—might have been old-fashioned for that very reason, yet her thinking remained sound.

In marital affection, there’s no such thing as old or new. A two-pillow dream of marital intimacy—briefly shattered like the slender, plaintive cry of a deer yearning for its mate—Sonoe kindled these daily-repeated thoughts within her breast once more,

“I should get out now.” Alternately lifting each leg in a heron-like posture, she absently wiped her crimson fingertips— “Ah…!” From the mouth of the woman—whose eyes had darted to the window—came a choked cry of shock…

Two It was only natural.

It was a high lattice window. There, a person’s face appeared. No—to be precise, it had only seemed to appear. That was truly unsettling. For someone to peep on a man’s wife while she bathed—it could only be Kameuemon, ancestor of Mr. Ikeda Kametarō. Sonoe was resolute. She hastily wrapped a towel around her waist, covered the breasts with both hands while crouching down, and snapped her gaze upward— She turned to look sharply up at the window—whether her mind had deceived her—for through its panes, only the hues of the setting sun were fading away. No human face existed there.

Oh, thank goodness. "Let’s get out quickly…" Sonoe stood up. This time, she saw it clearly. There was no mistaking it. There, from that window—her husband Kyōnosuke was looking down at her! “Ah! You!” “You!” Sonoe shouted. “Why are you there—? I’ll be right there!”

In an instant. In that fleeting moment, as she leapt from the bathhouse and glanced back over her shoulder, neither Kyōnosuke’s face nor any other remained there—yet having truly seen it with her own eyes, Sonoe’s mind spun into disarray. Without properly drying her wet body, she threw on her kimono, wrapped the obi haphazardly around herself, stumbled into garden clogs from the nearby veranda as though tripping, and rushed to the window where she had just glimpsed Lord Kyōnosuke’s face—only to find no trace of anyone.

"Oh!..." she thought, looking around. "He had been standing here peering in—but where had he gone?" "Hmm... Did I see something that wasn't there?" "When violent incidents occur, it's said their hearts fly forth and their forms appear." "Could it be... What an ill omen!" Having questioned herself only to dismiss it, Sonoe stood frozen in place. It was outside the bathhouse near the rear gate. Evening dusk rose through thick bamboo leaves in Yamate's twilight hour—amidst the deepening silence came the sound of Tadatsuke clinking dishes in the kitchen as he prepared dinner. No matter how long she waited, Lord Kyōnosuke—who wasn't truly there—would never emerge.

Let me return... let me return... She tried to turn back. A voice called out.

“Hey there, missus—”

It was a woman’s voice. She turned around. Outside the rear gate stood a woman’s figure. She was waving her hand incessantly. As if drawn by that beckoning, Sonoe staggered two or three steps in that direction. “Who—who are you? What business brings you here?” “Hohohoho! How tiresome! You think I’d come all the way from Kanda’s outskirts for nothing?” This was their first exchange. When Sonoe looked, she saw a hard-bitten downtown type—her black-collared workman’s coat slung carelessly over one shoulder, hair bleached and frayed, toenails dabbed with balsam-red dye—so menacing in bearing that Sonoe instinctively grew wary,

“If you have business, please come inside.” “Ain’tcha in a hurry! This here’s business where I need you to come out.”

O-Roku of Shizaru carried herself this way wherever she went. She had gone to the trouble of coming all the way by palanquin with Ibaru Ukon to let Kyōnosuke meet someone, bouncing over eagerly to fetch them. The very person they’d come to fetch now seemed to be doubting her intentions and hesitating—it was getting on her nerves something fierce. She began to act out with her inherent bluntness. “I’m O-Roku of Shizaru—a gangster woman who ain’t got no clue how to talk proper, just like my name says.” “Oh, pardon my intrusion!”

So there was nothing to it after all. Because it was as if they had come to pick a fight, Ibaru Ukon—who had just now peeked into the bathhouse and already returned to the palanquin waiting in that side street—

“Hey, O-Roku! Then you ain’t even told the missus what this is about, have ya?” “Is that so?” she turned around. “Hmm, guess I haven’t told ya yet.” “You didn’t say a damn thing.” “That’s why she’s gawkin’!” “The missus looks like she’s been tricked by a fox!” “Hahaha!” “Oh, was that it? “You’re an impatient one, aren’t you?” “What nonsense you spoutin’?” “Who’s the impatient one here?” “Explain it proper-like.”

The woman had turned her back and was chattering incessantly about something, making Sonoe grow all the more puzzled. "Is someone there?" "Oh. The person who just peeked into the bath." "Oh! That—Lord Kyōnosuke..." "Gah!" As she reeled in shock—too frantic to even open the gate—Sonoe shoved O-Roku aside and dashed toward the palanquin behind her. "Lord Kyōnosuke! Lord Kyōnosuke! Which palanquin are you in...?"

Three

Having heard from their housemate Kamio Kyōnosuke about his feelings toward his wife Sonoe, the sharp-witted quarrel-for-hire couple Ukon and O-Roku quickly grasped the situation. They were itinerant fighters who, having conceived the plan to secretly bring Sonoe to the house on Obiaikōji and reunite her with Kyōnosuke after their long separation, felt compelled to act immediately on any scheme they devised. Very well. Planning to surprise her with a sudden arrival, they had two palanquins readied and were en route when—at Mantai Bridge in Kudanshita—they effortlessly drove off Murai Chōan, who had mistaken Ukon for Kotarō and attempted some showy antics, by revealing a sword from behind the palanquin curtain; thus they discreetly positioned the palanquins at the rear entrance of Kyōnosuke’s temporarily vacant residence in Tsukudo Hachiman.

In preparation for boarding Sonoe and rushing back to Kanda, they had picked up an empty palanquin along the way, and three palanquins lined up and descended into the side street before the rear gate. The other side was undoubtedly being cautious in every way. We were complete strangers. Even if someone were to confront her directly and say, “Kyōnosuke is here, so come with us,” there was no way she would readily agree to accompany them. This was getting troublesome. As Ukon and O-Roku stepped out of the palanquin and exchanged bewildered looks—wondering what to do next—faint wisps of steam drifted through gaps in the lattice window at the bathhouse’s rear, accompanied by soft, rhythmic splashes: *splash… splash…* Someone was bathing with deliberate quietness. It was a matter of intuition—this had to be Sonoe using the bath. In the house where only Kotarō lived with her, the one entering the bath at this hour and making such quiet splashing sounds could only be Sonoe—O-Roku, having hatched a plan, firmly tapped Ukon’s shoulder.

“So here’s the thing—just show your face at the window for a sec.” “They’re so alike.” “She’ll definitely come rushing out in confusion.” “After that, I’ll take care of getting her into the palanquin—but you, if you keep gawkin’ too long, I won’t stand for it.” This had succeeded. Sonoe, who had mistaken Ukon’s face for Kyōnosuke’s and come running out like that—now told that this very Kyōnosuke was in one of the palanquins—dashed around the three palanquins in a frenzy, wildly circling them while—

“Which one is it? Which palanquin holds Lord Kyōnosuke?” As she began reaching for each one in turn to peel back the curtains, O-Roku—who had been watching vacantly, struck by the emotion—hurriedly stopped her. “Get a hold of yourself.” “This is a public thoroughfare!” “What’ll you do if someone spots you?” “C’mon, I’ll take ya somewhere proper where you can meet him nice and easy. Won’t do you no harm.” “Hurry up and get in this palanquin!”

She could meet Lord Kyōnosuke right here, right now... Sonoe, already tearing up, crouched into the palanquin as told. Since detailed orders had been given to the palanquin bearers, they creaked as they lifted it up and began hurrying off with brisk steps—yet just when it seemed they would dash away, they didn't move an inch. Ibaru Ukon—who had been in the lord's palanquin—swiftly peeked out only to find O-Roku making no move to enter her own palanquin, instead leaning against it while repeatedly sniffling,

“Hey! What’re ya doin’?! Get in already!”

He scolded in a low voice. O-Roku’s voice was choked with tears. “Quiet! I’m cryin’ here.” “I’m cryin’ here.” “What the—! You ain’t got nothin’ to cry about!” “Quiet, will ya? “I’m all choked up with feeling—seein’ that wife so devoted to her husband—her eyes went all wild, y’know—hey, let’s try to get along better too, yeah?” “That’s right. You oughta take better care o’ me.” “Haven’t I been treatin’ you right?” “If I treat you any better than this, your life won’t last long.”

One of the palanquin bearers interjected. “Tee-hee-hee… I’m still a bachelor, see—been a right rough go of it, eh?”

Without answering that, the oblivious O-Roku— “Oh… I ended up crying…” Climbed in, let the curtain fall with a swish, and off they went! And so they came—three palanquins swiftly returning to Obiaikōji in Kanda—where sacred lanterns swayed and glowed upon a signboard reading *Quarrel-for-Hire Services Available*.

IV

On the wall of the quarrel-for-hire house was posted a long, narrow scroll bearing seventeen retainers' names in a row. Kamio Kyōnosuke—having just returned from beheading two men from among them, Ōsako Genba and Asaka Keinosuke—drew thick black lines through their entries and labeled them below as "First Head" and "Second Head." Now came the unnerving question: who would be third? Those secretly marked as candidates faced calamity in this grim sequence. As Kyōnosuke silently read through the names from the top, weighing whether to choose *that one* or *this one*, three palanquins halted outside—and from one emerged Sonoe.

They were a young couple who had not met since New Year’s Day—who loved and were loved. As for their mutual shock, joy, and what followed—were this penned by an author of olden times, they would have left this part to readers’ imaginings with trailing dots… But I too shall employ this device.

Knowing this was all arranged by the quarrel-for-hire couple, Kyōnosuke wordlessly pressed his palms together in gratitude—*this was it*. When Sonoe entered and found Kyōnosuke there—and then saw a man who looked exactly like him emerge from one of the palanquins she had arrived in—she stared at the two men in startled comparison. There must be some deeper reason behind this, she thought—she would ask him properly later—but for now, Sonoe crumpled to the floor before Kyōnosuke,

“…………” She had no words. She collapsed in tears. If this were a Western scene, they would murmur something clever and cling together heedless of watching eyes. They would kiss. A splendid tableau—but for the Japanese of old, steeped in propriety, such things were unthinkable.

Even so—they had wanted to meet, to see each other… Amid this scene of lingering emotions, Ibaru Ukon gaped open-mouthed. Though it was his own house, he stood vacantly staring in the dirt-floored entryway, unsure whether to step inside. Then O-Roku’s right hand—bearing a tattoo that read *No Opinions Needed* and *Life’s Value Unknown* in two lines—reached out and seized Ukon’s ear.

“What’s this?” “You’re so slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” “This ain’t somethin’ you should be watchin’!” “Come over here.” Because she pulled with such force, even Ibaru Ukon of the Kange-ryū Ittō school let out a yelp, “Agh! That hurts!” “What the hell’re you doin’?!” “I ain’t some damn fool!” “This guy’s an idiot—it’s ’cause you’re standin’ there gawkin’ that Mr. Kyōnosuke’s all embarrassed, ain’t he?” “C’mere.” When they looked, sure enough, Kyōnosuke—with Sonoe before him and hesitating due to the presence of the quarrel-for-hire pair—was grinning awkwardly and scratching his head. Ukon noticed,

“Ah, no—this was my fault.” “Before someone tells me to go get eaten by dogs… Hey!” “O-Roku, you’re the one standin’ there watchin’ and laughin’!” “Well now—I was just eggin’ on the dear newlywed here.” “Well now, dear newlywed—it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “Make sure he dotes on you proper now, you hear?” “You’re one to talk about unnecessary things.” “Look—Ms. Sonoe’s gone bright red!”

“Come on—let’s get going too, the two of us.”

O-Roku pulled Ukon by the ear and dragged him outside. Closing the door behind her with a sharp snap, "Hohohoho... Please take your time..."

That was yet another unnecessary addition.

V

They had stepped outside, but there was nowhere to go. Ibaru Ukon and the oblivious O-Roku leaned against the lattice outside—indeed, they looked for all the world like a married couple who had been locked out. "You’re not cold?" "Nah, I ain’t cold—but I’m damn sleepy."

“This is troublesome... Should we get an inn somewhere for the night?”

“Nah…”

“No matter what you say, we can’t just stand here till morning—” “Can’t we do somethin’ about this?” “How carefree... Right about now, the two of them inside…” “Idiot! But… I get where you’re coming from.” “Really now…” As they stood idly whispering, the chilly spring night deepened in silence—distant dog howls, blind masseurs’ flutes, night-soba vendors’ calls, Chinese noodle vendors’ reed flutes… Not that any of those were actually around—but in any case, it was the dead of night. Across the quieted thoroughfare of Obiya Alley, windblown white paper scraps scuttled while the night watchman’s metal staff clanged—clang—against the side street ahead.

The cold bit deep. O-Roku, who had been squatting, shuddered and hunched her shoulders. “Hey you, if we keep stayin’ like this, it’s like we got kicked out of a shop in the dead of night. No matter how you look at it, this ain’t a good sight.” When Ibaru Ukon mumbled an incoherent reply in return, she looked over to find the quarrel-for-hire master had somehow ended up sprawled on the ground, snoozing away in blissful ignorance. “Well, ain’t this something…”

Though she’d claimed exasperation, O-Roku—gazing affectionately at his sleeping face—shrugged off her own coat and draped it over him. But when she suddenly noticed, the light in the house went out, plunging everything into pitch darkness. “Tch, this is gettin’ unbearable—hey you, get up already.” “Sleeping in a place like this, you’ll catch cold.” “Ain’t nothin’ to be done.” When she tried to shake him awake, Ukon’s mouth twitched faintly, “This here’s sleep-talk.” He refused. “Well, O-Roku, you’ve truly got a cheerful disposition.” “Even if we end up spending the night under the eaves like stray dogs, we’re still scheming for our mutual sweethearts’ success.” “This is what they call good roots.”

“Don’t know if it’s lotus root or what, but you’re the cheery one here.” “Wasn’t this whole thing your idea to begin with?” “Nah, you started it.” They kept passing the “good roots” back and forth. “Aaaah.” O-Roku stretched with a yawn. “But lotus roots sure are chilly things.” “Not lotus roots. “Good roots.” “Aye. “That root.” As they traded nonsense, both drifted off mid-squabble—knees hugged to chests, backs against the wall’s foundation, heads bobbing like fishing floats—until something tickled Ukon’s hair after who-knows-how-long. Half-asleep, he batted at it wildly.

It was like a thread.

No matter how much he brushed it away, it kept dangling down. But he was half-asleep. As he kept moving his head this way and that to avoid it, Ukon suddenly felt as though someone had grabbed the base of his topknot and yanked it upward, jolting him awake. Something was caught in his hair. It seemed to be a fishhook. A fishhook was attached to the end of a line that had extended from somewhere, caught onto Ukon’s topknot, and was attempting to lift him upward with a forceful tug… It was unmistakably someone’s scheme to fish up Ibaru Ukon-sensei, the quarrel-for-hire master!

Beside him, O-Roku slept on, truly "knowing" nothing. At the same moment he became fully awake—Was this a prank? Malice?—just what sort of deed was this in the dead of night? With a pfft! It was Ibaru Ukon unleashing his fury all at once. He wound and pulled the fishing line toward his upraised hand, then—snap!—stood up.

“Who’s there?! Show yourself!!”

He shouted. O-Roku, awakened by the shout, “Is it a fire? …Oh, how dreadful. What are you doing, acting all high and mighty by yourself?”

She looked around the back alleys, “Ah!” “What’s that—?”

She pointed. There, from the depths of the darkness, a figure lumbered closer and closer. Backlit by the night’s glow and hard to see clearly, he wore a too-short indigo-patterned kimono with a thick white heko obi tied around his waist—a figure resembling some primordial ancestor of Saigō-sensei, that later-era hero. His hair was done in a thick Sengoku-period topknot shaped like a tea whisk. He held out a fishing rod while carrying a fish basket in one hand. He was truly a monstrous giant of a man.

“Gah! Who the hell are you?!” He tried to remove the fishhook from his head, but it had become thoroughly tangled in his hair and wouldn’t come loose easily. Agitated, Ukon clattered backward—tat-tat-tat—then tried to reel the man in by yanking the line with his head. “Don’t get angry, don’t get angry.” The man said. It was a deep, calm voice. “Just a little jest about night fishing.” But Ukon remained silent. With both hands on his hips, he threw his head back sharply and tried to yank the man closer using the thread tangled in his hair.

A boisterous man’s laughter resounded through the late-night alleyway. “Hmm, seems I’ve hooked a whale of a catch here.” “Now this’s fun!” “So it’s a tug-of-war with your head now?”

He too prepared his fishing rod and braced his feet. A head-and-hand tug-of-war… No—a thread-pulling contest. Neither side gave an inch. While it was amusing to watch, Ukon’s topknot—now slumped forward—looked ready to come loose at any moment. How painful that must be. What if all this pointless endurance leads to him going completely bald?—O-Roku fretted to herself. As they tugged against each other, a conversation began. “Doesn’t that hurt there, kid?”

"What nonsense! If you can reel me in, then try!" "Hah!" "You stubborn bastard!" "Like this!"

The man gathered his strength and pulled the rod. Hrngh! Ukon braced himself, as if rooted in the earth—like an immovable boulder, he did not budge.

“That’s one custom-made head you’ve got there.” “What’s your name?”

The man was impressed.

“Ibaru Ukon.” “What’s this, Ibaru Ukon? The quarrel-for-hire Ibaru Ukon?”

“That’s correct.” “And you are?”

“Me? I am Gyoshindō.” “Oh! So you’re the renowned Master Gyoshindō who fishes everywhere while preaching in the alleys?”

“That’s right—the remarkable Master Gyoshindō. Well? Ready to surrender yet?” “What of it? We’ll tug-of-war till dawn! Bring it on!” “This bastard—this guy—alright, let’s do this!” Both were stubborn, obstinate eccentrics. Heave! Hrngh! Ibaru Ukon and Master Gyoshindō advanced and retreated, continuing their strange tug-of-war in the late-night streets. O-Roku, unaware of this, watched in astonishment—carefree as ever—and served as a cheering squad. “Go go Ukon!” She didn’t say such things.

“Hey, you! Stay steady!” She didn’t say such things.

Six

“What do you say, Teikō? Shall we take a short rest here?” “Indeed. That would be best.” “That would be best.” “Young master—even if we go up to the mansion now, Lord Wakizaka’s a notorious cheapskate.” “He’d never even give us a cup of tea, that’s for sure.” “Shh! You shouldn’t say such things so loudly.” “Every time I take you around, that sharp tongue of yours gives me chills.” “Oh, a cooling summer companion I am!”

“This ain’t no joke. If those words ever reach Lord Wakizaka’s ears, what’ll you do? There’s a saying for this—‘The mouth breeds calamity.’ Watch your tongue a bit.” “Hey now—speak your mind and your lips’ll freeze in winter’s wind!” “Tch, wrong again. If you’re gonna quote it, it’s ‘lips freeze in autumn’s wind,’ damn it!” “Autumn ain’t half as cold as winter though.” “Quit messin’ around. Let’s wet our throats here and move on.”

“Hmph, rain tomorrow for sure. When stingy Hisshō treats us at a teahouse—gives me the shivers thinking what comes after.” “What’re you grumbling about?” “Nothin’, just… Young master, let’s claim this bench here.” “From here, any beauties passing down the main road’ll be plain as day—” “Damn pest—still a kid through and through.” “While you keep callin’ me a kid—” “Teikō—quit that creepy whining.” “Young master—let’s get two dezame starters.” “And for cleansin’ the palate afterwards…”

“I’ll hit you.” “You’re mature beyond your years.” “Hearing you talk, you sound fully grown.” “Yet I’m half as competent at work but eat enough for three—even I can’t fathom it…”

At the corner before Seigenji Temple in Babashita—where Yakimochizaka slope in Ichigaya neared the Kōra estate—stood a bench-style teahouse. Those who entered while exchanging idle chatter were Hisshōbei of Shitaya Chōjamachi’s brush shop and his son Kōkichi, known as Hisshō. This callow young master—who had fallen for O-Tae, daughter of Kabedatsu from Kuromonchō, and after failing to win her favor, lodged a complaint with Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami of the Kōra estate—now found his pride trampled when it proved a case of mistaken identity. Today, accompanied by Teikō—a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old errand boy who might be called the reigning champion of backtalk—he had come bearing gifts to once again ingratiate himself with Lord Wakizaka.

Due to prolonged peace, officials had become thoroughly corrupt. While it may not have been like the recent spate of corruption scandals, bribery among the powerful remained an open secret. The going rate had been set at two thousand ryō for a Nagasaki Magistrate and one thousand ryō for an inspector; now, this box that Kōkichi of the brush shop had Teikō carry here appeared at first glance to hold a meal set—yet was a meal set that was no meal set. Indeed, inside lay a high-legged tray bearing clear soup, sashimi, assorted appetizers, and various other ingredients—even a kitchen knife and cutting board were prepared atop it. On a moonlit night adorned with blossoms, one might open this before a window graced by rain or snow to swiftly enliven the gathering—but such was merely the tale of the tray’s surface. Beneath that tray lay a mound of gold coins piled high enough to enliven any gathering instantly when opened. That the true aim resided not in the tray’s surface but its underside was something both giver and recipient understood without exchanging a word—making this a most convenient item indeed…….

Kōkichi and Teikō. They wrapped it in a pale green cloth bundle and carried it here, and now that Lord Wakizaka’s mansion was right before their eyes, they settled down at this teahouse in Babashita and drank tea. They picked at sweets. As for Teikō, “Tea fills the belly for a while—ahh, I’m sloshing full already!”

Such was the commotion. Regarding his newly launched oil business venture, his aspiration had been to oust Izu Go and, through the arrangements of Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Great Hall Captain, secure exclusive rights to the castle’s oil procurement. He had relied on that Murai Chōan and diligently paid his respects to Lord Wakizaka, but due to that petition incident involving Kōkichi of late, things had gone slightly awry; today’s gift was his plan to recover everything in one stroke. The box seemed quite heavy—no doubt because Hisshō had strained himself to pack it full to bursting with golden coins.

Since Teikō wanted another cup of tea and another *kintsuba* rice cake, he showed no sign of getting up—but as there was no particular hurry, Kōkichi too ended up lazing about and putting down roots at the teahouse… Thanks to the rare clear weather, crowds were thick, and the shop was quite busy.

A woman entered.

She was a young, beautiful woman. She carried herself like the wife of a merchant and was accompanied by an attendant.

“Come now, let’s rest here a moment.” “Walking like this may seem trivial, but it does wear you out.” “You must have had a hard time too?” “You’ve had a hard time.” “Y-yes, th-th-thank you, I—I’m terribly sorry.” When it came to Stutter-Kan—Kanta the Stutterer, a member of the quarrel-for-hire outfit—his stutter was as fierce as his nickname suggested. Kanta also entered the teahouse, following the unfamiliar madam who was dressed like a merchant’s wife. He was holding something in his hand. A box-like object wrapped in a pale green cloth.

Did she have some scheme? This was Oto—now thoroughly transformed into an unrecognizable woman. She passed through the rows of benches and sat down beside Kōkichi. Kanta followed and took a seat next to her. Two similarly cloth-wrapped boxes now sat side by side.

Unexpectedly finding a beautiful woman beside him, the brush shop’s young master felt his heart pounding with excitement as he tried to devise a smooth approach... While he was still scheming, Oto and Kanta briskly finished their tea. “Granny, thank you for the meal.” “I’ll leave the payment here.” With a clink, Oto tossed coins onto the tray and stood. Kanta hoisted the box package and followed. The two hurried out with quickened steps.

It was then that Kōkichi noticed, “Hey, Teikō, shall we get going soon?” “Yes, let’s.” “Then, shall we proceed?” “Don’t forget the luggage.” “Right here—holdin’ it tight!” Thank you as always.

“Please be quiet…” With these words from the tea shop proprietress seeing them off, the two also rose from their seats.

They climbed Yakimochizaka Hill. To Lord Wakizaka’s mansion.

Seven

“Hmm... A tribute from Hisshō, is it?”

Days without castle duty were tedious.

It was the Kōra Mansion in Ichigaya’s Yakimochizaka. Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Great Hall Captain of the Western Keep, was strolling aimlessly through the secluded garden of this upper-class residence. His sumo wrestler-like corpulent frame suited the stiff sleeves of his crested formal robe. He walked around the garden pond. The weather was fine. Golden liquid sunlight filled the air, and the sky stretched high and blue. The grass had grown more vibrant in its green hue. Yamashiro-no-kami, his face fixed in its characteristic mask-like impassivity, had been pacing back and forth beside the artificial hill for some time now.

Even though the sky had cleared, Yamashiro-no-kami’s heart remained heavy.

His heart was heavy—no wonder. The place was the shogunate. It was New Year’s Day. That incident had been Yamashiro-no-kami’s responsibility. A failure of oversight. They had not commanded him to perform seppuku. He had narrowly avoided it with house arrest. On the surface, matters were settled—but in truth, Yamashiro-no-kami’s life now hung entirely on apprehending Kamio Kyōnosuke, that murderous blade. His ritual suicide had been deferred only on the condition that Kyōnosuke would inevitably be captured. He clung to life through this exchange.

Would they bind Kyōnosuke and drag him in? Or would he have to slit his own belly… Two options remained. Yamashiro-no-kami could neither sit still nor remain standing. He was frantic. He himself had intervened in Sonoe and Kyōnosuke’s marriage. This uproar had all arisen because of Sonoe. Now distinctions between good and evil no longer mattered. For my part—I needed only to obtain Kyōnosuke’s head swiftly—the head that had struck down Group Leader Tobe Ōmi—and all would be settled. But as for Kyōnosuke’s whereabouts… Not only had I mobilized our household retainers—I’d even enlisted townsfolk across Edo’s wards! By now officials hunting him should have combed every alley like lice from hair! Yet he remained undiscovered! If mere failure to find him were our only problem… But consider recent events! Even amidst this heightened vigilance—Ōsaku Genba and Asaka Keinosuke—two fellow guardsmen—had their heads taken by Kyōnosuke in a single night! Now it seemed others would follow one by one… until finally reaching even me!

Yamashiro-no-kami imagined his own severed head and made a bitter face. "That Kamio's just one man! What in blazes are the search teams doing?!" Still, I never imagined that effete bastard Kyōnosuke possessed such swordsmanship prowess. "Damn you!" "Just show yourself before me once...!" At the very moment Yamashiro-no-kami roared this silent curse within his heart—as though answering his inner voice—a figure materialized before his eyes. When he jolted and looked up, there stood his favorite page Ichiya. Before he knew it, the page had crossed the garden and arrived. It was reported that Kōbei’s son Yukikichi had come as a messenger from Chōjamachi’s brush shop bearing urgent news—and left behind a gift requiring immediate inspection.

“There’s no need for that.” “Unfortunate business.” Yamashiro-no-kami regained his composure. “So Yukikichi has already returned, I take it. Where is the item?” “I have brought it to the great hall.”

“Hm.” “I’ll see it at once.” Leading the way and ascending from the veranda, Yamashiro-no-kami proceeded straight to the great hall, adjusted the sitting cushion with his foot, and sat down. Before him lay a bulky light green furoshiki bundle, laid out respectfully. Yamashiro-no-kami, his left hand tucked into his robe and his right hand thrust forward with a slight arch, began to untie the furoshiki with fluttering motions to the front, back, left, and right—and out came a box. A wooden box. It had a lid. He lightly lifted the lid and glanced at the contents. *Gasp!* He slammed down the lid,

“Guh!” He recoiled. At the same time,

“Brush shop! Call the brush shop workers! Th-this is Inomata—!” He started to rise. The sitting cushion slid and knocked over the box. What tumbled out was a human head with eyes wide open and teeth clenched around a cropped haircut. Yet another one of the Great Hall Guards—Inomata Kozen. The third head.

“Ugh…” With one hand raised defensively, Yamashiro-no-kami staggered backward in heavy stumbles toward the corner of the room. Crash! He collided with the sliding door, and the sliding door fell. Ichiya, curled up like a ball, ran down the corridor with quick, short steps toward the official duty room.

VIII

Throughout Edo, kawaraban vendors darted about every street corner. First head, second head, third head… The clerks’ heads were falling one after another. The Edo Mimiyorigusa manuscript claims that the origin of the term “losing one’s head” (kubi)—used for officials and salaried workers being dismissed—dates back to this very period. This is nonsense.

But heads were troublesome. Not wanting to lose one's head remained unchanged from past to present—this was absolutely not nonsense. It was earnest. It was self-preservation. It was mortal peril. They forged a united front.

The three samurai—Araki Yoichirō, Yokochi Hankurō, and Matsubara Genbei—had reasoned that while daytime likely held little danger, being alone at night seemed perilous. Thus they agreed to take turns hosting one another at their homes each evening. Invoking the adage that “three gathered minds rival Monju’s wisdom,” they would sit vigil in triangular formation through the dark hours. However, this was Kamio—the man who had dispatched with such lethal brilliance warriors renowned for their fierce swordsmanship: Ōsako Genba, Asaka Keinosuke, and Inomata Kozen. With just the three of them, they felt exposed. They called for reinforcements to form a sizable gathering, but since they couldn’t sit idle, they turned to sake. Tonight’s vigil fell to Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Yotsuya Kobudera Temple. Host Hankurō, along with Araki Yoichirō and Matsubara Genbei—both men gnawed by paranoid delusions of persecution—had gathered from early evening to exchange cups of sake, sipping in timid, measured draughts.

They had closed the storm shutters early, lined the room with candlesticks, and made it brighter than daylight. Gripping their famed swords with tragically solemn expressions, they looked like men at a banquet before deployment. Since this was their nightly routine, their nerves must have been wearing thin—but soon enough, the reinforcements they had requested would arrive: Yusa Gōshichirō, Shundō Kikuma, and Kagami Tanba—three ronin.

Around that time.

In Shiba Gensukemachi, there was a troublemaker named Jinbo Zōshu—a master who had opened a dojo and dominated Edo’s swordsmanship world with his fierce, singular style, his skill and courage attaining a realm beyond human rivalry. Jinbo Zōshu... the orthodox transmission of Mukei Ittō-ryū. “Sentient beings across four hundred million billion asamkhyeya worlds—those in the six destinies and four births; the tangible and intangible… Among these, beings in the realms of desire and form possess physicality, while those in the formless realm lack it…” Though it was rather convoluted phrasing, this passage from the “Rejoicing in Merits” chapter of the Lotus Sutra gave birth to Mukei Ittō-ryū.

It taught one to cast off the greatest and most tenacious of human desires—attachment to life—and return to formlessness. In other words, it was a school that from its very inception required no regard for life. Since they had no desire to live, there was nothing they feared. When they took up the sword resolved to die, they did not try to defend themselves. It was a sword style of pure offense, as fierce as flames. Thus, these were men who already disregarded life in their daily existence. They could effortlessly wash away the greatest of all desires into the western sea, but other desires were a different matter. Precisely because they had no need for life, they had a great need for sake and women. Indeed, these thoroughly enlightened drifters—men who needed nothing but those two things—had all gathered here.

They made a request to Jinbo Zōshu of the Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo in Gensukemachi to lend them a group of bodyguards. At the slightest hint of action, the layabouts who usually lazed around came out every night. Since they could drink sake all night for free, there was no sweeter deal than this. Tonight as well, Yusa Gōshichirō, Shundō Kikuma, and Kagami Tanba arrived, and now the group of six sat in a circle drinking. “Now, Mr. Yokochi—with this many of us gathered here, there is no need for concern.”

“Ah, this shows a lamentable lack of resolve—I must apologize for this shameful display.” “Given that our opponent is possessed by a demon, I reasoned that excessive caution was warranted. Thus I entreated Master Jinbo for aid, which has led to troubling you gentlemen with your efforts here.” “Well now, even if we have nothing else, let’s at least share a cup…”

“Well now, some junior samurai called Kamio—heh heh—I alone am more than enough.” “Scram! Scram!” “And I’ll handle all the sake myself while I’m at it!” “My, what fine words you’ve conjured.” “Kamio’s one matter, but we can’t just surrender the sake!” “Ha ha ha! Mention free drinks and this fool’s eyes turn greedy!” A roar of laughter shook the room. Amid the clamor, Araki Yoichirō made his discovery.

His gaze wandered there without thought. In the corner stood a folding screen decorated with scattered tanzaku strips. When he glanced over, he realized it had somehow become an inverted screen. An inverted screen... Ominous! “Ah! Someone’s going to die!” He was shouting.

The Living Dead

1. Araki Yoichirō, Matsubara Genbei, and Yokochi Hankurō—the three esteemed house retainers who were masters of this household—alongside three troublemakers sent as reinforcements from Jinbo Zōshu’s Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo in Shiba Gensukemachi: Yusa Gōshichirō, Shundō Kikuma, and Kagami Tanba… The group of six men halted their cups mid-sip as if coordinated by some unspoken signal, and twelve eyes turned in unison toward the folding screen in the corner. It was colloquially known as Kobudera Temple. The inner chamber of Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Yotsuya Jishōin Temple.

The clamorous group abruptly fell silent. Looking—sure enough, the folding screen with a silver background and scattered tanzaku strips was placed upside down, as if encircling a corpse’s deathbed. Inverted screen… Ominous! That it was ominous went without saying. But Araki Yoichirō, who had noticed, “Ah! “Someone’s going to die!” The shout had been somewhat exaggerated, so the first to burst into laughter was Kagami Tanba—known around Gensukemachi as “Tan.” For a samurai to have such a nickname—Tan here was no different from the street ruffians. His attire was truly something to behold—on this still-chilly spring night, he wore nothing but a grime-covered, indigo-speckled yukata, stuffed a long sword into his obi, and his hair was a complete mess. His hair was messily tied up in a bun.

“Ha ha ha!” Kagami Tanba burst out laughing. “Hey, if someone’s gotta die, I’ll do it myself! So y’all can relax. But hey, comrades—if you’re all makin’ such sour faces, the sake’ll taste like piss!” However, for the three samurai whose heads were being targeted, they could not afford to remain so carefree. The master of the house, Yokochi Hankurō, turned his pallid face toward Yoichirō.

“Ah... Having undertaken responsibility for tonight’s lodging, I have committed a most grievous discourtesy.” “At such a time as this—a truly ill-omened error! Nothing but carelessness from my household.” “U-uh... Mr. Araki, Mr. Matsubara—pray do not take offense...”

“Your words humble me.” Araki Yoichirō, still gripping the sword in his left hand without releasing it, said, “Well now—of course it must have been a mistake in how the screen was placed. But given these circumstances, though it may seem cowardly of me, I was rather startled.” He let out a loud shout—a most undignified display. “Ah ha ha ha!” Matsubara Genbei also managed a pale smile—*But wait…?* —and tilted his head.

“However, up until just now, the folding screen hadn’t been turned upside down…” Yusa Gōshichirō, leader of the Gensukemachi reinforcements, rose smoothly to his feet. Standing nearly six shaku tall—a notoriously taciturn man and disloyal ronin from Suō Province who had supposedly kicked sand at Mōri Sakyonosuke, lord of Fuchū’s 50,000-koku domain… What kind of absurd wordplay was that? At any rate, he likely found this entire affair tiresome. “Why not just fix it?”

He started toward the folding screen with steady steps. Hankurō stopped him. It was a matter of the landlord’s responsibility. “Ah, no—I’ll have the maid correct her blunder. Leave it as it is, leave it as it is.” *Rap rap rap!* He clapped his hands. “Someone come here—”

Shundō Kikuma and Tan were busily pouring drinks for themselves in the meantime.

2.

One of the maids pressed her hands to the floor at the threshold. “What’s this? The folding screen is upside down!” Yokochi Hankurō jerked his chin. “What carelessness! Fix it immediately.” “But, Sir…” The maid looked puzzled. “But I’m certain I set it up properly…”

“That’s right, that’s right.” Indeed, it always seemed to be Tan who spoke out of turn. “Hey—it ain’t your fault. The screen moved on its own—”

Hankurō, still furious, glared at the maid. “No—this is your carelessness.” “Fix it immediately.” The maid answered “Hai” under her breath and, gathering the eyes of six people, laid hands on the problematic folding screen in the corner of the room. The cries women make when startled have remained much the same, now as in times past. She screamed as if tearing silk and reeled back. “What—Eek!” At the same time—snap! From the opposite side, the folding screen fell over, and a person abruptly sat up straight.

He wore a single lined kimono with patched shoulders, a plain wooden three-shaku sword at his side, and a dark blue checkered cloth tied around his face. Hugging both knees along with his long sword, he sat planted firmly as if watching a spectacle. Neither samurai nor ruffian—a figure of truly grotesque appearance—looked around at the six with a carefree face and grinned.

Before they knew it—jerk! And there stood the six men along the opposite sliding doors. They struck their sword hilts and shouted in unison.

“Wh-who the hell are you?!” “It’s Kamio… huh?” he confirmed. “Where’d you get in from—” The landlord, Hankurō, asked in an impressed tone. The clattering footsteps of the maid scurrying down the corridor echoed.

For Tan from Gensukemachi, there was nothing to fear. He took a step forward. "You there, Kyōnosuke—I tell ya, you’ve got quite the reputation." "What’s this I hear—you’re goin’ around loppin’ off seventeen castle guard samurai heads one after another?" "Cut it out. Knock it off." "Since you’ve already taken three heads, I ain’t gonna complain." "Just lose here and be done with it, I’m tellin’ ya." "That’s for your own damn good, I tell ya."

He kept urging him to lose, over and over, as if haggling over potted plants at a festival. Then—it was not Kamio Kyōnosuke, the former guard… Confusingly, this was Master Ibaru Ukon: a now-notorious quarrel-for-hire ronin from Kanda’s Obiya-koji, who had fully impersonated Kyōnosuke—though, well, he didn’t even need to disguise himself, for his natural appearance was identical to Kyōnosuke’s. What’s more, his attire when storming into battle matched down to the last stitch. Grinning, he began to recite a strange, spell-like incantation to the six men left dumbfounded.

“Hahaha! Bet you’re shocked by the inverted screen!” “The rear monk deftly painted a monk’s portrait on the folding screen.” “Try rattling that off fast.” “I’ll say it now.” “Listen well—that last ‘deftly painted a monk’s portrait’… Now that it’s painted—here comes the strike!”

3

Late spring night—the third hour’s silence was shattered by a sudden thud! The sound of clashing swords arose from behind Kobudera. Kamio Kyōnosuke and Ibaru Ukon resembled each other so closely that even O-Tsuru and Sonoe—who should have known better—mistook one for the other, yet their differences were just as distinct. If one were to ask where exactly they differed, the first distinction lay in the slight difference in their vocal tones. And then, their sword styles… Kyoshin-ryū and Kanka-ryū. Kyoshin-ryū was Kamio Kyōnosuke. Kanka-ryū was Ibaru Ukon. Their sword techniques revealed their identities. Kyōnosuke’s Kyoshin-ryū moved steadily and gradually, while Ukon’s Kanka-ryū, observing the transformation of things within stillness, would abruptly erupt from amidst a calm akin to a forest to sever iron and shatter rock. It was hard to declare which ranked first or second—these dual blades of rigid mastery and heroic swordsmanship.

Now.

Kamio Kyōnosuke—or rather, to phrase it strangely—who had infiltrated Yokochi Hankurō’s residence during the night banquet and hidden behind the folding screen… this Kamio Kyōnosuke was not Kamio Kyōnosuke at all, but properly Ibaru Ukon. His identity could be discerned through his voice, his demeanor, and above all through his swordsmanship—which observed the transformations of his surroundings in stillness before making instantaneous shifts and explosive initiations. Yet the six men had never dreamed their enemy might employ such a double. They remained convinced it was none other than Kamio Kyōnosuke. Six against one—the many would easily overwhelm the few. “Charge him all at once and cut him down!” The first strike came from Shundō Kikuma—a feint meant to create openings for his allies. “Hyaah!” He drew. A white flash tore through the spring lantern light, leaping to a point three inches before Ukon’s face.

Not a split second to slip paper between them. Just then, "The monk out back masterfully painted a monk's picture on the folding screen!"

The moment his “...drew it!” ended, Ukon placed one foot on the toppled folding screen. “I keep my promises! Here I come!”

The long blade swept in low and sideways, passing through Ukon’s hand like a steel-white great fan—a spreading board. The single stroke that swept through appeared as nothing but a plane of vibration due to its excessive speed. Starting with Shundō Kikuma, who had leaped up, they all scrambled back—DADADDAH! They retreated backward, aligning their sword tips and gathering into a single group. None of them should have been cut. But how strange! A single streak ran swiftly along Ukon’s blade. A streak of blood ran along it…

Ukon exhaled the welling laughter with icy coldness. "If you're too dense to notice your own torso's been split clean in two, that's your fucking problem."

Gah! When a sudden groan struck from behind the group, they turned to look. It was Matsubara Genbei. He had been in the rear. Yet why had Genbei been struck down by that single sword stroke now, when none of the men in front had sustained even a scratch? Kanka-ryū’s armor-piercing strike—the one that slips through gaps in armor to cleave the body within—that’s what it was. Genbei let out a guttural “Ugh!” Simultaneously with his groan, he lurched forward as if floating and collapsed with a thud—just as Ukon had said—his torso splitting open…

“Fourth head!”

Yusa Gōshichirō’s extended sword descended toward Ukon, who was shaking with explosive laughter from his gut. Ducking under, Ukon scrambled up into the alcove’s recess and there, for the first time, raised his mighty sword in a *seigan* stance—within the room now thick with a blood stench reminiscent of steel that threatened to choke them, the five swordsmen’s formation unfurled in a crescent before the alcove. The candlelight flickered and danced upon the sword tip like blooming flowers…

Four What had come over him—Ibaru Ukon’s face abruptly tightened. He was no longer laughing. He, sensing the murderous intent surging within him, suddenly steeled himself to annihilate the remaining five in a single strike.

As they wondered what he would do… watching closely, Ukon—who had firmly gripped the greatsword slung right near his shoulder with his teeth—suddenly straightened his back and began tightening his obi. Amidst five swirling blades. Audacious! And then, the agitated Kagami Tanba unleashed the secret technique of Mukei Ittō-ryū—the nail-driving thrust. Thrusting his sword from six feet away, he aimed to drive a nail with its razor-sharp tip—a technique that was the pride of Genzukechō Dojo and Tanba’s most formidable specialty… in one fluid motion.

Just as he had anticipated, Ukon released the sword from his mouth. He snatched it out of midair as it fell—with a clang! While deflecting Tanba’s thrust from below, he immediately leaped like a leopard and lunged at Yokochi Hankurō. “Hmm! This guy’s good.” “This guy’s good.” Tan-chan, who had crossed swords with him, grinned in admiration.

As if noticing this, a sudden uproar of voices erupted among the five men who had been silent until now. “Indeed—he’s skilled.” Yusa Gōshichirō repeated hoarsely. Of course he was skilled—their opponent was a master of brawls. “Being cooped up in this room puts us at a disadvantage! To the garden! To the garden!” “To the garden!” “To the garden!” “Numbers are our strength.” “Someone go summon Genzukechō!” “Right—drag the master here!” “No need for the master. One of the Three Crows will suffice.” “One of the Three Crows will suffice.” Even as they spoke, they pressed inward around Ukon step by step—but these Three Crows of Genzukechō were none other than the top disciples directly under Jinbo Zōshu, grandmaster of Mukei Ittō-ryū,

Ōyana’i Shuri.

Hiki Ichiryūsai. Tendō Tonetarō.

These three were called the Three Crows of Genzukechō, and there was always someone better above them. Even Yusa Gōshichirō, Shundō Kikuma, and Kagami Tanba—dispatched to Kobudera-ura that day—though considered strong, were mere infants in the eyes of these Three Crows... They had already become overwhelmed—now ordering someone to summon one of them as reinforcements. Ukon stood rooted in place, his pale face devoid of emotion utterly still, his back pressed against the alcove. Hankurō shouted to his comrades and had them open the storm shutters, attempting to lure him into the garden through the gap. But Ukon, recognizing the disadvantage of facing five opponents alone in an open space, refused to take the bait.

By this time, Kagami Tanba—who had been entrusted with the rear—was already dashing out of Yokochi’s mansion toward Shibagenzukechō. However, Tanba, in his haste, failed to notice that a single black shadow—which had been hiding in the garden thicket, watching the sword glints in the brightly lit room opened up like a stage—had now been drawn out and was stalking briskly after him. The black shadow… that was a woman. She was O-Gen—the unknown woman who had come to storm in with Ibaru Ukon and had been observing the situation from outside. With her zori clattering *pitapita*, she pursued Tanba but changed course midway toward Kanda Obia Lane.

If they were bringing reinforcements... then I needed them too. Right—I should ask Mr. Kamio lounging at home as our brawler-in-residence and that eccentric street-preaching fish fanatic Master Gyoshindō—the masterless philosopher who’d gotten entangled with that flimsy-haired fellow one night and pledged his sword-arm—to come here! O-Gen’s white chirimen underskirt billowed through the darkness like a runaway horse with its tail ablaze as she tore onward without glancing at her feet.

“Well, now. If you tell me to charge out and hack them down, then hack them down I shall—” Zōshu, having said this, shot a piercing glance at the guest.

Just at that moment. This was the inner chamber of Jinbo Zōshu, sword master of the Mukei Ittō-ryū Dojo in Genzukechō. Beneath a large horizontal plaque inscribed with “Jūjō Mukei” (“Sentient Yet Formless”) sat an arrogant, insolent figure of imposing build—none other than Master Jinbo Zōshu who could be called the leader of Genzukechō’s ruffians—unfazed even by the presence of a high-ranking guest as he sprawled cross-legged on a thick cushion; around fifty years old with a deep scar running like a chiseled line between his eyebrows that rendered his already far-from-gentle face utterly menacing.

“However,” Jinbo Zōshu continued, “findin’ him ain’t our duty, see? Hatchōbori’s got their men, and your lordship’s side must’ve got hands ready too. Once we know for sure where that Kyōnosuke’s holed up, we’ll march over and take his head… Well, that’s talk for when the time comes—” Just as Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Great Chamberlain of the Western Keep—the guest—leaned forward urgently to speak, a sudden clamor of voices erupted from the dojo where over a hundred disciples were lodged.

5 He had come to make a request. Hatchōbori could not be relied upon, and urging his retainers yielded no progress. In this situation, Yamashiro-no-kami’s plan was to rely on swordsmen to locate Kyōnosuke immediately upon discovery, have them strike him down and take his head, use that as evidence to plead anew for forgiveness, and thereby secure the safety of his own household. Under cover of night, he had secretly visited this Genzukechō dojo alone—the Great Chamberlain of the Western Keep, a position akin to a modern documents section chief. Though his status was lofty, here he was reduced to pleading repeatedly, not quite groveling but bowing deeply all the same, with a man who amounted to little more than a back-alley swordsman—Jinbo Zōshu…

Generally speaking, Master Jinbo had long resented how shogunate officials threw their weight around. Especially tonight, the one who had come here as if to proclaim “Behold my palanquin!” was none other than the government’s documents section chief mentioned earlier. He was a ronin—essentially a general of the unemployed—so he’d been somewhat twisted from the very start. To be fair, Jinbo Zōshu relished violent acts like cutting down men and lopping off heads more than his three daily meals, having done little else these past thirty years—a propensity that had brought him to his current station, making such talk hardly disagreeable to him. Truth be told, he wanted to accept the request outright, but perhaps thinking it would diminish his standing, he decided to make Yamashiro-no-kami squirm a while—a touch of malice prolonging the haggling until, with Jinbo stubbornly refusing consent, Yamashiro-no-kami found himself cornered and utterly at a loss.

Originally, this was neither a task that could be compelled by official authority, nor was the other party someone who could issue such commands. Yet now that he had come sneaking out of his mansion under cover of night to make this request, Yamashiro-no-kami—his usual obstinacy nowhere to be found—spoke in a quavering voice that verged on tears, resolved that no matter what, he must bring this man over to their side. “Please do not say such things—it is precisely because I have faith in your abilities that I, Yamashiro, have come personally to make this request.” “I hear that, at the request of your guards, this dojo has dispatched men to stand watch through the night.” “I humbly beseech you to take that kindness one step further—to have Kyōnosuke-bastard slain by our own hands—as Yamashiro here entreats you with utmost haste.”

Zōshu was delighted beyond measure. After making him struggle a bit longer, he would reluctantly agree with feigned hesitation. Because he was thinking this, his outward demeanor remained thoroughly put-upon. “No matter what one may say, this is an age of peace. If some ruffian were to spring forth from my subordinates—” Shaking his knee while sitting cross-legged in amusement, he continued, “Should such a disturbance arise in your esteemed domain—well, both the requester and the requested would—”

With that, Zōshu abruptly thrust his face forward and slapped the back of his neck. “This is how it stands for both of us, you see.” “Ahahahaha!” “Head!” Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, now hypersensitive to that word, jerked backward as if struck—his neck craning at an unnatural angle. “Pfft! W-well, in that case,” he stammered, “I absolutely cannot agree!” “Are you saying you intend to disgrace this Yamashiro?!” “Well now,” Jinbo drawled, “I ain’t being entirely unreasonable…” “Jinbo! I’ll grant you a reward!”

“Hmm, what exactly is this ‘reward’ you speak of? Let me hear it, just to be clear.”

“That reward?” “I’ll do anything—no—I’ll grant you *anything*.” “Is that so? You’ll give me anything?” Jinbo Zōshu slammed a hand down and looked up at Yamashiro-no-kami; his grin widened as his eyes glinted sharply. “Heh. This’ll be good. I have a condition.” “A condition? Very well.” “Speak.” “I want a woman.”

6 “What? A woman…?” “Indeed.” “That wife of Kyōnosuke’s—Sonoe, I believe she’s called—is quite renowned. I want you to use your influence to hand her over to me.”

Yamashiro-no-kami pondered for a moment. “Sonoe…?” “Judging by your silence, you’re unwilling.” Urged by Zōshu, “No, no—it’s not that I’m unwilling.” “But if we can secure Sonoe, then surely—” “Need I even say it? “The likes of Kyōnosuke… This’ll do.” As Jinbo Zōshu burst into loud laughter, striking the tatami with his little finger, Lord Yamashiro looked reassured, “Indeed, those words are my greatest reassurance.” “As for Sonoe, I shall promptly order Chōan-bastard to—” Muttering to himself, he was scheming something in his mind. Zōshu took up his cherished sword—the renowned blade “Wild Wind,” forged by Bando Jiro Yukimura—and, grinning slyly, said, “Let us strike blades.”

“Indeed.” “This seals our pact.” Under the lantern, Lord Yamashiro and Zōshu struck! Struck! With a clang of their sword guards, they exchanged smiles.

The major task of abducting Sonoe and delivering her to Jinbo Zōshu—once again, it seemed the role would fall to Chōan, and lately Murai Chōan was likely to be kept absurdly busy, but with the story becoming thoroughly tangled, even the author found no ease. That’s all well and good— Outside the room where the two were murmuring in hushed conversation, there stood the figure of a woman eavesdropping stealthily along the veranda. She was Ichimatsu O-Roku—a woman from Fukagawa who had risen in status, neither fully Jinbo Zōshu’s wife nor his mistress—the top boss managing this dojo.

Though called a matriarch, this was her true nature; even within the town dojo and samurai household, she kept her hair neatly tied up in a style befitting her relatively respectable—yet undeniably alluring—appearance. When she heard that a promise had now been made to hand Sonoe over as a reward—likely out of jealousy—a twisted smile floated onto O-Roku’s face as she strained to listen, and she seemed to nod to herself over some private thought.

Just then, from the direction of the dojo, the sound of many footsteps approached around the corridor—it wouldn’t be good to be found standing there. O-Roku hurriedly hid around the opposite corner and stealthily peered out, only to see Kagami Tanba leading a crowd of disciples along the corridor; they stopped in front of the room. “Master!”

The shoji slid open from within, and Zōshu lumbered out. "What the—?! What’s all this racket?!" The group sat down heavily on the plank-floored corridor, and Kagami Tanba spoke. "Master! Tonight, the three of us—Yusa, Shundō, and I—were assigned to guard duty at Lord Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Kobu Temple in Yotsuya. Just now, Kamio Kyōnosuke showed up, and—well—it turned into one hell of a brawl…" He didn’t actually say "brawl," but something to that effect. Lord Yamashiro-no-kami, who had been listening, was startled but—

“Now! “At last—your moment to take the stage.” “As promised—I shall—”

Then, Jinbo Zōshu—having nodded deeply in understanding—whirled around to face the group and barked harshly. "There’s no need for me to go. Send one of the Three Crows and have everyone go!"

“But Master—no matter how much we try to rouse them—Mr. Ōyanai, Mr. Hiki, and Mr. Tendō… all three are dead asleep and won’t wake up…”

“I see,” he said. “There’s a proper way to wake someone up.” “Clash your swords beside their pillows—let all three hear that sound.” A peculiar wake-up method, but they must have executed it regardless. Soon, fifty-seven men—with Tendō Tonetarō of the Three Crows leading and Kagami Tanba guiding them—raced through midnight streets toward Kobu Temple’s rear. Intent on crushing Kamio Kyōnosuke (in reality, Ibaru Ukon) in one strike, they surged forward, jostling through the darkness.

7 Sonoe had already returned to her home at Tsukudo Hachiman, while at the quarrel house on Obia Alley, Kamio Kyōnosuke—redundant as it may sound—sat alone, his face and attire identical to Ibaru Ukon’s. Sprawled with his arm as a pillow, he gazed up at the seventeen names pasted on the wall, contemplating his next victim and the method of attack. Just then, O-Gen—unaware and panting—returned… Upon hearing this story: tonight, without Kyōnosuke’s knowledge, Ukon had attacked Yokochi Hankurō’s residence, but guards from the Gensukechō dojo had arrived. Moreover, one of them had immediately dashed back to Shiba to summon more reinforcements—and she, having followed Ukon, had witnessed this—so she had come straight here to alert him. Without waiting to hear the rest, Kyōnosuke dashed toward Yotsuya, his trusty sword at his waist.

O-Gen thought she would immediately turn back to follow Kyōnosuke, but she had another errand. She wanted to fetch another person—Gyoshindō-sensei—and go.

Gyoshindō-sensei. Since Gyoshindō-sensei wandered about chasing fish, his whereabouts were never certain. However, recalling his remark the previous night that he would be staying near Jizōgaike Pond—a small pond in Sotokanda at the time—O-Gen rushed there. Sure enough, there stood a large tree with branches spreading over the water, and there he was—Gyoshindō-sensei, straddling one of those branches, dangling his line with utter composure despite the late hour, for to him, day and night held no difference. On that previous evening—after Gyoshindō-sensei had hooked Ukon’s hair with a fishing line, leading to a struggle over the line—the three of them had come to this pondside, discussed various matters, and disclosed Kamio Kyōnosuke’s situation, agreeing to call upon his help if needed. Therefore, O-Gen rushed to Jizōgaike Pond and stood beneath the tree where Gyoshindō perched like a bird.

“Fish Teacher!” It was a peculiar moniker, but between two eccentrics, it didn’t sound particularly odd. “Shh! To raise one’s voice in the dead of night—how suspicious!” “What? I’m the one who’s far more suspicious.” “First of all, you’ll scare off the entire fish species!” Being the formidable scholar he was, he deliberately referred to fish as “the fish species.” Using such words to awe the masses was said to be Gyoshindō-sensei’s principle, but this was hardly reliable.

In any case, upon hearing O-Gen’s story, Gyoshindō could no longer remain leisurely fishing. Thus, he stowed away his splendid fishing gear—uncharacteristic for one of his station—and dashed out toward Yotsuya with O-Gen. The trio of Kyōnosuke, Gyoshindō, and O-Gen encountered the fifty-seven men from Gensukechō—led by Tendō Tonetarō and Kagami Tanba—near Kobu Temple at Fujimi Parade Grounds as dawn approached. Trampling through dew-laden fields, the brawl raged until morning. The forces from Gensukechō must have been astonished. After all, Kamio Kyōnosuke—who should have been wreaking havoc at Hankurō’s residence—had suddenly burst out there—though of course, since this was the real Kyōnosuke, had they known, it wouldn’t have been particularly surprising…

In the predawn hours, officials who heard the commotion rushed to the scene, and the forest of swords scattered, leaving the battle unresolved. Thus, Edo’s spring deepened, and soon the fresh green leaves of early summer arrived. At a place called Unagi Nawate beyond Hongō Oiwake, in the residence of Nagaoka Tanomo of the Nishinomaru Goshoban, while all the guards had gathered to discuss strategies against Kyōnosuke, their master Tanomo made a discovery. A paper tag hung on the shoji of his private room.

┌────┐ │ IN MOURNING │ └────┘

……I—am a living corpse! What…? Tanomo had turned pale.

He’s here!

1 That night, the brawl at Fujimi Parade Grounds ended without a decisive outcome.

It was like this. Without Kamio Kyōnosuke’s knowledge, Ibaru Ukon had stormed into Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Kobu Temple in Yotsuya Jishōin on his own initiative, aiming to present a fourth severed head and please him. When he designated Matsubara Genbee—who happened to be present—as that fourth victim, the opposition had prepared reinforcements: Shundō Kikuma, Yusa Gōshichirō, and Kagami Tanba, three swordsmen hired as night guards from Jinbo Zōshu’s Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo in Shiba Gensukechō. Among them, Kagami Tanba—judging three men insufficient—dashed out to fetch one of the Three Crows from the Shiba dojo. This movement was witnessed by O-Gen, who had shadowed Ukon to Kobu Temple’s rear and now hid among garden trees to observe. Leaving the scene undisturbed, she pursued Tanba but veered off the dark path midway, returning instead to her Kanda home. There she reported everything to Kamio Kyōnosuke—who sat hunched alone, wondering where Ukon and she had gone—while he remained deep in contemplation. As Kyōnosuke soared toward Yotsuya, O-Gen recruited Gyoshindō-sensei—the fish-obsessed eccentric bound by pact to Ukon—and together they raced after him to Yotsuya…

Around this time, Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami—Head of the Nishinomaru Goshoban, now out of options—visited Jinbo Zōshu in Gensukechō to request assistance regarding the Kyōnosuke incident. Jinbo-sensei agreed on condition of receiving Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe in exchange. This deal was overheard by Ichimatsu O-Roku, a former geisha whose status as Jinbo’s wife or mistress remained ambiguous. As she arched her willow-thin eyebrows in fury, Kagami Tanba returned to seek reinforcements from the Three Crows. Thus on the spot, Tendō Tonetarō set out for Yotsuya with fifty-seven swordsmen in tow. Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami had no inkling that it was Ibaru Ukon—not Kamio Kyōnosuke—attacking Yokochi Hankurō’s residence. Thus in high spirits, certain tonight would finally see Kamio slain without fail, he continued entrusting future arrangements to Zōshu before departing his covert visit. When Jinbo Zōshu reaffirmed his demand for Sonoe as payment for the exchange, Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami—who believed deploying Murai Chōan would ensure success—nodded emphatically, slapped his chest in conviction, and boarded the palanquin kept waiting.

The trio of Kyōnosuke, Gyoshindō, and O-Gen encountered the fifty-seven men from Gensukechō—led by Tendō Tonetarō and Kagami Tanba—near Kobu Temple at Fujimi Parade Grounds as the eastern sky began to lighten; trampling through dew-laden fields, the chaotic battle raged until morning, but the Gensukechō forces must have been astonished. After all, Kamio Kyōnosuke—who should have been rampaging at Hankurō’s residence—had suddenly burst forth here. Of course, since this was the real Kyōnosuke, it wouldn’t have been surprising had they known—but compounding this was a burly man in a short, splashed-pattern jacket and a thick white cotton military-style sash, his tea-whisk topknot swaying wildly as he wielded a six-foot sapling torn roots-and-all from the ground, clashing with foes in whirlwind strikes. To make matters worse, a courtesan-like woman had joined the fray; even while encircled by blades, she hurled stones and clods of earth with such disruptive fury that soon one or two allies found themselves struck down by Kyōnosuke’s hand. As dawn broke and the clamor grew unbearable, the scattered lights of official lanterns—responding to the commotion—approached. These were the forces led by Konsanjiya Otomatsu, aiming to discreetly break up the fight and rescue Kyōnosuke.

Why did Konsanjiya Otomatsu adopt such an attitude of aiding Kyōnosuke from the shadows? Was it not this very same Otomatsu—the police assistant from Nihonbashi Hasegawachō—who, at Kabedatsu’s home, had deliberately mistaken Kyōnosuke for Ibaru Ukon, the quarrel-for-hire swordsman, in front of Muroya Ken’nosuke, all but instructing them to hide him there?

Even that morning at Fujimi Parade Grounds. Just as the fifty-seven were struggling to subdue the three, a squad of constables appeared; seizing this opportunity, Kagami Tanba and others rushed over— “Oh, you’ve come at the perfect time! We’re from the Shiba dojo—Kyōnosuke’s right over there.” “The former guard Kamio Kyōnosuke—we’ve discovered him and were just about to apprehend him for your sake. Perfect timing—we’ll lend a hand, so strike now!”

When they promptly set out with the plaintiff, Konsanjiya—who had pretended not to hear—shouted at the top of his voice: “At this very moment, Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, Magistrate of the South Town, is coming to this parade ground for his morning riding practice! Step back, step back! A fight means punishment for both sides! Before the Lord Magistrate’s eyes catch sight of this—withdraw, both of you! Withdraw! We have come here to secure the area, as ordered.” Quick thinking—though utter nonsense. The crucial Lord Ōoka was indeed an early riser. By this hour he had long since left his bed and sat properly at his Sotooriuda mansion, wholly unaware of the commotion as he devoted himself to reviewing morning documents—Lord Ōoka! Just hearing that name made even Tendō Tonetarō and Kagami Tanba find him inconveniently formidable. The fifty-seven men withdrew like a receding tide, allowing Kamio Kyōnosuke’s trio to hastily retreat from the scene. As they departed, Kyōnosuke’s eyes met Otomatsu’s across the distance. Holding back the swarm of constables behind him with an imperceptible gesture, Otomatsu dipped his head slightly and signaled through his gaze: *Return quickly.*

"Hmm, that's the informant who once passed himself off as Sir Ukon and saved me from danger in Kuromonchō," Kamio Kyōnosuke thought. "But why on earth does he keep bestowing such kindness upon me time and again...?" Though suspicious, Kyōnosuke courteously greeted Otomatsu from afar. The trio of Gyoshindō-sensei, O-Gen, and himself returned through the morning streets to Kanda Obiya Lane... only to find Ukon had already returned, his face unperturbed.

“Ah, so the three of you held back Gensukechō for me, did you?” “I thought as much.”

O-Gen, who had entered through the lattice door, suddenly sniffed the air. "You smell burnt."

“Ah!” “That’s right!” “Damn, messed up!” The flustered Ukon rushed into the kitchen and lifted the pot lid, only to find the once-white rice burned pitch black instead of golden brown—and thus, while being roundly scolded by O-Gen, “I was so hungry that I tried cooking it myself, but…” Ukon scratched his head, brought a brush, and drew a line through Matsubara Genbee’s name on the wall poster.

“Fourth head—Hahaha! Last night was just one.” Thus, the forest of blades at Fujimi Parade Grounds scattered as they were—on one side stood Kamio Kyōnosuke and his quarrel-for-hire pair, alongside the eccentric Gyoshindō-sensei; on the other, Jinbo Zōshu at the helm with Ōyauchi Shūri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendō Tonetarō of the Three Crows, commanding over a hundred warriors from Gensukechō’s Mukei Ittō-ryū school—Yusa Gōshichirō, Shundō Kikuma, Kagami Tanba among them—all backed by Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, Head of the Goshoban, and his thirteen remaining ledger-keeper samurai… Here, the blade’s factions cleaved sharply into friend and foe, and the story marched onward.

―And so concluded the rough outline of the previous chapter, *“The Living Dead.”*

Now, continuing…

Two “Urgh! “So I’m the living dead?!” Nagaoka Tanomo involuntarily turned pale. He had found it himself. On the sliding door of the living room—at its edge—a large notice written in pitch-black ink on Japanese paper had been pasted. ┌────┐ │ In Mourning │ └────┘ It read: In Mourning. Tanomo remained motionless for a while, as if nailed to the engawa planks. He couldn’t move.

Edo’s spring had aged.

Before long came early summer with its fresh green leaves—now, with the scent of sprinkled water lingering across the town, it was no longer seedling sellers but goldfish sellers and bamboo blind sellers. Days hinting at the fierce heat yet to come—days of vague weariness lingering over the eight hundred and eight neighborhoods—when in Hongō, beyond Oiwake, at a place commonly known as Unaginawate...

A sturdy tile roof and a stretch of checkerboard-patterned walls enclosing towering trees—this was the estate of Nagaoka Tanomo, Nishinomaru Goshobanshi.

Tonight, at this Nagaoka residence, the remaining retainer guards and scattered reinforcements from Gensukechō had gathered into a large assembly, bustling noisily as they deliberated strategies to capture Kamio Kyōnosuke. In the midst of this commotion—there being something he needed to fetch from his private room—Tanomo excused himself from the inner chamber where the meeting was being held and absentmindedly made his way to his study. As he reached to slide open the shoji, he discovered it. Gah! Jerking his hand back, Tanomo found himself drawn in, staring intently at the pasted notice.

The room was bright. The candlestick had been left burning. Backed by the lamplight, the characters *In Mourning* pasted on the red shoji were written in large, masterful calligraphy. Mockingly, almost tauntingly, they stood out starkly—appearing as sinister as the ill omen itself.

He opened the shoji and stepped inside. This was no time for that. Someone might be inside the room. This single door was iron—no ordinary shoji to be easily opened. Having slipped away from the council meeting to retrieve something himself, Tanomo had even completely forgotten what that item was, finding himself unable to retreat or advance. In a state of utter bewilderment… When he came to his senses, a clammy sweat drenched his entire body. “Whose doing is this?—Of course, it must be that bastard’s work—but how did he sneak into this heavily guarded estate during our meeting? And where is he hiding now—?”

This was one of the first questions to pierce Tanomo's clouded mind. At the same time, he pressed himself against the storm shutters on the opposite side, holding his breath and straining to listen as he scanned both ends of the long corridor. Only faint voices carried over from the distant meeting place, and the surroundings remained still, undisturbed. The light streaming from the room left the immediate area dimly lit, while the far end of the corridor sank into a chilly gloom despite the summer night.

Nagaoka Tanomo stood as if bound by a curse... his eyes wide open and glaring at the In Mourning notice on the shoji, still unable to move a muscle. Nagaoka Tanomo—a man of thirty-five or thirty-six, in the prime of manhood. A tall, broad-shouldered, imposing figure. He had a bitterly sharp face with eyes that pierced like white blades and was counted among the foremost spokesmen of the retainer guards. The honor of Hōzōin-ryū spearmanship—not that it was particularly honorable—but still, he had enough mastery to send two or three young retainers sprawling each morning during practice with the tip of his training spear. As for his sword, it was Munen-ryū—but the moment he thought of entering a competition with it, he’d groan, “I’m finished!” He was not one to withdraw; depending on the day’s performance, he could also cause a great uproar. First and foremost, he was a samurai of some standing.

Now, onto the retina of Tanomo, who stood dazedly staring at this mourning notice, rose the commotion from New Year’s Day in the palace halls. I myself had indeed played a part in that bullying of Kyōnosuke. It was during a moment of stillness after Senior Inspector Kondō Sagami-no-kami had cleared his throat and left the castle. The retainer guards, relaxing with sighs of relief, suddenly began murmuring here and there. When they turned to resume the interrupted bullying of Kyōnosuke, they found everyone else already sitting upright—yet Kyōnosuke alone remained crouched on the tatami like a flattened spider, hands still pressed against the floor.

Jostling and elbowing, the group surrounded Kyōnosuke. Yasaku Hikojūrō said in an oddly cloying tone. “Mr. Kamio, are you taking a nap?” “Ahahaha! I’d love to share in that auspicious first dream of yours, but if you’re so exhausted here in the palace, I won’t stand in your way.” “Why don’t you head down from the castle and rest?”

That’s right—that time. “Fatigue?” It was I who had leaned forward and shouted in a shrill voice. “Fatigue? Your fatigue served you well. After all, taking turns with Lady Sonoe like butterflies would fatigue even someone as robust as you, Mr. Kamio.” It had been a vulgar remark. Two or three people burst into laughter, but Tobe Ōmi wore a clearly displeased expression. Even more fiercely, as if burning with hatred, Tobe Ōmi had remained standing there, glaring down at Kyōnosuke…

That had stirred the jealousy toward Kyōnosuke festering in Ōmi’s heart—driving him to torment Kyōnosuke so relentlessly until it culminated in that blade clash… and this entire catastrophe. I too bear responsibility. Now, Nagaoka Tanomo acknowledged this. But responsibility or not—this was a different matter. First head, second head, third head, fourth head—Lord Ōsako Genbanosuke, Lord Asaka Keinosuke, Lord Inomata Kozen, Lord Matsubara Genbee… And now, amid this hurricane of panic whipping through them all, yet another provocation—*In Mourning*—had manifested before him.

"In Mourning—what does this mean? Am I alive, yet you call me a dead man?! Are you saying the fifth head is this Nagaoka Tanomo?! What?! As for the first four heads—I know nothing of them—but this fifth head has steel running through its core! Kamio Kyōnosuke—you may wield a fierce blade, but you’re no demon from hell! You’ll not take this neck without a fight! Come then! Amusing! Come…" Nagaoka Tanomo roared these words inwardly, shaking off the terror that had gripped him. Over twenty colleagues waited in the adjacent room. "Hah—!" Suddenly restored to his usual boldness—

“Let’s see when someone wrote and pasted this In Mourning notice.”

While muttering, he reached out and touched the *In Mourning* characters. There—what do you think of that! Ink clung to his fingertip. The characters were damp. They weren’t dry yet… Someone had just written and pasted this! Then he must still be nearby. That’s right. In this room—this deathly silent parlor lit by a blazing candlestick—Tanomo gripped his drawn sword in his right hand, every nerve taut as he began sliding open the shoji screen: one minute… two… three… five… inch by inch, soundlessly.

III

To Konsanjiya Otomatsu, who had smoothly slid open the shoji screen and revealed his face, Ōoka Tadasuke directed a pleasant smile—though his voice alone remained fierce, as if rebuking. “Close it behind you.” Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke, the Town Magistrate of Edo South. It was a back room in the shoin-style building of the Soto-Sakurada official residence.

It was night. Having returned that day from the magistrate’s office at Sukiyabashi Bridge, Tadasuke—perhaps with some thought in mind—dispatched a servant to Hasegawa-chō in Nihonbashi and summoned Konsanjiya Otomatsu, the chief informant of that district. Thereafter, he sat formally in the inner study—a habit when pondering difficult problems—and faced the Go board for a solitary game… though it was not a matter of properly placing stones or studying attack and defense strategies. He simply grabbed black and white stones, scattering them across the board with a *sara-sara* rustle—sometimes shifting a black stone, other times rearranging white ones at random—all while biting his fingernails incessantly, another habit during deep contemplation. He appeared to enjoy the clear sound of the Go stones. This was Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke’s method: when he had matters to ponder, he would face the Go board, toy with the stones, and devise strategies in their midst.

And then, just as he was sinking deep into solitary contemplation, Konsanjiya Otomatsu—whom he had sent for—arrived. At night, having been abruptly summoned by the Magistrate’s office, even before Otomatsu could fully grasp what urgent matter this might be about, he was already trembling violently as though he himself had become a criminal. For a mere town police assistant to receive a summons directly from the Magistrate was truly an unprecedented event. Having arrived at the Soto-Sakurada mansion in a state of complete trepidation, he had come expecting to meet some subordinate official or attendant and discuss whatever matter was at hand—but instead, he was told he would have an audience with the lord himself. Guiding Otomatsu, who was in a state of utter panic and near frenzy, the young samurai—apparently acting on prior orders—boldly proceeded deeper into the mansion. Having entered the inner part of such a mansion for the first time in his life, Otomatsu followed while looking around restlessly, but there was not a trace of human presence—only a deathly silence. It seemed some secret discussion was afoot, for Lord Echizen-no-kami had dismissed everyone else and waited for Otomatsu. When they finally reached a room at the end of the corridor, the young samurai signaled with his eyes that the magistrate was inside and they should enter—then hurriedly turned back as though fleeing.

Konsanjiya Otomatsu was left alone. No matter which way he looked, there were only dark rooms lined up, with not a single human figure—let alone any sound—to be heard. However, a bright light streamed through the shoji screen before his eyes. The thought that Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke-sama was inside this room—when this realization struck Otomatsu, he plopped down right there in the corridor, frozen stiff and unable to lay a hand on that shoji screen.

...It’s so quiet—is there really anyone in this room after all? Just as Otomatsu tilted his head in puzzlement—as if answering his doubt—the clear clatter of Go stones echoed from within.

“I can’t stay like this forever.” “Alright!” With a single decisive act—Otomatsu, mustering his courage— “Excuse me.” In the most formal voice of his life, he smoothly slid open the shoji screen while— “Heh heh heh... My lord, I am truly overwhelmed.”

Strange greeting. Flustered and incoherent, he himself didn’t even know what he was saying. A man who usually spoke rudely now found himself not only appearing before none other than the Magistrate but also about to sit knee-to-knee for a conversation—pitifully, Otomatsu, a man of scrupulousness, was utterly agitated, sweating profusely all over, rubbing his forehead against the tatami floor incessantly, and mumbling something incoherently when—

“Close it behind you.” It was Lord Ōoka’s voice—one he had often heard at the magistrate’s office. Startled, he jerked his head up. Beyond lay a plump, round face he had likewise seen at that office, framed before a Go board. Having closed the screen as instructed—heh heh!—he prostrated himself again when Lord Ōoka began speaking. “You are Konsanjiya Otomatsu.” “Yes, my lord.” “My apologies for the belated introduction.” “I am but a lowly wretch called Otomatsu who handles petty duties in Nihonbashi Hasegawa-chō.”

“Well, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.” “Come a bit closer,” Tadasuke said with a chuckle. “Yes.” As he stepped forward a few inches, Otomatsu said, “Due to your sudden summons, I flew here in a panic, wondering what urgent matter this could be.” “For a lowly one like myself to be granted a direct audience… it’s truly—” While he was scratching his head incessantly, Echizen-no-kami suddenly spoke out.

“Otomatsu... that’s your name.” “What manner of man do you take me for? I’ve never once gone to Fujimi Parade Ground for morning test rides.”

4

Ikenoue Shinrokurō, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, Myōken Katsusaburō, Hyūga Ichigaku, Hori Shōzaemon, Hakata Yuminosuke, Kasama Jinpachi, Minebuchi Kurumanosuke, Yasaku Hikojūrō, Araki Yōichirō, and the master of the estate, Nagaoka Tanomo. And from Gensukemachi came the Three Crows: Ōyauchi Shuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendō Tonetarō. In addition, Shundō Kikuma, Yusa Gōshichirō, Kagami Tanba, and several others. It was a grand assembly. They had resolved to remain sober—for when sake and food were served, gatherings tended to descend into chaos, rendering crucial discussions impossible. Seated in a solemn row across the grand hall, they were deep in deliberation.

“Four have already been killed.” “Gentlemen, I wonder what you make of this—these are stalwart warriors, many being hatamoto entrusted with guarding the Shogun’s household.” “Not only that, but those summoned to crucial posts in the castle—united as we are in confronting him—are being thwarted by a man who was once our colleague but is now a mere emaciated ronin.” “To think we can’t even handle that one emaciated ronin… What utter—” “No, merely contemplating it makes me seethe!”

“Nonsense.” “This indignation isn’t yours alone.” “To let rabid curs whipped up by officials bite at will while we’ve failed to lay a finger on them even now—by heavens, it defies all reason!” “Not only does this displease our superiors—it shames the guardhouse before commoners and stains the honor of Chiyoda Castle itself.”

“That’s right.” “But it has already been reported to our superiors.” “The Senior Councilors, Junior Councilors, Inspectors General, and others have apparently gathered and are holding a solemn conference.” “Hmm. I wonder what they’re discussing.” “That, we know not.” “It is said that heaven’s secrets must not be divulged.” “Hmph. When it comes to those Senior Councilors, they do love to gather and grumble about nothing at all.” “That’s all they ever do.”

“Exactly. First of all—what’s there even to deliberate about? All we need do is rally Hatchōbori and urge the townsfolk as one to arrest that wretch Kyōnosuke posthaste.” “I’ve caught wind of something... that Lord Ōoka too may be stirring regarding this affair—”

“When you say Ōoka… you mean that Ōoka of the South? What’s that Ōoka fellow coming to meddle in now?” “Wah ha ha! The very notion that everything would be resolved if only he himself were to step forward—that is his failing. It’s what you’d call a case of self-conceit.” “Utterly absurd! Lord Ōoka should save his bluster for vermin and dirt. Kyōnosuke shall be dealt with by our own hands—absolutely! Well, gentlemen.”

“Needless to say, Lord Ōoka is Lord Ōoka, and we are we. Well, this is just between us, but I have always found that man’s pretentious display of wit most displeasing. At every turn, he prattles on about righteous governance and grand principles—hmph, ahahaha! Even Lord Wakizaka detests Lord Ōoka as one would a caterpillar.” “Now, that aside—the purpose for which we have gathered you all here today is to discuss strategies for defeating Kyōnosuke—” “Bah! There’s nothing complicated about it. Drag him before me!”

“Silence! Enough of your empty boasts— Oh! You must be Mr. Kasama. Rumor has it you even sleep clad in armor.” Amidst the clamor and uproar, Nagaoka Tanomo—his face deathly pale—shuffled unsteadily into the room. The assembly turned toward him and cried out in unison, “Hey, Nagaoka! What’s wrong?” “Lord Nagaoka, what has happened?” Nagaoka Tanomo wordlessly thrust out the mourning notice he clutched in his hand while—

“This was pasted—on the sliding door of the living room.” “I opened it, but there was no one there.” “This—look, it’s still wet.” “Show us! Show us!”—the assembly bustled to their feet, stirring restlessly as they began to crowd around Tanomo. They suddenly noticed. It was the lowest seat. When had he arrived—or had he been part of the council from the very beginning? At that lowest seat, there was a single figure with both hands planted on the floor, prostrating himself utterly still. How was it that no one had noticed until now? The figure remained motionless with hands planted on the tatami... Though not clad in formal kamishimo attire, his posture was not the slightest bit different from that of Kamio Kyōnosuke, who had endured mockery in just such a manner in the guardroom on New Year’s Day. The assembly stared wide-eyed without a sound at the utterly still, prostrating figure.

Shadow and Shadow: The Twin Phantoms

1. “What’s—?!” “He’s here!” “Look!” “He’s here! Who’s this?!”

The one who had shouted was Hakata Yuminosuke. The hands spread behind him made a gesture as though pressing down the air. Just like that—with a scraping sound! He pressed down the tatami and stumbled backward. Ikenami Shinrokurō, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, Myōken Katsusaburō… and others—thirteen Go-shoin banshi samurai in total—along with the reinforcements from Gensukemachi involuntarily jolted up! Like a receding tide, they rose up.

Hongō, Unagi Nawate—the estate of Nagaoka Tanomo.

In the midst of the strategy council for capturing Kyōnosuke. As the group clamored around Tanomo discussing the Mourning Notice he had discovered—its ink still wet—someone’s gaze shifted to the lowest seat, and that was when they noticed. There, at the lowest seat where deliberations had been held until now, was a figure who remained utterly still, both hands planted on the tatami and prostrating like a Heike crab. When had he come? Or had he been in this room from the start? Why hadn’t they noticed until now?

“Hmph!” “Who… is this…?” Ōyauchi Shūri, foremost of the Three Crows of Gensukemachi, growled. “What manner of man art thou?”

“Could this be one of our colleagues?” Calmly voicing this, Tendō Tonetarō of Gensukemachi looked back at the guards, but none responded. They stood lined up along one side of the room, staring fixedly at that solitary figure as though beholding some eerie creature—

The figure remained motionless with hands planted on the tatami... Though not clad in formal kamishimo attire, his posture—in position, demeanor, and every detail—was not the slightest bit different from that of Kamio Kyōnosuke, who had endured mockery in just such a manner in the guardroom on New Year’s Day. They all stared wide-eyed at the utterly still, prostrating figure—though to call this a prolonged moment would be misleading, for within mere seconds—two, three... no more than five—Araki Yoichirō let out a shout. This man belonged to the lineage of Araki Matabyōe—indeed, his bloodline was unmistakable. When it came to swordsmanship, he held the foremost reputation in the guardroom; aged forty-five or six, with steadfast resolve, he stood as an exceptional figure among the Go-shoin banshi. Now, Araki Yoichirō spoke in a booming voice inherited from his ancestor—though it must be said that no records preserve Araki Matabyōe’s actual voice. Yet as Matabyōe had been a renowned hero, his voice must surely have carried equal authority. After all, since none could prove his voice lacked vigor, there could be no harm in declaring it as vigorous as possible—though this descendant Araki Yoichirō fell short of Matabyōe’s greatness, his voice nevertheless rang with remarkable power. It resembled a beast’s roar heard through a radio loudspeaker.

“Kamio Kyōnosuke! Raise your head!” The words carried no refinement. This was partly due to his heightened agitation... Yet the figure clinging to the tatami before the sliding door remained motionless. The candlestick’s light cast a pallid glow upon the forehead of this man who lay prostrate as if hiding his face. It mirrored that moment on New Year’s Day—the same tableau poised before chaos erupted. The group stood encircling him at a distance when Hori Shōzaemon suddenly stomped forward and squatted before Kamio Kyōnosuke’s prostrate form.

“From where did you deign to enter?” “Hmm?” “From where did you deign to enter?” “We were just now deliberating your apprehension.” “You’ve arrived at an opportune moment.” “Our forces stand assembled here in full.” “Ah well—though it grieves us to terminate this sacred headhunt prematurely, we shall conclude your own hunt tonight with Lord Matsubara’s fourth head as our final trophy.”

Ahahaha… He laughed amusingly, shaking his shoulders.

2.

Ahahaha… He laughed amusingly while shaking his shoulders.

While laughing and shaking his shoulders with apparent amusement, Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke fixed Konsanjiya with a sharp gaze and paused briefly before uttering his next words.

Sotozakura—the official residence of Ōoka Tadasuke, South Magistrate of Edo. The night in Yamano-te was like the bottom of the sea. Filling that brief interval came the sound of a soundless night—deep forest-like and ear-piercing.

To say this evoked a sense of serene refinement and clarity of mind—but far from refined, Konsanjiya Otomatsu had not a living thought in his head. His chest heaved like waves, his ears burned, his vision dimmed, cold sweat streamed down his sides—he couldn’t even lift his face. “Huh?” Having said only that, he mumbled and scratched his head, whereupon Ōoka continued, “How about it? I have never once gone to Fujimi Parade Grounds at dawn for an inspection ride.” “Huh?”

“Don’t ‘Huh?’ me.” “Yes.”

“A simple ‘Yes’ doesn’t clarify anything.” “I am deeply sorry.” “So you’re intimidated? What exactly are you apologizing for?” “—” “Since you yourself admit to being intimidated, you must be up to some misdeed.” “Well, actually…” “Hmm. Go on and tell me.”

“Yes.” “Well, my lord, this is how it happened… That night, one of my foster children came rushing in and reported there was a big fight at Fujimi Parade Grounds. Given that I’ve been entrusted with official duties, I promptly gathered men, prepared, and set out—but—”

“Hmm, I am aware of that much.” “Is that so? When I rushed into Fujimi Parade Grounds, there were quite a number of people locked in combat, so…”

“I am aware of that as well.” “Ah, well—there, I thought to somehow bring it to a draw, and in the heat of the moment, I bellowed out whatever came to mind… which inadvertently led to borrowing your honorable name. Truly, I am mortified beyond words.”

“I am well aware of that as well.”

“In that case, I have nothing else to report.” “Do you have nothing more to report? Hmm… Is that truly the case?” “——”

“Now then—the ones who were fighting—what sort of scoundrels were they?” “Well, something like Shiba no Gensukechō or—” “The Mukei Ittō-ryū—Jinbo Zōshu’s dojo members.” “Very well.” “But that’s only one side.” “A fight requires opponents.” “Who were they?”

Konsanjiya Otomatsu understood better than anyone that lies would not pass before Lord Ōoka. With the resolve of a dead man, he closed his eyes and stated flatly, “The opponent in that fight was Kamio Kyōnosuke.”

“I see. To aid Kamio, you invoked my name.” “It’s not that I meant to aid him or—” “Kamio is a grand fool who disturbs the realm, mocks the law, and spouts grandiose boasts about running around cutting off officers’ heads. Though from what I hear, he’s already taken two or three of their heads… Otomatsu!” “Hah!” “Why did you not arrest him?”

“Why, you ask… Well, it’s not as though…” As Otomatsu trailed off and suddenly looked up at Echizen-no-kami, Tadasuke was grinning—a stark contrast to his harsh words. He said in a quiet whisper.

“From now on, you must apprehend him without fail.” “Listen well—you are to apprehend him.” “Apprehend… that is to say, capture him alive.” “You must not kill him.” “However, your lordship, since he’s rampaging with a blade, apprehending him is exceedingly—exceedingly—”

“Is it difficult?”

“Ah.” “Then you must flee.” “Not to let him escape.” “You must not kill him.” “Even if he dies, I cannot permit it—so you must be the one to retreat.” “Hah! Understood.” “Do you grasp this?” “Understood?” “Depending on circumstances, I may visit Fujimi Parade Grounds for trial rides countless times.” “Ah ha ha ha!”

With a click, he placed a Go stone while— “That’s all.” “Go home.”

Tadasuke said. Konsanjiya Otomatsu realized Tadasuke’s true intentions and felt as though he had touched upon Tadasuke’s humanity beneath his magisterial role. If the one before him had not been the Magistrate, Otomatsu would have risen and—

He wanted to laugh uproariously while slapping someone’s back with all his might and declare, “Hey! You’re someone I can talk to!” “So you’re also siding with the weak, the ones in the right, huh? You’re an Edoite. A proper Edoite…” But in reality, he said it nonchalantly. “Capture him without killing him. So if the opponent’s got a blade, we gotta fight back with our own blades,” he said, scratching his head thoughtfully. “Then since they’re dangerous and we’re in danger too, we end up fleein’… Hmm. But seein’ as he never lets go of that killer’s blade, he always escapes—”

Konsanjiya prostrated himself flat.

“No—I understand.” “I understand perfectly.”

“What? He was still there…” Tadasuke’s eyes turned toward Otomatsu as if to say, “Good, good, go.” Kirichō’s eyes were fixed piercingly on Otomatsu’s profile.

III Kirichō’s eyes remained fixed piercingly on Kyōnosuke’s profile. That was Araki Yōichirō. A motionless figure with both hands planted on the tatami—Kyōnosuke—surrounded in an instant. From among the thirteen guards and Genzukechō gang who had stood blocking his path in silence, a clamor erupted.

“The saying ‘a summer insect flying into flames’ couldn’t be more fitting.” “Yet you’ve got the gall to strut into a gathering of such esteemed company!” “Four heads taken, and now you swagger about like nothing in this realm can touch you—how deluded you’ve become!” “To show your face while we’re plotting your demise—it’s almost too convenient. How pathetically predictable.” But when and how had he slipped in…?

“He slipped in quietly and joined our conversation.” “Even so, just as on New Year’s Day, there he sits—no matter what you say to him, he won’t budge an inch. That fellow’s got quite the theatrical flair, I say.” Under these circumstances, thinking they could cut him down at any moment, the group faced Kyōnosuke and continued discussing loudly while smirking—yet in truth, Kyōnosuke remained exactly as he had been on New Year’s Day, not moving an inch no matter what was said to him.

Before anyone realized it, this had become a reenactment of that—the very incident that had sparked the turmoil. Kyōnosuke’s shoulders trembled minutely as he lay prostrate. “Hmm—he’s weeping again.” “Having been discovered, it must be galling to lose your life here.” The group, after all, was relying on their numerical advantage. Suddenly, Kasama Jinpachi stomped forward, “He’s crying.” “That’s amusing.” “Let’s all take a good look at his galling face!”

“That’s right.” “That’s right.” Hyūga Ichigaku instigated from behind—though someone should have stopped him—urging, “Grab his topknot and yank him up!” Among them was one who remembered the events of New Year’s Day,

“What? That’s his way—he’s pretending to cry while laughing!” When a large group gathers, their courage naturally swells. With the renowned Three Crows leading them and over a dozen Genzukechō gang members waiting in reserve, their boldness knew no bounds. “Grab his topknot and yank him up!” Before Hyūga Ichigaku could finish— “Never mind,” Kasama Jinpachi growled. “This bastard…” He reached toward Kyōnosuke, seizing his topknot to wrench his face upward.

At that moment. “Pfft.” Kyōnosuke—who had been lying prostrate as if slammed down—snorted. “Ahahahaha! Well done!” “What a splendid lineup of clay dolls… Slash!” “Eat this!”

At the same moment. Kyōnosuke’s upper body jerked fully upright in unison with his booming laughter. Crack! Just as his knee seemed to shift forward—and in that very instant his right hand appeared to reach for the sword’s hilt— Kyōnosuke had suspended the unsheathed blade at his waist with a thread, lightly draping a habutae haori over it to completely conceal the weapon and mimic a sheathed appearance. Now, the instant his hand gripped the hilt, all he needed was to flick it upward. The sword severed its own thread, slipped beneath the haori’s hem, and sprang forth before their eyes. Across its blade—whoosh! Blood sprayed... the Kyoshin-ryū Chikuwa Slash—a single sword stroke.

Jinpachi’s head—which until moments ago had been animatedly chattering away—drew an arc through the air and thudded against the tatami mats. “Fifth head—Lord Kasama Jinpachi.” Kyōnosuke groaned. He had quietly risen. A silence fell like a severed rope. In that stillness, Kyōnosuke retreated step by step, the bloodied naked sword in his hand, until he reached the shoji door and moved to step onto the engawa. Only then did the guards and Genzukechō forces snap back to awareness. With Ikenoue Shinrokurō, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Ōyanaishuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Kagami Tanba leading, they drew their swords in unison, kicked off the tatami, and lunged after him. But Kyōnosuke slid open the shoji with practiced speed and disappeared onto the veranda. At that precise moment, the fusuma door on the opposite side—the one leading to the inner chambers—swished open smoothly. A voice called out.

“Hey, here.” “Here.” Gah! As they turned around, what appeared before their eyes was—once again—Kamio Kyōnosuke… There’s a term for appearing and vanishing like ghosts—but this defied all explanation!

The same person exited and, in the same instant, entered from the opposite side—.

The group turned around, aligning their sword tips toward the back while exchanging furtive glances and tilting their heads in puzzlement.

Four Murai Chōan—*smack!* With a loud noise, he slapped his bare buttocks. Red blood bloomed like a small flower, and a single mosquito’s corpse was crushed like a pressed leaf, stuck fast.

Chōan clicked his tongue and plucked up the mosquito’s corpse. “Its belly has stripes. “It’s a bush mosquito.” “How vicious you are!” In the dim darkness, he muttered to himself. As he spoke, he chuckled wryly—as befitting a doctor— “A bush mosquito in the bushes—you bastard’s got style, haven’t you?” He was grinning to himself, impressed by such trivialities, but only Chōan and villains knew their own affairs were a thicket—they understood themselves all too well.

“The Weaver and Herdsman get but one night together—and even that’s washed away by rain. How pitiful their tryst…”

It was July. Humming in a low voice, Chōan surveyed his own residence—unlit despite evening's approach and nearly empty—as though examining some curious novelty.

Kōjimachi Hirakawachō 1-chōme. Town Doctor Chōan’s house.

Sprinkling water, burning mosquito repellents… while the world busied itself battling the summer heat, Chōan’s residence stood frightfully cool by contrast—devoid of anything resembling furniture, let alone a doctor’s tools, making it starkly summer-appropriate in its emptiness. To complete the picture, Chōan himself lounged utterly naked save for a hood covering his shaved head, his six-shaku frame propped against the wall as he mumbled incoherently under his breath.

Unlike his usual self, he was lost in reminiscence... It seemed that whenever money ran short, indulging in memories became a habitual quirk of this Chōan Sensei. Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke had served as South Town Magistrate for twenty years. During that period, it had been proclaimed by none other than Ōoka himself that even if one were to tear Murai Chōan of Kōjimachi Hirakawachō into eight pieces, it would still not suffice. For even the composed Tadasuke to utter such vehement words, the man must have been an extraordinary villain. According to accounts delivered from storytellers' podiums with dramatic clapper strikes, this Chōan was born to a peasant named Nagazaemon in Ōhira Village of Ejiri, Suruga Province—under Lord Matsudaira Hizennosuke's domain—and had been inherently wicked from birth. From childhood, he displayed vagrant tendencies—sleeping on park benches and escaping Odawara Juvenile Prison—until by seventeen or eighteen, he'd joined gangs of longsword-wielders who prized gambling above daily meals. As his notoriety grew until even his native Ōhira Village became untenable, he resolved to head for the capital as a newspaper delivery boy. Yet for such delinquent youths exist delinquent girls as counterparts—proof being Chōan's partner O-Roku—demonstrating that wayward girls weren't exclusive to cities nor limited to chasing athletes at Jingu Outer Garden. Within their village, they conducted fertilizer-scented trysts in shrine groves until O-Roku resolved to reach Tokyo—to become a waitress under neon lights or high-heeled dancer in Ginza or Shinjuku (though Shinjuku then meant the Kōshū Highway's procession of farmers, horse handlers, and manure carts). Swiftly settling matters with Chōan, they fled Ōhira hand-in-hand. Though missing persons notices might have circulated, they disembarked directly at Tokyo Station by night—confronted by the Marunouchi Building's dreadnought-like bulk ablaze with lights... Skilless and facing economic hardship, they immediately found themselves destitute. After consultation, O-Roku parted from Chōan to enter café service as desired. This being the Kyōhō era of old, it wasn't truly a café. She instead took a waitress position at some local restaurant. For a time they exchanged visits and letters until correspondence ceased without warning—leaving her current whereabouts unknown. ...For Chōan, the woman called O-Roku remained forever swallowed by Edo's metropolitan shadows.

Dissolute and utterly unmanageable though Chōan was, this woman of his first love, O-Roku alone, he had been effortlessly unable to forget since then, and thus would occasionally recall her.

Even now, having lost at gambling and left with nothing, Chōan—who frugally conserved his single garment to prevent wear and tear—remained perpetually naked while at home. In this heat, he thought vaguely while swatting at mosquitoes that perhaps this was for the best—it was about O-Roku, whom he had parted with long ago and never seen since. “She’s turned into some stylish older woman now.” “Damn you!” And then—damn you!—as he energetically swatted another mosquito, he kicked open the lattice door in front of him with a clatter,

“What’s this, what’s this? What’s happened to that chic older woman of yours?” The one who entered, vigorously swinging Yazō over his shoulder, was Chōan’s partner Tozuka Sanji. Having let down the hem he’d tucked up at his waist with a rustle, taken the towel from his shoulder, and briskly brushed off his feet, Tozuka Sanji let out a gravelly voice.

“Whoa! It’s pitch black in here, ain’t it? “Nagaan-san, are you home?”

“I’m here. Right here, y’see. Well, come on in.” Chōan searched for a fire striker, rustling his hands around the area.

Five

With a rustling sound as if sweeping across the tatami, the group drew their swords and surged forward—but it was all exceedingly strange. Kyōnosuke, who had just left, immediately reentered as if from a distant place. But if the Kyōnosuke who had left earlier was the real one, then the Kyōnosuke who entered afterward was a different Kyōnosuke—though calling him “another Kyōnosuke” was absurd—for it was none other than Ibaru Ukon, the quarrel-for-hire master of Kanda Obiya Alley. Yet the guards and townspeople knew nothing of this ruse; moreover, with identical faces, expressions, attire, and swords, they could only assume that Kyōnosuke had flipped around and reappeared from the opposite side of the twenty-mat hall. Marveling inwardly at this divine and unfathomable trickery, the group rallied their swords, poised to slaughter this Ibaru Ukon in one fell swoop—when he charged across the threshold, slashing into their midst! Ukon feigned an attack, then darted back and snapped the sliding doors shut. The sliding doors had swallowed Ukon whole—or so it seemed…

At the same moment, the sliding door behind them—the very one through which Kyōnosuke had vanished earlier—smoothly slid open. Like autumn grass battered by a stormwind, the group turned toward it... only to find Kyōnosuke standing there— Moreover, with a defiant smile plastered across his entire face and his sword tip dancing as if to provoke, they could no longer afford to tilt their heads in wonder. *Snap!* Tendō Tonetarō of Genzukechō, who had erupted in anger, “You dare mock me?!”

As soon as the one at the forefront struck—as if it were a signal—they clattered out onto the engawa in a chaotic rush, only to find that Kyōnosuke, who had been there just moments ago, was now nowhere to be seen. “Damn! Where’d you go—?” “Where’d you run off to?” “I was just now thinking of body-slamming you the moment I saw that face of yours…” “You’re no monster, Kyōnosuke—but there’s a limit to your mockery!” “There’s a limit to your mockery!” The group, fuming, split up and wandered around the area searching while holding drawn swords, when—

“He’s here! He’s here!” “He’s right here!” A bloodcurdling scream—like a noblewoman discovering a centipede in her sleeve—echoed from the inner chambers. The voices belonged to Hori Shōzaemon, Yasaku Hikojūrō, Hanno Shume, Shundō Kikuma, and others. “Face me! Show yourself!” Some shouted in antiquated phrases befitting their samurai pride. On this side of the engawa, Minebuchi Kurumanosuke, Hyūga Ichigaku, Yusa Gōshichirō, and the mansion’s master Nagaoka Tanomo snapped to attention at the commotion. “There!”

At this, they scattered in disarray and were about to charge into the inner room when a calm voice welled up from a bend in the corridor nearby,

“No—I’m right here.” His words were laced with irony. “My apologies for missing you earlier... I, too, have been searching everywhere—”

At a glance, Kamio Kyōnosuke stood there, his long sword held in the seigan stance, a dreamy expression on his face. Bathed in the room’s lamplight—half his body in light, half in shadow—his sharply divided figure stood coldly, like smoke, like water… “No—I am here. I am here.” Minebuchi Kurumanosuke shouted loudly at the group across from him. Then, from across, they shouted back,

“What nonsense!” “How can there be two of the same person?!” “Kyōnosuke is right here crossing blades with us!”

Kurumanosuke was not losing either. He could not afford to lose. After all, Kyōnosuke stood right there before his very eyes...

“What nonsense are you spouting?! You must be dreaming! Kyōnosuke is right here! Everyone, get over here! Let’s finish them off in one go!” “Don’t spout nonsense! You’re the one dreaming! Kyōnosuke is over here. Look, look! He’s crossing blades with Hikojūrō! Everyone, get over here! Let’s all attack at once and finish them off!” Shouting the same things at each other, they split into two groups and descended into brawling—but by this point, with Kamio Kyōnosuke and Ibaru Ukon storming into Nagaoka Tanomo’s mansion together, they looked so utterly identical that even the author couldn’t quite tell which was Kyōnosuke and which was Ukon.

Six

That crow-black darkness, indistinguishable even to the author...

Night. Kanda. Obiya Lane. A shadowy figure. The shadowy figure was a woman. The woman was O-Tae, daughter of Kabedatsu from Shitaya Kuromonchō.

That O-Tae…

Pitch black.

The surroundings were pitch black, and her heart was pitch black too. The darkness of the heart—the abyssal darkness of a young woman’s heart—could it be anything but love? O-Tae had tried to forget Kyōnosuke—the man she’d saved from father Kabedatsu’s jitte with a desperate interception when he came rushing in dressed as a craftsman—but found herself unable to. That Kyōnosuke—spared from peril that night by the boss of Konsanjiya in Hasegawachō, whether through error or kindness (though O-Tae believed it deliberate, even benevolent aid from Master Konsanjiya)—had been passed off as Ibaru Ukon, a quarrel-for-hire ronin, and now clung to that violent trade, single-mindedly devoted to lining up seventeen heads in revenge. Yet whenever she saw his singular resolve, O-Tae told herself she ought to find such wholehearted dedication in a man—pouring his very soul into his purpose—reassuring, noble. But try as she might, she could do nothing to stop the seething loneliness that swirled within her, enveloping her heart.

Lord Kyō does not think anything of someone like me. For Lord Kyō, there exists no purpose in life nor any pleasure other than going around beheading the guard corps. No—that is not the case. After cutting off the last of those seventeen heads, Lord Kyō would surely withdraw from the world, reunite with his wife, and live out their days in peace and happiness—that must be the sole aim for which he now wields his sword so fiercely…

That’s right. Lord Kyō had a wife. Moreover, she was a woman renowned for her beauty—. I’d heard she was called Lady Sonoe—in a way, this whole commotion seemed to have started because of her. For Lord Kyō—who endured such hardships on Lady Sonoe’s account—to abandon her and turn his heart toward me, no matter what might happen… No, I must not think such things. I must not even dream of wishing for such a thing. For Lady Sonoe’s sake, and for Lord Kyō’s sake as well—.

But if that were the case—what would become of someone like me, O-Tae? Ever since meeting Kyōnosuke, I had posed that question to myself countless times each day—but no matter how deeply I searched my heart, I could not find the answer. Kyōnosuke has a wife—I know that. Kyōnosuke loves and is in love with his wife—that, too, I understand. If that were all—if I understood everything so clearly—then I should have been able to cut my feelings cleanly and resign myself. Yet being unable to do so—that very impossibility—is precisely why this troublesome thing called love exists in this world, is it not?

If everything followed reason—two plus two making four, eight divided into two making four—then life would truly require no assistance, but in exchange, novelists would be out of work... Well, never mind what happens to novelists, but the world would become utterly dreary.

O-Tae came to a halt. In the alluring attire of a town girl, it was O-Tae who had added the celebratory hand towel from that time at Fudezen’s ridge-raising ceremony as a streamer. Neither walking nor advancing, as if pulled by something, as if pushed by something, night after night, she ended up here.

Here... Kanda Obiya Lane. On oil-paper sliding doors, the four characters for *quarrel-for-hire* stood boldly brushed. Inside that house, O-Tsuru, the female boss, sat with one knee raised before a long brazier, muttering something under her breath.

“He’s late, isn’t he? I wonder what’s happened――?” “What’s happened——?” She might have glanced up at a pillar clock behind her—if such a thing existed in this bygone Kyōhō era—but no clocks hung here, and besides, this was no mundane scene of a salaryman’s wife idly awaiting her husband’s return in some modern suburban home. O-Tsuru’s expression tightened faintly with tension. To be fair, O-Tsuru had always had a somewhat tense expression... As usual, she tossed a kettle into the long brazier, revealing her tattoo that declared *No Opinions Needed, Life Unknown*, and while lightly plucking at it with her fingertips, she plunged it back into the hot water again and again,

“Ahh… I just hope nothing’s gone wrong——Tonight, the two of them went out saying they’d storm into that Nagaoka Tanomo’s place at Unagi Nawate in Hongō Oiwake… Maybe I should go and see for myself.” O-Tsuru threw down the long-stemmed pipe she had been smoking with a clatter and swayed unsteadily to her feet when— “Please excuse me…” The front door burst open, and a young woman tumbled in as if thrown—panting, SLAM! While closing the door she had just entered through, O-Tae looked up at O-Tsuru.

“Please hide me for a little while.” “I’m being chased by villains—” “Who the hell are you?” O-Tsuru’s voice involuntarily took on a frightening edge.

“Ain’t you that dame who’s been skulkin’ round my place lately?” “The hell ya want…?”

**The Wolf in Escort’s Clothing**

I

The Chrysanthemum Room, the Wild Goose Room, the Latticework Room—.

In the Ōoku of Chiyoda, autumn sunlight as clear as if seen through glass pervaded, and in the corners of the long corridor, air like congealed water lay motionless.

Chrysanthemums were fragrant from an indeterminate source. A perfectly clear day.

Sunlight resembling gold-flecked lacquer streamed through the edges and contours of windows, illuminating transom carvings, metal fittings bearing the hollyhock crest, purple tassels dangling from sliding door pulls, and glossy hinoki surfaces where dappled light swayed rhythmically—all part of a castle section meticulously crafted through selective lacquering and woodgrain refinement...

It was hushed—a silence like the bottom of a well. And suddenly, like wheels grinding gravel, a clamor of voices erupted from a room along the corridor, “No—I do not mean to force the issue, but this Izumoya Gobei—” “However… What is this?”

Kondō Sagami-no-kami Shigesato was a seventy-seven-year-old man. Though his ears and eyes were sharper than most, he always feigned deafness when inconvenient. Now was such a moment. "Perhaps due to age, I cannot hear well," he said. "But what did you say?" Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, who had been speaking fervently until then, now sat deflated in posture. "Well—Izumoya Gobei is the family home of Kamio Kyōnosuke's wife, the instigator of this current disturbance. Therefore—"

“Ahem! “Ahem!” As if to say *Don’t speak further—better left unsaid*, Lord Sagami-no-kami feigned a cough that never materialized, furrowed his brows in an exaggerated show of difficulty hearing, and cupped his hand to his ear like a folding screen. “Huh?” Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami grew increasingly flustered. “At this juncture, we must revoke Izumoya’s Oil Procurement Contract and redirect it appropriately—to that end, I wish to recommend Fudezen Kōbei of Shitaya Chōjamachi, a brush merchant...”

“Wait.” Lord Awaji-no-kami, who had remained silent until then, interjected bitterly, “The thread of your argument seems misplaced.” “This Fudezen Kōbei is truly a diligent individual.” Lord Yamashiro-no-kami, having started speaking, now sought to finish quickly despite the autumn coolness, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he pressed on: “It would be advisable to entrust this person with the Oil Procurement Contract—such is my humble opinion—and I have even discreetly suggested as much to the officials in charge. They say they will comply if only their superiors give the word. Of course, I am well aware that this matter lies outside my purview, but…”

Awaji-no-kami deepened the wrinkles of his bitter smile further, "So, you were asked to do this—" Yamashiro-no-kami stiffened! For humans, after all, find it infuriating to be told the truth— "This is outrageous!"

[Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami] turned his knees toward Awaji-no-kami, while Awaji sat with hands properly placed on his hakama-clad knees, his expression unperturbed. “I said you were asked—did that strike a nerve? Even if you weren’t asked—whether the Oil Procurement Contract goes to this house or that shop is ordered—such trivial matters need not be brought before this esteemed assembly of senior councilors…”

“A trivial matter?!” “Certainly, if you dismiss it as merely concerning oil, then so be it—but to call official castle business trivial—no, what manner of triviality is this—?!” “Hah!” “What’s this about screens?” “I’m not getting any younger.” “It’s like a fish blowing bubbles—I can’t make out a thing.” “What’s this now, eh?”

Kondō Sagami-no-kami persisted in feigning deafness, cupping both hands behind his ears as he bustled forward on his knees. Once again, a tense silence fell over the assembly, leaving an awkward chill in the air.

Two

It was the central chamber.

In the inspectors’ duty room, thick pillars stood. One side had two cedar doors spanning two ken, one of which was perpetually open; beyond the veranda lay garden soil showing raked patterns, with a lawn stretching far into the distance where trees and stones were arranged in an intriguing composition—though it was autumn, the intense outdoor light still carried a lingering summer heat. The sunlight poured down like a misty drizzle, and in the distance, young pine trees with uniquely shaped branches each faded faintly into a uniform haze.

It was a truly splendid view…

Before that splendid view, the senior officials now gathered in this central chamber included Kondō Sagami-no-kami, the senior inspector; Kuse Yamato-no-kami; Makino Bitchū-no-kami; Iwaki Harima-no-kami; Mizuno Dewa-no-kami, who handled personal affairs for the shogunate; along with junior councilors Kanō Tōtōmi-no-kami, Yonekura Tango-no-kami, Andō Tsushima-no-kami, Ōta Wakasa-no-kami; and finally Awaji-no-kami and Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami… In short, it was effectively a cabinet meeting. At this cabinet meeting—where Kyōnosuke’s case showed no sign of resolution—Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami, temporarily released from confinement, had emerged and immediately launched into a tedious exposition about Izumoya Gobei’s Oil Procurement Contract. From the moment he began speaking, his drawn-out monologue elicited bitter smiles from all assembled officials.

Whether it be oil or candles, they were indeed official castle supplies, but needless to say, mundane matters. Admittedly, the oil for the candlesticks placed every night in the great hall, corridors, and each room did accumulate to a significant sum when tallied over a year or two—but even so, it was of course not an issue that should have been debated in such a forum as this. The assembly wondered what Yamashiro was saying. Unable to take Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami seriously—suspecting his extended confinement over the Kyōnosuke incident had unhinged his mind—they exchanged uneasy glances and let him ramble on in silence. In essence, Yamashiro-no-kami argued that since Kyōnosuke had committed his crimes, they should bar Izumoya Gobei—the family home of Kyōnosuke’s wife in Kanda Mikawachō—from further dealings and revoke the Oil Procurement Contract it had long monopolized for the castle, transferring the rights instead to Fudezen Kōbei, a brush merchant in Shitaya Chōjamachi.

The official reprimand had been severe enough, but afterward, Fudezen appeared to have deployed an enormous bribe that proved entirely effective. While Fudezen’s under-the-table payments had undoubtedly reached astronomical sums by now, in truth, Yamashiro-no-kami was operating under a far more intricate exchange agreement in this affair. For Lord Yamashiro-no-kami, everything hinged on eliminating Kamio Kyōnosuke. To achieve this, he required absolute cooperation from the Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo members in Shiba Gensukechō—and above all, the direct martial intervention of their grandmaster himself, Jinbo Zōshu.

Thus, he had gone to knock on [Jinbo Zōshu’s] gate under cover of night to request the swordmaster’s assistance. However, at that time, the condition Jinbo Zōshu proposed was this: if someone were to bring Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe into his possession, he would then actively work to eliminate Kyōnosuke. Lord Yamashiro-no-kami readily agreed to this exchange condition, but for this task, he absolutely needed Murai Chōan to lend a hand.

So, Lord Yamashiro-no-kami summoned Chōan to his residence at Yakimochi-zaka, bent his knees appropriately to make his earnest request, whereupon Chōan declared: “Heh-heh-heh, such a simple task for you.” “Promptly lure out this ‘Sonoe’ or whoever—skillfully now—what say you, my lord? To that Mukei Ittō-ryū town dojo in Shiba Gensukechō district—not the *natto* shop, no—the Yattō master Jinbo Zōshu’s place. Take her there posthaste.” “Now, now, rest assured.” “Once this Chōan here swallows a matter whole—heh-heh-heh—though I say so before your lordship—there’ll be no bungling of the work, not ever.” "But—"

Now, at this point, since the shrewd Chōan—who never acted without incentive—was mumbling oddly as if hinting at some form of gratitude, Yamashiro-no-kami decided to preempt him by—

“I understand—I *understand*. That Fudezen Oil Procurement Contract matter you’ve been pressing for—I’ll take care of it during this opportunity. I’ll work tirelessly to settle it flawlessly. In return, delivering Sonoe to Jinbo rests entirely on *your* efforts. Do this well.” For someone like Chōan—who stood to receive an exorbitant reward from Fudezen once the Oil Procurement Contract rights were wrested from Izumoya Gobei and transferred—he had always been a man who wouldn’t lift a finger unless greed walked hand in hand with him.

This time, he appeared to have started working in earnest.

Three This created a peculiar chain of necessity: For Lord Yamashiro-no-kami to claim Kyōnosuke’s head, he had no choice but to secure Jinbo Zōshu’s aid. To secure Jinbo’s aid, he had no choice but to abduct Sonoe. To abduct Sonoe, he had no choice but to enlist Chōan’s services. To enlist Chōan’s services, he had no choice but to revoke Izumoya Gobei’s Oil Procurement Contract and officially transfer it to Fudezen. This relentless sequence of compulsions—to put it bluntly—meant Lord Yamashiro-no-kami absolutely had to redirect the Oil Procurement Contract to Fudezen if he hoped to eliminate Kamio Kyōnosuke... binding Wakizaka Yamashiro as tightly as iron chains. Moreover, to formalize Fudezen’s contract, he had no choice but to pressure the official overseeing petty supplies into compliance.

Lord Yamashiro-no-kami, thinking it would be a simple matter, had broached the issue with the official in charge, but the official stated that while it was indeed straightforward, it would require a word from higher-ups. Thus, in the end, Lord Yamashiro-no-kami concluded that to mobilize the official in charge, he absolutely had to obtain the senior officials’ approval. In truth, Yamashiro—assuming they would all agree without objection—had ventured to casually bring up the matter earlier at today’s assembly, his first attendance at the castle since being released from confinement, doing so with an air of utter nonchalance.

As for Yamashiro-no-kami, he was hurrying as much as he could hurry. Since he had been pressuring Chōan relentlessly day after day, Sonoe might be taken to Gensukechō that very night. If that happened, bound by their exchange condition, he had to deliver the good news of the Fudezen Oil Procurement Contract’s official order to Chōan without delay—and since it was no great matter anyway, he decided to push through with it bluntly. The senior officials would surely agree readily, saying “Ah, that’s good,” and with those words alone, it would be settled… Thinking this, he broached the matter casually. Yet the others did not receive it as such. Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami—freshly emerged from confinement—had fixated oddly on the Oil Procurement Contract and launched into a verbose explanation. Precisely because it seemed so trivial, the entire assembly—who had been listening with mild curiosity about what he might say—grew convinced some grave motive lurked beneath. Given Lord Yamashiro’s general unpopularity, they fell into an awkward silence, not a single soul replying—but indeed, Yamashiro-no-kami had miscalculated. The timing was poor, and moreover, bound as tightly as drawn threads, Yamashiro-no-kami grew desperate. Caught in this strange bind, he alone remained entangled with the Oil Procurement Contract agenda, repeating the same point endlessly. Kondō Sagami-no-kami feigned deafness with theatrical indifference, while Awaji-no-kami—renowned for integrity—seemed poised to clash with him head-on over the slightest provocation… Truly, Lord Yamashiro’s trivial proposal threatened to collapse into utter disarray.

Precisely because it seemed likely to end in disaster, Yamashiro-no-kami turned toward Awaji-no-kami, his forehead pale. “Regarding the Kamio matter, since the responsibility lies entirely with me, I deemed it appropriate to impose a share of accountability upon his wife’s family by halting their castle dealings—and to offer this as one gesture of apology from myself.” “To that end, since a replacement for the Oil Procurement role was urgently required, I had people investigate and was fortunate to locate the aforementioned Fudezen Kōbei—a man of utmost integrity—whom I then recommended in Izumoya’s stead. Yet now, to be accused of acting at merchants’ behest… I, Yamashiro, have found this most vexing of late.”

Though Yamashiro-no-kami had conceived a clever excuse and rebutted them eloquently，Awaji-no-kami now appeared to have lost all interest in listening．Deliberately aloof，he leaned against a thick pillar while busily examining some documents，whispering to Yonekura Tango-no-kami in the neighboring seat with a faint grin． Enraged，Yamashiro-no-kami inadvertently let out a loud voice．

“Lord Awaji, I would like to hear your response.” “Ahem! “A response? “What response?! “I haven’t the faintest idea. “Huh?” Kondō Sagami-no-kami once again thrust his face forward, feigning senility to obscure the debate. The group—which had formed small clusters nearby and been whispering among themselves—now erupted into a ripple of leisurely laughter. Meanwhile, the figure who had been hiding in the shadow of the cedar door—left open just one panel’s width in the central chamber—and eavesdropping on the debate from earlier simultaneously creased the corners of their eyes into crow’s feet and smiled.

It was Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke. Having been permitted to do so, he was covertly eavesdropping in the central chamber in his capacity as magistrate.

IV “Grrr—!”

A white-hot blade tempered with fire and heat. As night deepened amidst a storm of clashing swords, the combatants grappled in silent desperation. At Nagaoka Tanomo’s estate—where a sudden eruption of bloodshed had boiled over—the family had evacuated to a neighboring acquaintance’s home. Before long, someone resourceful stripped away the sliding doors; comrades lit bonfires in the veranda-side garden; indoors, candlesticks stood arrayed until the rooms blazed bright as noon… From corridor corners to shadowed alcoves, two Kamio Kyōnosukes—Kyōnosuke and Ukon—flitted like phantoms. Yet the remaining duty-bound samurai and Gensukechō forces clung to their delusion of facing a single man. Thus did Nagaoka Tanomo, Hakata Yuminosuke, and Hannō Shume—each gripping naked steel—

“Hmm, where’d he run off to?” “He hasn’t fled outside the mansion.”

"He might've escaped—depending on how things went." Talking loudly among themselves while searching through every inner room, they passed by a chamber housing a Buddhist altar— "I just grazed my little finger." "Nothing serious." "Like a mosquito bite." Muttering to himself while tearing a hand towel to bind his right pinky, Kyōnosuke stood up— —and found himself face-to-face with Nagaoka Tanomo leading the charge as master of the mansion.

“Grr!”

There was no time to speak. With a guttural roar, a single sword strike—its arc trailing like a comet’s tail—sliced toward Kyōnosuke’s torso. Had it struck true?! In the split-second it seemed to connect—Clang!—Kyōnosuke lowered his hilt and parried. Swept along by his own momentum, Tanomo staggered forward—*stomp-stomp-stomp*—his toes digging into the tatami as he leaned into the charge. Resigned to closing the distance, he lunged straight into a tsuba clash… There! Lowering his stance as though fleeing in retreat, Kyōnosuke readjusted his sword into a reversed guard position akin to an inverted thicket of blades, settling into a lowered stance—and such was momentum’s terror that Tanomo found himself lunging forward to impale himself upon it.

“Gwah!” Screams erupted. Blood sprayed. Like a vermilion inkstone smashed open, blood burst forth with a splattering sound, flying like volcanic fire. That was what they call the death throes. This guh…! Guh! The sound—this *guh!*—was indescribably terrifying. The sword slipped from the hand, arced like a meteor, and with a dull thud pierced the tatami behind Kyōnosuke.

Tanomo was skewered. Like a skewered dumpling. The tip of the blade protruded from his back. If not pulled out immediately, the flesh would tighten and make extraction difficult; Kyōnosuke yanked it free—*Squelch!* Once again thrusting it in deeply, he swiftly pulled it out. At the same moment—when had he been cut?—Tanomo’s head lay rolled on the tatami, right ear down, in a pool of hot blood. Such was his skill that the two men’s faces paled in its wake. Silent—this was no retreat, but a tactical withdrawal—Kyōnosuke’s elongated blade, alive like a living thing, slashed Hakata Yuminosuke’s shoulder: *Slash! Slash! Clang!* A clanging sound rang out as the blade struck four or five ribs. A pomegranate-red gash, white bone protruding—Hakata Yuminosuke recoiled violently as if clawing at the air.

By this point, they could no longer tell which numbered head this was. Such sorting would have to wait.

V “You lot have never cut down a person before. Swordsmanship that doesn’t cut people down is like practicing swimming on tatami mats. See, a sword ain’t something you can cut with just by hacking away. Cut by pushing through. Cut by pulling through. Now! So there—push, pull—cut with the rhythm there. Bastards! I’ll show you how to cut one down—step right in!” On the opposite side of the now masterless mansion’s grand hall, the one single-handedly holding off the other duty-bound samurai and the Gensukechō forces was the quarrel instructor, Ibaru Ukon…the Kanka-ryū’s standard technique. Holding his sword aloft in a grand, uncovered high stance, the quarrelsome Ukon remained utterly unperturbed—a testament to his seasoned experience.

In a carefree tone while lecturing, "What the hell?! This ain't no Hina Festival with imperial dolls or five-man bands! Quit lining up like statues and charge already!" "Hey you! Your eyes've gone all wild!" "And you over there—'scuse my sayin'—your sweat's 'bout to drip in your eyes. Wipe it off, I said." "Ain't got time for this—so take your sweet time wipin' that sweat now!" It was pure mockery perfected—Ukon's foot now pinned a corpse, limbs and face blue as indigo dye, drenched crimson from his latest kill. A glance revealed it was Hyūga Ichigaku. Which number head this made hardly mattered anymore.

The entire group remained convinced this Ukon was Kyōnosuke himself, but crammed together indoors as they were, their numbers became a liability rather than an advantage. The harder they tried to spare their allies from harm, the less they could unleash their full strength. Soon Hiki Ichiryūsai and Kagami Tanba of Gensukechō, driven by impatience, charged simultaneously from both flanks—and with an instant clash!—the ring of steel erupted! The battleground dissolved into sword-clashing bedlam, yet Ibaru Ukon—having memorized facial descriptions from Kyōnosuke—could differentiate duty-bound samurai from Gensukechō mercenaries. Rather than waste effort on the latter, he parried their strikes and plowed into the samurai ranks. Whether cowed by his ferocity or sheer momentum, one figure broke from the pack—blade still drawn—in panicked flight. Minebuchi Kurumanosuke. Spotting this, Ukon pursued.

Along the corridor, a race began between the fleeing one and the pursuer.

The rest of the group also immediately surged forth like an avalanche and chased after Ukon. But in this situation, numerical superiority was nothing but an utter disadvantage. They pointlessly pushed and jostled each other, hindering one another in their attempts to get ahead, packed tightly into the corridor like bearers shouldering a portable shrine, chanting, “Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” They wouldn’t say such a thing, but while they were in confusion, both Minebuchi Kurumanosuke, who was fleeing, and Ukon, who was chasing him—each being alone—moved swiftly. Circling around the entire mansion again and again, they had gotten far away from the wasshoi-chanting crowd.

Kurumanosuke, frantically fleeing from room to room, suddenly dashed into one chamber—and there stood Kyōnosuke, who had been pursuing him, causing him to gasp in shock! He froze. When he hurriedly tried to turn back, the other Kyōnosuke—Ukon’s double—approached from behind as well. Thus, Minebuchi Kurumanosuke became the first to discover the shadow warriors’ secret by witnessing both Kyōnosukes together... Yet caught between these two impostors and soon beheaded amid terror more eerie than death itself, Kurumanosuke ensured the trick of twin shadow phantoms remained undisclosed to their enemies.

“Hey! There’s two Kyōnosu—” Kurumanosuke—two…! Before his shout could reach the group’s ears, his head—as if sprouted from the floor joists—had already plopped onto the room’s threshold and sat perched there, a single severed trophy. Afterward, when the group searched throughout the mansion, it appeared that Kyōnosuke and Ukon had withdrawn shortly after cutting down Kurumanosuke; there were traces of them having washed their hands in the bathhouse, and on the wall’s paneling, large characters had been scrawled in blood.

Fifth Head: Lord Kasama Jinpachi

Sixth Head: Lord Hyūga Ichigaku Seventh Head: Lord Nagaoka Tanomo

Eighth Head: Lord Hakata Yuminosuke Ninth Head: Lord Minebuchi Kurumanosuke When Kyōnosuke and Ukon emerged onto the Unagi Nawate thoroughfare, the glaring light of official lanterns seeped into the pitch-black darkness—revealing the encircling force of arresters surrounding Nagaoka’s estate... So that’s it! Here, another brawl became unavoidable, and as the two once again took up their swords and prepared themselves,

“They’re out! Run! Run!” “They’ve got blades—don’t go near ’em!” “We ain’t gonna take ’em alive! Everyone, run, run…”

The arresting officers, terrified of the blades, were shouting "Run! Run!" It was a samurai charge. It went without saying that they were carrying edged weapons. Kyōnosuke felt a snort of amusement rise within him at the absurdity of them having gone to the trouble of swarming and lying in wait until now only to flee—but in that voice that kept urgently shouting “Run! Run!” he recognized… Yes—according to what Kabedatsu and his daughter had said, it was someone called Konsanjiya Otomatsu. That voice… the hoarse voice of the burly man who, on that Seven Herbs Night at Kabedatsu’s house in Shitaya, had deceived everyone into believing I was this Ukon and saved me from peril… and that tsunami-like laughter from that time—yes, that was it. Once before, he had appeared at Fujimi Parade Grounds and driven off enemies by claiming Lord Ōoka was coming for a test ride, saving me…

Tonight, perhaps they had discreetly surrounded this mansion to ensure the enemy wouldn’t escape. Amid these repeated acts of goodwill, as Kyōnosuke sent frequent nods of gratitude toward the direction of the voice in the pitch-black darkness, Konsanjiya Otomatsu—having heard the commotion and gathered his underlings to rush over—had been summoned by Lord Ōoka and now acted as if following unspoken orders. “If you get hurt, ain’t worth it.” “Run! Run!”

It was still going on. Outside, a huge crowd had gathered. However, since they all mistook it for a fire, those who had rushed out in their nightclothes were shivering from the cold, “Hey, c’mon—there ain’t a lick of smoke to be seen!” “Yeah, we ain’t got no patience.” “Just blaze up already—I don’t care where!” Blending into the crowd and slipping through the clamorous uproar, Kyōnosuke and Ukon made their way out of Hongō.

A single streak overhead, the Milky Way was white.

Six

Ibaru Ukon and Kyōnosuke, who had gone to raid Hongō, were late returning. Unaware of this, O-Shirabe grew unbearably anxious.

“I wonder what’s happened. Maybe I should dash over there myself now.” There... on the oil-paper sliding doors of Kanda Obiyakōji, the four characters for *quarrel-for-hire* were written in bold brushstrokes—Ibaru Ukon’s trade.

O-Shirabe threw down the long-stemmed tobacco pipe she had been smoking with a clatter and unsteadily stood up when,

“Excuse me…” The front door burst open in a flurry, and a young woman tumbled in as if rolling—gasping for breath—and with a slam! While closing the door she had entered through, O-Tae looked up at O-Shirabe.

“Please let me hide here for just a moment.” “I beg you.” “I’m being pursued by villains—” “What’s this? Who are you?” O-Shirabe’s face had unconsciously twisted into a fearsome expression. “Aren’t you the woman who’s been skulking around our house lately?” “What’s your game here…?” “Yes—” “‘Yes’ doesn’t explain anything.” “Even if you say villains chased you, where are these villains now?”

“No, um, just as I was coming here—” To O-Tae, who seemed utterly flustered and fidgety, the oblivious O-Shirabe clicked her tongue repeatedly. “Tch!” “What in blazes—this is maddening!” “I’m short-tempered by nature, see? Out with it clearly.” “You keep saying you ‘were just coming here,’ but ain’t you been showing up day and night like it’s nothing?” “Where exactly do you live?”

Bombarded by O-Shirabe’s rapid-fire questions, O-Tae grew even more flustered, “Here.” “I’m from Shitaya’s Kuromonchō, and—” Just as she began to speak, the lattice door clattered open, revealing a man with a cloth covering his cheeks—Murai Chōan’s so-called “top henchman” (though in truth his only underling)—none other than Tozuka Sanji. He wore a striped cotton coat speckled with indigo dye and had tied a hand towel around the tip of his nose. His face bore no trace of kindness.

“Good evening.” Thinking to herself that tonight had become an oddly peculiar evening with strange people barging in one after another, and finding this man’s overly familiar manner grating, O-Shirabe concluded this must be quarrel-related business. If that were so, then given their trade as quarrel-for-hire, he must be a valued client—she smiled and,

“Welcome. A quarrel? The people of this house aren’t here.” Without a word, Tozuka Sanji slid into the room, flipped out the hand towel as he took it, draped it over his shoulder, and glared sharply at O-Tae. He seemed intent on showing a bit of menace. Presumptuously sitting down on the raised threshold and restraining himself with taut intensity, “It’s a matter of duty, so forgive me—but hey, Boss—you said he ain’t here, right?”

Sanji showed his thumb. While thinking he was a strange fellow, O-Shirabe glanced briefly at O-Tae—who had turned deathly pale and was trembling like a leaf in the wind—and immediately realized that this man must be the villain she had mentioned.

Unaware, O-Shirabe quickly grasped the guest’s true identity and acted forcefully at once. “Our people aren’t here, but we won’t be looked down on by the likes of you. What’s your business?” “What do you want? “Tch! “What business? Tch! Ain’t no damn business here!” He jerked his chin at O-Tae, who was cowering in the corner of the dirt-floored room as if hiding behind O-Shirabe, and said, “What family’s daughter is this, huh? What family?” With a heart that sides with the weak and her resolve to speak up for O-Tae now solidified, the unwitting O-Shirabe began to reveal her innate fiery temperament. Squatting at the edge of the raised floor, resting her chin on her knees, she sharpened her long, narrow eyes into a glare and stared— She stared at Sanji.

“What family’s daughter?” “What does it matter whose daughter she is?” “She’s the daughter of someone I know.” “That’s none of your business!” “And you—who the hell are you?” “In Edo, we don’t see many demon-faced roof tiles like you around!” “What kinda shit you spoutin’?” “There ain’t no ‘daughter of someone you know’ here.” “This here’s my sister—I’m her brother.” “Listen up. Got it?” “If you get it, I’m takin’ her with me.” “No complaints now, na?”

“Preposterous!” From behind O-Shirabe, O-Tae protested in a voice trembling with fear, “Brother this, sister that—it’s all lies! I have never met such a person in my life.” “There, there—that’s your illness talking,” Sanji softened his eyes slightly and began to edge closer to O-Tae. “Ahh, how pitiful. How pitiful. Even if you’re mad, to forget me—your own brother standing right here—”

Suddenly, Sanji reached out to pull O-Tae close. “C’mon, let’s go home.” “We’re goin’ home.” “Look—Pa ’n’ Ma are waitin’.” “Hey, why don’tcha come home with me?”

“What?!” “What are you saying?” O-Tae looked utterly dumbfounded, as if she couldn’t even speak. “When I had nearly reached that point, this person jumped out from the side, said strange things, and tried to grab me. Startled, I ran away and ended up rushing into this house.” “To brazenly pretend we’re siblings right before your eyes and try to lure me out—truly, his shamelessness knows no bounds.”

“Hey, like I said—this here’s my sister, just a bit touched in the head.” “We were headin’ to my uncle’s place up ahead, but when we got there, she ups and bolts right into this joint. Takin’ her back now.” Sanji rose to his feet while saying this to O-Shirabe.

“Hold it right there.” “Those old tricks might work elsewhere, but they don’t play here in Kanda.” “While I’m still smiling all nice-like like this, you’d be smarter to hightail it outta here.” “Come back after washing that face of yours—if you dare.”

“Wh-what did you say?” It was Sanji, his tone suddenly shifting. “You’re telling me to come back?” “Wash your face and come back, you’re telling me?” “Hey, hey! Who the hell do you think I am?” Perhaps underestimating her as a mere woman, Tozuka Sanji had chosen to pick a fight with none other than O-Shirabe—the infamous female boss currently making waves in the quarrel-for-hire trade, a woman who needed no advice and cared nothing for life itself. But given that he’d come all the way to Kanda without even recognizing her face, it became clear: this so-called “Sanji” was likely nothing more than a menial underling for Chōan at best. Even if he talked big, among yakuza circles, he seemed little more than an unaffiliated outsider.

There was no denying her natural authority. O-Shirabe began laughing quietly through her nose. "I don't care to know your name." "If you're leaving, then leave." She made the dismissive gesture one might use to shoo away a stray dog. "Go on—get out."

“Don’t fuck around!” “What’s the problem with a brother takin’ his sister along, I ask ya.” “I’ll go back—but I’m takin’ **the sister** with me.” “Get over here!” As Sanji was shouting at the top of his voice, the front door stood wide open, revealing the interior of the house. A passerby happened to peer inside,

“Excuse me.” “What’s going on here, making such a racket this late at night?” When he looked, he did not recognize O-Shirabe, but he remembered having often seen O-Tae at the Fudezen shop in Shitaya Chōjamachi, one of the places her father Kabedatsu frequented. Moreover, from Fudezen’s young master Kōkichi—who had been persistently following and troubling her—she had also once heard of a certain esteemed town doctor in Kōjimachi Hirakawachō named Dr. Murai Chōan. In her girlish heart, O-Tae had come to believe Chōan was a great physician. There was an unexpectedly great doctor—and since it was Dr. Murai Chōan, O-Tae thought this must be what they called a Buddha in hell—she dashed over as if leaping up,

“Ah! Is it not Dr. Chōan? I was chased by this person and fled here, but—” “My, my—what a dreadful misfortune! You are Mr. Kabedatsu’s daughter from Shitaya, I presume? Fear not—now that I have come, you’re safe. I shall escort you.” Then, to Tozuka Sanji attempting to slink away, Dr. Murai Chōan arched back smugly: “You there! What manner of rogue are you? Insolent cur! You’d best make yourself scarce at once if you value your skin.”

He declared with finality. Sanji, thoroughly cowed, scratched his head and left with repeated bows. Unaware this was all prearranged theater, O-Shirabe added her own urgings until it was settled that Chōan would escort O-Tae to Kuromonchō. Adopting the tone of a parent whose daughter had been saved, Chōan expressed gratitude and stepped outside with O-Tae—where overhead hung a pale sliver of the Milky Way. Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami had promised that delivering Kamio Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe to Jinbo Zōshu in Shibagensuke-chō would secure Fudezen’s oil procurement contract. With substantial rewards awaiting contract approval, Chōan—overjoyed beyond measure—had readily agreed and sworn firm allegiance to Lord Yamashiro-no-kami. Yet Sonoe remained cloistered in her Tsukudo Hachiman home, never venturing out. Days passed as Chōan waited fruitlessly for opportunity—until Tozuka Sanji casually visited that very day, prompting Chōan to seek his counsel.

The swordsman on the other side did not know Sonoe’s face. Anyone would do. If any young, beautiful woman would suffice—and as he pondered this—what Chōan recalled was O-Tae of Kuromonchō, whom Kōkichi of Fudezen had a crush on.

Memorial Service for the Heads

I

On an early autumn night, high overhead, a streak of the Milky Way gleamed white—.

A mysterious figure was wandering aimlessly along Obicho Alley in Kanda. A bizarre shadow figure, like a log with a single thin branch attached. Buoyed by the starlight, it drifted as if swimming out—floating lightly—blown by the wind through the late-night streets.

It was none other than... Gyoshindō Sensei. To explain in detail: the trunk-like log portion of that figure was none other than Gyoshindō Sensei, while the twig-like part securely attached to it was the fishing rod he carried. This was because our Gyoshindō Sensei had never once let go of this fishing rod. At all times—whether sitting, lying down, waking, or sleeping—he did so together with his fishing rod. Now, one might ask if he loved fishing that much. Of course, he did enjoy it, but according to Sensei, the purpose of fishing was not to catch fish—it was a form of spiritual discipline to purify the mind.

In other words, Gyoshindō Sensei’s fishing was his philosophy, his Zen, his contemplation, and his very life—and it was from these clamorous origins that the name Gyoshindō Sensei arose… Wandering through the winding alleys in the heart of Kanda, there was no place there to fish. Yet Sensei needed only to carry his rod and shuffle along to be content. An eccentric… if ever there was one. He was a great master of the streets—a philosopher of the mind who lived a beggar’s life yet possessed a prince’s heart.

He had no fixed abode, fully embracing his vagabond nature—spending a night by a pond where he fished, then lodging in the closet of an empty house for a month or even two. In the present day, he would surely be arrested for vagrancy—but what’s more, Gyoshindō Sensei would habitually climb large trees, perch himself in the crook of their trunks, and sleep there for two or even three nights at a time. Thus, one might say this eccentric was the originator of those tree-dwelling competitions now popular in places like America.

Born in Ise to a distinguished samurai family—though his personal history remained unclear—his current attire proved equally unconventional. Clad in an indigo-patterned kimono cut short at the shins, a white cotton obi wrapped haphazardly around his waist, and straw sandals on his feet—as mentioned before—he would set out anywhere with his fishing rod slung over his shoulder. It was this Gyoshindō Sensei who, one evening, had once playfully hooked his fishing line onto the head of Ibaru Ukon—a mercenary brawler—triggering a comical tug-of-war that forged a bond of mutual trust between them. This led Sensei to become involved in Kyōnosuke’s secret and lend a hand to the cause. However, on this particular night, he had not set out walking with any such intentions in mind.

He had been trying to sleep in his usual high tree, sitting cross-legged in a zazen-like posture, but finding himself strangely wide awake and unable to sleep, he had simply come to stroll through the town. A late-night wandering... with no purpose.

He encountered the fire watchman. Since the old man also knew Gyoshindō Sensei, "Sensei, you're keeping quite late hours tonight, aren't you?"

He exchanged greetings and passed by. Gyoshindō Sensei was unfazed,

“I’m not keeping late hours. “I’m an early riser.” “I’ve already woken up.” His reply was flippant. As they walked along Obicho Alley with laughter, “Now, now, I’ll take charge and escort you all the way home, so you needn’t worry a bit—”

A loud voice sounded, and there were two figures—a man and a woman—emerging from the quarrelsome shop. In an unwittingly melodious voice, “Well then, Doctor, I’ll leave it to you.” “That girl’s house—you said it was in Kuromonchō, right?” This reached Gyoshindō Sensei’s ears clearly.

II “That’s right. “She’s the daughter of Kabedatsu, the plasterer in Shitaya Kuromonchō—O-Tae… I believe I said.” “I’ll escort you, so there’s nothing to fear on the night road.” “Let’s go by palanquin. “Well, there’s no need to go out of our way to summon one from the gathering place—there should be night palanquins around here.”

“Yes, please take care of it.” O-Tae had no inkling whatsoever that there was such a plot between Totsuka Sanji and Murai Chōan—that they had timed their intervention to feign rescuing her and were now attempting to send her as a substitute for Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe in Gensukechō. O-Tae, who firmly believed Chōan to be a great doctor, was with him. Completely reassured, they left the house on Obicho Alley together.

The fact that Gyoshindō Sensei was stealthily following them went unnoticed by both Chōan and O-Tae.

Gyoshindō Sensei felt a strange interest in these two people who had emerged from the quarrelsome shop late at night, and being the idler he was—unconcerned with whether it was day or night—he simply felt like following them, but—

On Obicho Alley, at a secluded crossroads, night palanquins waited for passengers. Through Chōan’s negotiations, two palanquins were arranged, and it appeared that O-Tae had boarded first. As Gyoshindō watched from this side, Chōan kept whispering to the palanquin bearer, who nodded in response. Chōan secretly reached into his pocket and slipped what was likely an advance payment for sake to the bearer. Before long, Chōan too boarded the following palanquin, and the two vehicles began racing through the night streets.

Up to this point, there had been nothing strange, but the odd thing was that the route differed from what one would take to Shitaya. "Hmm..." Gyoshindō Sensei tilted his head in genuine puzzlement—then, in the next instant, shouldering his fishing rod, he broke into a brisk run after them.

Before long, O-Tae also seemed to notice that the direction had changed, and a loud voice could be heard shouting something from inside the palanquin, but Murai and the palanquin bearers gave no reply.

They merely began hurrying along the road. The palanquins were heading toward Shiba Gensukechō as planned. And then, Gyoshindō was tailing them.

Thus, the two palanquins and Gyoshindō Sensei hurried in a wild goose formation toward Gensukechō…

Mukei Ittō-ryū—Jinbo Zōshu’s dojo. “O-Roku…”

Zōshu called.

With the tokonoma pillar at his back, he sat in a wide-legged position. Having placed an armrest before him, he propped both elbows against it as if embracing it, leaning forward. Having drawn a large sake cup close at hand, Zōshu had been continuing his evening drinking until now. The one who had been called was O-Roku—a middle-aged woman who appeared to be Zōshu’s mistress. She had been sitting before him, turned sideways and vacantly lost in thought, “What is it?” “Pour me a drink…”

While thrusting out his cup, Zōshu pricked up his ears slightly. Voices could be heard at the entrance. “Shall I go check? It seems someone has come.” “Hmm, well—even if you don’t go out, there’s probably someone there.” “But—”

“You stay put! Bring me more sake instead.” “But you’ve already drunk so much—” “When I say bring it, bring it!” When O-Roku reluctantly stood and went to the kitchen, soon after, the veranda’s shōji slid open, and an announcing disciple appeared. “Sensei.”

“What? A guest…?” “Yes—they’ve come from Lord Wakizaka to deliver the promised item, as was arranged—” “What? The delivery…from Lord Wakizaka—” “Yes.” The disciple snickered,

“They’ve brought a young woman in a palanquin…” “Oh! The promise from the other day—so that’s it.” When Zōshu broke into a grin, a figure appeared behind the bowing disciple— “Excuse me. We’ve come up uninvited—now, this way.” “There’s no need to be scared of anything.”

Murai Chōan entered, pushing O-Tae along.

Three

Having observed Murai Chōan bringing O-Tae into this dojo in Gensukechō, where did Gyoshindō Sensei go?

Not long after that.

Another samurai stood at the entrance of this dojo and requested guidance.

It was Myoken Katsusaburo. Myoken Katsusaburo... one of the Shoin Guardsmen. He was a broad-shouldered, sturdy samurai in his forties. He wore a black crepe haori over hakama, presenting an imposing appearance—but what had brought him here so late at night without any attendants in tow? Be that as it may. “I request an audience... I request an audience...” And there he was—that figure from behind, peering intently into the depths and calling out repeatedly. In the center of his back, near the top, concealing the haori’s family crest, a single sheet of hanshi paper was pasted.

The paper on his back—"DEAD MAN" was written in bold letters. With a sheet of paper on his back that read "Dead Man"... Myoken Katsusaburo came to visit Jinbo Zōshu.

Of course, he was unaware of it.

Since no one has eyes on their back, they can’t possibly know what’s been written there.

“I humbly request... I earnestly beseech you...” He’s still at it.

Myoken Katsusaburo, bearing a “Dead Man” placard on his back… an eerie nighttime visitor. Yet no one came out from within—perhaps they couldn’t hear him. In the inner room beyond, Zōshu sat facing Chōan with O-Tae between them. “This girl is the one Lord Wakizaka spoke of—” “Precisely.” “This is… the aforementioned…” Were anyone to mention Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe, O-Tae would deny being her. She was bound to declare “I am—” but since the truth would inevitably surface later, they had to push through this deception for now.

He attempted to gloss over things with ambiguous statements, but Zōshu, being utterly convinced it was Sonoe, did not press the matter further. However, only O-Tae had been brought to this strange place, and they seemed to be talking about her in a way she couldn’t comprehend at all... A sense of caution began to stir within her. Yet still trusting Chōan, she remained silent and kept her head bowed when O-Roku—who had earlier gone to the kitchen to fetch sake—returned and tried to enter, peering through the gap in the shoji.

Then their eyes met—Ah! As both were startled, the sake flask slipped from O-Roku’s hands… and in that instant, hurried footsteps came flying down the corridor. It was the disciple from earlier. “Master! There’s a corpse at the entrance—a headless corpse… Come see!” “What?!” Jinbo Zōshu kicked the tatami and shot upright—true to his reputation as a swordsman, he’d already drawn his large sword and was dashing from the room with a *whoosh*! A pungent smell of incense wafted from somewhere.

Looking over, it was the neighboring room—the study. Before the alcove stood a single sutra desk. Upon it lay a head—Myōken Shōsaburō’s head, the very Myōken Shōsaburō who had been roaring at the entrance moments earlier… That head now clutched a scrap of paper between its teeth. On the paper was boldly written: *Tenth Head*. Before the desk sat a tobacco tray with incense sticks burning. Purple smoke wavered—a funerary offering for the severed head. Zōshu glared at the head and growled—*Ugh!*

A tear-streaked rain.

One Jinbo Zōshu Sensei—unrivaled master of Mukei Ittō—glared at the head entwined with gently swaying purple incense smoke and—*Ugh!* he growled. In front of the alcove in the study, a sutra desk had been placed, and atop it was displayed a single severed head... the head of Myōken Shōsaburō, who had just moments earlier been at the entrance,

It was the freshly severed head of Myōken Shōsaburō, who had been bellowing, “I request an audience!—I humbly beseech you!” Moreover, the head clutched a scrap of paper in its teeth. On the paper was written in large characters: *Tenth Head*. And before the desk stood a tobacco tray with incense sticks burning… a memorial for the head! It was an utterly audacious scheme. Jinbo Zōshu—having seized his famed sword Ginmukade—was perhaps truly daunted. He kept one hand on the shoji, did not step into the room, and froze! He fixed his eyes and stared intently.

Why was this head here?—he tried to think.

Just moments earlier, while drinking sake with O-Roku, the sound of someone arriving at the entrance was heard. He had stopped O-Roku from going to attend to the visitor and sent her to fetch sake instead, but just as she left, one of the disciples arrived, announcing that he had brought the promised item from Lord Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami—and this shaven-headed disciple, accompanied by Sonoe (though Zōshu had mistaken O-Tae for Kyōnosuke’s wife Sonoe), was ushered into the parlor. At that moment, O-Roku returned with the sake and came face to face with this man who had introduced himself as Murai Chōan—and both were startled. O-Roku dropped the sake flask. At the same time, the disciple from earlier came flying back and reported that a headless corpse was lying at the entrance.

“What nonsense!” As he shot to his feet, the scent of incense wafted in from the adjacent room. When he opened it, there lay the head, enshrined just like this. Myōken Shōsaburō—come to think of it, he was the one who had said he would come alone tonight to discuss the matter of Kyōnosuke on behalf of the surviving guards… When had he been beheaded? Who had beheaded him and brought the head into this room—? From the direction of the entrance, the voices of disciples clamoring around Myōken’s headless corpse could be heard as clear as day. Zōshu’s hand gripping the shoji trembled with rage and shock, making the paper door clatter noisily.

“Knowing this is the Mukei Ittō dojo, this must be their doing! How dare they!” In the surging rage that rushed in—Gah! Growling, he turned—and over Zōshu’s shoulder, O-Roku, the disciple, Chōan, and O-Tae stared at the head with eight unblinking eyes: silent, motionless, dumbstruck… A dreadful silence. One moment, two moments, three moments. In the room, incense smoke swirled around the head, while in the corridor outside, Zōshu and four others stood wide-eyed, holding their breath and rooted to the spot—.

Suddenly, overcome with terror, O-Tae cried out hysterically.

“Lord Chōan! Let me go! Why did you bring me to such a terrifying mansion?! Let’s get out of here! Please take me back to my home in Shitaya right away……”

Zōshu caught this and turned his gaze toward Chōan. “Chōan! “…you said, huh?” “Huh—I am Murai Chōan of Kōjimachi’s Hiragawachō—” “Shut up! “I’m not asking about your family register!” Chōan had attempted to muddy the situation with his trademark jester-like antics, but when barked at like a rabid dog, he blinked rapidly and fell silent. The situation was growing dangerous. The matter of the head was secondary; Jinbo Zōshu turned sharply toward Chōan.

“You bald bastard! And what gutter trash is this wench from?” His words were crude.

II

“Ugh! Gutter trash? Master, that’s too cruel… N-now, by any means, calling her gutter trash is too cruel…” Chōan was desperately trying to cover things up. “You yourself are infatuated with Lady Sonoe—to call *her* gutter trash, Master—I cannot abide that! Ahem—firstly, it was precisely because the Master spoke to Lord Wakizaka about bringing Lady Sonoe that I—”

“Lord Chōan! What are you saying? I’m…” As O-Tae desperately tried to speak out, Chōan reached out as if to cover her mouth. “What are you saying? Miss O-Tae…” Because he had carelessly let slip “Miss O-Tae,” Zōshu’s sharp ears caught it. “Hmm, so her name is O-Tae. I had a feeling it would come to this. This is it, you bald bastard! You stay quiet!” he pressed Chōan, then shot a piercing glare at O-Tae. “O-Tae! Where are you from, girl? You said Shitaya.”

“Yes.” “In Shitaya’s Kuromonchō…” As she began to answer, he couldn’t bear her revealing it. Chōan was thrown into a panic, “My lord! “Th-the head moved! “Look! “The head moved!” In a life-or-death frenzy, he pointed at the head on the desk in the room. But, “Shut up! “Do heads move on their own?” Pressed to the brink, Chōan this time grabbed Zōshu’s sleeve.

“No, this is no joke! As you can see, the head is laughing!” “Shut up!” Zōshu shook him off and turned to O-Tae. “Hmm—what’s your family’s trade in Shitaya’s Kuromonchō?”

“My father is Kabedatsu, a plasterer by trade.” “Ah—she said it—”

Chōan slumped in despair while simultaneously edging away to flee. Zōshu firmly seized that moment, then turned back to O-Tae,

“So you’re a plasterer’s daughter. You’re not Kamio Kyōnosuke’s wife, Sonoe.” When asked whether she was the wife of Kamio Kyōnosuke—the man she loved—O-Tae would normally have flushed crimson. But now was no time for matters of love and romance.

“No—to claim I am Lord Kyōnosuke’s wife—that’s absurd…” “Baldy!” Zōshu’s rage erupted with a “Guh!” He reached out and seized Chōan by the collar. O-Roku pushed her way into the confrontation. “What is this? Holding lengthy deliberations before a severed head—how utterly tasteless.” “The real culprit must still be lurking within this mansion.” “We should be moving that way—”

“You stay out of this, bastard!” Zōshu bellowed, “Hey, Chōan! Was this decoy scheme your idea, or did Yamashiro approve it too? Either way, take this girl and get out of here tonight. Have her escorted back to that house in Shitaya’s Kuromonchō. I’ll send formal notice to Yamashiro myself later.” “What are you talking about?” It was O-Roku. Half her tone was jealousy. “This mess happened because you’re a lecher with perverted notions!”

“I said shut up, you bastard! You mentioned O-Tae... Because soon this house will rain blood—stick close to Chōan the monk and withdraw immediately!”

The moment they did, the five gasped as if in unison. A laugh echoed—from somewhere came a muffled chuckle… the sound of stifled laughter.

“Agh!” It was Chōan who screamed—uncharacteristically so. “Look! “That’s why I told you! “The head—the head is laughing!” “Enough!” Zōshu asserted his authority with a growl. “Baldy! Take the girl’s hand and get her to Shitaya—now!” But even as he barked orders, the stifled laughter ceased to be stifled. Openly now, raucous guffaws erupted nearby—followed by a *thud*!

In the room where the head had been enshrined, a figure in bizarre attire opened the closet beside the alcove from within and slowly emerged. Even while shouldering a fishing rod indoors, his greeting was terrifyingly blunt.

“It was I who presented the head.” “You’re Master Jinbo, aren’t you?” “Care to try catching one?” he declared. It was none other than Master Gyoshindō. He plucked off the scrap of paper clenched in Myōken Shōsaburō’s severed head and flung it at Zōshu’s feet. “There! The Tenth Head is here!” He was grinning.

III

Meanwhile, prior to this, the entrance of the dojo in Gensukechō—displaying the signboard of Mukei Ittō-ryū—was in an uproar. After all, a guest had arrived late at night with a note plastered on his back... the word *CORPSE* scrawled in bold characters.

To make matters worse, when someone went to receive the guest who had been persistently requesting entry, they found he had somehow become a headless corpse lying there perfectly still—a sight bound to make anyone lose their nerve. Roused from sleep by the discoverer’s shout, the whole group—including the Three Crows’ Ōyauchi Shuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendō Tonetarō, along with Shundō Kikuma, Yusa Gōshichirō, and Kagami Tanba—emerged and began clamoring noisily.

“Hey now, you forgot your head at someone else’s house.” “Tsk!” “What a careless fool.” “Who the hell is this?” “You idiot! “Who the hell comes here forgetting their own head?” “First of all, how can you walk without a head?” “You wouldn’t know which way to go.” “Your eyes are attached to your neck too, ya know.”

“That’s sound logic.” “But without that head, how did he manage to come all the way here?”

“Until just now, he kept pleading ‘I beg you, I beg you’—that voice came from a mouth, no doubt.” “A mouth’s attached to a neck.” “That a headless corpse could make sound—no offense, sir—defies all reason…” “Nonsense! What’s so ‘defying reason’ here?” “Who the hell is this?” “Asking ‘who’ is pointless. With no head to speak of—plain as day—we can’t tell whose corpse this is.” “Plain as day—no head means no identity.” “Oh right.” “The head—it must be rolling around here somewhere?”

They thought it was a cheap doll. One of them put his hands on the corpse and examined it,

“Oh!” “There’s a paper pasted on his back!” “What the… C-Corpse?” “Whoa!” “It says ‘corpse’.” “Hmm… Indeed—another of Kyōnosuke’s pranks—” “Then it’s settled—this must be one of the Inner Palace Guards.” “We can’t let this stand!” But declaring they couldn’t let this stand didn’t solve their immediate problem. The swordsmen, striking their hilts haphazardly, were noisily swarming from the platform to the front garden’s shrubs and the wooden corridors connecting to each room when—

“Oh no, this is bad! Quickly—now’s our chance!” Two figures came rushing from the depths, shouting at the top of their voices like a gust of wind. “There they are!” At this shout, the quick-tempered Kagami Tanba hastily drew his sword and surrounded them—only to find Master Chōan and Ichimatsu O-Roku. As for Chōan—well, O-Roku, though neither Master Jinbo Zōshu’s legal wife nor his concubine, effectively ruled as matriarch of this downtown dojo. Thus, the disciples treated her as their mistress, never daring to underestimate her.

“What’s going on here?” Hiki Ichiryūsai spoke up, “What is this monk?!” “Will you execute him?” Realizing she was holding hands with Chōan, O-Roku hurriedly let go, “No, that’s not it at all.” “This gentleman is an important guest—I’m escorting him out right now—but more importantly, a strange monk with a fishing rod has burst from the back and is about to cross blades with Master!” “Everyone, go check immediately!” “That monk took Lord Myōken’s head!”

“Huh?! Th-this is… Lord Myōken Shōsaburō?!” “How do you know?” “There’s a head displayed in front of the alcove back there.” Upon hearing that, the disciples stomped down the hallway, every last one of them rushing into the inner chambers. O-Roku and Chōan, who had rushed out through the entrance, stumbled over Myōken’s corpse and were terrified, yet—

“Come on, Mr. Chōan.” “Let’s get out of here now!” “Stay focused.”

“O-Roku, it’s been a while. To think even Buddha would be holed up in a place like this—”

“What are you talking about? Before we’re caught, shouldn’t we make our escape to your hideout in Kōjimachi or somewhere? I’ve grown so tired of those drunkards—just a moment ago, I suddenly remembered you and was feeling gloomy.” She hadn’t actually used such a pallid word as “gloomy.” O-Roku decisively hiked up her hem. Chōan strode off briskly with her, abandoning Master Zōshu as they absconded.

The pitch-black streets.

A conversation while walking. “O-Roku, what an unexpected journey this is.”

“Aye.” “It’s a scene that could use some stylish thread, but this getup isn’t exactly striking, is it?” “But, well—even though it was *you* who came out with the sake, I was shocked too.”

“I was the one who was shocked—how many years has it been since we parted?” “Well, that talk can wait for later.” But wait—given that incident with the girl, Jinbo would undoubtedly lodge a strong protest with Lord Wakizaka. Now that the fraud had been exposed, he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing. Well, what with this and that, he was in a bit of a tight spot. “Until these embers cooled, laying low and leaving Edo for now might’ve been the wiser choice.”

Without stopping by his home in Hiragawa-chō, he set out on a long journey to parts unknown with this O-Roku, with whom he had lost contact since coming up to the capital together from Ōhira Village in Ejiri, Suruga Province several years prior. It was several years later that he returned once more to his home in Hiragawa-chō, instigated the infamous "Murai Chōan" incident, and was ultimately executed.

Four

Jinbo Zōshu stared with a puzzled look at Gyoshindō Sensei, who had nonchalantly appeared before him shouldering his fishing rod. “Might I ask who you are?” “Me? I’m... “I am the God of Fishing.” He was giving a bizarre response. “Hah hah, ‘God of Fishing.’” “What brings that God of Fishing here again?” “……That Tenth Head—was that your doing?” “Indeed. I simply carved it up and made it a head.” “After all, it was Lord Kyōnosuke who sent it here labeled as a vengeful spirit.”

“Well, you being a God and all, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You’ll understand soon,” said Gyoshindō Sensei after Chōan and O-Roku had declared they would summon the disciples and dashed toward the entrance—then turned his gaze to O-Tae trembling alone in Jinbo’s shadow. “Your real purpose here is that girl.” “You came to take back that girl.” “I was just thinking I’d kindly escort you to Shitaya.” “Ah! So you’ve realized *I* came for this girl.” “If that’s how you see it, then I won’t hold back!” Zōshu raised his voice loudly there. “How about this?”

Just as one wondered what he would do—Zōshu abruptly unsheathed his large sword Silver Centipede. Grabbing O-Tae by the collar and yanking her down, he simultaneously pressed the blade’s tip to her paper-white throat.

“Are you coming? If you come, I’ll run you through…” But at that moment, the Three Crows and their companions—alerted by Chōan and O-Roku—came stampeding in with a thunderous **THUD THUD THUD!** As their heavy footsteps shook the room—enemies?—Zōshu’s focus flickered toward the commotion. No—even without fully turning, their movement registered in his awareness. Then Gyoshindō moved—*snap!*—hurling his body forward like a cast net as he whipped the rod. The thread… a spider-silk fishing line clung, glimmered, then arced like a rainbow. It entangled. It coiled in swirling patterns around Zōshu’s blade.

However, the thread was just a thread—no sooner had Jinbo pulled his sword than it snapped cleanly. Yet even such a trivial hindrance was akin to a feather brushing a horse’s eye—a disruption to one’s focus. That was all it took. In this situation where subtle swordplay was revered, Gyoshindō Sensei had splendidly seized the initiative with this maneuver. At the moment Jinbo Zōshu had swept his sword sideways to sever the line Gyoshindō Sensei had cast, Gyoshindō Sensei had already scooped O-Tae under his arm, kicked through the storm shutters, executed a flawless somersault with the wooden panel still attached, and landed magnificently in the garden. Jinbo Zōshu’s long sword, swift in pursuit like its namesake Silver Centipede, sliced through one of the storm shutters crashing toward the garden with a whoosh! merely slithered through and split it in two.

With the door at his back shielding him from the blade, Gyoshindō Sensei urged O-Tae onward as they raced across the garden. Two black shadows circled around the artificial hill and were about to disappear. “Master!” “Was that one just now the ruffian, sir? Understood.” “After them!” A shout of command sent them scattering with a clatter! Jinbo Zōshu thrust out his gleaming blade to restrain Tendō Tonetarō, who was about to leap into the garden and give chase. “Fine! Let them go—he’s an interesting old man. Moreover, even if you all band together, you’re no match for him. Cannot be defeated.”

“Ha ha ha!” Gazing up at the moon above the garden pine, Jinbo Zōshu shook his shoulders and bellowed with laughter.

Five

Attended the castle. Left the castle. By the moat. Sunlight like rain.

South Town Magistrate Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke was departing the castle. Lord Awaji-no-kami was attending the castle. It was the main gate. The two processions had merged into one. Beneath a large pine tree resembling a hat, they had brought their palanquins so close they nearly touched—the two were close friends. From inside one palanquin to the other, they were exchanging whispers in hushed tones. When small wrinkles—sharp with irony yet almost intellectual—gathered at the corners of Awaji-no-kami’s eyes, it was when he would nonchalantly state matters of grave importance. Now was that moment. Ōoka Echizen-no-kami knew this, and his gentle face showed a hint of tension as he stared fixedly into the other’s eyes.

“I had also been considering it, but the situation appears to have settled,” Lord Awaji-no-kami said. “At this juncture, I believe it would be wise to act contrary to Yamashiro’s claims.” “That goes without saying—Lord Yamashiro is acting out of personal motives,” Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke replied. “Otherwise, there should be no reason for him to cling so stubbornly to such a trivial matter as revoking the oil contract from Izuya and reassigning it to Hikiya Kōbee—though I must stress this is merely my own conjecture as Echizen-no-kami...”

“Personal motives? My personal motives are excellent! As ever, Lord Ōoka, your irony cuts deep.” “Heard carelessly, they’re just words—but dissect them… Ha ha ha! One truly cannot lower their guard.” “Those with shameful pasts naturally invite suspicion.” “Personal motives were impeccable!” “Yes—personal motives! Motives thirsting for gold, scheming while accepting bribes!” “Putting oneself first—indeed these are *personal sentiments*, truly *my own sentiments*!”

“Ohoho, that was not quite the meaning I intended—” “I intend to resolutely reject Yamashiro’s proposal and continue supporting Izuya Gohei as before. What is your esteemed opinion, Lord Echizen?” “This matter must by all means remain as it should be.” “Then would you not immediately make such arrangements?” “Regarding that matter, I of Echizen have a stratagem, but…”

Afterward, they drew their palanquins even closer together, their conversation turning to whispers like secret confidences, but soon the two parted ways to left and right, leaving behind carefree laughter.

That evening.

“Pardon me.” The one who slid into Kanda’s Izuya Gohei’s store was Konsanjiya Otomatsu. Before the monthly town elders’ watchful eyes, he handed an official missive from the authorities to Izuya Gohei and his wife as they stood trembling. When they opened it—expecting another summons—they read: “Your oil contract duties have satisfied the authorities through diligent service. Continue exercising utmost care in your work—” A commendation, in essence. It had been discreetly issued by Lord Ōoka. This was the stratagem he had mentioned. Thus, even without fresh decrees, Izuya’s oil contract became permanent—leaving Hikisaki Kōbee skewered by this invisible nail, forced to abandon his schemes completely. Needless to say, Wakizaka Yamashiro-no-kami lost all face. He soon resigned his post and retreated into seclusion.

Six

Ever since the Tenth Head had been displayed at their own residence, Gensukemachi had no choice but to act with desperate urgency. The swordsmen formed squads and searched for Kyōnosuke day and night. The remaining samurai—now thrown into utter panic after ten of their ranks had been beheaded—had no choice but to rely on Gensukemachi for their protection from this point onward. Naturally, Gensukemachi’s dojo took on the appearance of a “Kyōnosuke Elimination Office,” where large-scale meetings were conducted over many days. Even though they called it a meeting, they couldn’t always maintain such strict formality. Moreover, with Master Go-Daishu and his drinker companions gathered, to put it bluntly, it was a drinking party. During that drinking party, one night, a single arrow-letter came flying from the darkness of the garden... An arrow-letter—a letter was wedged into its tip. When they opened it, they found: “Tomorrow night, I shall come to claim the remaining heads. Be prepared.”—an eerie, audacious message.

The following night. Having made thorough preparations, the group waited with swords at hand when Kamio Kyōnosuke, Gyoshindō Sensei with O-Gen, and Kamio’s younger brother Kotarō boldly stormed in—a moment tailor-made for brawlers. Kamio and Ibaru Ukon’s shadow warriors moved with their usual ghostly unpredictability; Gyoshindō Sensei brandished his custom-made fishing rod—his sole weapon—while O-Gen remained disguised as a man, unbeknownst to all. Dressed identically to Kamio and Ukon and even wielding a long sword, O-Gen created such confusion that at a glance there appeared to be three Kamios—a truly disorienting spectacle. The brawl grew ferocious, blades clashing throughout the mansion until dawn. That night’s casualties included the Eleventh Head Hanno Shume, Twelfth Head Yasaku Hikojūrō, and Thirteenth Head Ikenoue Shinrokurō…… The affable Hori Shōzaemon survived by ducking his head in and out of a pond, while Araki Yōichirō—who brought profound shame upon his ancestor Mataemon—preserved his life by fleeing to the maids’ quarters, hiding under a futon disguised as a servant. Only Yamaji Shigenoshin and Yokochi Hankurō fought honorably and survived until the end—just those two men remained.

At this time, O-Gen’s performance was so remarkable that afterward, everyone still believed she had been a man all along. Roaming alone through the vast mansion grounds with a bloodied sword in search of opponents, she cut a splendid figure as a young warrior. However, that gandō hood—she had pulled it down completely, leaving only her eyes exposed. Unbeknownst to the fiery mistress herself, her appearance must have been indistinguishable from that of a man.

That night, upon receiving word of the Gensukemachi brawl, Lord Ōoka promptly summoned Konsanjiya Otomatsu, whispered urgent instructions, and sent him racing to Kabedatsu’s home in Kuromonchō. Officially, this was an order for Kabedatsu to apprehend Kyōnosuke. But Kabedatsu had sworn an oath—when the time came to bind Kyōnosuke with rope, he alone would wield it. Now keeping that vow, he readied himself in haste and dashed toward Gensukemachi alone.

It was just as Kabedatsu was about to leave his house.

O-Tae, who had been tormented by unrequited love, finally knew that the final hour had come for beloved Kyōnosuke,

“Dad! It’s our promise. This time I won’t stop you—so bind Kyō-sama properly.” With a piercing shriek, O-Tae took her own life and perished. Kabedatsu wanted to tend to his daughter, but time pressed on. He could not remain like this. Otomatsu, who had been waiting, hid his tears and urged him onward. At last—his heart heavy as if his hair were being pulled from behind—Kabedatsu rushed to Gensukemachi, plunged into the heart of the commotion, and single-handedly bound Kyōnosuke. But when he finally brought him before Lord Ōoka, it turned out to be Ibaru Ukon. Kabedatsu had deliberately captured Ukon and, perceiving his dead daughter’s wishes, used the mistake as a pretext to let Kyōnosuke escape. Through Otomatsu and Gyoshindō Sensei’s arrangements, Kyōnosuke immediately fled from Gensukemachi’s battleground with his wife Sonoe—who had been summoned there—along the Tōkaidō road to Kyoto. As they prepared to depart, Otomatsu called out to stop them and said nonchalantly—

“Miss O-Tae sends her regards.” They did not inform him of O-Tae’s death. Kyōnosuke smiled, returned a bow, took his wife’s hand, and hurried west. In the early morning, Tadasuke informally interrogated Ukon, learned he was from a prestigious family in Ise and the son of a friend from his time as Yamada magistrate, and since it was a case of mistaken identity and not Kyōnosuke, he pardoned both Ukon and O-Gen. Tadasuke alone took everything upon himself and suppressed the entire incident. The two, having altered their appearance through Tadasuke’s compassion, departed several hours later along the same Tōkaidō road to Ise. Before long, the two couples—Kyōnosuke and Sonoe, Ukon and O-Gen—continued their lively journey, with the two remarkably similar husbands in their midst, turning all their past into amusing tales. Gyoshindō Sensei came to see them off as far as the outskirts of Shinagawa, sending a breeze from his folding fan behind the four to wish them good fortune… Their journey—drenched in a sunshower like the tears of O-Tae, who had died so tragically…