Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Coward!” “Coward! You coward!”

A loud voice rang out. It was within the palace grounds of Chiyoda. Shin-Obantsukedokoro—a large hall where clerks stood by.

In front of the folding screen depicting Araiso stood a samurai—shoulders braced and elbows rigid—shouting right now. There was Tobe Ouminosuke, wearing a formal kimono with crests and hemp kamishimo bearing the descending wisteria pattern, his face suddenly drained of blood, sunken eyes fixed, lips bluish-purple. He served as Group Captain under Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Commander of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards. With hands trembling from fury, he gripped his hakama’s knee and violently thrust his upper body forward at an angle. “Y-You insolent cur! Mr. Kamio! Apologize this instant!” “Mr. Kamio! Apologize this instant!”

Stomping on the tatami mats, he closed in. At the same time, the assembled men—each wearing a satisfied smile—turned maliciously toward the man in the lowest seat. There, Kamio Kyonosuke had both hands pressed to the floor.

As one of the same ledger-keeping guards, he was a young samurai who had only recently taken up his post. The shoulders of his kamishimo trembled minutely—unbecoming of a samurai, as if he were crying—and Kyonosuke could not even lift his face. *Thud!* Then, like a wave, laughter erupted in unison from the mouths of the samurai, drawing rich ripples befitting the New Year. But though the laughter was calm, it was mockery all the same. It was derision. As the group shook with roaring laughter, they all cast sharp, spiteful glances toward the lowest seat in unison—where Kamio Kyonosuke, now shrunk impossibly small, pressed his forehead to the tatami in mortification, as though he might vanish at any moment.

“Hmph! Even if you’re some fortune’s darling who bagged Nakahara’s prize stag, you’re still just a new recruit! There’s no need to put on such airs—surely even you can manage New Year’s greetings for us veterans!” As usual, emboldened by the support of his seated colleagues, Tobe Ouminosuke remained fiercely imposing. It was this man’s nature to grow more enraged the longer he fumed. By the time he spat out these words with a contorted mouth, Ouminosuke seemed overwhelmed by his own fury, rendered utterly speechless. Yet when he swept his gaze across the faces around him seeking accord, the heads of Ikenami Shinrokurou, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurou, Hyuga Ichigaku, Inomata Kozen, Asaka Keinosuke, Minebuchi Shanosuke, Araki Yoichirou, Nagaoka Tanomo, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Osako Genba, Myoken Katsusaburou, Hori Shouzaemon, Hakata Yuminosuke, Kasama Jinpachi, Yasaku Hikojuurou, Matsubara Genbei—the assembled Palace Guard Corps—nodded in unison like pampas grass bending before an autumn gale, whispering amongst themselves as their eyes shifted and the shoulders of their kamishimo stirred restlessly.

At the same time, a multitude of voices rang out. “Mr. Tobe’s righteous indignation is perfectly justified.” “As vulgar talk goes, they say men popular with women are often insufferable—pfft!” “Such an arrogant face—utterly insufferable!” “Mr. Kamio! Hey!” “Silence is discourteous—nonetheless, you must offer proper greetings at once.” “You have a silver tongue to charm Lady Osono with sweet words, yet dare claim you’ve no mouth to answer us?”

“On this auspicious New Year—and within palace grounds at that—I myself have no wish to raise my voice thus, but in truth, your daily conduct, Mr. Kamio, has offered no shortage of offenses too glaring to overlook.”

This was Tobe Ouminosuke once more. Hyuga Ichigaku and Myoken Katsusaburou glared spitefully at Kyonosuke as they both spoke out at once, their words clashing. "You newcomer—" "In any case—"

Myoken looked at Hyuga. It was an invitation to go first. Hyuga fell silent and yielded to Myoken. As if to say, "Then, by your leave," Myoken Katsusaburou gave a slight nod and began. “Be that as it may—the plan for the year lies in this New Year’s Day. If we continue enduring disrespect from some young newcomer as before, though my benevolence may tolerate it, this Myoken’s honor cannot abide.” “Here, by all means, I must hear Mr. Kamio’s esteemed intentions—”

He pompously trailed off and passed the moment to Hyuga Ichigaku. Having received it, Hyuga Ichigaku began anew— “For a newcomer like you—”

As he began to—D-d-d-d-doon, doon! It was the eight o’clock signal struck from the drum tower. From beyond the long corridor came the rustling approach of many people, accompanied by a voice announcing the senior councilors' departure. With a collective gasp, the men who had been clamoring moments before hurriedly prostrated themselves. Then came a sharp “Shh! Shh!” While calling out formal announcements, two attendants led the way, holding the official box slightly above eye level. Following behind them came six esteemed dignitaries—first Matsudaira, Lord of Etchū; Kuze, Lord of Yamato; Matsudaira, Lord of Suō; Makino, Lord of Bitchū; Iwaki, Lord of Harima; and Mizuno, Lord of Dewa, Official Liaison to His Majesty—each holding singular offices. Matsudaira of Etchū wore a sharp smile on a face like whittled bamboo; Kuze of Yamato twitched his thick eyebrows as usual; portly Makino of Bitchū glared upward with chin drawn back; short-statured Iwaki of Harima curved his bull-like neck into a taut frown—tall or short, lean or stout, pale or salt-and-pepper-haired, each bore visages marked by peculiar quirks. They shook their shoulder garments in unison, swept aside the hems of their long hakama with heavy strides, and retreated down the polished plank corridor in single file like wild geese.

Mizuno Dewanokami, his cheeks somewhat flushed, brought up the rear with the same hurried pace as always.

II

Following that, from beyond the corridor, another voice rang out. “Make way for the Junior Elders!” came the call. With this, the Nishinomaru Palace Guards—who had just begun to lift their heads—hurriedly prostrated themselves once more, as if to lick the tatami. At that moment, it must have been the Junior Elders just announced. Five or six high-ranking officials passed by, forming a splendid group like a constellation of glittering stars. Kanoo, Lord of Tōtōmi, was immediately recognizable. At the corner of his eye was his famous black mark. They called it a tear mole, hence the name Naki Kanoo, but the man himself smiled perpetually—the very opposite of this sobriquet. Staggering along while whispering something with Naki Kanoo was Yonekura, Lord of Tango. He had a leg disability. Right behind him, Andō Tsushimanokami came along silently, yet with a bright expression, as though reviewing Noh chants in his mind. Ōta Wakasanokami waved his hand broadly and quickly caught up. Then, when he whispered something in a low voice, the Lord of Tsushima smiled and nodded repeatedly. Lagging behind alone, the Lord of Heitanjō walked forward with aloof detachment. He carried himself in a manner that suggested one strolling through mountain fields to admire the scenery—a strangely detached appearance, free from worldly concerns. Because he was tall and slender, the New Year’s ceremonial attire suited him all the more. Holding his pale face upright, he walked with a sway, each step striking his sleeves as he ambled along. He appeared to be waiting for someone. And then, from the corner of the corridor behind, a figure appeared.

It was a round, amiable face. His eyes smiled brightly. In the wrinkles etching his cheeks could be seen something human—or perhaps one might say worldly—a quality akin to life experience deeply carved there. He seemed ready to smile at anyone, yet around his tightly pressed lips lingered a willpower that brooked no violation—or so it felt. He was of medium build and average height. No—he might have been slightly on the heavier side. When viewed from the side, he was slightly hunched. He kept both hands neatly tucked into the side pockets of his hakama and moved with smooth, sliding steps. Depending on how one looked at it, the thin New Year's sunlight dappled shadows across a profile that appeared terribly severe. He wore a kamishimo bearing the family crest of eight-petaled crossed sword wheels. His gait seemed slow yet was oddly swift. Before long, he joined Lord Heitanjō—who seemed to have been discreetly waiting—and the two exchanged slight bows before chuckling lowly. They began walking side by side.

They appeared to be friends.

“Splendid weather we’re having—” Lord Heitanjō started to say something but trailed off. His companion smiled in amusement, “It is the greatest blessing. However, that would strictly pertain to today’s weather alone. Or perhaps His Majesty’s disposition—” “Ahahaha, if you go so far as to say that—it must be both. It is both.” Just now, they had paid their respects to Shogun Yoshimune and offered their New Year’s greetings. The relaxed mood of the turn of the year had lightened both their hearts, as though they wanted to share some jest.

“Lord Echizen, you are quite the tease.” “Well, I suppose I’ll have to mind my tongue from now on.”

Lord Heitanjō’s counterpart here was Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Echizen. This was Ōoka Tadasuke, Magistrate of Edo’s South District and Echizen Province. Senior Elders, Junior Elders, Inspector of Attendants, Magistrate of Temples and Shrines, Magistrate of Finance, Town Magistrate—and these together were called the Forty-Eight High Officials. Among them, intervening between the great lords who were rulers of entire provinces and castles was this Ōoka of Echizen—though his status was merely that of a single hatamoto, he had always been held in such high regard that he received exceptional treatment. To Lord Heitanjō’s earlier remark, he could only manage a stifled chuckle—no full laughter escaped him—but just as he approached the corridor before the new guard post and saw the Nishinomaru Palace Guards bowing low with hands pressed to the floor in unison to send him off, he passed through with a casual demeanor, dipping his head slightly.

Since this seemed to be the last one, with no further footsteps following, Tobe Ouminosuke and his group—Ikenami Shinrokurou, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurou, and others who had been counting tatami seams—sighed in relief and rose to their feet. They were just about to resume tormenting Kamio Kyonosuke, the newly appointed young retainer, when—Ahem! Ahem! A cough flowed down the corridor like a herald’s signal. It was the Senior Inspector. Hearing that cough, the Nishinomaru Palace Guards hastily straightened their postures and stiffened into rigid formality.

Senior Inspector Kondo Sagaminokami Shigesato—feared throughout the palace as the Thunderbolt Old Man—was now approaching that very spot.

III

Clad in a kamishimo bestowed by the shogunate—adorned with the hollyhock crest and round fan emblem—his waist bent double, his ruddy forehead creased with wave-like wrinkles, his hair pure white. Kondo Sagaminokami was a seventy-seven-year-old man. He continued clearing his throat with repeated “Ahem, ahem”s as he approached—announcing “I am passing through here now,” thereby giving those with poor manners time to correct their posture and those engaged in misconduct time to cease their actions and feign innocence. This Senior Inspector held one of the most challenging positions within the palace grounds, for though Chiyoda Castle was the shogunal family’s residence, by modern standards it also served as a government office. With multitudes gathered to handle official duties, over time various unpleasant incidents inevitably arose. Yet to censure every minor infraction—down to matters as trivial as a needle’s tip—would expose countless violations. Of course, grave matters violating the hundred-article code demanded full enforcement and punishment—indeed, this was precisely the Senior Inspector’s duty—but slight slouching, idle chatter, or yawns could hardly be regulated so strictly. Still, having discovered such breaches, he could not neglect reprimanding them—yet addressing every instance left insufficient time. Thus successive Senior Inspectors had devised this cough through experience and necessity. The Senior Inspector would walk through the castle grounds during his comings and goings, loudly making this deliberate dry cough—ahem, ahem—without expelling phlegm. Particularly when nearing areas thick with young samurai, the coughing persisted incessantly. Therefore the palace guards had learned their routine: when this “ahem” echoed toward them—signaling his approach—they admonished one another to straighten postures, adjust collars, tug sleeves into order, tidy their surroundings, and suddenly flip through documents with feigned busyness. Transient though it was, a single cough achieved its purpose of disciplinary enforcement splendidly. This Kondo Sagaminokami Shigesato—summoned as Senior Inspector at thirty-one and serving until seventy-seven—was a walking codex of palace protocols. As if he had spent his entire life clearing his throat—just as the Nishinomaru Palace Guards assumed their formal expressions—he passed through the front corridor with redoubled coughs.

He worked his mouth restlessly and let both hands sink into his sleeves. Since this was New Year's and cold, elderly men like him customarily kept warming stones in their sleeves to heat their hands. He paused briefly and surveyed the guards waiting at the new post as if through a haze—one might have thought he would speak—but instead left without a word, leaving behind nothing but a single loud cough.

If Senior Inspector Kondo Sagaminokami Shigesato had left just a little later, that disturbance would never have arisen. At the very least, that familiar distant cough might have averted such bloodshed before it could begin.

It was January 1st. It was an era of prolonged peace under His Lordship the Shogun. This was the grand ceremony of the New Year. The Grand Dismounting Area had been swept clean without a single speck of dust remaining. From the seventh hour of dawn onward, clansmen, hereditary daimyos, and officials of three thousand koku or higher arrived in succession to present sword catalogs for their New Year’s greetings. Seasonal robes were bestowed upon Major Counselors, Middle Counselor-Lieutenant Generals, and Fifth Rank nobles—two sets each. There came the ceremonial serving of rabbit clear soup and tea. The Oshiroshoin Hall participated in this ritual. After the Three Branch Houses completed their part, Collateral Line retainers in attendance followed—then hereditary lords of the Great Hall, Willow Chamber officials, Assembly Guard Corps members, and Kōwaka Kanze Tayū—each straightening their formal attire in turn before proceeding to pay respects to the shogun. Truly it was a scene like a painting.

The clamor of soldiers and horses was already a tale from a distant age. The world was at ease. It seemed as though they were declaring that life lacked purpose unless one went to such lengths—establishing grandiose rituals and stirring up commotion with ceremonial protocols.

The townspeople also made their New Year’s rounds according to their respective statuses. Shops across Edo shut their doors and rested. Staggering steps advanced. Auspicious direction pilgrims passed by. Many people ascended Ōkawa Bridge and the high ground across the city to pay homage to the first sunrise. At Suzaki in Fukagawa, this crowd trailed along in a straggling line. Such was the endlessly carefree social climate of the times. Carefreeness was all well and good, but in other words, one could also say it was unbearably tedious. In particular, officials who—so long as they avoided major blunders—were guaranteed hereditary stipends and need not worry about sustenance naturally found themselves with idle time, leading them to amuse themselves by tormenting others over trifles. It was, so to speak, an ingrained meddlesomeness—though they themselves were not consciously aware of it. They believed it concerned their own honor and even regarded it as a grave matter of state affecting their official duties.

To put it bluntly, they were none other than Tobe Ouminosuke and the entire Nishinomaru Palace Guard Corps. Of course, there were various circumstances behind this, but they had from the very beginning taken collective pleasure in harshly treating the newly appointed Kamio Kyonosuke. It was Group Captain Tobe Ouminosuke who first voiced complaints, claiming that Kyonosuke had come to duty that day without properly offering New Year’s greetings to the assembled guards. However, the moment Kyonosuke entered the guard post, he properly offered his greetings. At that time, they were engrossed in noisy chatter and feigned ignorance; only later did he begin to say such things as if he had only just noticed Kyonosuke’s presence. In short, it was a baseless accusation; Kyonosuke remained silently prostrate without uttering a word. But no matter how much he alone raged, if his opponent remained silent, it would not become a quarrel. Thus, with the conviction that having gone this far Kamio would surely get angry—and that his anger would prove entertaining—Ouminosuke bellowed.

“You coward—!”

And after shouting, Tobe Ouminosuke himself had truly become enraged.

IV

Now, the elderly Senior Inspector also descended from the castle along with his cough.

After that, a slight stillness settled in. The Nishinomaru Palace Guards finally relaxed with sighs of relief; suddenly, chatter broke out here and there. When they turned to resume the interrupted bullying of Kyonosuke, they found all heads already raised—yet Kyonosuke alone remained with hands pressed to the tatami like a flattened spider. Pulling at sleeves and exchanging glances, the group surrounded Kyonosuke.

Yasaku Hikojuurou spoke in an oddly unctuous tone.

“Mr. Kamio, are you dozing off?” “Ahahaha! I’d love to share in that auspicious first dream of yours, but since this is the Palace Grounds, I won’t say anything harsh—if you’re truly so weary.” “Why don’t you leave the castle and go rest?” “Fatigue?” Nagaoka Tanomo let out a shrill voice. “Fatigue must’ve been nice.” “Even someone as formidable as Mr. Kamio would grow fatigued from being with Lady Osono and fluttering about the guard post.” It was a vulgar remark. A few men burst into laughter, but Tobe Ouminosuke wore an unmistakable look of disgust, his hatred burning fiercer still as he stood glaring down at Kyonosuke.

Lewd talk was, so to speak, an inherent part of guard post life, and Tobe Ouminosuke was a member of this very gang. The reason Tobe Ouminosuke made a disgusted face was not because Nagaoka’s words just now had carried a vulgar tone. This was because it served to further inflame the deep-seated jealousy toward Kyonosuke that lay at the core of Tobe Ouminosuke’s being. Osonoe was the daughter of Izuiya Gohei, who ran a pawnbroker and oil merchant business in Kanda Mikawachō Sanchōme; her real name was Osono, a renowned beauty of the time. The reason why she came to be called Lady Osonoe and associated with the newly appointed guard Kamio Kyonosuke—and moreover why this rumor had repeatedly surfaced within the new guards’ post in the Palace Grounds—was essentially that Group Captain Tobe Ouminosuke and the newly enlisted guard Kamio Kyonosuke had vied for the affections of the townsgirl Osono.

Izuiya Gohei was a prominent merchant in Kanda Mikawachō, said to possess personal assets of 250,000 ryō. He was a self-made wealthy man, born in Kashiwazaki in Echigo. When he left his hometown, he had not a single coin to his name, but by collecting paper scraps and broken straw sandals, he gradually built his fortune until reaching his present standing. Employing many servants, there was no one in Edo who did not know Izuiya Gohei’s name. However, what made him famous was not merely his immense wealth, but also his twenty-year-old daughter Osono—her name having risen to the top of the beauty rankings. It was a time when idle souls abounded. The creation of various rankings had become immensely popular, and among them, the beauty rankings repeatedly sent all of Edo into a frenzy. Osono had been placed at the pinnacle of those rankings. To catch a glimpse of her face, even those with no need for money came from afar to pawn items at Izuiya. They came to buy oil two or three times daily. Thanks to this, the shop prospered ever more—and at that juncture, Izuiya Gohei began to consider.

He was originally from peasant stock. Thus he had become the master of a grand-fronted merchant house in Edo—where a single shō of earth was worth a shō of gold—but now he wished for one more thing: to somehow wed his daughter Osono to a samurai of repute and gain samurai relatives. Even from families equal or superior to his own—if they were merchant households—candidates for adopted sons-in-law would rain down. After all, being Edo’s foremost beauty came with a fortune of 250,000 ryō. Candidates for adoption—both self-recommended and recommended by others—were abundant, but even if one were to adopt the second or third sons of wealthy families unacquainted with hardship, it would inevitably lead to the household’s decline, just as that satirical verse goes: “The first-generation Iseya shopkeeper rushes past his storefront chasing the season’s first bonito; by the second generation, it’s the bonito that hurry past Iseya’s door; come the third generation, they sell the house and sign deeds in ostentatious Chinese-style calligraphy.” Rather than that, Gohei discussed with his wife Okoyo and resolved that it would be better to select a promising man from among the shop’s clerks, have him take a bride from another household, and adopt them as a husband-and-wife successor. And so, if he was to part with Osono regardless, he resolved to marry her off to a samurai whose name people could recognize. Taking advantage of his access to the residence of Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Commander of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards, Izuiya Gohei requested an audience and earnestly pleaded for this arrangement.

Though merchants, they were wealthy. Moreover, Osono’s reputation had spread even within samurai society, so while Commander Wakasaka Yamashironokami had taken on the matter as a whimsical favor, he found himself rather perplexed by the sheer number of young samurai seeking connections to propose. However, in the end, after the two most ardent suitors had been sifted out and competed until the very last, the matter was finally settled only recently. Tobe Ouminosuke held a higher rank, but he was too old. In contrast, Kamio Kyonosuke was not only young but also came from an excellent lineage. However, first and foremost—if Osono was Edo’s foremost beauty—then Kamio Kyonosuke of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards was Edo’s, no, depending on how one saw it, perhaps Japan’s foremost handsome man. This could be understood from how Izuiya Gohei and his wife had become enamored even before their daughter Osono did.

They were a well-matched couple. Since they were likened to imperial palace dolls—those ornate displays of courtly beauty—the parents became enthralled with arranging two exquisite things side by side and began making a fuss. Though Kyonosuke had only a young brother named Kotarou and no living parents—so when speaking of "parents," it meant solely those from the Izuiya household—it need hardly be said that the two principals themselves burned with mutual longing. Commander Wakasaka Yamashironokami, who privately favored Tobe Ouminosuke, showed little inclination to advance this marriage arrangement. Yet having no grounds for outright opposition, he complied with Izuiya Gohei’s request: appointing an elderly retainer named Name Ichiemon as temporary guardian, having [Osono’s] name formally changed to Osonoe, and dispatching her to Kamio’s residence near Ushigome Tsukudohachiman.

It had been in the twelfth month of the previous year. Still less than ten days had passed. It was hardly surprising that Tobe Ouminosuke, having lost in love, took every opportunity at the office to torment Kyonosuke—who must have been wholly immersed in the joys of his new household. Moreover, it was only natural—and by no means unusual—that the guards, who curried favor with their superiors, would join in mocking the newcomer Kyonosuke. But in this case, on New Year’s Day, it seemed they had gone a bit too far.

Five

It had gone a bit too far.

The newcomer Asaka Keinosuke stepped forward and suddenly peered up at Kyonosuke, who still hadn’t lifted his face from the tatami where he kept both hands planted. “Finally awake? “Mr. Tobe’s in an exceptionally foul mood over there too—you should apologize.” “Apologize properly and offer New Year’s greetings to all of us anew.” Kyonosuke remained utterly silent and motionless, as though he had truly fallen asleep—still prostrated as before.

“Don’t mind him, don’t mind him. A gentleman rotten from women, he is!” A dark-skinned man named Inomata Kozen interjected from nearby. “It’s infuriating if you think of him as a samurai, but if you see him as a doll—a woman’s plaything—dressed in formal kamishimo with swords at his waist, then it’s us who are being immature for even engaging with him.”

He put on a sanctimonious expression and surveyed his surroundings. It seemed almost like mediation. It would have been better to stop this at high tide, but Ouminosuke had underestimated Kyonosuke from the outset and remained utterly dismissive. He strode briskly forward, planted one knee squarely before Kyonosuke’s face still pressed to the tatami, and—looming over him—began raking up even long-settled grievances.

“You did the same thing the other day! “At the time of the morning relief shift, you invariably claim to have mistaken it for the day shift—have you ever once attended at dawn? “Even if you’ve just taken a beloved bride and find parting at dawn unbearable—do you imagine such tardiness befits a palace guard’s duty? “Not only do you skip evening guard duty two or three times—no doubt claiming you can’t bear to spend even a single night apart from your new bride—but truly! Money has blinded you into wedding a merchant’s daughter, then you strut about smug as a peacock! Your way of thinking differs heaven-and-earth from us uncouth men.” “What the—! “Say something!”

He looked about to lunge at him at any moment. There were three types of guard duties. Morning relief shift, day shift, and evening guard duty—the three shifts. The morning relief shift went on duty at dawn to receive the watch from the previous night’s guards. The day shift required guards to present themselves before the Elder and Junior Councilors entered the castle, while the evening guard duty—essentially night watch—had them report at the Hour of the Monkey (around 3 PM) and remain stationed within the castle grounds until the morning relief shift arrived. Each shift consisted entirely of six men rotating duties among them; however, Tobe Ouminosuke served as Group Captain. He could freely decide matters such as guard reassignments and shift arrangements. That Ouminosuke held a grudge against Kyonosuke. Changing shifts without Kyonosuke’s knowledge, deliberately withholding information he should have been told—such inconveniences arose repeatedly, and each time Kyonosuke was humiliated before the entire assembly. It could almost be said this was inevitable. In light of this, it might be said that such things were bound to manifest in some form sooner or later—not solely as the unfolding of this day alone.

In any case, Kamio Kyonosuke was a young man whose resilient nerves belied his delicate features and appearance. The more he was relentlessly provoked before the crowd in this manner, the more Kyonosuke found himself growing strangely calm—so much so that it even surprised him. And so, while thinking of something entirely different, he merely kept his hands planted and head bowed.

That appearance—precisely because he was such a strikingly handsome man—must have looked as though he were being wronged. The fact that none had known Kyonosuke was a master of Kyoshin-ryu swordsmanship proved their fatal miscalculation. “Say something!” “Coward!” “Cat got your tongue?!”

Tobe Ouminosuke, his lips drained of color, closed in aggressively.

“He’s cryin’.” Ikenami Shinrokurou jerked his chin at Kyonosuke. “To not offer even a single response to an elder—Ugh! What are we to do?!” “Well now, he’s cryin’ over here.” “What, you’re crying?” When they looked, sure enough, the shoulders of his prostrated formal attire were trembling faintly.

“Well now—does even a doll spill tears?” “This is rich! Take a look!” “That’s right! Pull him up and look at his face!”

“Never mind that—grab his topknot and pull him up!” It was Osako Genba who reached out and grasped Kyonosuke’s hair. He yanked upward with all his strength.

A choked, stifled sound—kuh, kuh, kuh—escaped Kyonosuke’s lips. Osako forcibly turned Kyonosuke’s face toward the others. They had thought they would see a beautiful tearful face, but Kyonosuke was not crying.

He was laughing. As if something struck him as unbearably funny, Kyonosuke at last erupted into loud, brazen laughter. With his hair still clutched in Osako’s grip, it was a laugh utterly devoid of restraint.

He faced straight ahead and continued laughing insolently. This Kyonosuke was a Kyonosuke none of them had ever seen before. Taken aback, even Tobe Ouminosuke fell silent for a time, staring. “How about I make you swallow this blade?” Kyonosuke, still laughing cheerfully as ever, looked around at those surrounding him and tapped the hilt of the sword at his waist. And then, he stood up. Startled, Osako had long since released the topknot. Violently pushing aside the guards like a different person, smiling, Kyonosuke briskly exited the guardroom.

They all stared blankly as they watched him leave.

VI

*Gasp!*

As if snapping back to his senses, Tobe Ouminosuke kicked up the tatami and tried to pursue Kyonosuke. He was livid. Minebuchi, Hori, Araki and others—those flanking him—cooperated in trying to restrain him.

“Kamio has indeed lost his mind.” “The man’s always been timid.” “Perhaps the medicine proved too strong.” “To give chase now would be most unwise.”

They all chimed in with variations of the same sentiment. But Tobe Ouminosuke shook off the clamoring guards and was already halfway out of the room. That the conflict had been instigated from their side was plain for all to see. And yet, despite all that, this self had failed to make that upstart cower—no, worse still, having been subjected to such an insolent attitude in the end—given how things had unfolded, this could not be left unresolved. He couldn’t shake the feeling.

“That bastard struck his sword while saying ‘How about I make you swallow this?!’” “Let go!” “I’ll catch him and rub his nose raw on these floorboards!” “Let go!!”

He finally pushed through the group and left. Two or three men clattered after him. Before them stood Kasama Jinpachi and Matsubara Genbei with arms spread wide. “You must not forget—we stand within the palace grounds!”

This worked. They had not forgotten they were in the palace grounds or that it was New Year's Day, but Kyonosuke and Ouminosuke leaving one after the other left behind an oddly disquieting air. But their opponent was that Kyonosuke after all. It was likely nothing serious, but should a quarrel break out somewhere conspicuous, it might disgrace the entire new guard post. Yet upon reflection, this too proved mere groundless worry. One party was Group Captain Mr. Tobe. There was no chance he'd commit such folly driven by momentary anger. Rather than have many men clattering through corridors, they resolved to wait calmly here exchanging gossip until dismissal time. When dissuaded from pursuit, they all settled back into the guardroom.

The bullying of Kyonosuke was largely meant to curry favor with Tobe Ouminosuke. So when Tobe Ouminosuke—the instigator himself—was gone, they naturally forgot about Kyonosuke and quickly shifted their conversation to other topics. The bird hunts at Komaba, the difficulty of serving as clapper operator during those events, horses, sake, tobacco, swords, women—and so on, and so on. From time to time, the memory of Kyonosuke—who had come at the end, laughed back, and left—would return to someone’s mind, suddenly creating an uneasy silence. Somehow, they couldn’t help but think they had underestimated that Kyonosuke. Had they gone too far?—The faintest hint of such a thought had crossed their minds.

Then Osako brought Kyonosuke back into the conversation, “He was laughing. “That bastard.” “He was laughing like a madman.” “I too was somewhat startled and let go of the topknot I was holding.” “No—that was a bold laugh!” “What’s so bold about that?” “Mr. Osako judges by his own measure and overestimates that coward.” “Is that right?” “Exactly. “Even if that weakling raged in righteous indignation, it’d amount to puppet tears.” “What could he possibly accomplish?”

It was at that moment that Araki Yoichirou declared assertively.

On one side of the room was a window facing the garden. Through the tightly closed shoji screens peered a chillingly cold white sunlight. No sooner had someone flung open that shoji from outside than a single round, large object came flying through with a whoosh and thudded into the very center of their discussion circle. Tumbling, it rolled toward Yokochi Hankurou’s knee. It was a crimson pumpkin-like object entirely covered in hair. Hakata Yuminosuke grabbed the disheveled hair and lifted it up. When he dangled it before his eyes, realization struck instantly. A head—a human severed head. It was the severed head of Tobe Ouminosuke, who until moments ago had been alive and talkative, having energetically left the room.

Seven

“Um, Papa should be back very soon, so please wait here kindly—” Omyou said this to the guest while raking up the buried embers in the long hibachi. Then, handling the fire tongs, she glanced fleetingly at the man.

The guest was a young man. He sat stiffly beside the long hibachi, his knees—clad in dark blue fundoshi trousers—neatly aligned. Omyou had come to regret letting a male visitor into the house while she was alone. Not knowing his purpose but wishing Papa would return soon, she finished adding charcoal to the hearth, hurriedly left the tearoom, and stood by herself in the kitchen. But that face—so beautiful it could belong to a woman—remained vividly imprinted on the back of Omyou’s eyes, refusing to fade away.

Now, it was the afternoon of the Seventh Day of the New Year—seven days since New Year’s Day, when Tobe Ouminosuke, Group Captain of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards, had his head taken by an unknown assailant in the palace garden, and that head was thrown into the new guard post, while simultaneously, Kamio Kyonosuke, the young guard of the ledger watch, fled into exile.

At the home of Kabedatsu the plasterer in Shitaya Kuromonchō, there came a visit from a remarkably handsome man with a plasterer’s build who said he wished to meet Master Kabedatsu. As it happened, Kabedatsu was away attending a nearby roof-raising ceremony with his apprentices, so his daughter Omyou went out to receive the visitor—who, as mentioned earlier, was a man whose beauty seemed to flow like water. Among undercoat plasterers, there were not a few dashing men who could make downtown women swoon with their charm. Moreover, given that Kabedatsu of Shitaya was so renowned among his peers, wandering plasterers—those roaming the provinces in a plasterer’s warrior training—would sometimes come barging in, their trowels brandished like swords as if challenging rival schools. Others arrived unexpectedly from distant regions bearing letters of introduction from fellow craftsmen seeking apprenticeship. Thus, ever since her mother’s death, Omyou—who managed all household affairs for her father—had been ordered by Kabedatsu to admit any visitor who came during his absence and have them wait, no matter who they were. Moreover, Kabedatsu also served in official duties. He held custody of the jutte and was currently renowned throughout Edo as a top boss in that line of work. Since one could never predict what incident might bring someone—or when or who might come—it had been decided that when Kabedatsu was away from home, Omyou would receive all guests and have them wait. Therefore, even now, when this handsome plasterer stood in the earthen-floored entryway requesting an audience, Omyou had gone out to meet him as usual, wiping her hands on her apron—but at the man’s overwhelming beauty, she had nearly cried out in surprise. She immediately wondered why an actor had come here. No—even among actors, there probably weren’t any like that. Omyou now stood in the kitchen, blankly thinking such thoughts.

From New Year's Day onward, the entirety of Edo remained turned upside down in turmoil. After all, it was an act of blade violence within the palace grounds. Moreover, this was no mere stabbing or slashing—on that auspicious New Year’s Day, the Group Captain’s head had been severed and sent flying. That such an uproar ensued was only natural. For in the Palace Grounds, even if done without any intent, were one to draw their blade even three inches from its scabbard, it was decreed by the so-called Hundred Articles that the individual would immediately commit ritual suicide and their family’s estate would be confiscated. If they were found even slightly drawing their sword, they would be thrown into a prisoner transport boat at Hirakawaguchi and sent back to their estate without any chance to explain or plead their case. And into this situation came no ordinary blade violence—the head of one official had literally flown. Moreover, the person suspected to be the perpetrator had fled the scene and had shown neither hide nor hair since. Commander Wakasaka Yamashironokami had been ordered into house arrest and seclusion until the case’s resolution due to inadequate oversight. The palace guards were also each subjected to investigation regarding their own conduct. First and foremost, Kamio Kyonosuke must be apprehended and interrogated. As this occurred on the shogunate’s New Year’s Day, if Kamio were found justified, he would commit seppuku; if not, he must face capital punishment. From Kamio Kyonosuke’s residence at Tsukudo Hachiman, his wife Osono and even his younger brother Kotarou had been taken into custody and were being interrogated. To Izuiya Gohei of Kanda Mikawachō—Osono’s family home—and all other places where Kyonosuke might possibly frequent, arrangements had been delivered without omission through Magistrate Ōoka Tadasuke’s office. Wanted posters had been distributed to all yoriki and police informants across the city, while from Wakasaka Yamashironokami—who, after Tobe Ouminosuke’s murder, had been placed under house arrest and now ground his teeth in impotent fury—came a special force: retainers and associates disguised as various low-ranking laborers, scattered throughout Edo to secretly track down Kamio Kyonosuke’s trail.

Seven days had passed, yet the danger was at its height. Where had he been hiding until now? This Kyonosuke—clad in a striped kimono and fundoshi belly band, his hairstyle altered, feet thrust into straw sandals as he leaned slightly forward as if poised to walk—now stood fully embodying the role of a craftsman. In the Kuromonchō house, waiting for Kabedatsu, he blew puff, puff—exhaling rings of tobacco smoke. From the main street came the voices of laborers singing work chants.

*Humanity Wedged in Cedar Planks*

I

In Shitaya Nagamachi, there was a long-established brush and paper shop called Fudeya Koubei. They supplied brushes, paper, ink, and similar items to the Nishinomaru Palace Guards’ office in Chiyoda Castle—a renowned large shop. Having purchased adjacent land and hastened construction that had now been completed, Kabedatsu of Kuromonchō—due to his role as contractor for all plastering work—was making an appearance at today’s roof-raising ceremony with two or three apprentices in tow.

It was precisely the Seventh Day of the New Year. This was precisely what one would call a perfectly clear day. Against a navy-blue sky, a lone black kite circled leisurely; perhaps it was just a trick of perception, but even in the wind that teased at passersby’s sleeves, there lingered a quality of sunlight that felt distinctly like early spring. Women’s New Year visits had been scheduled for after the seventh day. Townswomen and daughters—likely those from merchant households—dressed themselves in their finest attire, each accompanied by errand boys carrying spring-green furoshiki bundles slung around their necks as they walked through the streets in small groups. It was a tranquil scene.

“Seven herbs, shepherd’s purse—birds from Cathay—♪” they chanted in rhythm, thud-thud! Thud-thud! The pounding of chopping boards—following auspicious custom—rang out cheerfully with lively cadence from the rows of houses.

The storefront of Fudeya the brush merchant in Nagamachi was packed with such a crowd that the thoroughfare became impassable—true to the roof-raising of the wealthiest household in the district. They scattered small red and white ceremonial rice cakes. They scattered paper-twisted grains. Those driven by greed had all come out, intent on gathering them up. The regular foreman, who had climbed onto the second-floor scaffolding holding a ceremonial tray, grabbed handfuls and scattered them down in a flurry—! Each time he did this, the crowd pushed, kicked, dove—until finally, women and children were trampled underfoot, wailing and screaming. A fight would break out at the sight of someone from another ward. Good grief—what a terrible commotion.

Under the eaves, poles—each marked with three thick jet-black lines above and below on four-inch square timbers—were reverently propped up. They were ceremonial items for the roof-raising. In the center, white paper was wrapped around it with a shimenawa rope stretched taut, and ceremonial paper cords were tied. In addition, all sorts of things were hung from this square timber. First, a mirror, comb, hairpin, and false hair. Moreover, four-colored cotton cloth pieces—black, green, red, and yellow—hung solemnly like decorations on the first cargo horses of the year. Even in modern times, one might occasionally encounter such things in rural areas, but in the unhurried Edo period, they made a great fuss over such matters and observed them with utmost strictness.

The back was also packed with jostling craftsmen. In the earthen-floored area stood rows of ceremonial sake barrels with their lids removed, ladles placed beside them. Large platters of simmered dishes and containers of ceremonial rice stood lined up. For non-drinkers there were rice cakes. They drank and ate boisterously until soon, each hanging souvenir boxes from their arms, they began heading home while bidding farewell to Master Koubei in a chorus of voices. Standing in the spacious kitchen and responding to each guest stood a bald-pated man in his sixties—none other than Fudeya Koubei. With brown silk wrapped around his neck, he alone shuttled between back rooms and kitchen that day, single-handedly directing everything. His son Koukichirou was a pale-skinned, delicate-looking man nearing thirty. Relaying his father’s commands while issuing orders to the many servants for miscellaneous chores, he bustled about like a kitten.

“I am most obliged by your pouring drinks for us, young master.” “No need to hold back—I’ve already partaken. Oh my! Master Koubei, congratulations on this auspicious day.” “My, what a splendid affair—no, truly, it’s causing quite the stir!” “Now, when it comes to Fudeya’s grand construction here today—and I ain’t just flatterin’ you, sir—why, even Mr. Mitsui or Mr. Kōnoike couldn’t pull off such extravagance, if I may say so! Heh heh, it’s the talk of all Edo’s craftsmen, I tell ya.” “I tell ya!”

Koubei and his son, deftly deflecting such comments left and right, were nevertheless beaming with evident delight—as might be expected.

Slipping through the crowd, after Kabedatsu also greeted Koubei, he left behind his disciples—who were each devouring sake and rice cakes and showed no sign of leaving—and exited Fudeya’s shop alone. The group, feeling merry from the free-flowing sake, boisterously belted out laborers’ chants as they swaggered along, jeering at the women on their New Year visits coming from the opposite direction.

Bright sunlight filled the streets, and the shadows of the kadomatsu appeared to flicker like flames.

Madcap cheer—

A shuttlecock that had flown off course from somewhere landed lightly on Kabedatsu’s collar. The girl chased after it and made a commotion. Kabedatsu grabbed it with a grin and tossed it back.

Over his navy apron and loincloth, he layered a stylish waterfall-patterned striped garment—his austere sharpness cutting the very image of an exemplary master.

Kuromonchō.

In front of his home. When he tried to open the lattice and peered in, there was a pair of unfamiliar straw sandals lined up, seemingly awaiting his return.

II

With a sharp glare—side-eyeing the guest waiting in the parlor through narrowed eyes—he tried to slip past toward the inner rooms. But at that moment, something flashed through Kabedatsu’s mind, startling him. Involuntarily, his feet stopped. The guest was in the room; Kabedatsu stood in the narrow corridor outside the parlor—yet their eyes met. There was silence. They stood face to face. Kabedatsu felt he had seen this young man somewhere before—this craftsman-like youth, Kamio Kyonosuke. A face I’ve seen before! A face I’ve seen before!—In that instant, a whirlwind of thoughts raced through Kabedatsu’s mind. Snap!— He remembered! Ping!— Something clicked into place. That’s it! Ever since slashing Tobe Ouminosuke—Group Captain of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards—on New Year’s Day, hurling that freshly severed head into the guardroom and fleeing, he had either been buried underground or vanished completely—Kamio Kyonosuke! Hmm—these days, with the rigorous official inquiry, detailed wanted posters had been circulating.

That wanted poster and this young punk!

Though his clothing and appearance had changed, my discernment wasn’t off. Moreover, a handsome man of that caliber—no matter how vast Edo was—couldn’t be found everywhere.

That's it! This bastard was none other than Kamio Kyonosuke—the wanted man who'd been outwitting every officer in Edo!— The moment this realization struck, Kabedatsu—who had momentarily stiffened in surprise—relaxed his still-poised body with hands tucked in sleeves and let a faint smirk creep across his lips.

Bastard! The reckoning had come! Did he come knowing that this Kabedatsu had taken up the police truncheon—or come unaware? To show his face here, in the heart of this dragnet where not even an ant could slip through—and of all people, to Kuromonchō’s Kabedatsu!—this was a summer insect flying into flames, and now this bastard’s luck had run out. Kabedatsu, silent, stared unblinkingly— Kabedatsu stared fixedly into Kyonosuke’s eyes—as if to scorch them through.

Kabedatsu’s main occupation was that of a plasterer, but he also served the authorities on the side. As a police informant entrusted with the red ledger, in that capacity too, he was now in Edo an eye without equal—one who stood first with no second. Had Kyonosuke come to Kuromonchō knowing this fact—or had he appeared here willingly, thinking Kabedatsu was merely a plasterer, to temporarily blend in among undercoat laborers and throw Hatchōbori’s watchful eyes off his trail?

It was a considerable length of time.

It was a silent standoff.

Both glared at each other with fierce intensity—but what of Kyonosuke? No sooner had he looked than Kabedatsu—who had climbed up to where his daughter kept watch alone—returned home. This itself was unremarkable, but when Kabedatsu caught a glimpse of him and abruptly changed countenance—now standing blocking his path—for one bearing guilt, this could only mean one thing! Had he been recognized as the wanted man of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards?! If reported and apprehended here now, all seven days of grueling hardship and concealment would be for naught. At even the slightest suspicious movement from Kabedatsu—a single thrust with his concealed nine-sun-five-bu dagger would suffice before fleeing—Kyonosuke found himself unconsciously raising one knee into a Kyo Shin Ryu iaijutsu stance; silent killing intent radiated as he fixed his gaze on Kabedatsu’s demeanor.

That posture of Kyonosuke’s—so unlike a wandering laborer’s, without a single opening—further compelled Kabedatsu to clearly shift from doubt to conviction: this was undeniably a samurai—a samurai among samurai, a swordsman of formidable skill.

No room for carelessness! Kabedatsu, moving stealthily so as not to alert his opponent, slipped his hand into his inner pocket—where lay the handle of the jutte he never parted with even in sleep—and with the intent to pounce if it came to it, deftly wound the red cord around the back of his hand and clenched it tightly. Silence. Their eyes locked firmly, sparks seeming to fly—a silence pregnant with crisis, on the verge of eruption, lingered for an instant, then another—.

Snap!

A strange thing happened. Kyonosuke smiled faintly. He had married Osono of Izuiya—Edo’s foremost beauty—and alongside her, now renamed Sono’e, they were said to rival Palace Dolls in splendor. Yet far from paling in comparison to this Osono, he was a renowned handsome man who, precisely because he was male, appeared even crisper and more commanding in stature. This renowned handsome man, his nerves strained and face flushed red, suddenly—for reasons unknown—grinned to reveal his white teeth. Had this been a woman, it would have been called a nation-toppling smile. Kabedatsu, unwittingly drawn in, found himself grinning back.

That said, Kabedatsu had always been more prone to glaring than smiling, and wasn’t one for charming smiles. When the dark-skinned man laughed, it was like a charcoal briquette tumbling and crumbling—compared to Kyonosuke’s composed smile, Kabedatsu’s was—well, what could one say?

Well, such things were unnecessary.

“Hey! Come on in. ’Fraid I left the house open—wait long?”

Acting the part of a boss and with deliberate calmness, Kabedatsu said.

“No. “I’ve only just arrived myself, y’see, and there’s a small favor I’d like to ask of you, Master.”

How he had picked it up—Kyonosuke’s speech had completely taken on the manner of a craftsman. In front of Kabedatsu, the renowned master plasterer and boss. A greenhorn like me shouldn’t speak out of turn—having understood this, he stiffened deferentially, his posture rigid with apology. “Ah, is that so,” said Kabedatsu, keeping his composure. “You’ve come all this way. Don’t know what brings you here, but let’s hear it proper—just wait a spell.”

The storm shifted sideways. It was a leisurely exchange. With the typhoon passed, Kyonosuke quietly lowered his head. Kabedatsu too, grinning broadly, passed before the tea room and entered the kitchen—! The instant he smoothly slid shut the partition door behind him with a backhand motion, Kabedatsu’s expression transformed and he erupted into panic. Seeing his daughter Omyou standing dejectedly on the kitchen’s wooden floorboards, he called out in a hushed voice.

“Shh! Omyou! To the guard post—to the guard post! Get out through the back—stealthily. Go barefoot so you don’t make a sound—”

III And at the same time, he called out loudly to Kyonosuke in the tea room…

“Not a bad New Year, eh? Hey there—where’d you come from? You’re Kanto folk, ain’t ya?” Then immediately lowering his voice again, he addressed his daughter Omyou: “Got it? Hurry to the guard post—tell ’em there’s an arrest comin’ here. Have the neighborhood five-household group send men. He’s a tough one—make sure they bring lads with strong arms—” “But... the arrest—?” Gasp! Omyou turned pale and staggered back two or three steps as though swimming through air, then looked up at her father with eyes wide like temple bells. The shock struck her so suddenly she couldn’t speak—as if physically winded.

“Well, um...” “Has that young guest-sir done something... something wrong?” “Never mind that.” “It ain’t your place to stick your nose in.” “You—just as I told you—sneak out quietly through this back door and hurry to the guard post—”

Just as he was about to speak—it was Kyonosuke who called out from the kitchen. Kabedatsu had likely gone to fetch water—or so he thought—when he heard the earlier question: “So you’re from Kanto too? Where’d you come from?” It struck him like lightning. No lie surfaced. Stumbling over his words: “Huh? Me? Well... uh... yes—Kanto.” “Yes—Kanto it is. Kanto... um... on Chofu’s outskirts.”

He skillfully and fluently spouted a stream of nonsense.

That reached Kabedatsu, who was whispering furtively to Omyou. Kabedatsu shot Omyou a fierce glare—Hurry up!—urging her on while also needing to keep up the conversation with Kyonosuke to avoid suspicion.

“Oh, Kanto, eh? I thought as much. Plasterers—they say Osaka’s got that special sand mix for the basecoat, y’know.” “Though some do swear by Osaka methods—” he wheeled on Omyou, “What’re you lollygagging for?!” While I keep him chatting here all casual-like, I need full perimeter prep around this house. “Move your ass! Now!” He bellowed toward the tea room again: “But when it comes down to brass tacks—craftsmen? Kanto breeds ’em best.” “All across Edo—the real roughnecks come from these parts.” “Foundations differ from finishes—You still here?!” “Why ain’t you gone yet?!”

“Huh? Me? Am I the one who has to go somewhere—?” “Hmm—you—no, not you. Ha ha ha ha ha, I’ve got something to discuss—I mean, carpenters, joiners—any craftsman really—it’s all about temperament, see? Especially plasterers handling wet materials—their whole craft hinges on temperament—”

In a low voice to Omyou, “You really won’t go to the guard post?” “What has that guest done, may I ask? Father, please tell me what this is about—” “You fool! D-do you think we’ve got time to stand here babbling about such nonsense?! It ain’t for women and children to know. Get to the guard post—”

“No! I want to know!”

Omyou suddenly adopted a solemn tone. “First of all—who is that young man? Where is he from, what is his name, and what has he done?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a wanted man by the authorities. Listen—that’s why I’m telling you to obey your father and get the five-man group here quick to secure the area, so I can rip that mask off sudden-like and tie him up tight. So, you get it now? If you get it, then—” “No! I don’t understand!” “Omyou! The hell’s wrong with you today?!” “Boss!”

From the tea room, Kyonosuke’s voice could be heard. “It seems you’re occupied with something, but if I’m causing any inconvenience, this humble one can return at another time.” “Nah, it’s nothing—just tellin’ this one here to run an errand. I’ll be right over.”

Then, at that moment—what came over her—the daughter Omyou raised her voice and declared.

“Father is ordering me to report you to the guard post, but I refuse!” “You—! What are you saying?!”

Kabedatsu reached out with his simian arm to cover his daughter’s mouth. Omyou staggered. Clatter! She collided with the shelf, and the dishes and bowls scattered.

A sharp hush—then silence.

In the tea room, Kyonosuke—who had straightened up abruptly—was swiftly tightening his obi. When had he drawn it? The chilling short sword (24cm blade) now lay clenched between his teeth. Omyou desperately writhed, trying to shake off her father’s grip.

Four

There was no helping it.

If the guest found out, it would all be over. Intending to confront him head-on and capture him with his own hands, Kabedatsu released Omyou and reached for the tightly shut kitchen door.

The tea room lay hushed.

There was no sign he had left—but just as Kabedatsu resolved to throw open [the door] and leap out, he withdrew his hand. Wait! ——he thinks. Wait! He’s the formidable man who—of all days, on New Year’s Day—for whatever reason—beheaded his superior right there in the palace grounds, tossed the head out a window, and has been in hiding ever since. He looks like he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but when push comes to shove, who knows how violently he might rampage—or how masterfully slip away? I may have confidence in my skill with the jutte, but if by some chance he nimbly slips away, it’ll bring disgrace upon Kurobemonchō. I can’t afford to carelessly open this kitchen door and go out! ——Having considered this, he continued to strain his ears, intently listening for any movement in the tea room——.

As expected—it remained utterly silent, as though devoid of any human presence.

What was Kyonosuke doing?!

What possessed him to come to this Kabedatsu’s house?—Regardless, now that he’d been seen through, there was no choice.He would kill Kabedatsu and then hide again somewhere until he could.Having been drenched in Tobe Ouminosuke’s blood—Kyonosuke, whose gentle countenance belied the demonic resolve now hardening within him.In an instant, he resolved to slash his way out of the house—stepping silently from the tea room into a narrow three-foot corridor that led straight to the kitchen.Suddenly, something caught Kyonosuke’s eye.They were official lanterns hung in a row along the corridor wall.Why hadn’t he noticed those lanterns when entering?—Hmm—could it be this Kabedatsu was a police informant?—A belated realization for Kyonosuke, whose life as a palace guard had left him naive to city affairs.He had only just realized this—now it was as though he himself had willingly walked into the lion’s den.He could afford no further carelessness.Now that he had been discovered, he had no choice but to silence Kabedatsu at all costs!But—that girl.She refused to report him to the guard post, as if shielding him—what could her intentions be?Even in this critical moment—pondering Omyou’s intentions while stealing forward with muffled steps—Kyonosuke positioned himself on this side of the kitchen door.

On either side of a single cedar door—Kyonosuke and Kabedatsu—both held their breath, probing for any sign of the other’s movement. Both men remained cautious—this single door would not open easily. Through the oppressive silence drifted the bird-chasing song and shamisen procession moving along Onari Avenue just ahead—oblivious to the blood-rain poised to fall—their New Year’s cheer sounding carefree and untroubled.

With that, Kabedasu called out in an inviting voice.

“Young one—no, you are called Lord Kamio Kyonosuke, I believe.” “There’s no need for this humble one to fumble through clumsy explanations—you must grasp the situation intuitively.” “Will you submissively—with all due disrespect—accept this Kabedatsu’s rope?” “Or do you mean to take on this old man and make an undignified ruckus?”

Then, Kyonosuke’s voice—which Kabedatsu had assumed was still in the tea room—came unexpectedly from just beyond the door, causing Kabedatsu to jolt and press against it. “Master Kabedatsu,” said Kyonosuke, having reverted to his natural samurai bearing now that his true identity was exposed, “though it pains me deeply, this humble one has pressing business that prevents me from being captured. Therefore, I shall withdraw peacefully as matters stand. After I depart, count to one hundred before opening this door. Ahahahaha!”

“Preposterous nonsense!” At this, Kabedatsu grew slightly irritated. “What?” “Still have business?” “You’re speaking so leisurely here.” “What business could you possibly have?” “Indeed.” “I have business to attend to.” “This humble one still has business in this mortal realm.” Kyonosuke said in a dreamlike voice, “That business being—along with that Tobe Ouminosuke—the entire corps of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards who tormented this humble one and finally drove this humble one to today’s predicament.” “Wh-what?!” “First, Osako Genba.”

“Huh?” “Araki Yoichirou.” “Hmm——”

Across the cedar door, a bizarre conversation persisted.

Five

“Ikenami Shinrokurou.” “Hn.” “Asaka Keinosuke.” “H” “Inomata Kozen.” “Heei!” “Yasaku Hikojuurou.” “So that’s—" “Nagaoka Tanomo.” “Huh?” “Hyuga Ichigaku.” “———”

“Myoken Katsusaburou.” “———”

“Hori Shouzaemon.” “What the hell do you intend to do with all those people?” “Shut up and listen!—Hori Shouzaemon—this humble one has listed him.” “Let’s see… then Hakata Yuminosuke, Minebuchi Shanosuke, Kasama Jinpachi, Matsubara Genbei—” “Wh-what are you—this ain’t no damn meeting! You’re just reeling off names here!”

“Hanno Shume with Yokochi Hankurou—and Yamaji Shigenoshin!” “These seventeen!”

It was a voice burning with hatred and revenge. This—gnashing his teeth—burst forth from Kyonosuke’s crimson lips. In the kitchen beyond the door, struck by that fearsome spirit, Kabedatsu involuntarily shuddered— He did so. “Those seventeen Nishinomaru Palace Guards—what’re you plannin’ to do with ’em?” “That business you can’t afford to get caught over now—what’s that about?” “Right! Those seventeen bastards banded together, relentlessly tormenting this humble one alone—until this humble one finally snapped the cord of patience, bringing matters to this day!”

“Huh. “I’ve heard such rumors, and so…?” “My grudge isn’t just against Tobe Oumi alone!” “So you’re saying…?” “The remaining seventeen.” “So?”

“This humble one shall spend one lifetime—no, if one proves insufficient, two lifetimes or three—to strike down these seventeen men in turn. I will line up seventeen severed heads in a row—and then, Master Kabedatsu, upon that achievement I shall meekly receive the rope from your hands!” “Wha—?! You’re saying you’re gonna go around beheading every last one of those seventeen Nishinomaru Palace Guards?!”

“That’s right. The first head to fall will be Osako Genba.”

“So that’s already decided—?”

“Of course, they don’t know. But this humble one has so decided.”

“Gah! There’s no saving ’em now!”

“Now now, Master Kabedatsu. Given these circumstances—regrettable though it may be—I cannot comply with being apprehended and handed over by you today.” “Th-this ain’t no damn joke! Even if you’ve got no cause over there, I’ve got cause aplenty here! You think it’ll stand if all those high-and-mighty lords’ heads go rollin’ off like you say?!” “Whether it stands or not matters not! This humble one shall cut them down—one by one!”

“Shut your damn mouth! Let you keep talkin’, and you’ll just spew more self-serving drivel! I don’t care how skilled you think you are—those lords ain’t straw dummies or practice posts! You really think their fancy samurai heads are just gonna roll off one after another like you’re sayin’, and nobody’s gonna bat an eye?!”

“Hmm.” “Alright!” “And what if they do roll?” “There ain’t no ‘what if’ about it. Before that happens, I’ll have you trussed up.”

“Now, Master Kabedatsu—has this humble one not pleaded with such reasoned distinction? With this matter at hand, this humble one cannot submit to falling into your rope immediately. But in exchange—whether years or decades hence—on the very day this humble one takes the head of the seventeenth man, the last of these seventeen, this humble one shall assuredly return to this house of my own accord. At that time, this humble one will neither flee nor hide. With both hands behind my back and a smile, this humble one shall receive your rope.” “A samurai’s word!” “No second words!” “This humble one swears it, Master Kabedatsu—how about it?!” “Will you turn a blind eye for today and release this humble one outside without making this humble one spill unnecessary blood?!”

Dead serious. Each word from Kyonosuke—now transformed into a vengeance demon—pierced through the door with razor-edged coldness to stab Kabedatsu’s chest.

But Kabedatsu started laughing.

“Gah! Your whole body’s got the authorities’ eyes from every corner of the city glaring at it!” “This humble one is aware.” “I would not entrust this to others.” “Having judged you as Kabedatsu of Kuromon-cho, I have laid everything bare and entrusted it to you.”

“Your provocations don’t work on me. “Hey, Lord Kamio—did you come slinking here knowing full well this plasterer’s a police informant?” “—” “In truth—you thought you could pass yourself off as some mere plasterer, play at being an undercoat laborer awhile, and hoodwink the shogunate’s eyes?”

“That—if I may say so—is precisely why I came here.” “That’s not some wild idea—you’re too soft-hearted for your own good, Lord Kamio! Thanks to you, your innocent wife, your younger brother, even Izuiya Gohei and his wife have been dragged in for harsh interrogations. You can’t possibly claim ignorance of that—I’m not here to lecture you.” “Without a word—save this old man’s face.” “If it comes to punishment—seppuku or beheading—you ain’t gonna keep your life. But me—I’m a man known throughout Kuromon-cho.” “I may be stuck in this worthless trade, but after tying you up for the last time, I’ll hand back my jutte with pride—and shave this head clean.” “Heh—I’ll become a monk and spend my whole life prayin’ for your lordship’s afterlife.” “Please, please—Lord Kamio, resign yourself and let this old man bind you—I beg you—”

Grrrmph!—a resolve harder than iron clamped down.

When Omyou—who had been crouching in a corner of the kitchen listening to this exchange—heard Kamio Kyonosuke’s guttural growl, she let out a sharp “Gah—!” and collapsed in tears.

Six

“Quiet!” “Omyou!” “You ain’t got nothin’ to cry about!”

And now, finally noticing his daughter’s presence, Kabedatsu turned toward her—scolding Omyou like this even as he himself was already choking up. But, once more toward the door on the other side, “Well now, Lord Kamio—will you deign to listen?” “——”

Kyonosuke did not answer. Was he even thinking—? No, it seemed he was struggling to swallow back the tears welling up within him. On both sides of the door, a clammy silence lingered.

Eventually, Kyonosuke’s low voice was heard.

“No. “This humble one refuses.” Kabedatsu’s tone shifted abruptly. “So you refuse—is that what you’re saying?” “I deeply appreciate your kind advice, but this humble one has the aforementioned matter to attend to. “As for the hardships faced by my wife and younger brother—I can only resign myself to their inevitability.” “So that’s it. “Don’t you get it even after all I’ve said? “Fine! “Then there’s no helpin’ it! “Even if I were to close my eyes here and let you go, every police informant in Edo’s got their eyes peeled wide for that face of yours right now. “The moment you step out that door, someone’s bound to notice you—then you’ll be hearin’ ‘Halt in the name of the law!’ soon enough—and forget my pity—you’re a wanted man, I’m a police snitch. If I let you slip away, I’ll lose all credibility with the shogunate! “On top of that—you’re planning to take seventeen lives from here on out. “Now that I’ve heard all this—even if I tried to look the other way, this jutte won’t stand for it!—Kamio Kyonosuke! “Halt in the name of the law!”

As soon as he finished speaking—snap! He kicked down the cedar door. In that instant—

There stood Kyonosuke. Without altering his expression, he stood blocking the way—so close their noses nearly touched. “Halt in the name of the law!” Kabedatsu’s proudly brandished jutte whooshed! It sliced through the air toward Kyonosuke’s shoulder—aiming to strike, but veered sideways. Kyonosuke evaded.

“Wait! So you’re determined to capture me to the bitter end?!”

“No more talk.” “This jutte doesn’t belong to some plasterer named Kabedatsu.” “It’s the shogunate’s law.” “Submit quietly!” Once more came Kabedatsu’s jutte—Edo’s finest—sliding down its red cord with a whistle through the air. Kyonosuke held no desire for bloodshed here. Yet circumstances left him no choice. The short dagger Kawachi Taro Hebimaru, hidden in his sleeve while he remained unclothed, shot diagonally like a beam of light. In that paper-thin instant—true to its name “Serpent Circle”—the blade moved with a life of its own. From below, it thrust upward into Kabedatsu’s flank as the man charged recklessly forward, burying itself to the hilt in his flesh.

Like camellia blossoms bursting forth, Omyou threw herself between the man with the sword and the man with the jutte.

“W-wait, please!” “Dad, wait!” “Wait!” “Enough! “Get back! Ain’t no place for a girl here! Get inside ’fore you get hurt!” “No, I can’t just back down!” Uttered by someone utterly unlike the usual Omyou, she plopped down on the spot and in an instant clung to her father Kabedatsu’s leg. “Dad! “I beg of you!” “Please save him!” “Wh-what did you say?!” “Hey—move! Move!” “Enough! Get outta the way!”

“No, I won’t move! I won’t move even if I die!” “What nonsense are you spouting?! Omyou! Have you lost your mind?!” “Even if I’ve lost my mind or anything else—this man is the one I care for. I’ve felt this way from the moment I first laid eyes on him—”

Seven

A figure moved at the back door. It had arrived casually,but due to some commotion of people moving about inside,the man had been standing there all along with his ear pressed against the drain,eavesdropping on every word. Now that Omyou had declared her feelings for Kamio Kyonosuke—Kabedatsu fell silent,Kyonosuke fell silent—and in the sudden stillness that descended,the figure at the back pressed himself flat against the door panelstrainingto catch every word.

In this murderous scene, a single word of love—it was akin to pouring boiling water onto accumulated snow: for an instant, it emitted a wisp of warmth that softened the tension and imparted a sliver of warmth to the cold air—but to hear a daughter confess her feelings for the very wanted man during an arrest operation! Kabedatsu shuddered violently, as though trying to shake off a nightmare—yet his voice remained low and hoarse, overwhelmed by the surge of emotion at his daughter’s heartfelt confession: a father and his only child, her earnest words laying bare her heart.

But what emerged from his mouth was a harsh rebuke. “What—you’re spouting this ridiculous nonsense about love-sick infatuation? I—I don’t wanna hear any of that!” “Hey, you! Move!” “Move or I’ll kick you to death!” “Huh. “Even if you kill me, I won’t move!” Omyou, as if possessed by a demon god, planted herself firmly between Kabedatsu and Kyonosuke, grinding her knees into the floorboards as she pressed in on her father. “Dad! “I may just be a woman who doesn’t understand complicated matters, but Dad, aren’t you the esteemed Kabedatsu of Kuromon-cho, known as a prominent figurehead?” “No, aren’t you a true-blue Edoite?” “What have you always said, Dad?” “A man’s worth lies in his temperament.” “What matters most is the strength of one’s spirit!” “If there’s no coolness in the depths of your heart, even clad in human skin, you’re not human.” “You’re not a man!” “The admirable thing about Edoites is that they value a sense of duty above all else.” “You can tell just by having someone plaster a single wall.” “The work of someone with a clear heart quickly dries, settles smoothly into solid form—the finish is entirely different.” “It’s terrifying—I mean, Dad, isn’t this your favorite line, your go-to phrase?” “And what of it?”

“Where has that Edoite spirit of Kuromon-cho gone?” “This man may indeed be a grave criminal—the very one all of Edo’s watchers are now sniffing out his tracks.” “But Dad—you’re Kabedatsu of Kuromon-cho who holds a jutte!” “He knew this was a police informant’s house but did not come here with that awareness.” “He truly did not know.” “In other words, this man came here by mere coincidence. Even if you capture him, it’s not as though you set a trap yourself—so you can’t really take much credit for it, can you?” “But more than that—I wonder if you’ll sleep soundly.” “Moreover, this man himself said—once his business is concluded, he will take matters into his own hands and surely surrender himself to you, Dad—those were the samurai’s very words.” “Hasn’t he made such a firm promise?” “Dad—where has that ‘admirable spirit’ and ‘strength of heart’ you’re always going on about gone to?” “Isn’t it said that even a hunter won’t kill a bird that’s lost its escape and flown into his bosom?” “Dad, pull yourself together! Don’t go senile on me!” “Isn’t this the one I care for?” “How tiresome.”

This was the showdown of a lifetime. Omyou declared this as though she had cast off her usual timid demeanor as a town girl entirely—snap!—and looked up at her father.

Kabedatsu and Kyonosuke stood dumbfounded.

The figure in the shadows—it was Fudeya’s young master Koukichirou, who had arrived unnoticed. He had been courting this Omyou for a long time, but now that very Omyou was in love with the wanted man Kamio Kyonosuke! Upon hearing this, he whirled around and dashed out onto the main street.

“Where do you think you’re going?” “To make a report to the residence of Commander Wakasaka Yamashironokami of the Palace Guards.”

A Life of Strife

I

Ichigaya’s Yakimochizaka—the Kōra Residence.

That lordly residence of Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Commander of the Chiyoda Castle Palace Guards—a secluded study hall. It was a room beyond the wide veranda, overlooking the garden pond. Golden liquid-like sunlight danced across the entire garden, while frost-withered grass blades reflected the azure sky's hue. Near the pond’s surface, clusters of scarlet carp had gathered here and there, their forms blurred into a pale pink when viewed from afar.

Wakasaka Yamashironokami had pushed his armrest near the edge of the veranda and now sat facing his guest. Yamashironokami was a man as corpulent as a sumo wrestler. When he moved, the armrest creaked under his weight. His face, with its large features, resembled a dance mask. Moreover, it was utterly devoid of expression. Thus, his visage appeared as though permanently fixed in place—the kind that grew increasingly eerie the longer one looked upon it.

As if fearing his eerie visage might shatter if moved too abruptly, Yamashironokami slowly twisted it toward the guest. It was a voice utterly drained of interest. "I have considered it," he interjected, "but he will not act hastily." He fixed the guest with a piercing stare.

The guest was a bald man of forty-two or three. He wore dark tsumugi silk and a tea-colored chirimen juttoku robe. His shaved head appeared to gleam tea-colored across its dome. A long face with bulging eyes and light pockmarks. He had a disproportionately large mouth, which he kept tightly closed at all times as though swallowing something. Murai Chouan was a town doctor in Kōjimachi Hirakawachō Ichōme. While his medical skills seemed unremarkable, he was a silver-tongued man with the air of a banquet-hall flatterer, which allowed him to move with impudence among influential figures like Wakasaka Yamashironokami, whom he counted as patients.

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

Yamashironokami continued. "There is also the matter of Izuiya." "However, I have entrusted Kotarou’s matter to you." “See that you handle it appropriately.” “Yes.” Murai Chouan lowered his head. Since he had turned his head sideways as he lowered it, it did not resemble a proper bow. It was merely that he had moved his head. Before the lord—if one were to call it arrogance, then arrogant his attitude was—Chouan was a man who did not regard others as people. However, his words alone were absurdly polite.

“Yes. Concerning the brothers—and given that Lord Kyonosuke and Lord Kotarou have always been twice as devoted to one another as ordinary brothers—it is inconceivable that the younger brother remains unaware of Lord Kyonosuke’s hiding place.” “Moreover, seven days having now passed, Lord Kyonosuke himself must have grown somewhat assured and may have discreetly informed his Tsukudo Hachiman residence of his whereabouts—though this is but this Chouan’s conjecture—”

"But," said Yamashironokami, shifting his massive knees as he turned slightly toward Chouan. "As for Osono, we appear to have conducted a most rigorous investigation—though it seems to have proven futile." Chouan emitted a soft chuckle. "That would be a fruitless endeavor from the outset, no matter how thoroughly you investigate Lady Osono."

“Hmm.” “Why is that?” “Now, have you not realized the matters concerning your lordship?”

“What do you mean by that? If that runaway Kyonosuke would inform his brother Kotarou of his whereabouts, then Osono is his wife—a newlywed deeply in love, practically still in the honeymoon phase. First off, wouldn’t he be more likely to inform his wife than his younger brother?” “Now, that is precisely the point. Given that Kyonosuke—a man cunning enough to evade such intense investigative scrutiny since New Year’s Day without leaving even a shadow of himself—would exercise caution to the utmost degree: even if he quietly informed his younger brother [of his whereabouts], to Lady Osono, his newlywed bride—your lordship, women are loose-lipped creatures incapable of guarding secrets. What if something were to inadvertently slip from Lady Osono’s lips—or if not that, might her demeanor not give him away? That is precisely where the meticulous Kyonosuke comes into play. Though Lady Osono and Lord Kotarou both reside together at the Tsukudo Hachiman estate, he may have discreetly informed only his younger brother through some channel while keeping Lady Osono entirely unaware of his hiding place—or so this Chouan humbly submits.”

He said with an air of sagacity. Yamashironokami nodded as if tentatively acknowledging the reasonableness of the argument, then— “But if Kotarou were to know his whereabouts, he would likely tell his brother’s wife.”

“Ah, but that is precisely why he has been strictly forbidden by his elder brother—”

“I see.” “Indeed, that could also be considered.” “Both Lady Osono and Lord Kotarou have already been investigated and returned to their estate.”

“Hmm.” “No matter how much we investigate, it proves futile—so we’ve temporarily withdrawn them for now.” “We’ve withdrawn them but are keeping a discreet yet strict watch.”

“That is the most prudent course of action. In that case, this humble one shall devote my full attention to overseeing Lord Kotarou’s affairs, so I earnestly request your lordship to handle Izuiya and the brush merchant with due care.” “Ah, as I stated earlier, I have given it due consideration—but this is not something to be rubber-stamped in haste.”

What could they be discussing? Yamashironokami and the town doctor Chouan were deep in conversation.

Two

The ridgepole-raising ceremony had reached a temporary pause, and the workers were starting to leave around that time. Fudeya Koubei of Shitaya Chojamachi, having suddenly remembered something about the plastering costs, decided to address it before forgetting—even though it was a celebratory day. Coming out from the inner room to the kitchen, he scanned the area for Master Kabedatsu, who had been contracted for the wall work. “Hey—isn’t Kuromoncho around here?” “Are you referring to Master Kabedatsu?” One of the maids present replied. “Oh my—he was right here until just moments ago. Where could he have gone?”

Since many people still remained, he searched among them for Master Kabedatsu but could not find him anywhere. “When do you suppose he returned?” “It seems he does not appear to be present, sir.”

“I see.”

With that, Koubei hurriedly called out the names of two or three menservants. But everyone was so absorbed in the feast—perhaps they had gone out to revel—that no one answered.

“Tch, those good-for-nothings.” “I don’t mind them drinking today since it’s a celebratory occasion, but without at least one reliable person around, we can’t get anything done.” The kettle steamed and bubbled noisily, so the young master, Koukichi, concerned from nearby, “Father, what is the matter?” “Is there something you require?” “Ah.” “There’s something I forgot to discuss with Master Kabedatsu regarding the plastering labor costs.” “I was thinking of sending someone to go call him, but every last one of them is dead drunk and not a single soul is home.” “These servants these days are utterly appalling—...”

When he heard Kabedatsu’s name, Koukichi concealed his delight and suddenly stepped forward.

“Since I happen to have some free time at the moment, perhaps I should make a quick trip to fetch Master Kabedatsu?” “Hmm, yes. Since it’s Kuromoncho, it’s not too far. Well then, Koukichi—I appreciate the trouble—could you handle that for me? Just tell him the old man has something to discuss, so if he’s free, ask him to spare some time and come along with you. It’s nothing urgent, but when you get old, your memory goes to pieces—so I want to settle this before I forget. That’s why I’m in a hurry.”

With his father Koubei’s words at his back, Koukichi was already running out of the Fudeya brush shop at their home. Kabedatsu’s daughter Omyou—that graceful figure of hers, like a wild lily cradling dew—was the one whom Koukichi secretly harbored feelings for. He had already seized opportunities time and again to convey his feelings through carefully timed confessions of affection he had rehearsed countless times before mirrors and sliding doors alike—but each time Omyou would turn her face away like an unseasonal camellia closing its petals against winter rain. Yet they say rejection only deepens this particular sickness of heart; Koukichi carried himself with all the brash confidence of an untested young master certain that between my dashing looks and our family’s coffers she’d inevitably yield—no matter how much she prattled about Kuromoncho districts or Kabedatsu lineages they were mere plasterers after all. Craftsmen. If some proper go-between persuaded Father Koubei and made formal overtures she’d capitulate before sunset—of this I’m certain—but I’m no uptown dandy needing intermediaries. I refuse such crude methods. Because I mean to claim her through my own efforts alone her feigned indifference only stokes this terrifying vanity. Ah but she remains untouched—of course she blushes when approached by one such as myself! No wonder then he remained oblivious to her revulsion inventing endless pretexts to visit Kabedatsu’s home multiple times daily like some lovesick errand boy.

It was precisely because of these feelings that today too, upon hearing his father’s words, he had proactively run out to summon Kabedatsu—though truth be told, for Koukichi, neither Kabedatsu nor his father’s business mattered in the slightest. All he desired was to catch even a single glimpse of Omyou’s face and exchange even a brief word with her—but Fudeya Koubei remained utterly unaware of his son’s true intentions. Ah, my son is truly commendable, he thought. Even if he’s treated like a young master and propped up by all those attendants, when it comes to my affairs—while the servants laze about—he dashes out like that himself. Those who employ people must be like that. Grateful, so grateful. As long as that Koukichi is here, the foundation of this Fudeya brush shop will not waver even slightly. What a blessing. If Koukichi maintains this attitude, the Fudeya brush shop could expand beyond stationery goods into pawnbroking and oil trades. As I have long been seeking Lord Wakasaka’s patronage through Mr. Chouan, we might eventually supplant that Izuiya Gohei—fellow Echigo native from Kashiwazaki—and have this Fudeya shop entrusted with official castle commissions instead.

Completely overjoyed, Fudeya Koubei inadvertently raised his voice and addressed the mistress of the household in the tearoom.

“Old woman, rejoice—Fudeya is thriving! This foundation won’t budge an inch!” Having been suddenly addressed and not knowing what it was about, the mistress could only think it was regarding the new framework. “Isn’t that only natural? We only just raised the ridgepole today, after all. Would the foundation start shaking so soon after being built?”

She had misunderstood. "What nonsense are you blathering? The old woman’s been growing senile lately," Fudeya Koubei muttered.

III

“In that case, my lord, I shall take my leave—”

“Oh, Chouan. Heading back?” “Well then—I’m counting on you to handle manipulating Kotarou and getting the information out of him.”

“Yes.” “Since this Chouan has taken on the task—though it may sound presumptuous—please rest assured entirely.” “Hmm.” “You’re as dependable as ever.” “I am most obliged.” “With your permission.” Having completed his farewells to Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Murai Chouan rose to depart when he noticed a darkened patch of sky—inky clouds heavy with rain now loomed over the garden trees like frayed cotton quilts. Stepping onto the veranda to observe them, Chouan turned back toward Yamashironokami inside the chamber and...

"My lord, it appears we are in for a terrible downpour." "Hmm, perhaps so." Yamashironokami’s voice sounded disinterested—as if telling Chouan to stop bothering him—perhaps already preoccupied with other thoughts.

“Rain?” “Indeed—it does appear rain approaches.” “I cannot let this ruin my finest work garments.” “With your permission, I shall hasten before it arrives.”

“Hmm. That’s fine. “Go quickly,” commanded Yamashironokami, calling out to the page waiting in the next room. “Now then—Chouan is leaving. Is anyone there? Have someone escort Chouan.” “No, please—that would only make me feel more indebted to you. Though it may be presumptuous of me, as I am familiar with the layout of your estate, I shall take my leave alone.” Even as they spoke, a sudden gust of damp wind swept in, rattling the sliding doors of the room violently. The sound of tree branches rustling came through with an awful intensity. With a feeling as though the world were rapidly plunging into darkness, within that gloom, the book left open on Wakasaka Yamashironokami’s desk fluttered white in the wind.

Yamashironokami, remaining seated, bent forward and looked up at the sky past the edge of the eaves. “This looks like it’s turning into a tempest.” “What a terrible storm—” Before he could finish speaking—Boom!—the roof ridge shook, and with a clatter from somewhere on the roof, the winter rain wasted no time. Already pounding the eaves in rapid succession—it was a full-blown downpour. “This won’t do!”

Yamashironokami stood up. Raindrops danced in from the open veranda, soaking the tatami and charging across to threaten Yamashironokami’s knees—so he scrambled into action. He stood up and went to close the sliding door himself. And then, seeing Murai Chouan still dawdling in the corridor, “Chouan, you cannot leave now. First, get in here. Come in and wait for the rain to stop.” “Right away!” As Chouan and the page who had risen to escort him, taking Yamashironokami at his word, were about to take refuge in the room, the rain grew fiercer still—pounding the ground, lashing the trees—and large droplets began seeping through the shoji panels with a plink, plink.

At the far end of the veranda, the sudden clamor of many voices sliding shutters into place could be heard.

At that moment, one of the attendants hurried along the rain-lashed veranda and, sliding open the shoji— “Lord.” “What is it?” “A man named Fudeya Koukichi, son of the brush shop in Shitaya Chojamachi, humbly requests an urgent audience.” “What? Fudeya Koukichi—the brush shop’s son—has come?” Yamashironokami and Chouan exchanged a fleeting glance. Chouan pushed forward and spoke.

“Oh—Mr. Koukichi? Well now, could it be some urgent matter has occurred?” “Well, have him come in.” “In here.”

Wakasaka Yamashironokami commanded the attendant. Before long came Koukichi—drenched like a sodden rat from sprinting through the rain from Shitaya to Yakimochizaka—timidly ushered into the room. Yet this timidity stemmed only from his soaked garments and unfamiliarity with grand samurai residences; in truth, Koukichi's heart held no trace of hesitation. He lacked even the composure to feign deference. For upon entering and finding Murai Chouan unexpectedly present with Yamashironokami—a man acquainted with both his father Koubei and himself—Koukichi neglected all formal greetings and instead lunged at Chouan like a lion seizing prey.

“Oh, Mr. Chouan—please understand! I can’t bear it—that Omyou would set her heart on such... such a wanted criminal—” “Shh! Now, Mr. Koukichi—do you realize where you are? You stand before His Lordship! Why this panic? What exactly are you trying to say?” “Ah!” Koukichi cried, as if suddenly noticing Yamashironokami’s presence. “Lord! An urgent report! He’s here! Here! That bastard is here! I peered through the back door’s gap—heard voices—heard their conversation—Ahh, ahh—I’m spent.”

“Now, what are you saying is there?” “Mr. Koukichi—pull yourself together.” “Just who is where—”

Chouan, supporting Koukichi as he began to collapse, pressed him. "What's happening?" Surrounded by several retainers who had emerged, Yamashironokami—with his sumo wrestler's bulk—stood imposingly tall, looking down at Koukichi.

Then—who was it, and where were they? When pressed by Chouan’s scolding interrogation, Koukichi answered in a voice thin as thread. “K-Kamio—” “Wh-what?!”

Yamashironokami’s face stiffened abruptly. Everyone recoiled as if struck, then noisily pressed toward Koukichi. Koukichi was saying. “Kamio—Kyonosuke, a samurai named—”

“Hmm.” “Where is Kamio Kyonosuke?” “Speak quickly!” When Yamashironokami rebuked him，Koukichi began sinking limply，

“Over there—” No sooner had he stretched out his right hand sideways than—being such a disheveled man who had run nonstop for so long—he collapsed unconscious right there. “Not to worry—I’ll revive him immediately. Just let this humble one tend to him a bit—” It would be disastrous if this man—who had come all this way to inform us of Kamio Kyonosuke’s whereabouts—were to stop breathing before revealing that crucial location. With everyone frantic with anxiety amid the panic, Chouan—seizing this moment to demonstrate his medical skills—was thoroughly in his element. Laying the unconscious Koukichi on his back,

"Pardon me for a moment."

While muttering something, he began calmly removing his juttoku coat. Even a quack doctor should be able to revive someone from a mere faint like Koukichi’s. Yamashironokami and all present held their breath, waiting for Koukichi to regain consciousness and speak again through Chouan’s efforts—

Outside had become a violent storm.

IV

Outside had become a violent storm.

And at Kabedatsu’s house in Kuromoncho too, they had closed the storm shutters early. The underlings had likely gotten drunk on Fudeya’s hospitality sake and then headed off to Yoshiwara as usual. Not a single one of them had returned yet.

Separated by the long brazier in the family sitting room, Kabedatsu and Kyonosuke sat facing each other. Omyou kept her head bowed bashfully behind her father Kabedatsu, fidgeting as if trying to hide herself.

The three had just finished their evening meal. The faint redness around Kyonosuke and Kabedatsu’s eyes likely came from exchanging drinks poured by Omyou before eating. Already, the three had grown so unreservedly close. Because Kabedatsu had casually tossed aside the jitte he’d raised against Kyonosuke. That blood-choked plea of Omyou’s—“Papa! This jitte—this metal rod—does it strip away all mercy? Pull yourself together!” And her declaration—“Isn’t he someone dear to me?”—precisely because these fierce words had burst from such a frail girl’s lips through love’s power to embolden the weak and humble the strong, they carried the crushing weight needed to break even stalwart Kabedatsu’s resolve. Like a drill, they twisted through Kabedatsu’s chest. Even Kabedatsu didn’t believe his attempt to arrest Kyonosuke—he who bore the official jitte—had been wrong. But still—still it stood thus: As Omyou said, this Kabedatsu held a jitte of office. Kyonosuke hadn’t come here knowing it was an informant’s den. In truth, disguised as a plasterer’s apprentice to evade pursuers, he’d willingly entered the lion’s maw. “A cornered bird in one’s robes even hunters spare”—he didn’t know such elegant phrases, but Omyou’s similar sentiment had clattered his jitte to the floor. Right—capturing this man now would bring him no glory. And—and his daughter fancied this samurai—Wait! Never mind that. Kabedatsu was a man too—here he’d shut his eyes tight, whether to help Kamio escape or hear his plans. This was his only daughter Omyou’s plea—the girl he’d raised alone with such care. If things turned sour, he could always hang himself—so reasoned this quick-witted Edokko.

Kuromoncho. Suddenly, there—clatter! Throwing down the jitte, Kabedatsu grinned.

“Hey, Omyou. That’s quite the clever thing to say,” he said, patting her back. “So this is what they mean about being shown the shallows by the child on your back. Enough now—laugh, go on and laugh.” “Guess I’ve gotten short-tempered in my old age too—hey, Lord Kamio, why don’t you give us a laugh as well?” “Laugh, and then we’ll have ourselves a nice long talk.” Like a different man altogether, Kabedatsu led the way into the family sitting room, settled himself neatly on the floor, and turned to smile at Kyonosuke—leaving the young samurai acutely self-conscious.

Returning the drawn Hebimaru dagger to its sheath and restoring his face—which had been filled with murderous intent—to its inherent gentleness, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sensation. Why would this girl have gone to such lengths for a complete stranger like himself—for him, now a notorious fugitive in Edo—even knowing full well he was a criminal? According to her earlier words, she cared for him—but if that were not merely a temporary ploy to dull the sharp edge of her father’s jitte, and she truly had feelings for him—that would be truly a troubling predicament. For Kamio himself—to trace it back—there existed a wife: Osono, daughter of Izuiya, renamed Sonoemi—a beloved and loving woman whose very connection to him had brought about his clash with Tobe Ouminosuke and led to this present wretched state. Ever since taking Ouminosuke’s head, the reason he had been evading the authorities’ eyes and moving covertly like this was primarily—as he had explained earlier to Kabedatsu—to target the heads of Osako Genba and the remaining sixteen men. But another part of him felt that because of that woman Sonoemi, he could not die even if he wished to. At the end of last year, they had come together, and no sooner had they managed to set up a home in Tsukudo Hachiman than he had finally reached his limit, and that incident occurred. Even while hiding like this since then—never once forgetting Osono’s visage even in sleep—despite having such a woman as Osono in his heart, if this girl loved him without knowing that… And if because of that, he had been saved from Kabedatsu’s jitte and the watchful eyes nearby, rescued from peril… Then ultimately, this girl was his benefactor. But since he had a wife named Osono, even if she were his benefactor, he could not accept her affection. This had turned into quite a predicament. One calamity passes, only for another to arise—such was the thought that crossed Kyonosuke’s mind.

"This humble one is most deeply obliged. Your kindness shall never be forgotten, not for generations to come." After stating these stiffly formal words of gratitude to Omyou—who sat listlessly on the wooden floor of the kitchen—Kyonosuke swiftly adjusted his disheveled clothing and followed Kabedatsu back to the family sitting room. When they sat facing each other, they were two men. There was nothing left to say. The two men lightly harmonized their voices and laughed—"Ahaha."

Five

The first stirrings of love—it was like catching a cold. A shiver ran through her—Achoo! A sneeze meant one had already caught a cold—and just as that held true, Omyou thought: Ah, what a splendid man he is! The moment she laid eyes on him with this thought, Cupid’s arrow had already pierced her heart. That is what one might say in modern times. As this was in the distant Kyōhō era, they might not have possessed such modern contrivances as Cupid’s arrows—yet even without them, people felt no particular inconvenience in falling in love. As proof: this very Omyou—well, in any case, this was no matter to be dismissed with laughter—for by this time, she had already fallen properly in love with Kyonosuke.

To be sure, she hadn't thrown herself between her father and Kyonosuke from the start with such clear resolve—not out of any conscious desire to rescue her lover from peril. It had simply been the Edokko spirit inherited from her father Kabedatsu—the hot-blooded temperament of a Shitaya native among Edokko—that had surged up in her chest in that instant. Before she knew it, guided by unconscious impulse, she had already taken that daring action. What she had uttered—she herself couldn't clearly recall. Among it all, one voice of hers still rang deafeningly in her own ears—"This person is someone dear to me!"

Ah, why had she uttered such an improper thing? In moments of mortal peril when one's true heart spills forth unbidden—if that were so—Omyou realized through this line of thinking that she harbored ardent devotion toward Kyonosuke. Unbearable shame surged through her entire being at this realization, and she became aware that her face burned like fire. After blurting out such words, he must surely be scorning her now as some vulgar creature. This too crossed her mind.

Omyou did not respond to Kyonosuke’s thanks. She could not respond. She was desperately trying to suppress the incomprehensible sobs threatening to escape. She could not look at Kyonosuke’s face.

For a long time, she remained sitting vacantly on the cold wooden floor like an idiot. Amidst the commotion, all three had failed to notice that Fudeya Koukichi had been eavesdropping at the back door until just moments before—nor that he had spun around and dashed out to the main street. In the family sitting room, Kabedatsu and Kyonosuke were conversing in fits and starts. The conversation consisted of harmless topics. Neither of them had yet touched upon the matter of the New Year’s Day incident or Kyonosuke’s course of action. However, Omyou heard her father’s voice saying this.

“As for your staying here, we’ve no objections whatsoever. But given this house sees many comings and goings, I fear it might not serve your interests in the end—that’s what concerns me.” Ugh, Father! Omyou felt resentful, wondering why he would say such a thing.

“Omyou,” her father called out. “Let’s have dinner.” “Add a dish.” “Run to Uo-an and tell them to prepare something.”

When Omyou, having hastily composed herself, hurried off to Uo-an, the clouds raced swiftly across the sky, and the weather took on the look of imminent tears.

Six

They likely meant to save their weighty discussion for after the meal. Between sake and rice, Kabedatsu and Kyonosuke did nothing but exchange trivialities. For Omyou, serving them drinks and food proved mortifying enough to make her wish she could disappear. Kyonosuke faced his meal tray without a single expression crossing his pale, refined features, showing no particular restraint. Though urged to drink more, he seldom refilled his cup. In the end, Kabedatsu poured his own sake. Soon the meal concluded. Before they knew it, outside had become a night of raging storm.

“It’s really coming down.”

“Indeed. The wind also seems quite fierce.” The voices exchanging such words in the family sitting room reached Omyou, who sat alone in the kitchen eating cold rice. I’m sitting here so agitated I can’t even swallow my rice—so why is he so calm? Are all samurai really that cold and aloof? Thinking this, Omyou felt a touch of loneliness.

And then, at that very moment—

She thought she glimpsed a flicker of light at the back door. On the oil-paper door, the light of a lantern appeared to move—or so she thought.

Oh! Could one of the apprentices have returned? Just as she tried to stand up, there came the terrifying sound of wind and rain—so violent it seemed ready to blow the house away. Amidst the rain, voices could be heard. They seemed to be coming from the front. They were hushed.

“Excuse me. “Excuse me,” they called two or three times. Then, “Is Mr. Kabedatsu here?”

Kabedatsu stood up and went. He slid open the latticed door with a clatter. “Kabedatsu is here, but who might you be at this hour?” When someone—absentmindedly peering as if trying to see through the rain’s depths—glanced that way, a mass of rain-soaked official lanterns surged forth from the alley’s shadow. It was an ominous group of arresting officers. Forty or fifty people—could there have been that many? Others appeared to have completely surrounded the house as well. With an air of composure, Mitsutani Kennosuke—a yoriki from Hatchōbori whose name sounded deceptively formidable—entered clattering in, bringing along Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, an investigator, and five or six other prominent officials.

The arresting officers were composed, but Kabedatsu was even more so. He glanced back slightly and swiftly signaled to Omyou. Omyou, too, amidst all that turmoil, showed not the slightest sign of panic. She quietly went to the family sitting room and sat before Kyonosuke. Kyonosuke already knew. In an instant, his bloodshot eyes scanned the room, but upon realizing the house must be surrounded by dozens of layers of men, he settled his knees that had begun to rise and looked at Omyou before him. Omyou sat properly upright, her eyes fixed on Kyonosuke’s.

“They’ve come.” “As for who informed on you, we have no way of knowing.” “However, please understand that it was not the case that we detained you and then reported you.” Kyonosuke nodded. It was a quiet, low voice. “I am well aware of that.” “That you all would have reported me—this humble one would never dream of such a thing.” “I was truly relieved to hear that.” Omyou smiled. “So, what will you do?”

Kyonosuke also smiled. “Well—since they’ve come, there’s no helping it. Though it goes against my wishes, there is no path forward but to stain your residence with blood. In a sword fight, loose, disheveled hair is the greatest hindrance. A hand towel—one—” “Do you mean a headband?” Omyou swiftly took the red-spotted deer-patterned sash she had been wearing and split it into two. “Please fight to your heart’s content—”

“I’m in your debt.” “Oh, it’s nothing,” he laughed. “Fifty or sixty filthy officials—” Just as Kyonosuke began to rise, Kabedatsu—who had been standing at the entrance arguing with the yoriki—was heard shouting in a booming voice: “Ha ha ha! If you doubt Kuromoncho, come right in—see the man yourself!” “We’re coming in whether you like it or not!” Mitsutani Kennosuke clattered into the family sitting room with Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, two or three constables, and Kabedatsu in tow.

Omyou stood before Kyonosuke as if trying to shield him. Kabedatsu settled heavily in the center of the room and firmly crossed his arms. Four or five arresting officers brandished their jitte and tried to strike Kyonosuke. Then, Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu caught sight of Kyonosuke and let out a shrill cry. “Oh! Isn’t this the master of the Conflict-Resolution Business?—No matter how eccentric someone might be, to dress in such an outlandish manner…” “Well, I just can’t handle Lord Ibara Ukon!” he exclaimed with a sudden guffaw, then turned to the dumbfounded Mitsutani Kennosuke. “Sir, this is a case of mistaken identity. This gentleman here is—well—the renowned master of the Conflict-Resolution Business in Kanda: Lord Ibara Ukon himself. Right, Kuromoncho?”

Conflict-Resolution Business—what exactly was that?

Around that time, in Kanda’s Obiya Alley, there stood a house of stylish construction bearing a mysterious signboard that read "Conflict-Resolution Business." Beside the signboard thickly brushed with "Conflict-Resolution Business," there was a smaller line of text reading, "We Purchase All Quarrels."

Truly an extraordinary business.

The proprietor was Ibara Ukon, a ronin from Geishū.

The mistress of the house was Shirazu no Ogen—a white-clad firebrand known as "Shirazu no Ogen."

Truly, what an unusual combination was engaged in such an unconventional business— ┌────────────────┐ │　Conflict-Resolution Business　　　　　│ │　　　We Purchase All Quarrels　　　│ └────────────────┘

**Your Life, I’ll Take It**

I

Kanda, Obiya Alley,

A house with a densely latticed facade bore an eye-catching signboard that read: “Conflict-Resolution Business.” “We Purchase All Quarrels” might have seemed utterly preposterous at first glance, yet this was no jest—it constituted a completely legitimate enterprise through and through— There was Ibara Ukon—a ronin from Geishū who operated as this “quarrel broker” procuring disputes—and across from him at the Conflict-Resolution Business’s elongated brazier sat an authentic Edo-style female boss who looked capable of delivering bone-rattling slaps, positioned in the conventional raised-knee posture with her vermilion-lacquered long pipe, languidly exhaling tobacco smoke: Shirazu no Ogen.

As for why she was called “Shirazu no Ogen”—this Ogen was a woman so striking ukiyo-e artists might have dreamed of her, twenty-seven or twenty-eight and in the full bloom of womanhood, an astonishing beauty whose innate chivalrous spirit became her undoing, leading her unwittingly down the path of a courtesan—her right hand now bearing a deep indigo tattoo etched in two lines across its back. It read: *"No objections permitted; life disregarded."* This recklessness became the origin of her epithet “Shirazu no Ogen”—but that was beside the point.

Here, what was truly mysterious was the master, Ibara Ukon.

It was not uncommon for strangers to bear a chance resemblance. However, this Ibara Ukon was the spitting image—truly identical in every way—to Kamio Kyonosuke, who had beheaded Tobe Ouminosuke in the palace on New Year’s Day, thrown the head through the palace guard’s duty room window, fled into hiding, and now transformed into a vengeful demon taking refuge with Kabedatsu in Shitaya’s Kuromoncho district. Kamio Kyonosuke of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards was said to be Edo’s—nay, perhaps all Japan’s—most handsome man. So enthralled were Izuiya Gohei and his wife by his looks that even before their daughter Osono took notice, they became enamored with pairing them as an ideal couple—like imperial dolls displayed side by side—and it was the parents who first stirred excitement over this exquisite arrangement, as previously recounted.

Moreover, when Kyonosuke—after lying low for seven days—visited Kabedatsu’s house on Seven Herbs Day disguised as a laborer, Omyou, who came out from the kitchen as usual while wiping her hands, nearly cried out in astonishment at the man’s overwhelming beauty. Why would an actor come here? she wondered. No—even among the actors of the Three Theatres, there probably wasn’t one like that—she thought. Even Kabedatsu, upon returning from the roof-raising at Fudeya Koubei’s residence and catching his first glimpse of this Kyonosuke waiting in the sitting room, blurted out: “That wanted poster and this brat! His clothes and appearance may have changed, but my eyes don’t lie. “Moreover, a man that handsome—no matter how vast Edo is—isn’t someone you’d find just anywhere.” “That’s it!” “This man is none other than Kamio Kyonosuke—the wanted criminal currently eluding every authority in Edo!” Kabedatsu realized in an instant—so strikingly handsome was Kyonosuke that the truth dawned on him with absolute clarity.

To think that someone could resemble the incomparably beautiful Kyonosuke as perfectly as two halves of a split melon—utterly indistinguishable from any angle—meant that Edo’s, no, Japan’s most handsome man now had his duplicate. Truly, Edo was vast indeed. A veritable doppelgänger of Kamio Kyonosuke—so identical even parents or siblings might confuse them—Ibara Ukon had established a stylish household with Shirazu no Ogen in Kanda’s Obiya Alley, operating a perilous venture they boldly dubbed the “Conflict-Resolution Business.” But what exactly did this entail?

He was not a lord’s retainer ruffian. That being said, he was certainly no townsman ruffian either. But he was, so to speak, a gallant of the streets. He was a man about town. As their sign declaring “Conflict-Resolution Business” suggests, if it’s a quarrel, they’ll take on any of them. They’ll take on anything. Needless to say, they would take on quarrels directed at them personally, but even in others’ disputes—if asked to provide backup—they would rush in wherever and whenever to side with the party in the right. However, in quarrels, the weaker party usually has justice on their side—so this quarrel-brokering couple, Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen, always turned the odds against larger forces, having gained experience through countless clashing swords and chaotic brawls!—yet there exists no record of them ever losing.

To explain: Ibara Ukon was Kamio Kyonosuke's exact living double—a handsome youth no less a striking figure than the original. Just as Kamio Kyonosuke stood as the unmatched master of Kyoshin-ryu swordsmanship, Ukon—true to his self-proclaimed status as a ronin from Geishū—was the era's sole prodigy carrying on the grand tradition of Kange-ryu: a unique rapid-sword style likened to a celestial steed traversing the heavens, developed along the shores of Futamigaura. Kange-ryu—a school that drew its name from a phrase in the Analects: "Observing transformations in stillness."

II It was nothing as lenient as the various schools then practiced in Edo. In stillness, he quieted body and mind, observing the shifting tides around him—yet once unleashed, his blade became an indomitable force sundering stone, cleaving mountains, and shattering men without cease. Such was Ibara Ukon of the Conflict-Resolution Business. To top it off—though I won’t spout pretentious declarations like “Even amidst a forest of a hundred swords, I shall prevail”—there stood Shirazu no Ogen: a beauty hardened by sheer will and obstinacy, one who had forgotten how fear felt when it should have arisen.

A demon with an iron club. Two of a kind. With this combination, it was only natural they would never be outmatched no matter what quarrel they entered. Throughout Edo, whenever any dispute—regardless of its nature—proved even slightly troublesome, people brought everything to this Conflict-Resolution Business. Moreover, no sooner had Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen ambled out from Obiya Alley than in most clashes, the side that enlisted them was fated to prevail—thus their enterprise thrived splendidly.

Such was the Conflict-Resolution Business. Ibara Ukon, the Kange-ryu swordsman, was in appearance a slender, refined man of the same build as Kamio Kyonosuke. Given that he and this spirited female boss Shirazu no Ogen were residing together in a townhouse, visitors to their Obiya Alley home would find a crimson-tipped fire-bamboo tube... all affecting the airs of a newlywed household enjoying their undisturbed domesticity. Across the long brazier slouched a man draped in what appeared to be a coarse tanzen robe like an elder brother who had been captured alive at a geisha house—his almost feminine face listless—and this was none other than Ibara Ukon: Edo’s renowned conflict specialist and master swordsman of the fully transmitted Kange-ryu tradition.

But he did not look the part. With the theaters closed, he resembled an onnagata idling at home. He toasted a sheet of nori over the fire while nursing a drink. “Hey Ogen—this storm’s been howling forever,” he said. “Got a feeling someone’ll drag a real brawl our way today. See, whenever trouble’s brewing somewhere? I always know.” He flexed his twitching forearm. “When this starts jumpin’—oh, here it comes—I think it, and damn if it don’t show up every time.”

He was making carefree remarks.

Ogen, likely because the fingertips she had used to lift the heated sake were hot, hurriedly brought them to her ear and pinched her seashell-like earlobe while—

“Oh? Is that so,” “That’s quite the handy ability you’ve got there.” “So what is it then—is that arm of yours twitching today?” She asked with a laugh. Indeed, on the back of Ogen’s right hand, one could read the two-line tattoo: *No Opinions Needed* and *Life Unheeded*. “Ha ha ha!” Ibara Ukon let out a hearty laugh—uncharacteristic of his delicate features—and declared, “That’s just it! It’s been twitching nonstop since morning.” “See? It’s been twitching so much that my sake’s spilling—can’t even hold the cup steady.”

Ukon deliberately shook the hand holding his sake cup to demonstrate. The golden liquid overflowed from the rim of the cup, ran down Ukon’s hand, and dripped from his elbow to his knee. “Oh? “Oh no! Something to wipe with—a cloth—” “Look at that—spilling sake like this isn’t right. What a waste.” “Your kimono can’t handle this either!” “You don’t need to put on such an act—I already know.” “Really, there’s no one as meddlesome as you.” “Here, use this to wipe up.”

The cloth she tossed with a *plop* hit Ukon’s face. Casually grabbing it and wiping around the face of the adorable man, Ogen gazed at him entranced—as if she wanted to devour him—in a scene as idyllic as a gentle spring breeze.

But Ogen grew somewhat somber, “But really, if not even a single fight comes our way today, wouldn’t that be a problem?” “Exactly. With one hardship after another like this, first off, my body’s going to waste away.”

Given their line of work in the Conflict-Resolution Business, even the husband and wife’s complaints took on a different flavor.

At that moment—Crash! The lattice door swung open with a bang, and an unfamiliar voice called out.

“Excuse me. Is this the Conflict-Resolution Business?”

He had come for the Conflict-Resolution Business. It’s here! Ukon and Ogen exchanged relieved looks—then Ukon, setting down his sake cup, stuck out his tongue slightly as if to say "See?", laughing as he tapped his right arm.

Ogen twisted her body toward the edge of the entranceway.

“Yes. This is indeed the house you are seeking, but may I ask from where you have come—?” “Is the Master of Conflict in residence?” Everything he said was growing stranger by the moment.

Even the usually unflappable Ogen blinked her eyes in surprise at being addressed as "Master of Conflict"— “Yes, if it’s Lord Ukon you seek, he is here, but—” “That’s a relief.” “This humble one is Kabedatsu, a plasterer from Shitaya Kuromoncho.”

As he spoke from outside, in the very moment Kabedatsu slid open the shoji at the entrance step, Ibara Ukon had already sprung upright. “Old man! What’s this—hey, a fight?” Then slowly: “Been waiting for this.” “Now now—you there! Jumping in before even hearing the tale.”

Ogen furrowed her beautiful brows in admonishment. Ogen’s smiling face turned toward the entrance.

“Are you from Kuromoncho? Well then—do come up.” “Please—come right up.” Behind Kabedatsu，a shadowy figure resembling his companion stirred.

III

Like a moth to flame—though in this case, the moth being Kamio Kyonosuke meant capture would prove no simple matter. At any rate, the house he had unwittingly entered belonged to Kabedatsu of Kuromoncho—a boss among police informants—and just as it seemed a violent clash was imminent, he had been saved from peril by the chivalrous spirit and secret affections of Kabedatsu’s daughter Omyou. Yet this respite too was undone when Fudeya Koukichi—meddlesome son of the Fudeya brush shop—eavesdropped at the back entrance and, driven by half-baked duty and performative loyalty, rushed to report it all to Wakasaka Yamashironokami at the Kōrayashiki estate on Jealousy Slope in Ushigome. The name “Jealousy Slope” arose from this incident—but that is a digression.

But when Koukichi—on the verge of revealing Kamio Kyonosuke’s whereabouts—collapsed from exhaustion and lost consciousness there before Yamashironokami, Murai Chōan, who happened to be present, revived him. Thus Yamashironokami, having learned Kamio’s current location from Koukichi’s lips, immediately dispatched a messenger to Hatchōbori to relay the information. At that word from Hatchōbori, they dispatched Yoriki Mitsutani Kennosuke as arrest commander along with investigator Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu and forty or fifty of Otomatsu’s handpicked officers. The squad braved the stormy night to assault Kabedatsu’s house in Kuromoncho—all proceeded smoothly as they fully surrounded the perimeter and simultaneously forced their way inside. But when—

Indeed, there stood a man who looked every bit the craftsman, positioned as if sheltered by the daughter; yet for all that, he himself hadn’t altered his complexion in the slightest, and above all, his master Kabedatsu had settled down cross-legged with perfect composure.

This was none other than Kabedatsu of Kuromoncho—a man of renown. Though a craftsman by trade, when it came to arrests, even Yoriki Mitsutani Kennosuke held him in high regard—this was Kabedatsu of Kuromoncho. If this man were indeed Kamio Kyonosuke—the wanted fugitive as reported by Yamashironokami—then Kabedatsu’s Kuromoncho operatives should have apprehended him long ago without necessitating their intervention. However, the atmosphere inside the house was harmonious and amiable; it seemed the three of them had been engaged in casual conversation until now. This might be a preposterous case of mistaken identity—

Afterwards—might some uncontrollable situation arise in Kuromoncho? So thinking, he barked, “Charge!” Even as he issued commands, Mitsutani Kennosuke felt creeping unease—when suddenly from amidst his men brandishing jutte ready to strike came Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu’s booming laughter. “Oh! “Now isn’t this the Master of Conflict-Resolution Business? “I must beg your pardon for failing to recognize you earlier—this humble one has quite lost face. “Ahahaha! You are indeed Lord Ibara Ukon of Kanda Obiya Alley, are you not?”

Was it a brilliant case of mistaken identity—or was there some hidden motive? Had he glared suspiciously while deliberately recalling someone resembling Kyonosuke to uphold his obligation to Kuromoncho and save him? Regardless, when Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu laughed and spoke up, Kabedatsu—seizing this godsend—let out a breath he’d been holding and relaxed his tension. “Hahahaha! Kinkanjaya—so you’ve finally noticed.” “Your eyes are as sharp as ever.” “Indeed, this person is the one you just mentioned—from Kanda Obiya Alley—”

“Lord Ibara Ukon, Master of the Conflict-Resolution Business. “Well—he’s exactly that.” Kabedatsu now seemed to fully grasp the situation and intend to help. Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu signaled with his eyes and expression as he spoke in an instructive manner. Kamio Kyonosuke too had swiftly comprehended the ruse, “No—through idle curiosity alone have I adopted this trifling attire. Though I know not why, it has brought unwarranted suspicion upon me and troubled your honorable selves.” “Pray forgive this impertinence,” he laughed, then turned to Mitsutani Kennosuke. “As this man has stated, sir officer, this humble one is indeed Ibara Ukon.”

Since he had declared it so resolutely and Kinkanjaya was there to vouch for him, the officials were put at ease, deeming no further investigation necessary. “Kuromoncho—this was entirely our mistake. Forgive us.” Mitsutani Kennosuke, leaning back in high spirits, led the arresting officers away as they were and returned. Thus, the situation was resolved with laughter over the mistaken identity—but as Kabedatsu and Omyou clasped their hands in prayer at the retreating back of Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, who had knowingly extended aid while feigning ignorance, Kamio Kyonosuke—the very man who had twice narrowly evaded arrest—later joined them in pondering the matter, the three of them racking their brains.

For tonight alone, thanks to Kinkanjaya’s mediation, they had settled matters without incident—but remaining in this house was perilous beyond measure. Though Omyou could not bear to part with Kyonosuke by any means, precisely because she loved him, she refused to keep him exposed to the risk of arrest. *Pon*—Omyou slapped her knee. The idea that had struck her was Ibara Ukon, the conflict-resolution master of Kanda Obiya Alley, whose name Kinkanjaya had just divulged.

As if urging them to act on it, Kinkanjaya had even provided detailed information down to the location in Kanda. “Mr. Kinkanjaya likely pretended to mistake you on purpose—but who knows? You might truly bear a resemblance.”

Omyou said. With this settled, it was Kabedatsu of Kuromoncho who arrived at the house in Obiya Alley the following morning, bringing along Kamio Kyonosuke disguised as a craftsman.

IV

“Yes—might you be the Master of Conflict Resolution?” “This humble one is Kabedatsu, a plasterer by trade in Kuromoncho of Shitaya.” “I beg you remember me kindly.” “And here stands my—no—the Madam.” “Oh—spare us the formalities.” “Ohoho! I’m but that shameless creature they call Shirazu no Ogen.” “You honor me too greatly.” “Now then, Master—” “Enough greetings—I’ve no patience for this.” “You here for a fight?”

“Now now—you needn’t rush through matters so—no no—he’s good-natured at heart really—but for a samurai—his tongue does run rather rough.” “Please don’t concern yourself—feel free to speak of anything.” “No, I am most humbled. “This isn’t just any fight—soon enough, seventeen proper castle-serving samurai heads will come tumbling out one after another, teetering on the brink of disaster.” “What? “Seventeen samurai heads—th-they’re about to come tumbling out!” “Wh-where? Where is it?” “I’ll head there now.” “Ogen, bring out the sword.”

“No no—this is about how they might tumble out one by one, in proper order—” “What? It’s just talk?” “Calm yourself and speak properly.”

“You’re the one who needs to calm down and listen properly!” “So c’mon—first off, who are these seventeen heads and where’re they from? And then—what bastard’s plannin’ to make seventeen heads roll and why? Let’s hear it.” “Yes.

“This young man standing behind me—he is no ordinary youth.” “Hmm.” “To tell ya the truth—I’ve been gawkin’ at that fella since he walked in. Ain’t he the spittin’ image of me?” “Hey, Ogen.” “True enough.” “When this craftsman trailed after Mr. Kuromoncho up here earlier, I near jumped outta my skin—thought I was seein’ double of you!” “Hey!” “The longer I look, the more he’s your livin’ copy.” “Ugh—the way he smirks? Downright unnervin’.” “Gives me the creeps something fierce.”

“The more I look at him,” Ibara muttered, “the stranger I feel inside. Am I this me here? Or is that me over there the real one? Which me is truly me—or am I not me at all—” “Stop spouting such nonsense,” Ogen cut in. “Things are tangled enough as it is—” “Hey you!” Ibara wheeled on Kamio. “You’re not some transformation of mine, are you?” “Actually,” Ogen interjected, “the matter we’ve come about concerns this gentleman—what Kabedatsu of Kuromoncho keeps insisting—Lord Kamio, won’t you greet them properly instead of making me do all the talking?”

“No—this humble one too finds himself so astounded by our uncanny resemblance that he can scarcely speak.” “Is that humble one myself, or is this humble one myself? Perhaps that Kinkanjaya fellow truly mistook us at his core.” “Honestly.” “I’m starting to think this Kuromoncho isn’t like that anymore either.” “What are you two marveling at?” “Judging by his manner of speech—that fellow in the half-coat seems to be a samurai—”

“Indeed—this humble one is a samurai.” “I am Kamio Kyonosuke.”

“Wh-What?! K-Kamio Kyonosuke? That... that Kamio Kyonosuke of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards—the one who beheaded someone on New Year’s Day and fled?!” “Exactly so. If that’s Kamio Kyonosuke—what have I done?!”

“Hmm! You’ve come at last.” “You’ve come.” “You have kindly come to visit.” “I see.” “Are you Lord Kamio Kyonosuke?” “Ah, you’ve carried that out splendidly.” “You’ve acted with splendid resolve.” “Delightful.” “Ogen and I have always spoken of you.” “Somehow, getting that Mr. Kamio to lend his skills—ah ha! I’ve figured it out!” “As for these seventeen heads that will roll—what could they be? They’re the remaining seventeen palace guards.” “Very well! Let us proceed!” “This humble one has never felt such relief now that my life’s battles are settled. Rejoice, Ogen.” “There’ll be no more botched brawls now.”

“Shh! What’s that? It’s not like we’re some lone house in the wilderness—shouting ‘Kamio, Kamio’ at the top of your lungs! Don’t you realize Mr. Kuromoncho here is sweating bullets?”

“Between us samurai，things click fast.” “Master of Brawls—Kuromoncho here shows his thanks like this.” “No—’stead of leanin’ on Kuromoncho—I，Kamio Kyonosuke，ask your help proper this time.”

“Now, now—hands—raise your hands—hey, Ogen. Go buy sake!”

“Righto—I’m off.” “I’m off right this second!”

5

Thus, with Kuromoncho acting as intermediary, Kamio Kyonosuke ended up taking refuge as a dependent with Ibara Ukon of the conflict-resolution trade. It was as if two identical men resided in the same house—and indeed, to blind society’s eyes, Kamio Kyonosuke had meticulously styled himself from his hair down to the minutest details of his attire to perfectly match Ukon. Thus, so long as the two were never seen together, the neighbors remained none the wiser. One moment Ibara Ukon would go out—the next moment that same Ibara Ukon would be inside the house. Oh, when did he return?—you might wonder, but since it was such an unconventional household full of eccentrics, no one paid it any mind. Everyone was simply impressed by Ibara Ukon’s uncanny ability to appear and vanish, never once noticing the presence of a body double named Kyonosuke.

However, with two identical-looking men residing in the same house—as though her husband had doubled himself—one might expect Shirazu no Ogen to face considerable confusion. Yet as it turned out, no matter how closely they resembled each other, they remained distinct individuals. Through slight differences in their facial expressions and body language, Ogen could easily distinguish them, leaving virtually no risk of mistaking one for her husband.

Before Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen, Kamio Kyonosuke recounted in full detail—sparing no particular—the course of events that had compelled him to kill Tobe Ouminosuke in such a manner, his present state of having transformed his entire being into a vengeful demon, and his resolve to claim the remaining seventeen heads. “The sole matter weighing on my mind is that since going into hiding, I have been unable to visit my humble abode at Tsukudohachiman Shrine—and now my wife Osono and brother Kotarou have been taken into custody, subjected to harsh interrogation to force them to reveal this humble one’s whereabouts.” “Though they have likely already been pardoned and returned home—when I think of that—please understand, Lord Ukon.” “This Kyonosuke is tormented by heartrending grief.” “Though if I could meet my wife, there would be much to discuss—well, this is mere grumbling.” “I let some grumbling slip.” “Ah, please laugh.”

It was Ukon and Ogen who heard this.

Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen—they loved brawls more than their three daily meals. As for Kyonosuke—outnumbered and now marked by the shogunate—he found himself dodging and fleeing through the shadows. What’s more, he declared his intent to sever seventeen heads one after another. Hearing this alone, driven by their innate chivalry and appetite for combat, this brawling couple naturally pledged lifelong cooperation. Thus emerged two men—Kamio Kyonosuke and Ibara Ukon—indistinguishable from each other in both features and swordsmanship, hiding under the guise of their conflict-resolution trade. With Shirazu no Ogen’s beguiling smiles and unflinching grit at their side, they honed their blades amidst the clamor of the streets, eyes gleaming like swords as they stalked their seventeen targets through time and space.

Kamio Kyonosuke was a practitioner of the Kyoshin-ryu. Ibara Ukon was the peerless sword of Kanka-ryu in all the land. Shirazu no Ogen—well, there was no such thing as *Ogen-ryu*, but regardless, she was a fearsome matriarch who would cut into the heart of a brawl and, with a charming smile, deliver some line. With these three elements aligned—Kyonosuke and Ukon being utterly indistinguishable—it made for a truly confounding situation. For the seventeen men whose lives were targeted, this alliance could hardly have been a welcome one.

Now, having heard Kyonosuke’s feelings for his wife Osono directly from his own lips, Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen—being refined individuals—quickly grasped the situation. They resolved not only to inform Kyonosuke that he was safely at home to ease his mind but also—depending on circumstances—to secretly bring Osono to the house on Obiya Alley and let him see her after so long; such was the nature of this quarrelsome couple, who could not rest until acting on any idea the moment it struck them. With plans to suddenly bring Osono and surprise her, they kept it secret from Kyonosuke and set out together.

They set out by palanquin. They lined up two palanquins and departed the house on Obiya Alley just as evening fell. The setting sun of Edo, reflecting off the metropolis's dust-laden haze, gave its crimson hue a violet cast. As if pursued by a kite, a flock of crows swarmed across the sky, wheeling high and low.

Heading toward Kudanshita, they approached Manaibashi. In that area, mid-ranking samurai residences lined the streets, their walls casting shadows over the thoroughfare with protruding branches that left it dim even at noon. Now at dusk, an inky blackness like pure water had begun to swallow the surroundings, leaving the streets deserted. The palanquin carrying Ogen at the front was abruptly set down by the roadside. The front bearer’s straw sandals had come loose—they needed a moment here to retie them before continuing. As the lead bearer steadied the poles, Ukon’s following palanquin halted too. Flipping up the curtain to peer out, Ukon—

“What’s this? What’s going on here?”

“Yes, sir. Let me just tighten my straw sandals, sir.” “Tch, what a slovenly bastard you are.” “My deepest apologies, sir.”

6

“Now, Koukichi—because *you* went spouting such nonsense and rushed into Lord Wakasaka’s estate, His Lordship took it all at face value! He promptly ordered Hatchōbori to deploy a sizable force, but when they arrived—wasn’t it just a case of mistaken identity? That ‘Kamio Kyonosuke’ turned out to be Ibara Ukon, some ronin running a conflict-resolution business over in Kanda Obiya Alley!” “So you shouldn’t go around spouting such reckless nonsense.” “Even I, who got involved as a mediator, have never been in such a predicament.” “Thanks to you, until I make some redeeming feat to compensate for this, even I, Chōan, can’t show my face at His Lordship’s estate anymore—haven’t I?” “From now on, I’ll have you stop spouting such reckless nonsense.”

Today, Murai Chōan went to Fudekō in Shitaya Nagamachi, quietly met only his son Koukichi, and vented his anger with these words. There’s no way that’s the case—but… Certainly that was Kamio Kyonosuke—yet Murai paid no heed to Koukichi’s defense that he had heard such a conversation between Kabedatsu and his daughter. “In any case, I expect you to be more careful from now on.”

With that, Murai Chōan—still huffing with irritation—stepped out of Fudekō’s shop. At that very moment, he began his homeward journey to Kōjimachi Hirakawachō along the same route as the palanquins carrying Shirazu no Ogen, Ibara Ukon, and their quarrelsome group.

This Murai Chōan. Now that Fudeya was expanding its business beyond writing brushes and paper into the broader oil trade—and with Izuiya Gohei of Kanda Mikawachō, who had until now held exclusive charge of the castle’s oil commissions, faltering due to his son-in-law Kamio Kyonosuke’s incident—Chōan had been commissioned by Fudeya Koubei to act as a bridge for bribes to Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Commander of the Palace Guards. For it was reasoned that by appealing through Wakasaka during this opportune moment, they could surely oust Izuiya and secure the castle’s oil commission in his stead.

Fudekō had supplied writing brushes, paper, ink, and similar goods to the Chiyoda Palace Guards and sought closer ties with Yamashironokami. He was a merchant from Kashiwazaki in Echigo like Izuiya Gohei—precisely because they shared this origin that Izuiya Gohei and Fudekō had long been fierce rivals in their careers. This presented the perfect opportunity to overthrow Izuiya Gohei. Moreover, Yamashironokami—whose finest subordinate had been slain and forced to flee—grew increasingly desperate over Kamio Kyonosuke’s continued attitude that seemed to mock him. Since this turmoil stemmed entirely from Kyonosuke’s wife Osono—Izuiya’s Osono—he naturally held Izuiya in equal contempt. With Chōan—favored by Yamashironokami—now mediating matters, Fudeya Koubei considered the deal as good as sealed. Day after day he waited expectantly, certain a summons would soon arrive from the castle formally appointing him to oversee all official oil commissions—and yet—

The money delivered from Fudekō to Yamashironokami as a bribe had half of it embezzled en route by Chōan’s hand, leaving only a partial sum to reach Yamashironokami’s coffers—so Yamashironokami privately deemed Fudeya a stingy bastard. What’s more, due to Koukichi’s informant debacle this time, Yamashironokami could no longer show his face at Hatchōbori. This cast Fudeya in an unsavory light, making it unlikely the matter would proceed as smoothly as Fudeya optimistically assumed.

Since Murai Chōan had been pestering [Yamashironokami] so persistently about Fudeya—though, from Chōan’s perspective, this was because he had a promise of ample compensation from Fudeya once the matter was settled—Lord Wakasaka Yamashironokami, in exchange, assigned Chōan himself a task. If that went well, he would work to secure Fudeya’s oil commission—he didn’t say it outright, but the understanding was there. It was the implicit agreement between Lord Wakasaka Yamashironokami and Chōan.

The task was to lure out Kyonosuke’s younger brother Kotarou and, whether by pressuring or deceiving him—something that relied on Chōan’s skill—force him to reveal where his older brother Kyonosuke was hiding. That was it.

7 Chōan had readily accepted the task and withdrawn from his lord’s presence, but upon reflection, he had no intention of carrying it out in earnest—Chōan was a notorious rogue with an inherently violent nature. All he needed was to wait for the right moment to lure out Kotarou and kill him cleanly—that would suffice. If he claimed the spineless wretch had died during interrogation, Yamashironokami would consider the matter closed. First and foremost, it was precisely because a greenhorn like Kotarou still drew breath that he’d been saddled with this nuisance of a task. Kill him, and that would be the end of it. Yes—after eliminating Kotarou, there remained Osono: Kyonosuke’s wife who’d stirred such commotion among the palace guards—no, Izuiya’s Osono, reigning champion of beauty rankings. With Kotarou gone and her husband a fugitive who dared not show his face, why not find a way to make Osono his own, even just once? Such vile calculations churned through Murai Chōan’s mind as he began nurturing this outrageous ambition.

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 lowered—pondered whether to head straight to Tsukudo Hachiman to devise some pretext for meeting Kotarou, or to bide his time a little longer. With both hands tucked into the sleeves of his juttoku robe, he ambled along, feigning meek contemplation but deep in thought as he approached Manaita Bridge at Kudan-shita.

Hearing voices, Murai Chōan suddenly looked up. Two palanquins stood halted in the evening dusk. Then—at that moment—the face of the samurai who had flipped up the rear palanquin's curtain and peered out!

"Oh!"

With that, Chōan rubbed his eyes from a little ways away. Chōan did not know Kamio Kyonosuke’s face. However，since he was a much-talked-about figure these days，from what he heard，he could roughly imagine his appearance. Hmm—could that be Kyonosuke? But in the very instant he thought this，Chōan dismissed the notion. No—there was no way Kamio Kyonosuke，a wanted man，would be passing through here in a palanquin at this hour. However，seeing how closely he resembled the description he had heard of his appearance，could this perhaps be his younger brother Kotarou? Thinking this，he peered into the front palanquin—and through a gap，he could see a gaudy woman’s kimono. Chōan asked himself，answered himself，and—Umm!— He nodded to himself. Kotarou and Osono—there could be no mistake about that—. He came to a halt and waited for the palanquin to depart. Before long，the palanquin lifted off the ground once more and began to move with a sharp tat-tat-tat. At that moment，Chōan caught up and called out.

“Might you be Lord Kotarou?” “Would the palanquin behind not be carrying Lord Kotarou?”

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

“Yes, I am Kotarou.” “And who might you be—?”

The palanquin bearers slightly slackened their pace, and the palanquin began to halt. That moment was what Chōan had targeted. Though nominally a doctor, given that Chōan was a disreputable sort, he always carried a nine-and-a-half-inch blade on him. That blade flashed like fish scales in the darkness as it shot forward. At the same time, Chōan let out a terrible groan.

“What a damn pain! Kotarou, perish!” He lunged forward and thrust his blade toward the palanquin. But in that same instant, from within the palanquin, a silver straight rod—a three-shaku blade—ripped through the curtain and thrust outward. A voice rang out. “Look at the tsuba!” Gah! As Murai Chōan focused his eyes on the tsuba of the sword presented to him, there, in gold on a black background, were the four characters: “Kenka Tosei.” As Chōan whirled around and began to flee in a panic, the palanquin carrying the man and woman’s laughter had already vanished into the evening gloom.

The one who was startled was Chōan. In his panic, intending to flee into some nearby refuge, he came gasping for breath to the corner estate—passing through Nakasaka’s foot, then from Horidome no Yokochō ascending straight toward Mochinoki-zaka—the residence of Osako Genba, a member of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards.

And there, yet another—an even greater shock—awaited Chōan!

A large notice had been posted on Osako Genba’s front door—"Your Life, If You Please!" In small print below: *“Now Arriving.”* *Line of Bloodshed and Annihilation*

I

If one were to speak of a fitful awakening, Osako Genba was its living embodiment.

Osako Genba was one of the Chiyoda Castle Goshobanshi, a stout man in his forties. The Goshobanshi could be likened to a modern-day secretariat office, which tended to have many young recruits. Here, they would learn the ropes of shogunate administration, and those recognized for their talent would be assigned to higher positions—those destined for advancement would advance. Those who did not advance did not advance. This was true then as it is now—but in that era, free from complex socioeconomic woes like unemployment or poverty, things were far more leisurely. When a cushion (not a chair) among the Goshobanshi’s seating became vacant, one might expect them to announce the opening in some issue of the official gazette and receive thousands of applications—hundreds from top scholars, hundreds from Imperial University graduates—only to end up selecting a Mr. Crane-Turtle-Ten-Thousand-Man for his auspicious name… but no such absurdity occurred. Once one was summoned to the Goshobanshi, so long as they arrived punctually for duty and departed punctually, and in between merely pretended to work while idling about efficiently enough—provided they avoided any major blunders—they would almost never be dismissed from their post. It was an era of true leisure and ease—as if they believed the Tokugawa reign would endure unchanged for ten thousand generations—.

“Is someone there—?” In the flickering candlelight, Osako Genba abruptly furrowed his brows.

Oh! He thought. Creak!—At the edge of the veranda corridor, a floorboard seemed to groan as if bearing someone’s weight. A trick of the ears? That must be it.

The servants and other household members had finished locking up earlier and had now all retreated to their respective rooms. Samurai households kept early hours at night. At this hour, there should be no one walking near Genba’s quarters. I must be getting a bit nervous—though “nervous” was too refined a term, one that Osako Genba couldn’t possibly know, as it was coined in later ages. At any rate, thinking something along those lines and laughing at himself as if mocking his own thoughts, he abruptly bared his white teeth in a grin before turning his gaze back to the Noh libretto.

He sat formally upright, lightly tapping his knee and keeping time with his hands. "I am but a humble fisherman dwelling in these parts." Osako Genba—a man with an unexpectedly refined side given his usual demeanor—was engrossed in practicing a passage from the Noh play *Hagoromo* when night reached the first part of the Dog hour, five-toki—what we now call eight o'clock in the evening. A wind had risen outside; garden trees roared like crashing waves while overhead in the old house, roof beams shuddered with stifled-sob vibrations. As this noise threatened to overwhelm his chanting voice, Genba raised his pitch further... and just as he delivered the line, "Upon this pine hangs a robe of wondrous beauty!"—

Creak! Once again came a heavy thud against the veranda outside the shoji screens—the sound of something weighty stepping on the wooden boards.

Osako Genba was by no means a cowardly man. But involuntarily gulping down his voice, his dulled eyes glanced back at the tokonoma behind him. There, on a deer-antler sword stand, lay two magnificent blades—Osako Genba’s prized weapons forged by Sabei Kanemasa of Osaruhata in Soshu, said to have mastered fire and water in their creation, peerless masterworks among new swords. But here was the issue: someone had bound both large and small blades from sheath to hilt with sturdy cord, tied in rock-arrow knots.

Ha! With that, Genba kicked over the Noh libretto stand and stood rigid in the center of the room. No one. Only Genba's shadow stretched and shrank darkly across the tatami mats. The sudden movement made the nearby candle flame flicker in the gust from his garments. In that sitting room where pale light sank... When he listened intently, there was no sound but the measured tread of the profound night. But living beings have an aura—a presence unique to life itself. That presence now pierced through Genba from beyond the tightly closed shoji screens. Without taking his eyes off the veranda's shoji screens, he began to back away slowly, slowly toward the tokonoma.

II

Near Nakasaka in Kudan. The corner estate extending from Horidome no Yokochō toward Mochinoki-zaka was the residence of Osako Genba—a hatamoto (direct retainer) of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards with a stipend of two thousand koku. This Genba. In a guardroom teeming with young men, having reached his forties meant he undoubtedly lacked administrative talent. In secret, his colleagues derided him as Lord Genba the eternal low-ranking guard. But Osako Genba—that eternal low-ranking guard—embodied the adage that heaven grants no two gifts, a truth enduring even today. Those obsessed with sports—baseball or rugby players and their ilk, all brawn and muscle—rarely count scholarly geniuses among them. Conversely, scholars tend toward pallid complexions and such frailty that on blustery days they might be swept skyward—though perhaps that overstates it. Regardless, gaunt and spindly frames prevail. In days past it held true—indeed, Osako Genba remained an eternal low-ranking guard, perpetually relegated to some shadowed corner of the secretariat office, never one to command influence in official matters... save for his blade. His swordsmanship. The single quality that compelled all deference toward Osako Genba was—

After all, it had been established that he possessed both strength and swordsmanship skills, so Osako Genba—though not particularly clever by nature—had attained a relatively high rank among the low-ranking guards due to seniority, and there was no one in the castle who dared cross him. Thus, though forty was an age of mature judgment, far from shielding Kamio Kyonosuke—the newcomer whom Tobe Ouminosuke and the others tormented at every turn over trivial matters, starting with the affair involving Izuiya’s Osono—this Genba instead spent his days spearheading the bullying himself, partly to curry favor with Group Captain Tobe Ouminosuke.

Even the New Year’s Day when the incident occurred was no exception. To Kyonosuke as he lay prostrate, “Is he crying?” “What? He’s crying?”

“Well now! Seems even a doll would shed tears at this.” “Amusing. Take a look.” “That’s right. Pull him up and show his face!” “Never mind that—grab his topknot and yank him up!” It was somewhat immature. But given the circumstances at the time, there had been a momentum to it. Carried away by momentum, he reached out his hand, firmly grasped Kyonosuke’s hair, and yanked! It was Osako Genba who had yanked him up with all his strength. Perhaps he had gone a bit too far there—even now, Genba still believed he had felt a flicker of regret immediately afterward.

What followed was calamity. Kyonosuke, whom they had thought was crying, was not weeping at all—he had been laughing with his face pressed down. And then, ignoring them all, he walked out of the guardroom. Even as someone shouted for him to stop, Tobe Ouminosuke gave chase. And soon after, Tobe Ouminosuke’s head was thrown into the gathering place, while Kyonosuke—having since evaded the harsh scrutiny of the investigation—remains at large to this day. He must surely resent me now. In truth, I had misjudged that Kyonosuke. I had convinced myself he was nothing but a naive greenhorn, good only for amusing women—but what of that boisterous laughter when he raised his head after I grabbed his hair! Not only had that Kyonosuke literally taken the head of Lord Tobe Ouminosuke—a man of considerable skill—in the blink of an eye, but whether you call it bold or audacious, he had thrown it through the guardhouse window and made his escape. The man must be terrifyingly capable…

Whether it was a premonition or not, Osako Genba found himself unable to shake the conviction that Kamio Kyonosuke was now targeting his head day and night from some unseen quarter. To have an enemy sworn to your destruction—in plays and storybooks it made for fine entertainment. But becoming such a man in reality proved far less agreeable. He had grown cautious in his comings and goings to the castle.

III

However, days had passed. Osako Genba had felt somewhat at ease. That very complacency proved his undoing. What?! A rope was coiled around his sword. Like this, he couldn't draw it quickly even if he tried—What in hell?! Who could have sneaked in and done such a thing—? While keeping full attention on the front shoji, he first needed to untie the rope binding his sword—in case of emergency... Osako Genba edged backwards toward the alcove as he turned these thoughts over in his mind.

He had been on daytime guard duty today. He had returned home from the castle around dusk, taken a bath, eaten dinner; now that the meal had been cleared away, his wife and children had retreated to their rooms, and the retainers had gone to secure the doors before withdrawing downstairs—all this had transpired not long ago. He immediately stayed alone in this secluded sitting room and began practicing his favorite Noh chants. Not much time should have passed since then. Whether it was still early or already late—Osako Genba strained his ears, hoping to catch the sound of a temple bell ringing somewhere. Instead, he faintly heard the clatter of dishwashing from the kitchen and what seemed like the laughter of Orisuke and the others. With this, he could roughly gauge the time and see it wasn’t particularly late yet. Breathing a sigh of relief, Genba began reconsidering matters once more.

What was strange was this sword. When I returned from the castle, I changed clothes in this room and removed the two swords I'd been wearing, handing them to my wife who was attending nearby as usual. She took them to the alcove and hung them on the deer antler sword rack. At that time, they certainly hadn't been bound with rope from scabbard to hilt like this. There was no reason for such foolishness—even if it were a child's prank, I hadn't left this room once since returning from the castle. There couldn't have been any opportunity. Had I truly not left this sitting room even once since evening? Hmm... I don't recall stepping out. No, wait—I did go to the bathroom once. When I returned then, what state was the sword in? It hadn't been like this at all. If it had already been bound then, I should have noticed sooner—so does that mean I haven't left this room even once since? I didn't leave! I was right here practicing Noh chants. Wait—didn't I just go to the bathroom moments ago—Oh! That's right—I just went to the bathroom and returned! Hmm—so someone must have slipped in during that time—but where could they have entered from? The doors were properly locked—didn't my comrades check them thoroughly earlier—?

Perhaps someone had slipped in before the doors were locked... Hmph... But who could have infiltrated this mansion? Osako Genba went to the alcove and took up his sword. Even he found the situation absurd, and suddenly let out a sneering laugh. Then—Who—What am I saying, 'who'?! It must be him! It must be Kamio Kyonosuke! The smile that had started to form on Genba’s face froze.

He looked at Sahēta Kanemasa Osaruhata's large sword. The rope had been wound excessively tight around it, the end secured with a strong, firm knot. There was no way it would come undone quickly.

Outside the paper sliding door, the breathing of some living creature still pressed insistently upon him. Osako Genba, suddenly panicking, frantically tried to undo the knot with hands that trembled uncontrollably…

Should he raise his voice and call for his family? No—a five-foot-tall man, a hatamoto no less, and one who prided himself on martial prowess—someone of Osako Genba’s standing could not possibly show such cowardice while night still lingered early. Yet something inexorable was closing in on him. Regardless, he had to untie this sword’s binding now—Genba found himself sweating great beads on his brow, desperation taking hold before he even realized it.

His nails ached from the effort, but the knot simply wouldn’t come undone.

At that exact moment, a shrill voice rang out at the entrance—.

IV

“Disaster! Disaster!” It was a voice erupting from the crown of his skull—the kind born of pure shock. A cry no one could replicate even if they tried. “My lord! Lord Osako! Are you still breathing? Ain’t nobody here—?” The words “still breathing” cut too sharply for any jest. He shuddered— Osako Genba, jolted as if doused in ice water—what madness was this? Who dared?! Ears straining, he halted his fumbling at the sword’s ropes—that deafening shout must have reached every soul. Soon came clamor from below: footsteps thundered down corridors before halting at his door. Again, a voice exploded from some cranial zenith—

“M-M-My lord—” came the voice. “J-Just your face—”

It was the elderly retainer Genbee. Now convinced that the figures in the corridor had been mere figments of his delusion, Genba swiftly regained his composure,

“What’s all this racket? Ain’t like you’re off to fetch a tofu seller—quit runnin’ around like a madman!”

This fondness for using crude Edo-style language was quintessentially Osako Genba. He targeted easy marks like lords, you see. However, Retainer Genbee’s tone was anything but ordinary. “This is no trifling matter like a tofu seller!” he said, sliding open the paper door to reveal a face as pale as tofu itself. “Ah, my lord… Thank heavens you’re still alive. I am most delighted—” “Shut up! It seems that just now at the entrance, there was a voice demanding my life—and now even you come here saying you’re glad I’m still alive. This humble one still plans to live another thirty or forty years—to hear such words is utterly outrageous! First of all, someone as hale and hearty as me isn’t about to drop dead so easily!”

“As you say.” “However, given that there was such a placard—” “A placard? What placard are you talking about?”

“Yes. Well, it says, ‘Your life shall be taken—I shall arrive presently.’” “What?! I can’t make heads or tails of your blathering.” “Therefore, I must ask you to come to the entrance briefly. Please, my lord—just a moment—rise—” “Depending on how this goes, I might not bother showing myself—but who the hell was shouting my name at the entrance?” “That quack Chōan from Kōjimachi Hirakawachō.”

"What?! Chōan has come. That bastard’s scheming again—no doubt trying to catch this old man off guard. Heh. As if I’d fall for such an obvious trick. ‘Well then, let’s have a look.’ When attending the castle, he was merely a perpetual low-ranking guard—yet as a 2,000-koku hatamoto, Genba carried himself with considerable arrogance at home."

Leaving the sword with its cord still wrapped around it, he pushed Genbee aside and lumbered his corpulent frame toward the entrance. “Oh, Chōan,” he said. “You came at last.” “I was just growling through Hagoromo and needed someone to spar with.” “Come up.” Osako Genba stood blocking the raised entrance step as he shouted outside, clad in a black habutai kimono bearing his triple-stripe family crest, a tea-brown Hakata obi slung low about his hips. With his large russet-dark face and ample build filling out the garments, he presented an undeniably lordly figure—every inch the dignified samurai noble.

Five

Chōan appeared unable to speak. Gripping the master’s headcloth in one hand and incessantly shaking his shaven head, the frantic way he waved was utterly abnormal. Since this couldn’t be dismissed as another of his usual pranks, Osako Genba grew suspicious— “What? Are you demanding I come out all the way there? “What the hell?”

He reluctantly slipped on his footwear and stepped out of the entrance. When he looked, four or five members of the household stood there, each holding a lantern, their mouths agape as they stared up at the outer side of the entrance door in astonishment. “My lord, that—”

Chōan pointed. One of the servants raised his lantern high. Osako Genba glanced at it—“What...”—and began to read quietly, but his voice trailed off midway. “What? ‘Your life shall be taken—I shall arrive presently—’.” “Hmm—” His agitated face whipped around toward Chōan. “You—Chōan! This prank crosses all bounds!” “What is this nonsense about taking my life?!” “Hey! What do you mean by ‘taking my life’?!”

“Huh?” Chōan thrust his face forward. “Then what do you mean? Are you suggesting I put up this notice and caused a public disturbance with my shouting—?” “I can’t accept that! My lord, I cannot accept that! The residences of lords are akin to castles; when one speaks of their entrances, they are grand gates. Even someone as lowly as this Chōan, a mere town doctor with no standing, is well aware of such proprieties. To think that someone would demand your life at those very grand gates—how could such a thing—”

Chōan, rebutting with unusual earnestness, "I came to your residence, saw this placard, and inadvertently raised my voice."

Having read once more the words "I shall come to take your life..." Genba grunted, "Hmph!" So it was you after all!—he realized now—the matter of the sword. This couldn't go on like this. His trusty blade—at all costs, he needed to remove its cord and loosen the scabbard's collar—but as he began turning back toward the house in haste, perhaps anticipating contingencies,

“Nihei!” He called one of his comrades and said, “Dispatch a messenger immediately to Lord Asaka Keinosuke’s residence at Kijibashi Gomon, Hōzōgura-mae. “Tell Lord Keinosuke to come at once with four or five retainers… In this urgent matter, convey that Osako awaits him.” “Do you understand?!” “Fly like the wind!” He grew terse. And then, to the bewildered group: “Check the bathhouse, latrine, water inlet, veranda—all of them—once more for secured doors.” “Check that there are no issues with the latches, bars, or other fixtures.” “Once that’s done, all of you take up your swords and gather in my hall. Prepare sake—tonight we’ll drink through the night without formalities, talk and drink freely as we await dawn.”

The orders were somewhat alarming, but the retainers were delighted to hear they could drink. They divided tasks among themselves and scattered to their assigned duties. “Chōan, attend me!”

Genba, who was about to enter, turned back and called out. But Chōan, overwhelmed with deference, "Oh, no need. Here is quite sufficient." "You fool! That’s outside!" "Yes. Outside is safer—if someone draws their blade with a glint, I’ll dash off in a flash. As the ancients teach us, 'A wise man does not approach danger—'" "What are you dithering about?" "My lord—is the opponent that Kamio Kyonosuke—?"

“What, the likes of him—” He grew impatient. He had to deal with his sword— “Chōan, close it properly and follow me in.” Osako Genba ascended to the house alone just like that, briskly returned to his original hall, smoothly slid open the shoji screen and stepped in—true to his samurai nature, it was a low voice. “What the—?! “Who’s there?!…”

VI

When had he slipped in, and from where?

Kamio Kyonosuke sat in the alcove of the hall, grinning eerily— He wore a single lined kimono with a patch on the shoulder, carried a plain wooden three-shaku sword, and had a navy blue checkered-patterned tenugui tied around his face. In just a short time, he had become thoroughly soiled by the grime of the streets, presenting such a bizarre appearance that one could no longer tell whether he was a samurai or a common ruffian. With a long sword thrust into his obi, he looked up at Genba, his beautiful face still contorted in that grin. He appeared almost devoid of thought. Already startled— Genba stood frozen. This only intensified the indescribable eeriness radiating from Kyonosuke’s vacant, trance-like demeanor. For a while, Genba could not speak—but finally managed to,

“Well, well, you made it. Must’ve been tough.” “Oh? It was quite the ordeal, wasn’t it?” He deduced. He deduced. “L-let’s just go back to how things were—nice and easy.” Even if he tried to take the sword, not only was it tucked under Kyonosuke’s legs, but the rope binding remained intact—so even in hand, it would be useless. To leave the room or raise his voice risked that white blade flashing from Kyonosuke’s grip at any moment. Genba stood defenseless. Overpowered by panic, he’d seized on this ruse of feigned camaraderie. Soon enough, his household would assemble as ordered, and that Mr. Asaka he’d summoned for aid would arrive. Until then—calmness, composure, groveling deference toward this blood-mad young beast of a Kamio Kyonosuke... or so he resolved. But peril lingered. He dared not approach. Maintaining his hollow chuckle from afar—here even a career guardsman needed cunning. He attempted uncharacteristic charm.

“Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Kamio—what’s done is done, right? Uhh... Truth be told, we all sympathize with you now.” “No indeed—it’s no wonder your patience finally snapped.” “Looking back now—that Tobe Ouminosuke was truly a vicious bastard.” “You really went and cut him down.” “Everyone’s grateful to you for it, you see.” “So today we palace guards held another meeting—we’ll submit a petition with all our signatures to Lord Wakasaka to beg your pardon.” “And I—this humble one speaking—am leading the effort! Well then—please accept this gladly. It’s all settled.”

Kyonosuke remained silent. Still, he looked around here and there, laughing. Because he was laughing, Genba thought he might finally be listening—the attendants would arrive at any moment. With the resolve to swiftly retreat outside if that happened, while stealing glances down the corridor, “We too have come to regret. “Our mischief went a bit too far.” “And that too—precisely because we thought of you as one of our own—truly, I—though it may be presumptuous—have always regarded you as a younger brother.” “That is why we could engage in such jests—but had we thought of you as an outsider, such things would never have been possible.” “A joke—speaking of jokes, that one really got out of hand.” “Truly, it was all just a joke that got out of hand.” “However, you must have had a terrible time?” “Where have you been staying?”

Kyonosuke did not answer. “Well, you see... “Right after that incident, we resolved to send you formal apologies, so I personally took charge of searching for your whereabouts—but it proved quite troublesome.” “Not showing even a trace of yourself—that’s wicked of you too.” Though there was nothing amusing about it, he forced a laugh. “Ask anyone—though you may not know it, I have always been your ally.” “Once, there was such an instance.” “Your inkstone had run out of water—well, truth be told, that Ouminosuke fellow deliberately dumped the water to dry it out. And after doing such a thing, what a terrible man he was, don’t you agree?” “He said he’d wait for your arrival at the castle to give you a good squeeze, so I couldn’t bear to watch and quietly added water to that inkstone.” “Then that Ouminosuke bastard noticed it and made me vomit.” “Mr. Osako, is Kamio some relative of yours?—Relatives? Uwahahaha! You and I being relatives—yes, something akin to relatives.” “This humble one said, ‘I’m quite fond of Mr. Kamio’—and at that, that Ouminosuke bastard blinked his acorn-like eyes rapidly and fell silent without another word.” “No, I wanted to show you.” “You.”

Seated in the alcove with his sword still at his waist, Kyonosuke—grinning as ever—let slip a single word, as though suddenly remembering.

“Head—”

Seven

“Huh?!” “Head?”

“A head! A head! A head!... First head, second head, third head—seventeen heads!” Kamio Kyonosuke suddenly stood up, roaring with booming laughter. “Wahahahaha! Heads will roll.” “Heads roll!” “Where?” “There, there—right there—there—” In an instant, Kyonosuke had drawn his sword with a fluid motion and now stood dangling it loosely in one hand, his gaze fixed on some distant point. His eyes lacked focus, and the front of his kimono had come apart, carelessly revealing his undergarments. His words were abrupt and somehow disjointed—so Osako Genba shuddered even more and retreated two or three steps back.

Madness? That’s right. Kamio Kyonosuke must have gone mad.

In that case, all the more reason. Since he thought humbling himself beyond measure and keeping him placated until others arrived was indeed the wisest course, Osako Genba strained with all his might.

“Ah, you’ve come.” “You’ve come indeed.” “You haven’t forgotten your old friends—ah, I’m grateful.” “Not that I’m particularly grateful, but—” “W-well—p-put away that dangerous thing you call a ‘man-slaying knife’.” “And then—and then—why don’t we take our time and discuss whatever you wish?”

Kyonosuke drifted forward unsteadily, as though chasing butterflies across a spring meadow, his movements fluid like swimming. The end of the hand towel, its knot undone, fluttered as he clenched it between his teeth, while his right hand still held the drawn sword limply. His expression was vacant. He said, as if muttering.

“Give me your head! Hey, give me your head!” Gah! At this, Genba instinctively clutched his own neck. But there was no need for closer inspection—this was undeniably madness. Kamio Kyonosuke had gone insane from the strain of evading the authorities’ watchful eyes. If he was a madman, Genba reasoned, then there must be a way to handle him as such. He no longer needed to fear anything—except that drawn blade. Was there no way to trick him into relinquishing it? A madman with a weapon—nothing could be more dangerous. Wait—if he could grapple him suddenly from the side— As Genba strained to find an opening while watching him, he—being a skilled martial artist himself—immediately perceived it.

If Kamio Kyonosuke were truly mad— First, he would have no reason to so meticulously keep his back to the alcove to prevent Genba from drawing his sword—moreover, his body should have been riddled with openings. Yet as Kyonosuke stood there vacantly like some imitation of frenzied madness, to Genba’s sword-trained eye, there was not a sliver of vulnerability to exploit. Every inch of his body feigned defenselessness—staggering, stumbling as if tripping, clawing forward unsteadily—yet every fiber thrummed with sword essence; this stance without form embodied the secret heart of bladecraft. And since he matched this ideal perfectly, Kamio Kyonosuke—though playing the lunatic—was anything but deranged. In truth, he waited coiled like a tiger, his long blade poised to slice through lamplight and strike at any instant—

No good! Strike first! Having thought this, Genba barked.

“Fake madman! Come at me properly!”

The moment his “Come at me!” ended—whoosh! Along with Kyonosuke’s exhaled breath fell pitch-black darkness into the room. Simultaneously came the thudding of feet kicking tatami mats. A white streak fluttered up and down two or three times—swish! Crack!—the splitting sound that followed—was that a bone being severed? Aghh! Immediately afterward remained only childlike weeping—choked sobs.

Throughout, Kyonosuke did not utter a single shout.

8

“My lord! My lord—”

Chōan neither entered when told to nor left either—the very picture of morbid curiosity. Peering in quietly from the entrance, wondering if something was about to happen, he found only the sounds of fellow retainers checking door latches here and there—the inner quarters lay dead silent, so— "What the— "There's nothing particularly special going on here, is there?" "Not interesting at all." "You can come for me right now if you want, but when the hell are you going to show up?"

There were those wretched souls who reveled in others' calamities, their hearts poised as if awaiting a play's curtain rise. Was something about to happen at any moment?—he strained his ears.

Right under his nose. A single paper lantern was placed at the upper step, leaving the area dimly lit. Shattering the half-darkness, a figure like a gust of wind abruptly crossed the back corridor. There it was!

And so, just as he was about to flee toward the street, a person—or rather, a presence—caught up to him as silently as a cat. That presence called out to Chōan from behind at the front entrance. “You there—a servant?” “Y-yes?”

Chōan stopped in his tracks. His knees buckled, refusing to obey his attempt to run. It felt like a vicious dog snapping at his heels. That was it. Murai Chōan, sweat pooling under his arms, kept his steps restrained regardless. But he lacked the courage to look back. Facing straight ahead, he answered toward the darkness before him. “Yes, I am a servant.” “Are you a menial of this estate?” “No, I am a drifter named Orisuke staying in a nearby room.”

“Is that indeed the case?”

It was pitch dark, and they couldn’t even make out each other’s clothing. “There is no mistake.” He responded unnervingly stiffly. As he did so, the presence behind him seemed to smirk, “Stretch out your hand. I’ll let you have something good.” Hearing it was something good, Chōan—who would take anything if offered—swiveled around and attempted to inquire. “And who might you be, sir—” Then, in a leisurely voice,

“I am Kamio Kyonosuke.”

At that reply—Gah! As the utterly terrified Chōan tried to flee, “Here. I’ll give you this.” He thrust something out. He had no choice but to accept it. In a cowering stance, he reached out his hand. What had been handed to him was a large, round object. Something like wet hair touched his hand; the entire thing was unnervingly warm and slimy.

It was quite heavy.

“Thank you very much.”

He didn't know what it was, but since it had been given to him, he was expressing his thanks—and in that moment, the one who had handed it over darted out through the gate like a hurled stone and was swallowed by the depths of darkness in an instant. At that very moment, from the direction of the mansion's inner chambers came a sudden eruption of people's screams. "Gah! The lord! The lord—" "The lord! The lord—"

Having regained his composure, Murai Chōan—what was this? As he turned back into the house, he suddenly realized he was carefully holding the watermelon-like object he had just been given, so he tried to examine it closely under the light of the paper lantern at the entrance.

But there was no need to look closely. Gyaaah! At the same moment he uttered a strange, guttural scream, Chōan hurled the object he’d received into the earthen floor and recoiled against the wall as if hurled there himself. The severed head that had rolled from Chōan’s hand—Osako Genba’s head—landed with a thud atop the very geta he had been wearing until moments ago. It stared up at Chōan fixedly, its expression seeming to say, *Hey Chōan—look at this pathetic mess I’ve become.*

A severed head wearing geta—. Overwhelmed by the sheer eeriness, Chōan was momentarily rendered speechless—but soon began screaming the same words over and over in a frenzy.

“Agh! The lord! The lord—” “The lord!” “The lord! The lord—”

Nine

“What? “A messenger named Nihei has come from Osako’s estate?” “Hmm. He says it’s urgent.” “No need to fret.” “Have him brought to the garden.”

Perhaps he had grown tired of reading—Asaka Keinosuke, another member of the palace guard, was a man of some presence at thirty-four or thirty-five. He had come out to the threshold of the room near the veranda and, as if suddenly remembering something, was now intently trimming his nails.

It was the residence of Asaka Keinosuke on Daimyō Avenue, by the Kijibashi Gate and in front of the Artillery Storehouse. Just as he was thinking of going to bed, a servant hurriedly arrived, reporting that their comrade Nihei had come as a messenger from Lord Osako of Mochinoki-zaka. He promptly had one of the already closed shutters opened and brought Nihei to the garden entrance to meet him, whereupon...

Was this someone’s prank, or was it a genuine threat? It was said that an unsettling notice had been posted. Moreover, upon hearing that Osako Genba was seeking his aid, Asaka Keinosuke—who reveled in his reputation as a master swordsman—seemed genuinely amused, "Osako’s gotten weak, huh?"

He laughed. But since they had come seeking his aid, he couldn’t simply turn them away. It was obviously something trivial. Though he assumed it would ultimately become a laughingstock tale, Asaka Keinosuke—taking precautions—departed his estate with Nihei as guide and four capable retainers recruited from the dojo within his grounds, just as the hour was changing from 5.5 to 4. When he glanced back, a dramatic waning crescent moon hung pale over the forest of Lord Hachisuka’s mansion.

From there, they went straight out onto the main avenue and soon came upon Kudanshita.

The group of five were ambling along.

The road was dark. The stiff formality of master and servant was unwittingly shed, and the entire group settled into an easy camaraderie. They couldn’t walk in silence. Foolish talk flowed. Their boisterous laughter spilled through the late-night town. As they were about to turn from Kudanshita toward Nakazaka, a faint figure appeared ahead—likely just some young samurai out for nighttime revelry—but none paid it any mind. Since he was in a state of fear, they walked along noisily discussing how to intimidate Osako Genba with their numbers and later turn it into a joke.

They tried to pass each other. Then, as the person approaching from ahead came to a halt first, Asaka Keinosuke’s group also stopped nonchalantly to watch, "Oh, if it isn’t Asaka—"

At the voice that spoke, they wondered—who could that be? Suspiciously wondering, "Hmm, indeed, this humble one is Asaka. But as for you who speak thus—"

“Kamio Kyonosuke.” “Wh—what… Kamio—” Their blades were drawn simultaneously, but before the self-sacrificial sword of Kokoronashi-ryū, the four retainers were instantly thrown to the ground… Kyonosuke’s fierce blade—now that he had abandoned all restraint, a path had opened—leapt like a white serpent and closed in on Keinosuke. Indeed, the second head was this Asaka Keinosuke.

Several hours later.

It was late at night.

Kyonosuke returned to Ibara Ukon’s conflict-resolution business in Kanda Obiya Alley, showing no particular signs of fatigue. Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen were nowhere to be found in the house at this late hour—it was unclear where they had gone. On the wall hung a single scroll pasted up like a dojo notice, names listed in a row.

At that moment, when Kyonosuke had drawn elimination lines through Osako Genba and Asaka Keinosuke as described earlier, annotating them as the first and second heads, three palanquins came to a stop out front.

Phantom Tale of the Inverted Screen

I

The bamboo grass rustled. Pitter-patter-pitter… The sound of dew scattering. It was the evening breeze.

In a corner near Ushigome Tsukudohachiman, at the vacant residence of Kamio Kyonosuke, former Nishinomaru Palace Guard. Osono—the wife of Kyonosuke, once celebrated as the top-ranked beauty of Izuiya—was naked. Completely naked…. There was no need to panic. It was the bathhouse. No matter how beautiful a woman might be, it seemed that even in this era, one had to be naked when entering the bath. It was a new bathhouse redolent of hinoki wood. From the high lattice window, the faint dusk sunlight streamed in and wove several streaks through the rising steam.

The spacious mansion was silent, save for Kotarou, Kyonosuke’s younger brother, who in the rear garden faced a persimmon tree, relentlessly shouting “Yah!” as he practiced swordsmanship. Swish—only the sound of swordsmanship practice could be heard. “The bride skillfully steps over the sunken bath…” —the senryū poet had phrased it well. Osono, her body bent into a C-shape, smoothly slipped up and emerged from the tub. Though there was no one to watch her, she still knelt at the washing area, hiding herself here and there. Even without someone to admire her polished form, it was a matter of a woman’s decorum. She was diligently scrubbing here and there. Her white silk skin flushed a cherry blossom hue from the bath’s warmth, and her voluptuous body formed various alluring poses.

A Beauty Bathing. A truly sensual scene... yet she was burdened with many worries of late. If Lord Kyonosuke were to come—this was the only thing she thought about. Unintentionally, she stopped scrubbing—hah! When it turned into a small sigh. Once again, as the senryū poet said… "Each time footsteps approach, the bride crouches in the bathhouse."

That most dreadful footstep rustled at the furnace opening—Gasp! As Osono did so, she instinctively crouched down slightly, “Mistress, isn’t the bath too lukewarm? Shall I stoke the fire a bit more?” Since Kyonosuke’s act of violence, among the servants who had taken their leave out of fear of repercussions, Chūsuke was the sole young retainer who remained to tend to the household chores—so upon recognizing his voice, Osono felt reassured and, “It’s fine. You don’t need to add more.”

Her tone sounded somewhat like that of a modern girl, but she had spoken in the language of her time regardless. Chūsuke—the elderly servant who might well have protested, "How can this white-haired man be called a young retainer?"—had withdrawn. Afterward came Osono's reflections. Had I married into some merchant household as townsfolk do, such troubles would never have assailed us from all sides. When I think on it, I resent Father and Mother for their presumptuous desire to claim kinship with an esteemed samurai family. Worse still, since matters reached this pass, those from Mikawa-cho—fearing further entanglement—have neither visited nor sent word. However unreasonable my parents' actions... a daughter's heart remains steadfast. When I dwell deeply on it, only Lord Kyo deserves pity—there must have been dire circumstances indeed before he resolved himself to act. No—Osono could never consider it rashness or excess. How splendidly—how magnificently he cut down that detestable Lord Tobe Ouminosuke! That alone proves him my husband. This Osono rejoices with her whole heart. Yet when I consider this too sprang from my own doing, regret and dread overwhelm me... The harsh interrogations and punishments I've endured since are as nothing compared to your trials. Now I implore you, Lord Kyonosuke—guard yourself well. Hide wherever you must and endure. So long as we both live, we shall surely share a home again as husband and wife—then I'll gladly cast off these stifling samurai trappings and return with you to our merchant roots, living joyfully at our leisure... Rejoicing in that day when we'll clasp hands and weep anew. Lord Kyo—this Osono vows to withstand any hardship. Therefore hold fast to your resolve! Beware rain and wind, heat and cold, prying eyes and glinting jitte... Take every precaution! Night and morning I devote myself to prayers at this Tsukudohachiman Shrine...

Though born a merchant’s daughter, she was now mistress of the Kamio household by fate’s design. It was said that most beauties served as playthings with meager inner qualities by common measure—but Osono was a true beauty bearing both blossom and fruit, for "bijin" is written as "beautiful person." A person’s beauty lies in their heart rather than their form. The beauty of form lasts but a single layer of skin; the beauty of heart endures through a thousand years. Women’s rights expansion and companionate marriage might be splendid products of the age, but Osono—who knew nothing of painting eyebrows or coloring cheeks, making faces like one freshly sprung from a jack-in-the-box, kicking floors with thick legs while calling it the Charleston or some such—might have seemed old-fashioned for her ignorance of such bamboozling antics, yet her thoughts remained steadfast.

In the affection between husband and wife, there should be no distinction of old or new. The brief, shattered dream of two shared pillows—like the faint, plaintive cry of a doe longing for her mate—Osono once again kindled these daily recurring thoughts within her breast as she bathed. "I should get out now." Alternately lifting each leg in a heron-like posture, she absently wiped her coral-red fingertips— "Agh...!"

From the mouth of the woman—whose eyes had darted to the window—came a strangled, astonished voice…

Two

No wonder.

It was a high lattice window. There, a person’s face appeared. Or rather—to be precise—she had only felt as though one had appeared. It was truly unsettling. To think someone would peep on another man’s wife while she bathed—truly this was Ikeda Kameemon’s ancestor Kameemon himself. Resolute Osono. Hastily wrapping a towel around her hips and covering her breasts with both hands while crouching—Gasp!— Having done so, she looked up at the window—perhaps a trick of her mind—but through it only saw the hues of the setting sun fading—no human face remained.

Ah, thank goodness. Let’s get out quickly… Osono stood up. This time, she saw it clearly. There was no mistaking it. From that window—wasn’t that her husband Kyonosuke looking down at her!

“Ah—!” “You!” Osono shouted. “Why are you there—? I’ll be right there!”

In an instant. In that brief moment, as she leapt from the bathhouse and cast a fleeting glance back, neither Kyonosuke’s face nor anyone else’s remained there—but having seen it clearly with her own eyes, Osono’s mind was reeling. Without properly drying her wet body, she haphazardly threw on her kimono, wrapped the obi, stumbled into garden clogs from the nearby edge as if falling, and rushed to the window where she had just seen Lord Kyo’s face—but there was no one there.

"Huh?!" She looked around. He had been standing here peering in—where could he have gone? Could she have seen something that wasn’t there? They say when calamity strikes, departed souls appear in visible form. Could it be... What an ill omen! Posing the question only to immediately dismiss it, Osono stood frozen in place. This was outside the bathhouse near the back gate. Evening shadows rose from the lush bamboo leaves as twilight deepened over Yamate’s hills. Amid the deepening quiet came the clatter of Chūsuke preparing dinnerware in the kitchen—but no matter how long she waited, there was no reason for Lord Kyo, who wasn’t truly present, to emerge.

“Let’s go back… Let’s go back…” She tried to turn back. A voice sounded. “Hey there, Mrs. Newlywed—”

It was a woman’s voice. She turned around. Outside the back gate stood a woman’s figure. She was beckoning incessantly. As if drawn by those gestures, Osono staggered two or three steps toward her. “Who—who might you be? What business brings you here?” “Hohohoho! How vexing you are! Do you think I’d traipse all the way from Kanda for idle chatter?” This marked their first exchange. Before her stood a brash downtown lass—a black-collared workman’s coat slipping off one shoulder, hair bleached from harsh washing, toenails faintly stained with balsam-red polish—and at this sight, Osono instinctively grew wary,

“If you have business here, please do come inside.” “No need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s business that needs you to step out here.” Shirazu no Ogen never changed her tune wherever she went. They’d come rattling over in a palanquin with Ibara Ukon—all to give Kyonosuke a chance to meet her. But seeing this woman hesitate like she smelled a rat made Ogen’s blood boil. True to form, she charged ahead without a second thought. “Name’s Shirazu no Ogen—a yakuza dame who lives up to her name knowing zilch about proper talk.” “Oh! Pardon my dust!”

Well, that was all there was to it. Since her approach practically invited a fight, Ibara Ukon—who had just peeked into the bathhouse and already returned to the palanquin waiting in the side street— “Hey, Ogen! If you keep this up, you ain’t made it clear to the missus why we’re here!” “Oh really?” she turned around. “Didn’t I tell her yet?” “You haven’t said a damn thing. See? The missus looks like she’s seen a ghost.” “Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Oh right. You’re such an impatient one, aren’t you?” “Impatient? Who’s the impatient one here?” “Just explain it properly!” As the woman kept chattering over her shoulder, Osono grew increasingly suspicious. “Is someone there?” “Ah! The man who peeked into the bath earlier.” “That—Lord Kyonosuke—” Gasping in shock before she’d even fully pushed open the gate, Osono shoved past Ogen and dashed toward the palanquins behind her. “Lord Kyo! Lord Kyo! Which palanquin holds Lord Kyo...?”

III

The quarrelsome couple Ukon and Ogen—having been told by their housemate Kyonosuke about his feelings for his wife Osono—were perceptive souls of refined sensibilities. They were quarrelsome professionals for hire—the sort who, upon deciding to secretly bring Osono to the house on Obikōji Street and let her meet Kyonosuke after so long, could not rest unless they acted on any idea immediately. Very well. With their scheme to abruptly bring her along and startle her, they had two palanquins prepared. En route at Manaita Bridge in Kudanshita, they effortlessly drove off Murai Chōan—who had mistaken them for Kotarō and attempted some stylish antics—by flashing a blade from behind the palanquin’s curtain. Then they discreetly circled around to the back entrance of Kyonosuke’s vacant residence in Tsukudo Hachiman and positioned the palanquins there.

In preparation to swiftly return to Kanda with Osono aboard, they picked up an empty palanquin along the way and arrived with three palanquins lined up in the side street before the back gate. The other party was undoubtedly being cautious in every way. We were complete strangers. Even if they were to confront her directly and say, “Kyonosuke is here, so come with us,” she wouldn’t obediently come out to accompany them. This turned into a predicament. At a loss for what to do, Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen stepped out of the palanquin and exchanged perplexed looks. Just then, behind the bathhouse, faint steam escaped through gaps in the latticed window—signs of someone bathing—accompanied by soft splashes, one after another in stealthy rhythm. It was a matter of intuition—this had to be Osono using the bath without a doubt. In the house where she lived alone with Kotarou, the one taking a bath at this hour and making such quiet splashes could only be the woman Osono—Mistress Ogen, having devised a plan, gave Ukon’s shoulder a firm tap.

“So I’m tellin’ ya, all you gotta do is show your face at the window for a sec.” “You’re practically his double, after all.” “She’ll definitely come rushing out by mistake.” “Then I’ll take over and get her into the palanquin—but you, if you keep gawkin’ too long, I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

Their plan had worked. Osono—who had mistaken Ukon’s face for Kyonosuke’s and come running out—now raced around the three palanquins in a frenzy upon being told he was inside one of them, her movements growing wilder with each step. “Which one? Which palanquin holds Lord Kyo? Tell me!” As she began tearing at each curtain in turn, Ogen—who had been watching in a daze, moved by pity—hurriedly grabbed her arm to stop her.

“Get a hold of yourself! This is a public thoroughfare! What’ll you do if someone spots us? Look—I’ll take you somewhere nice where you can meet him properly. I won’t do you wrong. Hurry and get in this palanquin!” Here—Lord Kyo was here... She could meet him properly at last... Osono’s eyes already glistened with tears as she crouched into the palanquin as told. Though the bearers had been given meticulous instructions—creaking as they lifted the poles with a clatter-clatter-clatter—they made no move to depart despite appearing ready to rush off.

Ibara Ukon, who had been in the lord’s palanquin, poked his face out with a quick motion to look—only to find Shirazu no Ogen-chan not attempting to enter her own palanquin but instead leaning against it and sniffling repeatedly. “Hey! What’re you dawdlin’ for?! Get in already!”

He hissed in a low voice. Ogen-chan’s voice was tearful. “Shut up! I’m crying here!” “I’m crying here!” “What the hell! You’ve got no reason to be crying here!” “Quiet already. I got all sentimental—seein’ that wife so hung up on her husband, her eyes went downright wild—so hey, let’s try to get along better, yeah?” “That’s right. You should take better care of me.” “I am taking good care of you, ain’t I? If I take any better care of you, your life won’t hold out!”

One of the palanquin bearers interjected. "Heh heh heh, I'm still a bachelor, y'see—been quite a lonely soul, heh." Without responding to this, Shirazu no Ogen, "Oh...I went and cried..."

They crawled in and lowered the curtain with a swish—then set off! The three palanquins soon arrived back at Obikōji Street in Kanda—where the sacred lantern’s light swayed gently, illuminating the sign that read, “All Quarrels Accepted for Hire.”

4 On the wall of their quarrel-for-hire house hung a long unfurled scroll bearing seventeen palace guards' names in neat rows. Kamio Kyonosuke—having just returned from beheading Osako Genba and Asaka Keinosuke—drew thick jet-black lines through those two names, annotating below them *First Head* and *Second Head*. Now came the ominous question—who would be Third Head? This macabre sequence spelled doom for those secretly under consideration. As Kyonosuke silently read through the list from top to bottom, weighing whether to choose *this one* or *that one*, three palanquins pulled up at the entrance. From one emerged Osono.

They were a young couple who had not met since New Year’s Day—who loved and were loved. As for their mutual astonishment, joy, and what followed—had this been written by an author of olden times, they would have left it to readers’ imagination with a “Let the wise infer…” But I too decided to employ this device. Realizing all had been arranged by the quarrel-for-hire couple, Kyonosuke clasped his hands in silent gratitude—this was it. When Osono entered, there stood Kyonosuke—and from one of the palanquins emerged a man who looked exactly like him. Stunned, she stared between the two men. There must be some reason behind this—she would ask him properly later—but for now, Osono collapsed heavily before Kyonosuke,

“…………” There were no words. She collapsed in tears. As though declaring this some Western affair—uttering a stylish remark—they embraced heedless of prying eyes. They kissed. It was a most splendid scene, but being deeply reserved Japanese of old, they could not carry on so. Yet even so—this scene of tender longing where they had yearned to meet and see each other—left Ibara Ukon gaping open-mouthed. Though this was his own house, he stood vacantly staring from the dirt-floored entryway, uncertain whether to enter or not. Then Ogen’s right hand—bearing the legible two-line tattoo *No Opinions Wanted, Life Unknown*—reached out and firmly grabbed Ukon’s ear.

“What’s this,” “You’re so dense, aren’t you?” “You shouldn’t be lookin’!” “Get over here.”

Ogen yanked him along with such force that even Ibara Ukon of the Kanka-ryū school—renowned for his swordsmanship—let out a yelp, “Oww! That hurts! “What the hell are you doing?!” “I ain’t no damn rabbit!” “You’re such an idiot—standing there gawking like that’s got Mr. Kyo all flustered, hasn’t it?” “C’mon, over here.” When they looked, sure enough, Kyonosuke stood before Osono, smirking sheepishly and scratching his head as he hesitated under the quarrel-for-hire couple’s gaze. Ukon noticed,

“Nah, this one’s on me. Before she tells me to drop dead… Hey! Ogen, you’re the one standing there gawking and laughing, aren’t ya?” “Well now, I was just egging on the new missus. Hey there, new missus—been a while since we met. Make sure he cherishes you proper-like, you hear?” “You’re one to yap about unnecessary things. Look—Osono’s gone beet red.” “Now let’s get going—us two as well.”

Ogen yanked Ukon by the ear and dragged him outside. While snapping the door shut behind them, "Hohohoho... Do take your time..." This too proved an unnecessary remark.

5

They had stepped outside, but had nowhere to go.

Leaning against the lattice outside were Ibara Ukon and Shirazu no Ogen—indeed, they looked every bit like a couple who had been shut out. "Aren't you cold?" "Yeah, I'm not cold—just ridiculously sleepy." "This is a problem..." "Should we find an inn somewhere for the night?" "Nah…" "No matter what you say, we can't just stand here till morning—" "Can't we do something?" "You're so carefree, aren't you? "Right about now, the two in the house must be…"

“Idiot! But I can understand the sentiment.” “Honestly…”

As they stood dejectedly, whispering furtively to one another, the chilly spring night deepened silently around them—the distant howl of dogs, the flute of a blind masseur, the calls of late-night udon vendors and Chinese soba sellers’ reed flutes… Not that any of those were actually present—but in any case, the hour was late. White paper scraps, blown by the wind, dashed across the hushed thoroughfare of Obia Alley, while the night watchman’s metal staff clanged—clang—clang—in the opposite lane. The cold seeped in. Ogen, who had been squatting, shuddered and hunched her shoulders.

“Hey you, squatting here like this makes us look like we got booted out of our shop at midnight—no matter how you slice it, this ain’t a good look.” Ibara Ukon mumbled incoherently in reply, and when Ogen looked, the quarrel-for-hire master had somehow stretched out on the ground and was snoozing away blissfully in his "Shirakawa night boat" act—feigning deep sleep.

“Well, I’m speechless…”

Though she had declared her exasperation, Ogen found herself gazing fondly at his sleeping face. She slipped off her own coat and draped it over him, but when she suddenly noticed, the light inside the house had gone out, plunging the surroundings into total darkness. “Tch, I’m getting fed up—hey you, get up already. Sleeping there like that, you’ll catch a cold. There’s just no helping you, huh?” When she tried to shake him awake, Ukon’s mouth squirmed and, “This here’s just sleep-talk,” he insisted. “Well, Ogen, you’ve got yourself quite the cheerful nature, don’t you? Even if we end up spending the night under the eaves like stray dogs this way, we’re helping a love-struck couple’s affair along. This is what you call an act of virtue.”

“I don’t know if it’s lotus root or what, but that cheerful nature’s all yours. Wasn’t this whole thing your idea to begin with?” “Nah, you’re the one who started it.”

They were insisting the other deserved credit for their virtue. “Aaaah.” Ogen yawned. “But lotus roots are cold things, aren’t they?” “It’s not lotus root. It’s virtue.” “Aye. That root, huh.” While exchanging idle chatter, they both drifted off to sleep—neither could say who first—and sat side by side with knees drawn up, leaning back against the wall’s foundation as they nodded off repeatedly. After some unknown time had passed, something suddenly began persistently touching Ukon’s hair. Half-asleep, he frantically swatted at it with his hand.

It was something like a thread. No matter how many times 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 soon felt as if someone had grabbed the base of his topknot and yanked it upward, jolting him awake. Something was caught in his hair. It appeared to be a fishhook. A fishing hook attached to a line had extended from somewhere, caught in Ukon’s topknot, and now strained upward with a grunt… Someone clearly intended to reel in Brawler Ibara Ukon-sensei like a fish!

Beside him, Shirazu no Ogen slept on, truly “unknowing” of anything. At the very moment his eyes snapped fully open—A prank? Malicious intent? Who in the world would do such a thing in the dead of night? With a pfft! It was Ibara Ukon who burst into anger all at once. He wound the fishing line around his upraised hand, pulled—Snap!—and sprang to his feet. “Who’s there?! Show yourself!” He shouted. Ogen woke up at the sound of his voice,

“A fire… Oh how dreadful. “What’re you doing posturing alone like some big shot?” She looked around the side paths and surrounding area but

“Ah! “What’s that—?”

She pointed. There, from the depths of the darkness, a single figure crept closer and closer. Backlit by the night glow, his features were hard to discern clearly, but he wore an indigo-patterned kimono cut absurdly short, with a thick white heko obi tied around his waist—his appearance resembling some primordial ancestor of the future illustrious statesman Saigō. His hair was styled in a thick Sengoku-period topknot. He held out a fishing rod while carrying a fish basket in one hand. He was truly a grotesque giant of a man. “Wha—! Who the hell’re you?!” He tried to remove the fishhook from his head, but it had become thoroughly entangled in his hair and refused to come loose. Agitated Ukon clattered backward several steps, yanking at the line with his head in an attempt to drag the man closer.

“Don’t get angry now, don’t get angry,” said the man in a deep, quiet voice. “Just fancied some night fishing—call it a play on words.” But Ukon remained silent. He planted both hands on his hips, threw his head back sharply, and tried to yank his opponent closer using the thread tangled in his hair. The man’s hearty laughter echoed through the midnight streets. “Hmm! Seems I’ve hooked myself a boat-swallowing leviathan,” he remarked. “How amusing. Using your head for a tug-of-war now, eh?”

He too prepared his rod and braced his feet. A tug-of-war between head and hands... No, a string-pulling contest.

Neither side would yield. While it was amusing to watch, Ukon’s topknot—now slumped forward heavily—looked ready to come loose at any moment. How painful it must have been. What if he ended up completely bald from all this pointless struggling?—Ogen fretted to herself.

While pulling at each other, they began to converse. "Brat! Doesn't that hurt?" "What?! If you can reel me in, then try!" "Oh yeah?! Stubborn brat! Here's how it's done!" The man mustered his strength and pulled the rod. Hrngh! Ukon braced himself—as if rooted from the earth, immovable as a boulder—and didn't budge an inch. "A custom-made head, I see. What's your name?" The man sounded impressed. "Ibara Ukon." "What? Ibara Ukon? The Ibara Ukon of the conflict-resolution business?" "Indeed it is. And who might you be?"

“Me? I am Gyoshindō.” “Ah! So you’re Master Gyoshindō—the one who’s been fishing everywhere and preaching through the streets? The talk of the town these days?”

“That’s right—the renowned Master Gyoshindō you speak of.” “Well? Ready to surrender, eh?” “What of it? I’ll tug-of-war with you till dawn!” “Bring it on!” “This bastard—this guy—... Alright, let’s do this!”

Both were stubbornly obstinate eccentrics cast from the same mold. Yank! Hrngh! Kenka Ukon and Master Gyoshindō continued their bizarre tug-of-war through the midnight streets, locked in seesaw combat.

Shirazu no Ogen watched in utter disbelief yet remained carefree, becoming their cheering section.

“Hooray! Hooray, Ukon!” I wouldn’t say that.

“Hey, you! Hang in there!”

Six

“How about it, Sadae-dono—shall we take a short rest here?”

“That’s right. “A most excellent suggestion. “Young master—even were we to ascend to the estate now, Lord Wakasaka’s a certified miser. “He’d never deign to serve us even a single cup of tea.” “Hush! You mustn’t voice such things aloud. “Truly, keeping company with that sharp tongue of yours chills me to the bone.” “Why, what a delightfully summer-appropriate companion I make.” “This is no jest. “Should this reach Lord Wakasaka’s household—perish the thought—what would you do? “As the proverb teaches: “‘The mouth births misfortune.’ “Exercise some caution.”

“Hey, hey—speak your mind and your lips’ll freeze in winter’s wind.” “Tch—every word outta your mouth’s wrong.” “If you’re gonna quote proverbs, it’s ‘speak your mind and your lips’ll freeze in autumn’s wind,’ eh?” “Winter’s colder anyway.” “Quit foolin’ around.” “Let’s just wet our throats here first.” “Heh—rain tomorrow.” “Scary havin’ a tightwad like Fudekou treat us at a tea shop—what’s he want after?” “What’re you mumblin’ about?” “Nothin’... Just thinkin’—Young master! Let’s grab this bench.” “From here, any lookers passin’ by’ll be plain as day—”

“What a pain you are, for a kid.”

“You keep calling me a kid, a kid—” “Sadae-dono—quit that creepy voice.” “Young master, let’s have two servings of your New Year’s blend, shall we? And something to cleanse the palate…?”

“I’ll punch you.” “Truly, you’re mature for your age.” “Hearing you speak, you sound like a full-fledged adult.”

“And yet my work’s half-competent while my appetite’s enough for three—even I find it utterly baffling…”

At the corner before Seigenji Temple below the riding grounds—where one approached the Kōra estate on Yakimochizaka in Ichigaya—a roadside tea stall was set up.

Chattering idly as they entered were Fudeya Koubei of Shitaya Chōjamachi—known as Fudekou—and his son Koukichi. He was a green young master who had fallen for Omyou, daughter of Kabedatsu from Kuromoncho, and—stymied by unrequited feelings—had filed a report with Wakasaka Yamashironokami of the Kōra estate, only to have it end in mistaken identity that trampled his pride. Today, accompanied by Sadae-dono—a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old lad who might be called the champion of backtalk—he had come bearing gifts, intending to curry favor once more with Lord Wakasaka.

With the prolonged peace, officials had become thoroughly corrupt. Though it was not as dire as these recent days of ceaseless high-profile scandals, bribery among the powerful remained an open secret. The going rate had been set at two thousand ryo for the Nagasaki Magistrate and one thousand for the inspectors. Now, the box that Fudeya Koukichi had Sadae-dono carry here—though it resembled a meal set at first glance—was a tray that was not a tray. Indeed, inside the box was a tray with tall legs, and upon the tray were packed clear soup, sashimi, assorted appetizers, various other ingredients, and even a kitchen knife and cutting board. On a moonlit night adorned with blossoms, one might open this by a window graced by rain or snow, intending to instantly enliven the gathering—but that was merely the tale of what lay *upon* the tray. For beneath that tray, no matter when or where it was opened, there would surely be a towering mound of gold coins sufficient to instantly enliven any gathering. The true aim lay not in what was above the tray but beneath it—a fact both giver and receiver understood without a word, swallowing it whole—making this a most convenient item indeed...

Koukichi and Sadae-dono. They had brought it here wrapped in a pale green furoshiki bundle, and since Lord Wakasaka’s estate now lay right before their eyes, they sat down at the tea shop below the riding grounds and drank tea. They nibbled on sweets. As for Sadae-dono— “A bellyful of tea can tide you over for a while, but I’m already stuffed to bursting!” Such was the commotion they caused. Their ambition was this: through the newly commenced oil trade business, to oust Izui Gohei and—by Lord Wakasaka Yamashironokami’s arrangements as Chief of the Palace Guards—secure exclusive rights to manage the castle’s oil supply. Though they had relied on their usual ally Murai Chōan and diligently paid their respects to Lord Wakasaka, recent setbacks from Koukichi’s ill-fated legal complaint had left them scrambling—hence today’s gift being their scheme to recover lost ground in one stroke. The box looked quite heavy—no doubt Fudekou had packed it tight to the brim with gold coins.

Since Sadae-dono wanted another cup of tea and another kintsuba, he showed no sign of getting up. But as there was no particular need to hurry, Koukichi too found himself lingering idly at the tea shop... With it being a rare clear day, large crowds had gathered, leaving the shop quite packed.

A woman entered. She was a young, beautiful woman. Carrying herself like the mistress of a merchant household, she had an attendant in tow.

“Come now, let’s rest here a moment before we go on. Walking like this may seem like nothing, but it tires you out, you see. You’ve had it rough too, hm? You’ve had it rough, hm?” “Y-y-yes, th-th-thank you—I—I’m terribly sorry.”

When it came to Kanta—also known as Kekkan the Stammerer—a member of the quarrel-for-hire family, his stutter lived up to his name in its ferocity. Following Shirazu no Ogen—disguised as a merchant’s wife—Kanta entered the tea shop. He carried something in his hands: a box-like object wrapped in a pale green *furoshiki*. Was there some scheme afoot? Shirazu no Ogen’s disguise was flawless. She wove through the benches and sat down beside Koukichi. Kanta followed, taking a seat next to her. Two nearly identical *furoshiki*-wrapped bundles now lay side by side.

Unexpectedly finding himself beside a beautiful woman，the young master of Fudeya felt his heart pound with excitement，desperately trying to devise some smooth maneuver... But while he sought an opening，Ogen and Kekkan simply sipped their tea， “Granny，thank you for your hospitality．I’ll leave payment here for the tea．” With a clink，Ogen tossed coins onto the tray and rose．Kanta hoisted up his wrapped box and trailed after her．The pair hurried out with quickened steps．

It was then that Koukichi noticed, “Hey, Sadae-dono, shouldn’t we get going?” “Yes, indeed. Then shall we go?” “Don’t forget the package.” “Right here, holding it tight!”

“Thank you for your continued patronage.” “Please go quietly…” urged on by the tea-serving granny’s voice, the two also rose from their seats.

They climbed Yakimochi Slope. To Lord Wakasaka’s estate.

Seven

“Hoh… A tribute from Fudekou.” Days without castle attendance made for tedious days. This was the Kōra estate on Ichigaya’s Jealousy Slope. Wakasaka Yamashironokami—Chief of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards—drifted through the estate’s secluded garden like a restless spirit. His sumo wrestler’s bulk strained against the starched sleeves of his crested robe. He circled the ornamental pond. The weather held fair. Liquid-gold sunlight pooled between buildings; above stretched an endless blue vault. New green tinged the grasses. Mask-faced Yamashironokami paced his eternal circuit beside the artificial hill—left foot following right in measured samurai tread.

Even though the sky had cleared, Yamashironokami’s heart remained heavy.

His heart was heavy—and no wonder. The place was the shogun’s headquarters. The time was New Year’s Day. That incident had occurred through Yamashironokami’s negligence. It was a failure of oversight. He had fortunately avoided being ordered to commit seppuku. He had fortunately settled for house confinement. Yet while this resolved matters superficially, in truth, Yamashironokami’s life now hung entirely on apprehending the murderous Kamio Kyonosuke. In other words, his seppuku had been postponed on condition that they would capture Kyonosuke eventually. He clung to life through this exchange of terms.

Would they tie up Kyonosuke and drag him in? Or would I be the one to cut open my belly… There were only two options. Yamashironokami could neither sit still nor stand still. He grew increasingly frantic. He had intervened in Osono and Kyonosuke’s marriage. It was because of that Osono that this commotion had arisen. Now that it had come to this, questions of good and evil no longer mattered. For his part, all he needed was to get his hands on Kyonosuke’s head—the head of the man who had beheaded Group Captain Tobe Ouminosuke—as quickly as possible. But as for Kyonosuke’s whereabouts— Not only had they mobilized everyone in the household, but they’d spread word to the townsfolk. By now, the authorities hunting Kyonosuke should have been combing through every inch of Edo City. Even so, he remained unfound. If it were merely that he hadn’t been found—but then there was what happened the other day. Amidst this massive manhunt, Osako Genba and Asaka Keinosuke—two fellow guards—had their heads taken by Kyonosuke in a single night. Somehow, he couldn’t help but feel that once the others were dispatched one after another, it would finally come for him.

Yamashironokami imagined his own severed head and made a bitter face. It was just Kamio alone! What on earth were they doing?! Yet even so—how could that effeminate Kyonosuke possess such swordsmanship? Damn you! Just once—appear before my eyes...!

Just as the agitated Yamashironokami roared these words within his heart—as though answering his inner voice—a figure appeared before his eyes. When he started and raised his face, it was his favorite page, Kazuya. Unbeknownst to him, the page had crossed the garden and arrived. From Fudeya Koubei of Chōjamachi, his son Koukichi had come as a messenger, left a gift, and said he wished to have an audience immediately. “There’s no need to go that far,” “That’s too bad.”

Yamashironokami regained his composure. “So Koukichi has already returned?” “Where’s that item?” “I’ve brought it to the audience hall.”

“Hmm. I’ll see it immediately.”

Leading the way, Yamashironokami stepped up from the veranda, strode straight to the audience hall, kicked the zabuton cushion into place with his foot, and sat down. Before his seat lay a bulky furoshiki bundle in lush green cloth, ceremoniously arranged. With his left hand tucked in his pocket and his right arm arched taut, Yamashironokami began undoing the bundle—flipping it open briskly to all sides—until a box appeared. A wooden box. With a lid. He lifted the lid slightly and peered inside. Then— He slammed the lid shut with a clatter,

“Guh!” He shouted. At the same time,

“Fudeya! Call the Fudeya members! Th-this is Inomata—!” He started to rise. The zabuton cushion slid, knocking over the box. What tumbled out was a human head—eyes glaring wide open, cropped hair clenched between its teeth.

Once again, it was one of the palace guards—Inomata Kozen. This was the third head.

"Uuugh…"

With one hand raised, Yamashironokami staggered backward toward the corner of the room in heavy, stumbling steps. Thud! He collided with the sliding door, and it fell. Kazuya, curled up like a ball, sent his short, rapid steps flying down the corridor as he ran toward the duty room.

8

Throughout the crossroads of Edo, kawaraban news vendors darted about.

First head, second head, third head… The heads of the scribes were falling one after another. The origin of the term “losing one’s head”—used even today for officials, company employees, and other salarymen being dismissed—dates back to this very period, as recorded in the manuscript known as *Kōto Mimiyorigusa*. This is nonsense.

But losing your head was no joke. Not wanting to lose one’s position was the same now as it had been in the past—this was decidedly not nonsense. It was serious. It was self-defense. It was a matter of life and death. They formed a united front.

The three guards—Araki Yōichirō, Yokochi Hankurō, and Matsubara Genbee—reasoned that while daytime posed little threat, being alone at night was perilous. Thus they agreed to take turns hosting each other nightly at their homes. Invoking the adage "three heads are better than one," they resolved to gather around a tripod kettle and stay awake through the night. However, this was Kamio—the man who had so decisively cut down Osako Genba, Asaka Keinosuke, and Inomata Kozen, warriors renowned for their fierce swordsmanship. With just the three of them, they felt uneasy. They called for reinforcements to form a large company, and since they couldn’t sit idly by, they turned to sake. Tonight, Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Yotsuya’s Tumor Temple was their assigned post. Their host Yokochi Hankurō, along with Araki Yōichirō and Matsubara Genbee—the two men cowering under delusions of persecution—had gathered since early evening, taking small sips as they passed cups back and forth.

They closed the storm shutters early and lined the room with candlesticks, making it brighter inside than daylight. They gripped their renowned swords, their solemn expressions akin to a banquet on the eve of battle. Since this was a nightly occurrence, their nerves must have been thoroughly frayed—but soon enough, the reinforcements they had requested would arrive: Yusa Gōshichirō, Harufuji Kikuuma, and Kagami Tanba—three ronin.

Around that same time.

In Shiba Gensukemachi, there was a troublemaker named Jinbo Zōshu—a master who had opened a dojo and forged a fierce, unique swordsmanship style that dominated Edo’s martial world, his skill and courage both reaching peerless heights. Jinbo Zōshu... the orthodox lineage of Mukei Ittō-ryū. “The sentient beings of the six realms and four types of birth across four hundred million trillion asaṃkhyeya worlds—those with form and those without... Among these, beings in the Realm of Desire and Form possess form, while those in the Realm Beyond Desire and Form lack it...” Though these rather convoluted phrases from the Lotus Sutra’s Chapter on Rejoicing in Merit and Virtue might seem arcane, they gave birth to the Mukei Ittō-ryū swordsmanship style.

Among human desires—the greatest and most tenacious being attachment to life—the school taught one to cast off this clinging and return to formlessness. In other words, it was a discipline that from its very inception required no regard for life. Because its practitioners held no intention of living, there remained nothing left to fear. When taking up the sword prepared to die, they made no attempt to defend themselves. This swordsmanship style focused solely on offense—truly fierce like flames. Thus were these men who already disregarded life in their daily existence. Though they could effortlessly wash away this greatest of all desires into the western sea, their other cravings remained a separate matter. Precisely because life held no value for them, they demanded sake and women all the more intensely. In truth, there existed nothing beyond these two—a gathering of thoroughly enlightened ronin who had severed all worldly attachments.

To this Gensukemachi dojo—the Mukei Ittō-ryū school of Jinbo Zōshu—they requested to have bodyguards lent to them as a group. As if they’d been waiting for this invitation, the layabouts who’d been idling around began showing up every night. Being able to drink all night for free—there was no sweeter deal than this. Tonight as well, Yusa Gōshichirō, Harufuji Kikuuma, and Kagami Tanba had now arrived, making their group six in total as they sat in a circle drinking. “Now then, Mr. Yokochi—with this many of us gathered here, there should be nothing left to fear.”

“No, I must admit to my shame that this shows a lamentable lack of resolve. After all, our opponent is possessed by a demon—one can never be too cautious—so I requested Master Jinbo’s aid, which is why I’ve troubled you all to come here. At the very least, let us share a drink…” “Hah! A single blue-blooded samurai like this Kamio fellow—*chuckles*—this humble one alone is more than enough. Everyone, go to sleep! And while I’m at it, I’ll take care of the sake all by myself too.” “He’s certainly spouting some smooth lines.”

“As for Kamio—I can’t just hand over the sake to someone else.” “Wahahaha! When it comes to free drinks, this bastard’s eyes light right up!”

A booming laugh erupted. Amidst this commotion, it was Araki Yōichirō who noticed.

His gaze wandered there without intent. In the corner stood a folding screen adorned with scattered tanzaku strips. When he suddenly looked, he realized it had somehow become an inverted folding screen without anyone noticing. An inverted folding screen... Ominous!

“Oh! Someone’s going to die!”

He was shouting.

The Living Dead

1 Araki Yōichirō, Matsubara Genbee, and their host Yokochi Hankurō—the three palace guards—alongside three troublemakers from the Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo in Shiba Gensukemachi under Jinbo Zōshu: Yusa Gōshichirō, Harufuji Kikuuma, and Kagami Tanba… The six men froze as if by prior agreement, their drinking cups halted mid-air, and twelve eyes turned in unison toward the folding screen in the corner. It was colloquially called the Tumor Temple.

The rear of Yotsuya Jishōin was Yokochi Hankurō’s inner chamber.

The ones who had been making a clamor came to an abrupt halt. They looked—indeed, there it was: a folding screen with a silver background adorned with scattered tanzaku strips, placed upside down as if encircling a corpse’s deathbed. An inverted folding screen... Ominous! Needless to say. But Araki Yōichirō, who had discovered it,

“Oh! Someone’s going to die!”

The one who had shouted had been somewhat overdramatic, so the first to burst into laughter was Kagami Tanba—known around Gensukemachi as Dan-chan. For a samurai to have such a nickname—Dan-chan was no different from the street ruffians. His attire was truly something to behold—on this still-chilly spring evening, he wore nothing but a single filthy indigo-dyed yukata, thrusting a long sword into his belt, his hair a complete mess. It was tied up in a messy bun.

“Wahahaha!” Kagami Tanba laughed brashly. “Hey! If someone’s gotta die, I’ll be the one kickin’ the bucket. So you all can just relax.” He jabbed a finger at their drawn faces. “But c’mon now—you makin’ those gloomy mugs? Sake’ll taste like piss if you keep that up!”

But if one were to put oneself in the position of the three guards whose heads were being targeted, they could not afford to remain so carefree. The master, Yokochi Hankurō, turned his deathly pale face toward Yōichirō and said: “No—though we accepted you as tonight’s guests—this is a most grievous discourtesy we have committed. At such an inauspicious time too—this error stems solely from the carelessness of this humble one’s household members. Ugh… Mr. Araki, Mr. Matsubara—pray do not take offense…” “Your words humble me,” replied Araki Yōichirō, still gripping his drawn sword in his left hand. “Well—it must simply be a case of the folding screen being misplaced. But given these circumstances—though it may seem cowardly—I found myself rather startled. I raised my voice most unbecomingly. Ha ha ha ha!”

Matsubara Genbee also managed to form a pale smile—but wait—? Matsubara Genbee tilted his head quizzically,

“However, up until just now, the folding screen had not been turned upside down like this…”

Yusa Gōshichirō, leader of the Gensukemachi reinforcements, abruptly stood up. Gōshichirō stood nearly six shaku tall—a famously reticent man, a disloyal ronin who had kicked sand in the faces of Suō Province’s Mōri Sakyonosuke and the Fuchū 50,000-koku domain with his hind legs—what kind of nonsensical wordplay was this? In any case, he must have found this whole affair tiresome. “Just fix it then.”

He started toward the folding screen. Hankurō stopped him. This was the landlord’s duty. “Ah—no,” “I’ll have those careless maids correct their mistake. Leave it as it is—just as it is.”

Clap! Clap! Clap! He clapped his hands. “Is anyone there—”

Harufuji Kikuuma and Dan-chan, in the meantime, were busily pouring drinks for themselves.

2

One of the maids placed her hands on the threshold. “Look here—the folding screen is upside down!” Hankurō jerked his chin and said, “What carelessness. Fix it immediately.”

"But, Master..." The maid looked puzzled. "I most certainly did set it up properly..." "That's right! That's right!" As always, Dan-chan was the one making unnecessary comments. "Nah, this ain't your fault. The screen just..." "The screen just..." Hankurō remained furious as he glared at the maid.

“No—this is your carelessness. Fix it immediately.” “Hurry up and fix it!” The maid answered “Hai” under her breath, drawing the gazes of all six men as she reached for the problematic folding screen in the corner of the room. The cry a woman makes when startled has always been much the same, now as in the past. She screamed as though tearing silk and recoiled. “Ah—Eek!” At the same moment—*snap*! From the opposite side, the folding screen toppled over, and a figure abruptly sat up straight. Clad in a single lined kimono with patched shoulders, a three-shaku white wooden sword at his side, and a navy blue checkered hand towel masking his face, he sat with his long sword held between both knees, planted firmly on the floor as if observing some spectacle. Neither samurai nor ruffian—a figure of truly grotesque attire—looked over the six men with a carefree expression and grinned.

Involuntarily, they jerked back—! The six men stood lined up along the edge of the fusuma on the opposite side. Striking their sword hilts, they all shouted at once. “Who goes there?!” “It’s Kamio… Huh?” he confirmed. “Where’d you get in from—”

The one who asked in an impressed tone was the landlord, Hankurō.

The clattering footsteps of the maid scurrying away down the corridor echoed.

There was nothing that Dan-chan of Gensukemachi feared. He took a step forward.

“Hey Kyonosuke—damn, you’ve made quite a name for yourself.” “What’s this about choppin’ off seventeen palace guards’ heads one after another, huh?” “Cut it out. Settle down.” “You’ve already taken three heads—I ain’t givin’ ya grief.” “Just swallow your pride here, I’m tellin’ ya.” “That’s for your own damn good—you hear me?”

He kept badgering him to surrender—surrender!—as if casually browsing potted plants at a festival stall. Then—this was not Kamio Kyonosuke, the former palace guard… A perplexing twist—it was Ibara Ukon of Kanda’s Obiya Alley, now notorious as a conflict-for-hire artisan, who had fully assumed Kyonosuke’s guise. Though truth be told, even undisguised, his natural appearance mirrored Kyonosuke’s perfectly. To compound the deception, his raid attire replicated every stitch of Kyonosuke’s own. With a grin, he began chanting strange, spell-like words at the six men frozen in astonishment.

“Ahahaha! Bet you weren’t expecting an inverted screen, were you? The monk from the back skillfully drew a picture of a monk on the folding screen. Try saying that three times fast. I’ll say it now. Listen up! The last one was ‘skillfully drew a picture of a monk’… With that ‘drew,’ here comes the strike!”

3

On a late spring night, the silence of midnight was broken by a sudden—! It was the sound of clashing swords arising from behind Kobu Temple.

Kamio Kyonosuke and Ibara Ukon resembled each other so closely that even Shirazu no Ogen and Osono would mistake one for the other—yet where they differed, they differed. If one were to ask where and how they differed, first, their vocal tones were slightly different. Then came their sword techniques—Kyoshin-ryū and Kanka-ryū.

Kyoshin-ryū was Kamio Kyonosuke.

Kanka-ryū is Ibara Ukon.

Their distinction could be discerned by how they wielded their swords. Kyoshin-ryū—the style of Kyonosuke—moved steadily and inexorably, while Kanka-ryū—the style of Ukon—observed phenomena within stillness, erupting suddenly from tranquility as profound as a forest to cut through iron and shatter rock. It was difficult to declare either superior—both were formidable swordsmen wielding their blades with peerless mastery.

Now.

At Yokochi Hankurō’s estate during a night banquet, Kamio Kyonosuke had slipped in unnoticed and was lurking behind a folding screen—though to phrase it oddly… this Kamio Kyonosuke was not Kamio Kyonosuke but rather Ibara Ukon. His voice, his demeanor, and above all, his swordsmanship—observing phenomena within stillness before instantaneously shifting to erupt with sudden strikes—revealed the distinction.

But these six enemies had never even dreamed that such a double existed. They were convinced it was Kamio Kyonosuke and nothing but. Six against one—the many would overpower the few. "Let’s all charge at once and cut him down!" With that, the first strike came from Haruto Kikuma—a feinting strike intended to create an opening for his allies. "Hyah!" He drew. A white flash tore through the spring lantern and leapt to three inches before Ukon’s face. In that split-second, there was no opening to exploit. Just as, "The monk from the back skillfully drew a picture of a monk on the folding screen!"

The instant the trailing "Drew!" ended, Ukon planted one foot on the toppled folding screen.

“As promised! “Have at you!” The long blade swept low and sideways through Ukon’s hand like a steel-white great fan—a fan-shaped plank unfurling. The single stroke moved with such speed that it appeared as nothing but a plane of vibration.”

Starting with Haruto Kikuma, who had leapt up, the group scrambled back—dada-da! They retreated backward, aligned their sword glints, and formed a unified group.

None of them should have been cut. But how strange! Along Ukon’s blade ran a single streak— A streak of coagulated blood ran along it….

Ukon was coldly expelling the laughter that kept welling up within him.

“If you’re too oblivious to realize your own torso’s been split clean in two, I can’t be bothered to deal with you.”

Ah! When a sudden groan struck from behind them, they turned to look. It was Matsubara Genbei. He had been positioned at the rear. Yet while those in front bore not a single scratch, why had Genbei now been felled by that one sword stroke? It was Kanka-ryū's armor-piercing strike—the technique that slips through gaps in armor to cleave the body within. Genbei groaned! At the very moment he cried out, he lurched forward as though swimming and collapsed with a thud—just as Ukon had declared—his torso splitting open....

“Fourth head!”

Yūsa Gōshichirō’s extended sword descended toward Ukon, who was convulsing with booming laughter from his gut. Ducking through, Ukon dashed up to the recessed alcove and—for the first time here—assumed a proper seigan stance with his mighty blade. In the room thick with the chokingly metallic stench of blood, the five swordsmen deployed into a crescent formation before the alcove. The candelabra’s flame flickered intermittently at the tip of the blade, blooming like a flower…

IV

For some reason, Ibara Ukon’s face suddenly tensed. He was no longer laughing. Sensing the killing intent surging within him, he had suddenly become serious—resolved to strike down the remaining five in a single blow. As they wondered what he would do... and watched, Ukon—clamping the large sword that had been resting precisely on his shoulder between his teeth—smoothly straightened up and began tightening his obi. He stood encircled by five blades. Audacious! Then frantic Kagami Tanba unleashed the secret essence of Mukyō Ittō: the Nail-Driving Thrust. From six shaku away, he thrust his sword forward—a technique aiming to drive nails with its cutting edge, the pride of Genzukechō Dōjō and Tanba’s most vaunted specialty… all in one furious motion.

As if he had anticipated this, Ukon released the sword he had been holding in his mouth. He snatched it out of mid-air as it fell—clang!—and while deflecting Tanba's thrust upward from below, immediately lunged like a leopard toward Yokochi Hankurō. "Hmm! This guy's good," Tanba muttered. Having crossed blades, Tan-chan grinned and nodded in admiration.

As if they had noticed this，a clamor of voices erupted all at once among the five men who had been stubbornly silent until now． “Indeed，he’s skilled．” Yūsa Gōshichirō repeated，as if groaning． Of course he’s skilled—after all，his opponent was a master of conflict resolution．

“We’re at a disadvantage in here.” “To the garden!” “To the garden!”

“There’s strength in numbers. Someone go call for reinforcements to Genzukechō!” “Right! Someone go get the master!” “No need to involve the master. One of the Three Crows will suffice.” Even as they spoke, they were steadily closing in on Ukon, step by step—but these Three Crows of Genzukechō were direct disciples of the great master of Mukyō Ittō-ryū, Jinbo Zōshu, Ōyachi Shuri. Hiki Ichiryūsai. Tendō Toshitarō. These three were called the Three Crows of Genzukechō, and there is always someone above. As for Yūsa Gōshichirō, Haruto Kikuma, and Kagami Tanba—who had been dispatched to Kobudera’s back streets that day—even if deemed strong, they were no different from infants in the eyes of these Three Crows…

Had they already begun to be overwhelmed? They were saying to call one of them as reinforcements. Ukon stood rooted in place, his nihilistically pale face betraying not a single twitch, his back to the alcove. Hankurō called out loudly to his comrades and had the storm shutters opened, attempting to lure him into the garden from there; however, Ukon, seeing that facing five opponents alone in an open area would be disadvantageous, refused to take the bait.

By this time, Kagami Tanba—who had been entrusted with covering the rear—had already started running from Yokochi’s residence toward Shiba Genzukechō. However, a black shadow that had until then been lurking in the garden thicket—watching through thrown-open storm shutters at the brightly lit room where swords flashed like a theater stage—now began tailing him with urgent steps as if drawn along. In his haste, Tanba failed to notice this.

The black shadow… it was a woman.

It was Shirazu no Ogen—who had come to attack alongside Ibara Ukon and had been observing the situation from outside. With her clogs clattering pita-pita-pita, she pursued Tanba—but midway changed course toward Kanda’s Obiya Alley. If they’re bringing reinforcements, then we need reinforcements too. Right—she’d ask Mr. Kamio, lounging at their home as their house brawler-for-hire, and then that scrawny hair-puller from that one night who’d sworn to lend his blade—Master Gyoshindo, the street-preaching fish-obsessed ronin philosopher—to come. Shirazu no Ogen, her white chirimen hakama billowing through the darkness like a runaway horse with its tail aflame, raced off without a glance at her footing.

“No, that’s not it. If you order me to charge out and cut them down, I’ll cut them down—but—” Zōshu trailed off and shot a piercing glance at the guest.

Just at that moment.

It was the inner chamber of Jinbo Zōshu, master swordsman of the Mukyō Ittō-ryū Dōjō in Genzukechō.

Beneath a horizontal plaque boldly inscribed with “Sentient and Formless” sat an arrogant, domineering figure of imposing build—Jinbo Zōshu, who might be called the commander of Genzukechō’s brutes. Unmoved by the presence of his high-ranking guest, he sat cross-legged on a thick cushion, his face—already far from gentle—made thoroughly sinister by a deep scar carved like a blade stroke between his brows at fifty-odd years of age. “However,” Zōshu continued, “hunting him down ain’t our job. You’ve got Hatchōbori and your own men for that—plenty enough hands, I’d reckon. Once you’ve pinned down where that Kyonosuke’s holed up, *we’ll* go chop his head off… Though that’s talk for when the time comes—”

Just as Wakasaka Yamashironokami, Head of the Palace Guards—the guest—leaned forward urgently to speak, a sudden clamor of voices erupted from the direction of the dojo where over a hundred disciples lived and trained.

Five

He had come to make a request. Hatchōbori was insufficient to rely on, and even urging his retainers did little to advance matters. Yamashironokami’s plan was thus: to turn to swordsmen, have them strike down and behead Kyonosuke upon finding him, use that as proof, and then plead anew for mercy to secure his household’s safety. Under cover of night, he had come alone and in secret to knock on the door of this Genzukechō dojo—a man who, as Master of the Nishinomaru Retainers, would today be equivalent to a documents department head. Though his position carried influence, here he was reduced to bowing repeatedly—not groveling, but with marked deference—to a mere neighborhood swordsman like Jinbo Zōshu, for desperate times left no choice…

Generally speaking, Master Jinbo had always resented how government officials threw their weight around. Especially tonight, the aforementioned government Documents Department Head had come in such a manner—as if to declare, “Behold my palanquin!”— As a ronin—essentially the leader of the unemployed—I’ve been a bit twisted from the start. To be sure, Jinbo Zōshu—who loved violent deeds like beheading people more than three meals a day and had spent thirty years doing little else, that very thing being the reason for his existence today—was by no means averse to such talk. To tell the truth, he wanted to accept the job immediately—but thinking that would diminish his standing, he decided to make Yamashironokami sweat a little. With a touch of spite, he dragged out the back-and-forth, refusing to agree easily. Trapped by his own persistence, Yamashironokami was left squirming, unable to retreat.

Originally, this was neither a task where he could wield his official authority through positional power, nor was the other party someone he could command. But having snuck out of his residence at night to make this request, Yamashironokami—his usual obstinacy nowhere to be found—now spoke in a voice trembling on the verge of tears, convinced he absolutely must bring this man over to their side. “Please do not say such things. It is precisely because I place my trust in you that I—Yamashiro—have come personally to make this entreaty.” “I have heard that at the request of those lowly guards, warriors from this dojo have been providing overnight protection.” “Taking that kindness one step further... I—Yamashiro—b-beg you most humbly... to have that wretch Kyonosuke struck down by your own hand.”

Zōshu was thoroughly amused. After making him struggle a bit more, he would reluctantly accept under the pretext of “Well then.” Because he thought this, he maintained an air of utmost reluctance. “Whatever one may say, this is a peaceful era,” he said. “If ruffians were to emerge from among my subordinates—” Shaking his crossed leg with apparent amusement, he continued, “—and stir up trouble under your jurisdiction, both the requester and the requested would—” With that, Zōshu suddenly thrust his face forward and tapped the back of his neck with a *pon*.

“This is how it stands for both of us, ain’t it?” “Ahahahaha!” Neck! Wakasaka Yamashironokami—who had grown acutely sensitive to such words—jerked his head back violently at the mention, flinching! He cowered.

“Pfft! Ugh—in that case, I absolutely cannot agree. Are you saying you’ll make a fool of Yamashiro?!” “No, I’m not being entirely inflexible…”

“Jinbo! I’ll make sure you get your reward!” “Hmm… What exactly is this ‘reward’ you speak of? For good measure, I’ll ask now.”

“That reward?” “I’ll give you anything—no! I’ll grant you anything!” “I see. You’ll give me anything?” Jinbo Zōshu slammed a hand against the floorboards and looked up at Yamashironokami, his faint smile widening as his eyes gleamed sharply. “How entertaining.” “I have a condition.” “A condition? Fine.” “Name it.” “I want a woman.”

Six

“What? A woman…?”

"Hmm." "That wife of Kyonosuke's—Osono, or whatever they call her—is quite the talk of the town. I want you to use your influence to deliver her to me." Yamashironokami pondered for a moment. "Osono...?" "Your silence suggests reluctance, I see."

Urged by Zōshu, “No, no, I have no objections.” “But if we can just use that Osono, surely—” “Need I say more? “Someone like Kyonosuke… It’s this simple.” Jinbo Zōshu tapped the tatami with his pinky and burst into loud laughter, whereupon Yamashironokami, with an air of confidence, “Hmm, those words are my greatest assurance.” “As for Osono, I’ll promptly order that wretch Nagame to—” Muttering to himself, he was scheming something in his mind. Zōshu took his beloved sword—a renowned blade forged by Bando Jiro Yukimura, known as “Wild Wind”—from beside him and, grinning slyly, said, “Let us strike a pledge.”

“Hmm.” “It is the token of our pact.” Beneath the paper lantern, Yamashironokami and Zōshu struck! Strike! They clanged their sword guards and exchanged faint smiles. The grand task of abducting Osono and handing her over to this Jinbo Zōshu—once again, the role seemed destined to fall to Nagame. Lately, Murai Nagame appeared likely to be kept exceedingly busy; with the story becoming increasingly tangled, even the author found it no easy matter. That was all well and good—

On the veranda outside the room where the two were whispering in hushed tones stood the figure of a woman listening quietly. This was Ichimatsu Oroku—a former geisha from Fukagawa who had risen to wear the haori, neither fully Jinbo Zōshu’s wife nor his mistress, the matriarch running this dojo. Though called a matriarch—a title reflecting her true nature—her hair was neatly tied up in a manner befitting both a town dojo and a samurai household: an outwardly respectable yet undeniably alluring appearance.

Upon hearing that the agreement to hand over Osono as a reward had now been made, a twisted smile—undoubtedly born of jealousy—spread across Oroku’s face as she strained to listen, and she nodded to herself as though affirming some private resolve. At that moment, the sound of numerous footsteps approached from the direction of the dojo, rounding the corridor’s bend—if she were discovered standing there, it would spell trouble. Oroku hastily concealed herself around the opposite corner and peered stealthily out just as Kagami Tanba, leading a large group of disciples down the corridor, came to a halt before the room.

“Master!” The sliding door opened from inside, and Zōshu lumbered out. “What’s this racket?!”

The group clattered onto the wooden corridor and sat down as Kagami Tanba spoke. "Master! Tonight, Yusa, Haruto, and I were assigned to night watch at Lord Yokochi Hankurō's residence behind Kobu Temple in Yotsuya when Kamio Kyonosuke appeared just now—and it turned into one hell of a sword fight—" Though 'sword fight' wasn't quite the term he'd use, that was the gist of it. Yamashironokami, who had been listening, jolted upright but— "Now! "The time has come for you to take the stage." "As per our agreement—"

Then, Zōshu, having grasped the situation with a firm nod, turned to the group and barked harshly. “There’s no need for me to go. Send one of the Three Crows and take everyone with you!” “But Master, no matter how much we try to wake them, Mr. Ōyachi, Mr. Hiki, and Mr. Tendō are all sound asleep and won’t get up…” “Is that so? There’s a proper way to wake them. At the Three Crows’ bedside, clash your swords and let them hear the sound.” Strange as this alarm clock was, they must have carried it out nonetheless. Before long, the fifty-seven-strong force—led by Kagami Tanba and spearheaded by Tendō Toshitarō, one of the Three Crows—rushed to the rear of Kobudera, jostling through the midnight streets as they sought to crush Kamio Kyonosuke (in truth, Ibara Ukon) in one decisive strike.

Seven Osono had already returned to her home in Tsukudo Hachiman, while at the Kenkaya on Obiaikōji, Kamio Kyonosuke—though it bears repeating—sat alone, bearing the same face and attire as Ibara Ukon. Sprawling with his arm for a pillow, he gazed up at the list of seventeen names posted on the wall, contemplating his next victim and method of attack. Just then, Shirazu no Ogen came rushing back, breathless… Upon hearing her account—that Ukon had attacked Yokochi Hankurō’s residence that night without Kyonosuke’s knowledge, only to find guards from the Gensukechō dojo lying in wait, and that one had immediately dashed back to Shiba to summon reinforcements—she explained she had followed Ukon to witness this and come straight to retrieve him. Without waiting to hear more, Kyonosuke dashed out toward Yotsuya, his well-worn sword at his waist.

Ogen thought she would immediately turn back to follow Kyonosuke, but she had another errand to attend to. She wanted to call upon Master Gyoshindō as well.

Master Gyoshindō. Since Master Gyoshindō roamed in pursuit of fish, his whereabouts were never certain. But given the previous night’s report that he had been staying near Jizōgaike Pond—a small pond in Outer Kanda at the time—Ogen hurried there and found, just as described, a single large tree with branches stretching over the water. There he sat astride a branch, for Master Gyoshindō drew no line between day and night; even at this late hour, he serenely dangled his fishing line. The other night, after Ibara Ukon’s hair had snagged on a fishhook and ended up in a tangle with the line, the three of them had come to this pondside. They had discussed various things and confided Kyonosuke’s situation, agreeing to seek Master Gyoshindō’s aid if needed. Thus, Shirazu no Ogen now raced to Jizōgaike Pond and stood beneath the tree where Master Gyoshindō perched bird-like.

“Fish Master!”

It was a peculiar nickname, but between two such eccentrics, it didn’t sound all that strange. “Shh! To shout so loudly at this hour of midnight—what a suspicious fellow.” "What nonsense—he was far more suspicious himself!" “You’re scaring off the fish clan!” Being the eminent scholar he was, he went out of his way to refer to fish as “the fish clan.” Using such terms to impress the ignorant masses was said to be the principle of our Master Gyoshindō, but this could hardly be relied upon.

In any case, upon hearing Ogen’s story, Master Gyoshindō could no longer idly continue his fishing; so, stowing away his splendid gear—uncharacteristic of him—he dashed out toward Yotsuya alongside Ogen.

It was at Fujimi no Baba near Kobudera, as dawn approached and the eastern sky began to pale, that the trio of Kamio Kyonosuke, Master Gyoshindō, and Ogen encountered fifty-seven men from Gensukechō advancing under Tendō Toshitarō and Kagami Tanba’s leadership. Trampling through dew-laden grass, their clash lasted until morning. The Gensukechō force must have reeled in shock. After all, Kamio Kyonosuke—who should have been rampaging at Hankurō’s residence—had materialized here instead. Though of course, had they known this was the true Kyonosuke, it would have held no mystery...

In the predawn hours, the authorities who had heard the commotion came rushing in, and the forest of blades scattered, leaving the clash unresolved. Thus, Edo’s spring deepened, soon giving way to the verdant early summer of fresh green leaves.

At a place called Unagi Nawate (Eel Mound) beyond Hongō Oiwake, where the Nishinomaru Palace Guards had gathered at the residence of their captain, Nagaoka Tanomo, to discuss countermeasures against Kyonosuke—it was Tanomo himself who discovered it. A paper tag hung on the sliding door of his private room. ┌────┐ │　忌中　│ └────┘

...I am a living dead man! What...? Tanomo had turned pale.

He’s here!

One

That night, the brawl at Fujimi no Baba ended without a victor. This is how it happened. Unbeknownst to Kyonosuke, Ibara Ukon had acted on his own initiative—intending to present him with a fourth head—by storming into Yokochi Hankurō’s residence behind Yotsuya Jishōin’s Kobudera temple. There he struck down Matsubara Genbei, who happened to be present, claiming him as that fourth trophy. However, their opponents had prepared defenses: three swordsmen—Haruto Ikuma, Yusa Gōshichirō, and Kagami Tanba—from Jinbo Zōshu’s Mukei Ittō-ryū dojo in Shiba Gensukechō stood guard through the night. Among them, Kagami Tanba—judging three men insufficient—dashed out to summon one of the Three Crows from the Shiba dojo. This was witnessed by Shirazu no Ogen, who had shadowed Ukon to Kobudera’s rear and now hid among garden trees observing the scene. Leaving matters unresolved, she gave chase to Tanba through dark streets before abruptly changing course and returning to her Kanda home. There she reported everything to Kamio Kyonosuke—who sat alone brooding over Ukon and Ogen’s whereabouts. At that very moment Kyonosuke bolted toward Yotsuya, Shirazu no Ogen recruited Master Gyoshindō—the fish-obsessed eccentric bound by prior pact with Ukon—and together they raced after him toward Yotsuya…

Around this same time, Wakasaka Yamashironokami—Commander of the Nishinomaru Palace Guards who had exhausted all options—visited Jinbo Zōshu in Gensukechō to request aid concerning the Kyonosuke incident. Master Jinbo agreed to this in exchange for Kyonosuke’s wife Osono. But Ichimatsu Oroku—a former geisha neither fully his wife nor mistress—overheard this exchange, her willow-leaf eyebrows bristling in anger just as Kagami Tanba returned seeking reinforcements from the Three Crows. Thus on the spot, Tendō Toshitarō marched out toward Yotsuya with fifty-seven swordsmen. Unaware that Ibara Ukon—not Kamio Kyonosuke—was the one assaulting Yokochi Hankurō’s residence, Wakasaka Yamashironokami remained buoyant with confidence that tonight would surely bring Kamio’s demise. Still entrusting Zōshu with future arrangements, he departed from this covert meeting. When Zōshu reiterated the terms regarding Osono’s exchange, Yamashironokami—convinced that employing Murai Chōan would ensure success—gave a vigorous nod, thumped his chest, and boarded the waiting palanquin.

The trio of Kyonosuke, Master Gyoshindō, and Ogen encountered the fifty-seven men advancing from Gensukechō under Tendō Toshitarō and Kagami Tanba at Fujimi no Baba near Kobudera Temple, just as the eastern sky began to pale. Kicking through night-dewed fields, their chaotic battle lasted until dawn—leaving the Gensukechō force surely stunned. After all, Kamio Kyonosuke—who was supposed to be wreaking havoc at Hankurō’s residence—had suddenly burst out here. Though this was the real Kamio Kyonosuke, so had they known, it wouldn’t have been strange… But compounding matters was the large man in a disheveled splashed-pattern kosode, his head bobbing like a tea whisk and a thick white cotton hyogo obi wrapped around his waist, who harried them by swinging a six-foot sapling—roots still caked with soil—with whirlwind ferocity. Worse yet, a woman who might have been mistaken for a courtesan had joined the fray; even as swordsmen encircled her, she hurled stones and clods of earth, creating such chaos that soon one or two among their own ranks began falling to Kamio’s blade. As dawn broke and the clamor grew frantic, the flickering lights of official lanterns approached—this was the force led by Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, discreetly working to split the brawl and rescue Kyonosuke.

Why was Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, the informant from Nihonbashi Hasegawachō, acting as though aiding Kyonosuke from the shadows? Was it not this very same Otomatsu who, at Kabedatsu’s house before Yoriki Mitsutani Kennosuke, had deliberately mistaken Kyonosuke for Ibara Ukon—the ronin in the conflict-resolution trade—and practically instructed him to take refuge there?

That morning at Fujimi no Baba as well. Just as the fifty-seven men were struggling to handle the three, a squad of constables appeared. Seizing this opportunity, Kagami Tanba and others rushed over— “Hey! You’ve come at a good time! We’re from the Shiba dojo—Kamio Kyonosuke is right over there.” “The former palace guard Kamio Kyonosuke—we’ve discovered him and were just about to apprehend him for your sake. Since we’re here to lend a hand, act swiftly!”

When they promptly set out with the plaintiff, Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu—who had pretended not to hear—let out a loud shout. “At this very moment, Lord Ōoka Tadasuke of Echizen, the South Magistrate, is having his morning ride at this training ground! Fall back! Fall back! Both sides are guilty in a brawl! Before His Lordship’s eyes catch wind of this, withdraw at once! Fall back! We’ve come to assist with His Lordship’s security detail!” Quick thinking. It was a lie. The crucial Lord Ōoka rose early indeed. By this time, he had long since left his bed and sat properly at his Soto-Sakurada residence, utterly unaware of the commotion while engrossed in morning documents—Lord Ōoka! Hearing that name made even Tendō Toshitarō and Kagami Tanba uneasy. They withdrew like ebbing tidewater, allowing Kyonosuke’s trio to hastily retreat from the scene. As they departed, Kyonosuke’s eyes met Otomatsu’s across the distance. Holding back the swarm of constables behind him, the informant dipped his head faintly—eyes signaling *Return quickly*.

"Hmm, that's the informant who once called himself Lord Ukon and saved me from danger in Kuromonchō." "Hmm... For what reason does he keep bestowing such favors upon me time and again—?" Though feeling suspicious, Kyonosuke politely greeted Otomatsu from afar and returned to Kanda Obiya Alley with Master Gyoshindō and Ogen as a trio through the morning streets... only to find Ukon had already returned home, his face unperturbed.

“Ah, so the three of you held off Gensukechō for me.” “I had thought that would be the case.”

Ogen slid open the lattice door and stepped inside, then suddenly sniffed the air. "You reek of burning."

“Ah! “That’s it! “Crap, this isn’t good!” Ukon rushed into the kitchen and removed the pot lid, only to find the once-white rice burnt jet black rather than golden brown—and thus found himself thoroughly scolded by Ogen. “I was so hungry I tried cooking alone, but…” While scratching his head, Ukon fetched a brush and drew a line through Matsubara Genbei’s name on the wall posting.

“The fourth head—hahaha! Last night’s was only one.” Thus, the forest of swords at Fujimi no Baba dispersed as they were—on one side stood Kamio Kyonosuke, the conflict-resolution couple, and the eccentric Master Gyoshindō; on the other, Jinbo Zōshu leading Ōyachi Naishuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendō Toshitarō of the Three Crows, who commanded over a hundred Mukei Ittō-ryū practitioners from Gensukechō including Yusa Gōshichirō, Haruto Ikuma, and Kagami Tanba—with Nishinomaru Palace Guard Commander Wakasaka Yamashironokami and his remaining thirteen ledger-keeping retainers looming behind... Here, the hues of swordsmanship split clearly into two factions—friend and foe—as the story advanced.

——And so, up to this point was the rough outline of the previous chapter, "The Living Dead."

Now, to continue...

II

“Urgh! What?! Me—a living corpse?!”

Nagaoka Tanomo involuntarily turned pale. He had found it himself.

By the edge of the living room’s shoji screen, there was a placard boldly written in jet-black ink on Japanese paper. ┌────┐

│　Mourning Period　│ └────┘ It read: “Mourning Period.” Tanomo remained motionless, as if nailed to the veranda boards. He couldn’t move.

Edo’s spring grew old.

Soon came early summer with its verdant young leaves—now permeated by the scent of sprinkled water across every corner of town, where vendors no longer sold seedlings but goldfish and bamboo blinds. At a time when days hinting at impending sweltering heat lingered in a weary haze over Edo’s eight hundred and eight neighborhoods—in Hongo, beyond Oiwake—there lay a place commonly known as Unagi Nawate.

A sturdy tiled roof and a section of namako-patterned wall enclosing towering trees—this was the residence of Nagaoka Tanomo, a Nishinomaru Palace Guard. Tonight at this Nagaoka residence, the remaining guards and scattered reinforcements from Gensukechō had gathered into a rowdy assembly, noisily deliberating strategies to capture Kamio Kyonosuke. In the midst of this, Master Tanomo—who had excused himself from the inner chamber of the gathering to retrieve an item from his private quarters—came to his study without suspicion. He was about to place his hand on the shoji screen when he made the discovery. Gasp! As he jerked his hand back, Tanomo found himself drawn as if magnetized to stare at the placard.

Inside, it was bright. The candlestick had been left burning. The characters for "Mourning Period," pasted on the red shoji screen and illuminated by the light behind them, were rendered in large, masterful calligraphy. The characters stood out clearly as if mocking and ridiculing—appearing eerily ominous like the ill omen itself made manifest.

He had opened the shoji screen. This was no time for that. There might be someone inside the room. This single door was made of iron—no ordinary shoji screen that could be easily opened. Tanomo had slipped away from the council meeting to retrieve something himself, but now he stood frozen, unable to retreat or advance, having even completely forgotten what item he had come here to fetch. In a daze… When he came to his senses, he found himself drenched in a cold sweat from head to toe.

"Whose doing was this?—Of course, it had to be that bastard’s work—but how had he slipped into this strictly guarded mansion during our assembly? And where could he be hiding now—?"

This was one of the first questions that arose in Tanomo’s muddled mind. At the same time, he pressed himself back against the opposite storm shutter as if clinging to it, listening intently while scanning both sides of the long corridor.

From the distant meeting area, only faint voices could be heard; everything else remained still, devoid of any disturbance. The light shining from inside the room made the surrounding area dimly bright, while the far end of the corridor was sunk in a chilly half-darkness despite it being a summer night. Tanomo stood as if bound by a curse… his eyes wide open as he glared at the mourning placard on the shoji screen, still unable to move a muscle. Nagaoka Tanomo—a man of thirty-five or thirty-six, in the prime of manhood. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, imposing figure. He had a bitterly sharp face with piercing white eyes, and was counted among the top negotiators even among the palace guards. The honor of Hōzōin-ryū spearmanship... Well, perhaps "honor" was too grand a word, but he did possess enough skill that during his daily morning practice with padded tips, he could send two or three young retainers sprawling. As for his swordsmanship in Mumen-ryū—whenever he thought of entering competitions, he’d end up thoroughly defeated! He was not one to retreat; depending on the day’s outcome, he could also erupt into violent outbursts. He was, first and foremost, a samurai of considerable standing.

At this moment, as Tanomo stood transfixed, staring at this mourning placard, the commotion of that New Year’s Day in the palace rose up vividly in his mind’s eye. Even I myself had indeed played a part in that bullying of Kyonosuke. It was during a moment of profound silence that had fallen after Ōme Fuji Sagaminokami cleared his throat and left the castle. The palace guards finally relaxed with muttered relief, their sudden chatter erupting here and there. When they turned to resume the interrupted bullying of Kyonosuke, they found all others had already raised their heads—yet Kyonosuke alone remained like a flat spider, hands still pressed against the tatami.

Narrowing their eyes and tugging at their sleeves, the group closed in around Kyonosuke.

Yanagisaku Hikojūrō said in an oddly syrupy tone. “Mr. Kamio, are you dozing off?” “Ha ha ha! This humble one would gladly share in such a New Year’s dream! But since we’re in the palace—if you’re truly so exhausted, I won’t say another word.” “Why don’t you go off duty and rest?”

Yes, that time. “Fatigue?” It had been me who shouted in that shrill voice and leaned forward. “Fatigue? Fatigue was fine indeed. With such a flighty butterfly as Lady Osono by your side, even you, Mr. Kamio, would be worn out!” It had been a vulgar remark. Two or three of them had burst into laughter, but Tobe Ouminosuke had made a visibly disgusted face. He had risen even more fiercely, as if fueled by hatred, and had been glaring down at Kyonosuke...

That had stirred the jealousy buried in Ouminosuke's heart toward Kyonosuke, driving him to torment Kyonosuke so relentlessly—ultimately leading to that sword injury incident and this current upheaval. I too bear responsibility, Nagaoka Tanomo now thought. But even bearing responsibility was different from this. First head, second head, third head, fourth head—Lord Osako Genba, Lord Asaka Keinosuke, Lord Inomata Kozen, Lord Matsubara Genbei... And now, amidst this storm-like panic raging like a great tempest, yet another threatening challenge—the Mourning Period notice—had appeared before me this time.

What is this 'Mourning Period'? A living man—are you calling me a corpse?! Are you declaring the fifth head to be this Nagaoka Tanomo?! What?! The first four heads may be of no consequence, but this fifth one here—regrettably for you—is tempered with unyielding resolve. Kamio Kyonosuke may be a master swordsman, but he has surely not transformed into some demon or rakshasa. I won’t hand over this head so easily! Come at me! Amusing! Come...! With this inner shout, Nagaoka Tanomo cast off the clinging terror that had ensnared him. In the adjacent room, over twenty of his colleagues had also gathered. Wh—What?! And suddenly, he—the usually bold Tanomo—had returned,

“Let me see when this was written and put up.” While muttering to himself, he reached out and touched the characters on the Mourning Period notice. And what do you know— Ink clung to his fingertips. The writing was still damp. It hadn’t dried yet… He’d just written and pasted it! If that was the case, Kamio must still be nearby. That’s right. In this room—this profoundly silent parlor where the candlestick blazed—Tanomo gripped his drawn sword in his right hand, every nerve taut as he began sliding open the shoji: one minute… two minutes… three… five… an instant—smoothly.

Three To Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu—who had slid open the shoji screen with a smooth motion and poked his face through—Tadasuke offered a cordial smile, though his voice alone raged like a rebuke. “Close it behind you.”

This was Edo South Magistrate, Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen. It was a single back room in the Sotokanda official residence, built in the shoin style.

It was night. Having returned that day from the magistrate office at Suqiyabashi Bridge, Ōoka Tadasuke—as if moved by some unspoken thought—dispatched a servant rushing to Nihonbashi Hasegawachō to summon Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, the neighborhood's chief investigator. Thereafter, he sat formally in the inner shoin-style study and, following his customary practice when pondering difficult problems, positioned himself before a Go board for a solitary game—though to call it such would be misleading, for he neither placed stones according to proper form nor studied strategies of attack and defense. He merely clutched black and white stones, letting them clatter onto the board—sometimes shifting a black piece, other times rearranging white ones in what amounted to random play—all while biting his nails repeatedly, another habit of his during deep contemplation. He appeared to take pleasure in the crystalline clatter of Go stones. This was the method of Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen—whenever he had matters to consider, he would face the Go board, idly manipulate the stones, and during that interval devise his strategies.

And so, just as he was sinking into solitary contemplation, Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu—whom he had sent for—arrived. Summoned abruptly at night from the Lord Magistrate’s official residence, Otomatsu was already trembling as though he were a criminal himself before even considering what urgent matter this might concern. For a mere neighborhood informant to receive such a summons from the Lord Magistrate was truly without precedent. Having arrived at the Sotokanda residence in nervous deference, he had come expecting to meet one of the attending officials—only to learn he would be granted a direct audience with the Lord Magistrate himself. The young samurai, apparently acting on prior orders, guided the panic-stricken Otomatsu deeper into the residence with heavy footsteps. Entering such grand inner quarters for the first time in his life, Otomatsu followed while glancing about restlessly—only to find them steeped in profound silence, utterly devoid of human presence. It seemed Lord Echizen had cleared the area for confidential discussion, but when they reached a room at the corridor’s end, the young samurai signaled through glances and expression that he should enter… then turned heel and hurried away as if fleeing.

Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu had been left alone. No matter where he looked, there were only dark rooms lined up—let alone any human figures, not a single sound could be heard. Only a bright light was shining through the shoji screen before his eyes. The thought that Lord Ōoka Tadasuke, the South Magistrate of Edo, was inside this room—once this realization struck him, Otomatsu plopped down onto the corridor floor and froze solid, utterly unable to lay a hand on that shoji screen.

...It’s so quiet… But is there truly anyone in this room? Just as Otomatsu tilted his head in sudden doubt, the clear clatter of Go stones rang out from within the room—as though answering his unspoken question.

He couldn't stay like this forever. "Alright!" With a resolve to take the plunge—Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, having mustered his courage,

“Excuse me.” In the most formal voice of his life, he slid open the shoji screen smoothly as he did so— “Heh heh heh... Truly, my lord, this humble one is most obliged.” It was a strange greeting. Incoherent and flustered, he himself didn’t understand what he was saying. Here was a man who normally spoke with coarse familiarity—not only appearing before none other than the magistrate himself but now expected to engage in a face-to-face discussion—and poor, dutiful Otomatsu had become utterly overwrought, sweating profusely all over, frantically rubbing his forehead against the tatami as he mumbled incoherently.

“Close it behind you.”

It was Lord Ōoka’s voice—one he had often heard at the magistrate’s office. He jolted and raised his head properly. Over there, before a Go board, there was a round, plump face—one he had also seen at the magistrate’s office. He closed it behind him as instructed—heh heh! As he prostrated once more, Lord Ōoka began to speak. “You are Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, I take it.” “Yes. My deepest apologies for the belated introduction. I am a ruffian named Otomatsu employed in Nihonbashi Hasegawachō, my lord.”

“Now, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.” Tadasuke said with a laugh in his voice, “Come a bit closer.”

“Yes.” Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu stepped forward about an inch and a half while saying, “At your sudden summons, I rushed here wondering what urgent matter requires my service.” “For a lowly one like myself to be granted a direct audience with you—it’s truly…” While he was scratching his head incessantly, Lord Echizen suddenly spoke up. “You said... Otomatsu, was it?” “What do you take me for? I have never once gone to Fujimi’s riding grounds at dawn for a test ride.”

Four

Ikenoue Shinrokurō, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, Myōken Katsusaburō, Hyūga Ichigaku, Hori Shōzaemon, Hakata Yūnosuke, Kasama Jinpachi, Minebuchi Shanosuke, Yazukuri Hikojūrō, Araki Yōichirō—and the estate’s master, Nagaoka Tanomo. And from Genzukechō: the Three Elite Swordsmen—Ōyauchi Shūri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendō Toshitarō. In addition: Haruto Ikkyūma, Yusa Gōshichirō, Kagami Tanba, and several others. It was a grand assembly. When food and drink were served, the gathering would become disorderly—and since they couldn’t hold their crucial discussions, the entire group remained sober. They were spread out in a row across the grand hall, in the midst of their council.

“Four have already been killed.” “Gentlemen—what do you make of this? These were stalwart warriors, many of them shogunal retainers entrusted with guarding the Tokugawa household.” “Not only that—those summoned to key castle posts have united against him—yet this man who was once our colleague now wanders as an emaciated ronin!” “To be bested by a single emaciated ronin… How utterly—” “No—the very thought makes my blood boil!” “What do you mean?” “This outrage isn’t yours alone to bear.” “That we—driven by official decree—have let this rabid cur run wild, biting at will, yet failed to lay a finger on it until now… By heaven, this disgrace beggars belief!”

“Not only would this displease our superiors if reported, but it would also disgrace our guard division before the commoners—and ultimately undermine the prestige of Edo Castle itself.”

“That’s right.” “But it has already been reported to our superiors.” “The Elder Councilors, Junior Councilors, Senior Inspectors, and others are said to be deep in deliberation.” “Hmm. What might they be deliberating about?” “That remains unknown.” “It is said state secrets must not be divulged.” “Hmph—when it comes to those old men, what can I say? They do love to gather and grumble.” “That’s all there is to it.” “Exactly. First of all, there’s no need for any consultation whatsoever.” “All we need do is vigorously drive the entire townside—starting with Hatchōbori—to have that Kyonosuke bound in ropes at once.”

“Well, I’ve just heard something… Regarding this incident, it seems that Lord Ōoka is also making moves—” “When you say Ōoka, do you mean *that* Ōoka of the South Magistrate’s office? What’s that Ōoka meddling in now?” “Bwahaha! The belief that everything will be resolved if only he himself intervenes—that is that man’s delusion. That’s what’s called a narcissistic delusion.” “Utterly absurd! Lord Ōoka should just throw his weight around dealing with foxes, rats, and thieves. Kyonosuke will absolutely be dealt with by our own hands! Well now, gentlemen.”

“Needless to say, Ōoka is Ōoka, and we are we. Well, this stays between us—but this humble one has always found Lord Ōoka’s clever pretensions grating.” “Whenever something arises, it’s all ‘royal governance’ this and ‘righteous principles’ that—hmph, ahahaha! Even Lord Wakasaka detests him like some hairy caterpillar.” “Now, setting that aside—the purpose of convening you today concerns strategies for defeating Kyonosuke, but—” “Nonsense! No need for complications.” “Just drag him before me!”

“Silence! Enough of this empty bluster—Ah, you there must be Mr. Kasama. Rumor has it you even sleep clad in full armor.”

Amid the clamor and uproar, Nagaoka Tanomo—his face deathly pale—shambled into the room. The entire group turned to look at him and chorused in unison, “Hey, Nagaoka! What’s wrong?” “How are you feeling, Lord Nagaoka?” Tanomo silently thrust out the Mourning Period Notice he held, “This was posted—on the shoji screen in the living room." "I opened it and looked, but there was no one there." “Look—it’s still wet, just as it is here.”

"Come on—show us!" The entire group rose and began crowding around Tanomo when— They abruptly froze. It was the lowest-ranking seat. When had he arrived—or had he been part of the council from the start? At that seat sat a lone figure, hands pressed to the floor in unwavering prostration. Why had no one noticed until now? The motionless form with hands against tatami... Though lacking formal kamishimo attire, was this posture not identical in every detail to Kamio Kyonosuke’s stance—the very pose he had held while enduring mockery in the guardroom on that New Year’s Day? Faced with this statue-like figure, the group stared soundlessly, eyes wide.

Shadow Against Shadow: Twin Avatars

I “There he is!” “He’s here!” “Look!” “There’s someone here… Who is this…?”

It was Hakata Yuminosuke who cried out. The hands spread behind him held a gesture as if pressing down the air. In that very moment—scrape scrape scrape! He smoothed the tatami and staggered back. Ikenoue Shinrokurou, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Hanno Shume, Yokochi Hankurō, Myōken Katsusaburō… et al.—thirteen Go-Shōin guardsmen in total, and the Gensukemachi reinforcements—jolted in unison! They rose like a receding tide.

Hongō, Unagi Nawate—this was Nagaoka Tanomo’s residence. In the midst of their strategy meeting to capture Kyonosuke. The Mourning Period Notice discovered by their master Tanomo—its ink still wet, as they said—had drawn the group to surround him in clamorous discussion when, without any particular instigator, their eyes suddenly shifted to the lowest seat. That was how they noticed. There, in the lowest seat where they had been deliberating until now, was a figure who had pressed both hands motionlessly against the tatami and lay prostrated like a crab, not moving an inch.

When had he arrived? Or had he been in this room from the very beginning? Why had no one noticed until now? "Hmm… Who is this…?" Ōyanaishi Shuri, foremost of Gensukemachi's Three Elite Swordsmen, growled. "Who are you?" "Could this be one of our fellow colleagues?"

Speaking calmly, Tendo Tonetarō of Gensukemachi turned to look at the guardsmen, but none responded. They lined up along one side of the room, fixing their eyes on the solitary figure as though observing some eerie creature— The figure remained motionless, hands pressed against the tatami... Though lacking the formal kamishimo attire, his position and posture matched Kamio Kyonosuke’s stance in every detail—the very stance he had maintained while enduring mockery in the guardroom on that New Year’s Day. The group stared wide-eyed at the motionless prostrated figure—though describing it this way might make it seem prolonged, in truth mere seconds passed (two, three... not even five) before Araki Yoichiro’s voice erupted. This man belonged to the Araki Matabei lineage—a bloodline that lived up to its reputation. With the sword, he had held the foremost reputation in the guardroom; forty-five or forty-six years old, possessing considerable composure—truly an exceptional figure among the Go-Shōin guardsmen. Now, Araki Yoichiro—with a booming voice inherited from his ancestors (though no records exist of Araki Matabei’s actual voice, one could assume such a renowned warrior’s tone would be equally imposing)—... In any case, since there was no proof his ancestor’s voice hadn’t been booming, declaring it as such posed no issue—though his descendant Yoichiro fell short of Matabei’s greatness, his voice carried remarkable force. It resembled a beast’s roar amplified through a radio loudspeaker.

“Kamio Kyonosuke! Raise your head!” It wasn’t exactly refined speech. But this was, of course, because he was somewhat agitated… However, the figure pressed against the tatami before the sliding door did not move a muscle. On the forehead pressed down as if to hide the face, the light from the candlestick cast a pale reflection. It was the same scene as that moment on New Year’s Day—just before the commotion erupted——. The group stood forming a wide circle around him, but eventually Hori Shōzaemon stomped forward and squatted down before the prostrated Kamio Kyonosuke.

“Where did you come in from? Hmm? Where did you come in from? We were just now discussing how to apprehend you. You’ve arrived at an opportune time. We have this many men assembled here. Ah—though this was meant to be our grand culmination of headhunting, it seems your own headhunt shall conclude tonight with Matsubara-dono’s fourth head here.”

Ha ha ha… He laughed with apparent amusement, shaking his shoulders.

II

Ha ha ha… He laughed with apparent amusement, shaking his shoulders.

Laughing with apparent amusement while shaking his shoulders, Ōoka Tadasuke of Echizen fixedly stared at Kinkanjaya and paused for a short while before uttering his next words. Sotozakurada—this was the official residence of Ōoka Tadasuke, the South Magistrate.

The night in Yamanote was like the ocean floor. Filling that brief interval came the sound of a silent night—a deep forest silence so profound it ached the ears.

To say this evoked a sense of serene elegance and clarity of mind would be apt—but far from elegant, Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu had not a shred of composure left in him. His chest heaved like stormy waves, his ears burned with heat, his vision dimmed—with cold sweat trickling down his armpits, he could not lift his face. “Y-yes?”

After uttering this, he mumbled incoherently and scratched his head. Then Ōoka of Echizen continued, "How about this—I have never once gone to Fujimi Riding Grounds for a trial ride in the early morning."

“Y-yes?” “‘Y-yes’ won’t do.” “Y-yes.” “That ‘yes’ tells me nothing.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” “Overwhelmed, are you? What exactly overwhelms you?” “—” “If you claim to be overwhelmed of your own accord, you must be engaged in some wrongdoing.” “Well… actually…”

“Hmm. Go on, speak your mind.”

“Y-yes.” “Well, my lord, here’s how it was… That night, one of my godchildren came running in and reported a big brawl at Fujimi Riding Grounds. Since I’m under your command, I gathered my men straightaway, prepared, and set out—but—” “Hmm, I, Echizen, am aware of that much.” “Is that so?” “So then, when I rushed into Fujimi Riding Grounds, a considerable number of people were already engaged in combat, so…”

“I am aware of that as well.” “Ah, well—there, I thought to somehow force a stalemate, and ended up shouting the first thing that came to mind—which unwittingly led to using your honored name. I cannot express how profoundly ashamed I am of this.” “That too is known to me.”

“If that is the case, I have nothing further to report, so...” “Do you truly have nothing more to say? Hmm… Is that indeed so?”

“――――”

“Now—the ones who were engaged in that dispute—what men were they?”

“Well, something like Shiba no Gensukechō—” “The Mukyō Ittō style—Jinbo Zōshu’s dojo members.” “Very well.”

However, that was only one side of the matter. A fight must have two sides. “Who was the other party?” It was Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu—who knew better than anyone that lies would not pass before Lord Ōoka— Resigned to death, he closed his eyes and spoke decisively.

“The opponent in that fight was Kamio Kyonosuke.” “I see. To help Kamio, you invoked my name, did you not?”

"To say I was helping him isn't exactly—" "Kamio is an utter fool who disrupts the realm, mocks the law, and even boasts of roaming about beheading guardsmen. Though they say two or three have already lost their heads... Otomatsu!" "Hah!" "Why haven't you arrested him?" "As for why... it's not that..." As Otomatsu trailed off and suddenly looked up at Lord Echizen, Tadasuke—contrary to his severe words—was smiling.

In a quiet whisper, he said. “From next time onwards, apprehend him without fail.” “Understood? You will apprehend him.” “Apprehend… That is, capture him alive.” “You must not kill him.” “However, my lord, since he is rampaging about with a blade, apprehending him is quite—quite—”

“Is it difficult?” “Well...” “Then you must flee instead. This isn’t about letting him escape. You must not kill him. I cannot permit his death—so you will be the one to flee.” “Hah. Understood.” “Do you comprehend? You do understand. Depending on developments, I might visit Fujimi Riding Grounds for test rides as often as needed. Ahahaha!” With a click of a Go stone being placed— “That is all. Leave.”

Tadasuke said. Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu realized Tadasuke’s true intentions and felt as though he had touched upon Tadasuke’s humanity. If the other party had not been the magistrate, Otomatsu would have stood up and— “Hey, you can talk!” he wanted to laugh loudly while slapping someone’s back with all his might. “So you’re also trying to side with the weaker party—the one in the right—eh?” An Edoite. “A delightful Edoite…”

But in reality, he said it casually. “Apprehend ’im without killin’. So if the opponent’s got a blade, we gotta fight back with blades too,” he muttered, tilting his head as he worked it out. “Then both sides’re in danger—them and us—so we end up runnin’… Hmm. But seein’ as he never lets go o’ that killin’ blade of his, we’re always the ones runnin’—”

Kinkanjaya prostrated himself flat. “No, I understand. “I understand perfectly.” Tadasuke’s eyes turned toward Otomatsu as if to say, What? You’re still here… “Enough, enough. Go.” Kirinaga’s eyes remained fixed piercingly on Otomatsu’s profile.

Three

Kirinaga's eyes were fixed piercingly on Kyonosuke's profile.

It was Araki Yoichirou. A motionless figure prostrated with both hands pressed to the tatami—from the thirteen guards and Genzukemachi group who had silently surrounded Kyonosuke and stood blocking his path in an instant, a clamorous uproar erupted. “What a fitting phrase—‘like a summer insect flying into flames.’ They certainly knew what they were talking about.” “However… you’ve got some nerve showing up here where so many esteemed personages are gathered.” “Having slain up to the fourth head and believing there’s nothing left in this realm to fear—your conceit has swelled beyond measure.”

“To think Kyonosuke himself would appear while we’re discussing how to kill him—it’s almost too perfectly staged. How disappointingly simple.” “But when and where could he have slipped in…?” “He crept in quietly and joined our conversation, you see.” “Still—exactly like New Year’s Day! No matter what you say to him, he won’t move a muscle. The bastard’s got quite the flair for drama, hasn’t he?” Convinced they could cut him down at any moment, the group stood before Kyonosuke, smirking and debating loudly—yet in truth, Kyonosuke remained exactly as he had that New Year’s Day, making not the slightest movement no matter what they said.

Before they knew it, this had become a reenactment of that very incident which had sparked the turmoil.

The shoulders of the prostrating Kyonosuke trembled subtly.

“Hmm, he’s crying again.”

“He must find it galling to be discovered and lose his life here.”

The group remained utterly reliant on their numbers. Suddenly, Kasama Jinpachi stomped forward, “He’s crying. That’s amusing. Let’s get a proper look at that spiteful face of his!”

“That’s right. “That’s right.” Hyūga Ichigaku, who should have restrained them, instead provoked from behind: “Grab his topknot and yank him up.” Among them was one who remembered how things had unfolded on New Year’s Day— “What—that’s his trick! “He’s pretending to cry while actually laughing!” A large crowd inevitably emboldens itself. With the renowned Three Elite Swordsmen present and over a dozen from Genzukemachi waiting in reserve, their courage knew no bounds.

“Grab his topknot and yank him up.”

Before Hyūga Ichigaku could finish speaking, “Never mind. “This bastard…” Kasama Jinpachi groaned. He reached toward Kyonosuke to seize his topknot and yank his face upward.

At that moment.

“Heh.” Kyonosuke, who had been prostrated as if struck down, burst into laughter. “Ahahahaha! How hard you’ve worked!” “A gathering of clay dolls… Slash!” “Here—take this!”

It happened simultaneously. Kyonosuke's upper body snapped fully upright along with his laughter. Slash! Just as his knee seemed to lurch forward—in the very instant his right hand appeared to reach for the sword's hilt— He had hung the bare blade at his waist with a thread and draped an unlined habutae haori over it, completely hiding the sword's edge to make it look sheathed. Now, the moment his hand touched the hilt, he needed only to flick it upward. The blade severed its own thread, slipped beneath the haori's hem, and sprang before their eyes. Along its edge—whoosh!— Streaked clotted blood... The single sword stroke of the Kyoshin-ryu Chikuwa Cut.

The head of Jinpachi, which had been chattering away until moments before, traced an arc through the air before striking the tatami with a heavy thud. "Fifth Target—Lord Kasama Jinpachi"

Kyonosuke groaned. He rose quietly. A silence fell like a severed thing.

In that silence, Kyonosuke, holding the bloodied drawn sword in one hand, slowly retreated step by step, placed his hand on the shoji screen, and tried to exit to the engawa. It was only then that the entire group of guards and the Genzukemachi forces finally regained their senses. With Ikeue Shinrokurou, Yamaji Shigenoshin, Ōyanaishuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Kagami Tanba leading the charge, they drew their swords in unison, kicked against the tatami mats, and gave chase to Kyonosuke. But Kyonosuke swiftly slid open the shoji screen and disappeared onto the engawa. At that exact moment, the fusuma door on the opposite side—the one leading to the inner chamber—slid open with a whisper. A voice called out.

“Hey! Over here. Over here.” Gah! As they turned around, what appeared before their eyes was—once again—Kamio Kyonosuke...

There’s a term for appearing and vanishing like a ghost, but this—what in blazes is this?!

The same person exits and, at the same moment, enters from the opposite side—

The group turned about-face toward the inner room while aligning their sword tips, exchanged furtive glances, and tilted their heads in confusion.

4 Murai Chōan slapped— —and slapped his bare buttocks with a loud noise. Red blood bloomed like a small flower, and the corpse of a single mosquito lay crushed like a pressed leaf, stuck flat. Chōan clicked his tongue and plucked up the mosquito corpse. "It has stripes on its abdomen. "A bush mosquito." "This one's vicious!"

In the dim darkness, he muttered to himself. As he spoke, he chuckled wryly—a laugh befitting his medical background— "A thicket mosquito in a thicket—this bastard’s got wordplay chops, eh?" He was marveling at trivial matters and smirking to himself—but only rogues like Chōan who recognized themselves as part of society’s undergrowth truly understood their own nature. “The Tanabata deities spend but one night together—and even that gets rained out! Ahh… what pitiful lovers’ meetings—”

It was July.

Murai Chōan hummed in a low voice like this while curiously surveying the interior of his own residence—a place so devoid of life it might as well have been an abandoned house, still unlit even as evening fell.

Kōjimachi Hirakawa-chō 1-chōme.

The town doctor Chōan’s house.

While the world busied itself battling summer heat—sprinkling water and burning mosquito coils—Chōan’s residence stood chillingly cool by contrast. Not a single item deserving the name furniture remained, let alone any doctor’s tools, making it perfectly suited to summer. What’s more, Murai Chōan himself stood completely naked like this, yet still wore nothing but a hood over his shaved head as he leaned against the wall at his full six-shaku height, mumbling something under his breath since earlier.

Uncharacteristically lost in reminiscence... It seemed that whenever money ran out, this Mr. Chōan had a habit of indulging in memories. Lord Ōoka Tadasuke of Echizen had served as South Magistrate for twenty years. During that time, it was declared that even tearing limb from limb would not suffice to satisfy justice for Kōjimachi Hirakawa-chō’s Murai Chōan. For even the level-headed Lord Ōoka Tadasuke to utter such harsh words meant he must have been an extreme villain. According to the wooden clapper struck from the storyteller’s platform, this Chōan was the son of a peasant named Chōzaemon from Ōhira Village in Ejiri, Suruga Province—within the domain of Lord Matsudaira Hizennosuke—and had been inherently delinquent since birth. From early childhood, he exhibited a vagabond nature here and there—sleeping on park benches, escaping from Odawara Juvenile Prison—until by seventeen or eighteen, he joined a gang of long-wakizashi carriers and came to love gambling more than his three daily meals. As his reputation gradually worsened until he could no longer remain even in his hometown of Ōhira Village—and as he considered going up to the capital to try delivering newspapers—it turned out such delinquent boys found delinquent girls to match. These delinquent girls were by no means solely products of the metropolis; one wouldn’t necessarily find them seeking autographs from black-clad athletes at Jingu Gaien. As evidence that such delinquent girls had existed in the countryside since long ago, there was Oroku—Chōan’s partner. Within the same village, they engaged in romance through rendezvous in places like the shrine grove amidst fertilizer stench. But this Oroku resolved to reach Tokyo—whether as a café girl in an apron beneath neon signs or a dancer in jazz-synced high heels through Ginza or Shinjuku (though Shinjuku back then meant Koshu Highway’s procession of farmers, horse handlers, manure carts, and flies)—determined to live a glamorous life. She quickly struck a deal with Chōan, and hand in hand they eloped from Ōhira Village. A missing persons report might have been filed when they disembarked straight at Tokyo Station—night had fallen as they faced the Marunouchi Building crouching like a super-dreadnought warship ablaze with lights… With no particular skills and this being an economic depression besides, Chōan and Oroku soon found themselves destitute. After discussion, Oroku parted ways with Chōan and moved into a café as she had wished. This being an old tale from the Kyōhō era meant it wasn’t actually a café. She entered service as a waitress at some local restaurant nearby. For a while they exchanged visits and letters with Chōan until their correspondence ceased without warning—now he wondered where she could be. For Murai Chōan, the woman named Oroku had been swallowed whole by Edo’s sprawling shadows and remained there ever since.

Though dissolute and shiftless—a man neither chopsticks nor a stick could handle—Chōan alone had never managed to forget this woman of his first love, Oroku, and so from time to time he would recall her. Even now, having lost everything at gambling, Chōan—who went about scrimping to keep his one remaining kimono from fraying and always stayed naked at home—found himself thinking about Oroku as he absentmindedly swatted mosquitoes in the heat, she whom he had parted from long ago and never seen since.

“She’s gone and turned into some stylish middle-aged woman.” “Damn you!” "Damn you!” he cursed, slapping another mosquito with vigor as he kicked open the lattice door before his nose with a clatter. “What’s this? What about some stylish middle-aged woman?” The one who entered, brandishing Yazō on his shoulder, was Murai Chōan’s partner Tozuka Sanji. Tozuka Sanji let down the hem he had tucked up at his shins with a flip, took the hand towel from his shoulder, and while briskly brushing off his feet, said gruffly:

“Oh! It’s pitch black in here! “Mr. Chōan, are you home?” “I’m here. “Right here— “C’mon up.” Murai Chōan searched for the flint, rustling and rummaging through the area.

Five With a rustling sound as if sweeping across the tatami mats, the group drew their swords and surged forward—but found themselves greatly perplexed. Kyonosuke, who had just left, immediately reentered from what seemed like a completely different direction. Now, if the earlier Kyonosuke who had left was the genuine one, then this later Kyonosuke who entered had to be a different Kyonosuke—though calling him “another Kyonosuke” sounded absurd—for it was none other than Ibara Ukon, the Master Brawler of Kanda Obiya-koji. Yet neither the guards nor Gensuke-chō’s residents knew this trick. Moreover, with their identical faces, expressions, attire, and even swords, they could only assume that Kyonosuke had spun around and reappeared from the opposite end of the twenty-tatami hall. Clicking their tongues inwardly at this mystifyingly supernatural being, the guards rallied their swords and surged as one to slaughter this Ibara Ukon—but just as they lunged, he smashed through the threshold and charged in! Ukon feigned an attack, and no sooner had he swiftly retreated than he slammed the sliding door shut with precision. The sliding door had swallowed Ukon whole…

At the same time, the sliding door behind them—the very one through which Kyonosuke had vanished moments earlier—slid open smoothly. Like autumn grass blown by a storm wind, they all turned toward it... only to find Kyonosuke now standing here. Moreover, he wore a defiant smile across his face while making his sword tip quiver as if poised to challenge them—now they could no longer afford to tilt their heads in wonder. Slash! Tendo Tonetarou of Gensuke-cho gave voice to his anger, “Ungh! You dare mock me?!”

As if taking Tendo Tonetarou's first strike as their signal, they clattered onto the engawa in a chaotic rush—only to find Kyonosuke, who had been standing right there moments before, had vanished without a trace. "Damn! Where'd he go—?"

“Where’d he go?” “I had that face right before my eyes and was about to tackle him...” “Kyonosuke’s no supernatural creature. This taunting’s gone too far!” The group fumed crimson, brandishing drawn swords as they split up to comb the area—when—

“He’s here! Here!” “He’s here!” A bloodcurdling scream—as if a princess had discovered a caterpillar—echoed from deep within. The voices belonged to Hori Shōzaemon, Iyakuwa Hikojūrō, Hanno Shume, Haruto Kikuma, and others. “Come out! Face me!” Some shouted in similarly antiquated fashion. Those who heard this from the engawa—Minebuchi Shanosuke, Hinata Ichigaku, Yusa Gōshichirō, and Nagooka Tanomo, master of the estate— There! scrambled in disarray toward the inner room—when a quiet voice welled up from around the bend of a nearby corridor,

“No, I’m here.” The remark dripped with irony. “My apologies for our crossed paths... I too have been searching everywhere for you all—” With a glance, one saw Kamio Kyonosuke standing there—long sword held in seigan stance, face bearing an enraptured expression. Bathed in the room’s lamplight, half in brightness and half in shadow, his sharply divided figure stood coldly poised—like smoke, like water… “No, I’m here. I’m here.” Minebuchi Shanosuke bellowed to the group across the way.

And from the opposite side came a roaring retort— “What nonsense! How can there be two of the same man?! Kyonosuke’s right here crossing blades with us!” Shanosuke refused to yield. He couldn’t afford to yield—not when Kyonosuke stood plainly before his eyes…

“What nonsense are you spouting?!” Shanosuke roared. “You must be dreaming! Kyonosuke is right here! Everyone, come here! Let’s finish this in one go!” “Don’t talk nonsense!” the others countered. “You’re the one dreaming! Kyonosuke’s over here! Look! He’s crossing blades with Hikojūrō right now! Everyone, come here! Let’s all rush him at once and finish this!” Shouting identical challenges, they split into two groups and plunged into chaos—though with both Kamio Kyonosuke and Ibara Ukon storming Nagooka Tanomo’s residence together, their perfect resemblance made it impossible even for this chronicler to distinguish swordsman from shadow.

Six

In that crow-jewel blackness where even the author could hardly distinguish between them...

It was night.

It was Kanda.

It was Obiya Alley. A figure. The figure was a woman. The woman was Omyou, the daughter of Kabedatsu from Shitaya Kuromonchō.

That Omyou...

It was pitch black.

Both her surroundings and heart were pitch black. When speaking of darkness within—the pitch-black depths of a young woman's heart—could it be anything but love? Omyou couldn't forget Kyonosuke—the man who'd come rushing in dressed as a laborer, whom she'd recklessly saved from her father Kabedatsu's jutte—no matter how she tried. That Kyonosuke, having been misidentified that night in Nagasakawachō (whether through error or kindness—though Omyou believed it deliberate goodwill from Kinkanjaya's boss) as Ibara Ukon of the conflict-resolution trade, now sheltered under that very business while single-mindedly pursuing his revenge to collect seventeen heads. Yet whenever she saw his unwavering focus, Omyou told herself she must find such masculine dedication admirable and noble—even as she became helplessly engulfed in swarming loneliness.

Lord Kyonosuke does not think anything of me. For Lord Kyonosuke, there exists no purpose in life nor any joy other than beheading palace guards one after another. No—that’s not it. Lord Kyonosuke must surely be wielding his sword as he does... with the sole aim that after striking down the last of those seventeen heads, he will withdraw from the world, reunite with that lady once more, and live out his days in joy and amusement.

That's right. Lord Kyonosuke has a wife. Moreover, a lady of renowned beauty—. I've heard she's called Lady Osono or something—you could say this whole commotion arose because of Lady Osono. Because of Lady Osono—that Lord Kyonosuke, who endures such hardships, would ever abandon Lady Osono and turn his heart toward me, no matter what... No, I must not think such things. I must not even dream of wishing for such things. For Lady Osono's sake as well as Lord Kyonosuke's—

But if that is so, what is to become of me, Omyou? ...Ever since meeting Kyonosuke, Omyou had posed that question to herself countless times each day—but no matter how she searched every corner of her heart, she could not find the answer. Kyonosuke has a wife—I know that. Kyonosuke loves and is in love with his wife—I know that. If that’s the case—if I understand all that—then I should be able to cleanly give up and be done with it. Yet that’s not how it works, and isn’t that precisely why this world contains such a troublesome word as “love”?

If everything followed logical reasoning—two plus two equals four, eight divided by two equals four—life would indeed be hassle-free, though novelists would thrive—well, not that it matters what becomes of novelists—but the world would become utterly dreary.

Omyou came to a halt. It was Omyou—dressed in the style of a glamorous town girl, with the celebratory hand towel from Fudekō’s roof-raising ceremony once before tucked into her streamers. Neither walking nor proceeding—as if drawn by something, as if pushed by something else—night after night, she had ended up here.

Here... Kanda Obiya Alley—the oil-paper door boldly inscribed with the four characters for "Conflict-Resolution Business"—inside that house, Madam Ogen knelt upright before the elongated brazier, grumbling something under her breath. “They’re late... What’s taking them so long…?” “What’s going on—?” She might have glanced up at a pillar clock behind her—but this was the Kyōhō era, where no such clocks existed. Moreover, this was no tranquil scene of a suburban housewife waiting for her husband’s return; Ogen’s expression held palpable tension. To be sure, Madam Ogen typically wore a rather tense expression even at the best of times… As usual, she tossed a single kettle into the brazier, flaunting her “No Opinions Accepted, Life Unaccounted For” tattoo while plucking it up with her fingertips now and then—only to drop it back into the hot water with a heavy splash.

“Hmm... I just hope nothing’s gone wrong—they did say they were going to storm Nagaoka Tanomo’s place at Unagi Nawate in Hongō Oiwake tonight, both of them together... Maybe I should go check on them myself.” Ogen tossed aside the long-stemmed smoking pipe she’d been puffing on with a clatter and unsteadily rose to her feet— “Excuse me…” The front door flew open, and a young woman tumbled in—Omyou, panting heavily, slammed it shut! While shutting the door she had entered through, Omyou looked up at Ogen.

“Please shelter me for a short while. I am being pursued by villains—” “What’s this? You—” Ogen’s voice unintentionally took on a terrifying edge. “Aren’t you that woman who’s been loitering around the house’s front lately? What’s wrong with you…?”

The Wolf in Escort’s Clothing

One

Chrysanthemum Room, Wild Goose Room, Latticework Room—

In the Ōoku of Chiyoda, a glass-clear autumn sunlight—crystalline as if seen through panes—pervaded the air, while in the corners of the long corridor, an atmosphere like water congealed, motionless. From somewhere, chrysanthemums emitted their fragrance.

A quintessentially Japanese clear day. Sunlight—resembling the gleam of gold-flecked lacquerware—streamed through the eaves and window frames, illuminating the transom carvings, the golden hollyhock crests on metal fittings, and the purple tassels dangling from sliding door pulls. Swaying, swaying, patches of light danced across the lustrous hinoki surfaces—a section of the castle interior where lacquer and wood grain had been fastidiously selected and crafted with aesthetic obsession… A hushed silence hung like that at the bottom of a well.

Suddenly, like wheels grinding against gravel, a clamor of voices surged from a room along the palace corridor, “No—this humble one does not mean to insist—but Izuiya Gohei being…” “But... What was that?”

Ōmetsuke Fuji Sagaminokami Shigesato was a seventy-seven-year-old man. Yet despite having senses more acute than most, he always feigned deafness when inconvenient. This was one such occasion. “Perhaps due to my age, I can’t quite hear you. But... what was that you said?”

Wakasaka Yamashironokami, who had been speaking with desperate earnestness since earlier, now found himself oddly cut off mid-stride— “Well, no—given that Izuiya Gohei is the instigator of this current disturbance and the very household from which that Kamio Kyonosuke wretch’s wife originates, at this point—” *Ahem!* *Ahem!* As if to say, *“Don’t speak of unnecessary matters—it would be better not to continue further,”* Sagaminokami feigned a cough that never truly emerged, his face contorted into an expression of strained hearing, brows furrowed, hand cupped to his ear like a folding screen—

“Eh?!” Wakasaka Yamashironokami only floundered more incoherently. “At this juncture, we must terminate Izui Go’s oil procurement duties and redirect them elsewhere appropriate—in connection with this matter, I wish to recommend Fudeya Koubei of Shitaya Chōjamachi…” “Hold on.” Lord Awaji-no-kami, who had remained silent until then, interjected with apparent bitterness, “Might your account be diverging from the matter at hand?” “That Fudeya Koubei is truly a diligent individual.” Yamashironokami pressed on urgently despite the autumn chill, sweat beading on his brow. “I humbly concluded it would be advisable to assign this individual to the oil procurement duty. I even discreetly suggested as much to the relevant officials, who indicated that only a word from their superior was needed. Of course, I am fully aware this matter lies outside my purview, yet…”

Lord Awaji-no-kami deepened the wrinkles of his bitter smile even further, "So you were commissioned—"

Lord Yamashironokami—guh! It seemed things had come to a head—for when told the truth, humans are prone to anger, “Th-This is absurd!” As he turned his knees toward Awaji-no-kami, the other man—Awaji—sat with hands properly placed on his hakama trousers, maintaining a composed expression. “I said you were commissioned—did that offend you, hmm?” “Without being commissioned—no matter which household the oil procurement duty goes to, no matter which shop is ordered—such trivial matters need not be brought before this assembly of esteemed elders…”

“Trivial matter?! “Granted, if this were merely about oil, I’d let it rest—but to dismiss official castle business as trivial? What nonsense—No, what exactly do you mean by ‘trivial’—?!” “Eh?! “What’s this about shoji screens?” “This old age doesn’t want to hear.” “It’s like a fish blowing bubbles—I can’t catch a word.” “What’s that you say?!”

Lord Kondo Sagaminokami persisted in feigning deafness, cupping both hands behind his ears as he hurriedly shuffled forward on his knees. Once again, a strained silence fell over the assembly.

II

It was the central chamber.

In the duty station of the Ōmetsuke and Ometsuke, thick pillars stood. On one side stood two cedar doors spanning two *ken* each, one perpetually kept open. Beyond the veranda lay garden soil showing broom-swept patterns, while a lawn stretched into the distance where trees and stones formed an intriguing composition—autumn had arrived, yet the outdoor light still carried an intense heat reminiscent of lingering summer. A brilliant, mist-like sunlight poured down, and in the distance, young pine trees with unusual branch formations each faded into faint hues through the haze.

Truly a splendid view...

Before that splendid view, the high-ranking officials now gathered in this central chamber included Ōmetsuke Fuji Sagaminokami, Kuze Yamatonokami, Makino Bitchūnokami, Iwaki Harimanokami, Mizuno Dewanokami (attendant for shogunal liaison), along with Junior Councilors Kanō Tōtōminokami, Yonekura Tangonokami, Andō Tsushimanokami, Ōta Wakasanokami—and additionally, this Awaji-no-kami and Wakasaka Yamashironokami… In other words, this was effectively a cabinet meeting. At this cabinet meeting, as Kyonosuke’s case showed no signs of resolution, Wakasaka Yamashironokami—who had been temporarily released from house confinement—emerged and, right from the start, abruptly brought up the matter of Izuiya Gohei’s oil procurement duties. Since then, he had been tediously expounding on the issue to the point of eliciting bitter smiles from all present.

Whether it be oil or candles, there was no doubt they were official castle supplies—but needless to say, they were menial duties. Admittedly, as this was oil for the candlesticks lining the grand halls, corridors, and every room night after night, totaling it over a year or two would amount to a considerable sum. Yet even so, this was hardly a matter warranting discussion in such an assembly. The council members wondered what Yamashironokami was prattling on about. With their colleague confined over the Kyonosuke incident—likely having lost his sanity—they exchanged uncomfortable glances, letting Wakasaka Yamashironokami monopolize the conversation while they remained silent. In essence, his argument ran thus: since Kyonosuke had committed such atrocities, they must sever ties with Izuiya Gohei of Kanda Mikawachō—the household of his wife’s family—strip him of the castle’s oil procurement duties he had exclusively managed until now, and transfer those contract rights to Fudeya Koubei of Shitaya Chōjamachi.

The reprimand was severe, but it appeared Fudeya Koubei had subsequently used an enormous bribe to ensure everything fell into place. Indeed, there could be no doubt Fudeya's under-the-table payments had now reached astronomical sums—yet in truth, Lord Yamashironokami was acting under a rather convoluted exchange agreement regarding this matter. For Lord Yamashironokami, killing Kamio Kyonosuke alone would suffice. To achieve this, securing assistance from the Mugyū Ittō-ryū dojo members in Shiba Gensukechō—and crucially, the personal intervention of Great Master Jinbo Zōshu himself—proved absolutely indispensable.

Thus it came to pass that he had knocked on Zōshu’s gate under cover of night to request swordsmanship assistance. At that time, Zōshu presented this condition: if he delivered Kamio Kyonosuke’s wife Osono into his hands, he would personally ensure Kyonosuke’s head was severed.

Wakasaka Yamashironokami had readily agreed to this exchange condition, but for this task, he absolutely needed Murai Chōan to lend a hand. So Lord Yamashironokami summoned Chōan to his Yakimochizaka residence and, bending his knees appropriately to make his request, found Chōan responding: “Heh heh heh… Such a trifling matter for your lordship.” “I’ll promptly lure out that Osono woman or whoever. What do you say? We’ll drag her off to that Mugyū Ittō-ryū town dojo in Shiba Gensukechō—the one run by Master Yattō’s teacher Jinbo Zōshu—not the natto shop, mind you.” “Ah, there’s no need to fret.” “Once this Chōan here properly grasps the situation—heh heh heh, with all respect—there’ll be no botching the job, not now nor ever.” “But―”

Now, Chōan—ever shrewd and not one to act without compensation—began mumbling something that seemed to hint at a reward. Anticipating this, Yamashironokami decided to strike first: "I understand—I understand full well. That matter regarding Fudeya Koubei’s oil procurement duties you’ve been pushing for—I’ll take care of it during this opportunity. I myself will work tirelessly to ensure it’s settled splendidly. In exchange, delivering Osono to Jinbo Zōshu rests entirely on your efforts. See that you don’t fail me."

For Murai Chōan, if the oil procurement contract were stripped from Izui Go and transferred to Fudeya Koubei, an outrageous reward was guaranteed to come rolling in from Fudeya—and since Chōan had always been a man who wouldn’t move an inch unless partnered with greed, this arrangement was ideal for him. This time, he appeared to be working in earnest.

III Thus began a strange chain of causality—for Wakasaka Yamashironokami to claim Kyonosuke’s head, he absolutely required Jinbo Zōshu’s assistance. To secure Jinbo’s aid, he absolutely had to abduct Osono. To abduct Osono, he absolutely needed Chōan’s cooperation. To enlist Chōan’s help, he absolutely had to strip Izui Go of oil procurement duties and assign them to Fudeya Koubei. This unbroken sequence of necessities bound Wakasaka Yamashiro like interlocking chains—to behead Kamio Kyonosuke, he absolutely had to transfer those oil duties to Fudeya here... And finally, to formalize Fudeya’s appointment, he absolutely needed to pressure the menial affairs official in charge.

Lord Yamashironokami, thinking it would be a simple matter, had broached the issue with the official in charge, but according to the official, while it was indeed a simple matter, it required just a bit of approval from higher-ups. Thus, in the end, Lord Yamashironokami found that to set the officials in motion, he absolutely needed approval from senior officials. In truth, assuming they would all agree without objection—and with the most casual of intentions—he had casually broached the matter earlier at today’s assembly, his first official attendance since being permitted to end his house confinement.

For his part, Lord Yamashironokami was indeed hurrying as much as he could. Since he pressed Chōan daily with increasing urgency, Osono might be taken into Gensukechō that very night. Given this situation—precisely because it was an exchange condition—they had to immediately deliver the auspicious news of Fudeya Koubei’s oil procurement appointment to Chōan. Since it was no significant matter anyway, they might as well handle it bluntly. Assuming the senior officials would readily agree with an “Ah yes—that’s good,” believing those words alone would settle everything... he had casually broached the subject. Yet the others did not receive it as intended. Wakasaka Yamashironokami—emerging for the first time since his house confinement ended—found the assembled officials who had been discreetly attentive out of mild curiosity now fixating strangely on his prolonged discourse about oil procurement duties. Precisely because the matter seemed trivial, they became convinced some grave ulterior motive lurked beneath—and being already ill-disposed toward Lord Yamashironokami—the entire assembly stiffened into silence, not a soul offering reply—a miscalculation indeed. The timing was poor, and moreover, Lord Yamashironokami—bound as if by an unyielding thread—strained with all his might. Through some strange turn, he alone remained entangled in this oil procurement agenda, repeating the same point endlessly until Kondo Sagaminokami feigned deafness toward him while Awaji-no-kami—renowned for integrity—seemed poised for direct confrontation... No—truly—Lord Yamashironokami appeared destined to bring utter ruin by persisting with this triviality.

Precisely because it seemed destined to bring utter ruin upon him, Wakasaka Yamashironokami turned toward Awaji-no-kami, his forehead pale. "As the matter of Kamio is entirely this humble one’s responsibility," he declared, "I made his wife’s family bear a portion of that responsibility by barring their access to the castle—a gesture of apology from myself." "For this purpose," he continued, "when we required a replacement oil supplier, I dispatched investigators who fortunately discovered the reliable Fudeya Koubei I mentioned earlier. I therefore recommended him to replace Izuiya." His voice hardened. "Yet merchants petitioning me? Utterly unexpected—I, Yamashiro, find this recent development most troublesome."

Having devised a clever excuse and presented it eloquently, Awaji-no-kami appeared utterly disinterested in listening. Deliberately maintaining an icy demeanor, he leaned against a thick pillar while frequently consulting some document, all the while whispering to Yonekura Tangonokami in the adjacent seat and smiling faintly. Enraged, Lord Yamashironokami inadvertently raised his voice. “Lord Awaji, I would hear your response.” “Hmph! “Response?” “What response could there be?” “I haven’t the faintest notion.” “Eh?” Lord Kondo Sagami thrust his face forward again with feigned senility to obscure the dispute. The assembly—which had formed small whispering clusters among neighbors—now erupted in harmonious laughter. Simultaneously, behind the cedar door left ajar in the central chamber, the figure who had been eavesdropping on the debate since earlier creased the corners of his eyes into wrinkles as he smiled faintly.

It was Magistrate Ōoka Tadasuke. Having been permitted [to attend], he was now covertly listening in the central chamber in his capacity as magistrate.

IV

"Urgh...!" A white-hot blade gleamed. The night deepened amidst clashing steel at Nagaoka Tanomo’s residence along Unagi Nawate—combatants locked in silent struggle as sudden carnage erupted. The family had fled to a neighbor’s home while quick-witted hands removed sliding doors; comrades lit bonfires by the veranda, candlesticks blazing indoors until all shone bright as noon... Through corridor corners and shadowed nooks moved two Kamio Kyonosukes—the true one and Ukon—yet the remaining guardsmen and Gensukechō forces mistook them for a single foe. Brandishing naked blades, Nagaoka Tanomo, Hakata Yūnojō, and Hanno Shume—

“Hmm, where did he go?” “He couldn’t have fled outside the mansion.” “He might’ve escaped—depending on how things went.”

While talking loudly among themselves, they searched through the inner rooms one by one, and as they passed by a chamber where a Buddhist altar was enshrined— "It’s just a graze on my little finger. It’s nothing serious. It’s like a mosquito bite."

Muttering to himself, Kyonosuke tore his hand towel, bound his right little finger, and stood up.

The one who discovered him was Nagaoka Tanomo, master of the mansion, who stood at the forefront.

“Urgh!” There was no time to speak. With a guttural roar, a single blade swept in an arc—trailing like a comet’s tail—toward Kyonosuke’s torso. A decisive strike! For that split second, it seemed—Crash! Kyonosuke lowered his hilt and parried it away. Swept along by his own momentum, Tanomo staggered forward with *tat-tat-tat* steps, toes digging into the tatami as he lunged deep into close quarters for a blade-lock... Now! Lowering his hips as if fleeing, Kyonosuke retreated—readjusted his lowered sword into a spiked guard stance—and in that moment, momentum proved fearsome: Tanomo splendidly impaled himself upon the blade through his own lunge.

"Gwah!" Screams erupted. Blood sprayed. Like a vermilion inkstone being smashed, blood burst forth with a splattering sound, flying like volcanic ejecta. The so-called death throes. Guh! Guh! The sound was indescribably terrifying. The sword slipped from his hand, arced like a meteor in a half-moon trajectory, and with a dull thud stabbed into the tatami mat behind Kyonosuke.

Tanomo was skewered like a dumpling on a stick. The blade tip pierced through his back. If not pulled out immediately, the flesh would quickly tighten around it—Kyonosuke thrust deeper with a wet crunch! He yanked it out in one swift motion. At that same moment—though none saw when it was severed—Tanomo's head rolled onto the tatami, right ear pressed against the matting in a pool of steaming blood. The two men paled at such lethal skill. Silent but not retreating—as Hakata Yūnojō tried to turn back for some reason—Kyonosuke's living blade stretched like an animal's tongue to slash his shoulder: clang-clang-clatter! Steel struck four ribs with a sickening grind. A pomegranate-red gash gaped, white bone protruding as Hakata arched backward like a man grasping at empty air.

At this point, it was impossible to tell which number head this was.

Sorting that out could wait.

V

“You lot—ever cut down a man? Swordsmanship that don’t cut men’s just dryland drills on tatami mats. Look—sword ain’t somethin’ you cut with by hackin’ at it. Push and cut. Pull and cut. Now! There—push, pull, cut with the breath right here. Bastards! I’ll carve one up to show ya—come charge in!”

Currently, in the grand hall on the opposite side of the now masterless mansion, the one single-handedly fending off the combined forces of the other palace guards and Genzukechō allies was Ibara Ukon—the brawling master…the Kange-ryū’s orthodox form. Holding his sword in a grand, unguarded high stance, the quarrel master Ukon remained nonchalant—a testament to his seasoned experience.

Continuing his lecture in a carefree tone,

“What’s wrong?! It ain’t like you’re imperial dolls for Hinamatsuri or the five musicians! Quit lining up frozen—why not charge in?” “Hey you! Your eyes’ve gone wild!” “And you there—pardon my bluntness—sweat’s ’bout to drip in your eyes. Wipe it off, go on.” “No time between clashes, so take your sweet time wiping that sweat.” It was mockery perfected—Ukon’s foot planted on a corpse dyed crimson, its limbs and face blue as indigo pigment. The body proved to be Hyūga Ichigaku’s. What number head this made hardly mattered now.

Everyone was convinced this Ukon was Kyonosuke, and given their indoor jostling, greater numbers became a liability. The more they tried to spare allies, the more paralyzed they grew. Meanwhile, Genzukechō's Hiki Ichiryūsai and Kagami Tanba—impatient—charged from both flanks. Blades clanged! Amid battle cries and chaos, Ibara Ukon—having memorized palace guards' faces from Kyonosuke's descriptions—distinguished them from Genzukechō men. Rather than waste steel on Genzukechō, he broke through their ranks to charge the guard cluster—his ferocity perhaps terrifying one man into fleeing sword drawn. It was Minebuchi Shanosuke. Seeing this, Ukon pursued.

Along the corridor, a race began between those fleeing and those pursuing. The rest of the men also immediately surged like an avalanche and chased after Ukon. But having greater numbers was, in this situation, nothing but a disadvantage. Futilely pushing and shoving each other’s shoulders, each one obstructing the others in their attempts to get ahead, they jammed into the corridor like bearers of a portable shrine—*Wasshoi! Wasshoi!* Not that anyone would say such a thing, but while they were dawdling, both Minebuchi Shanosuke fleeing and Ukon pursuing were single individuals, making their movements swift. Round and round they raced through the mansion, putting considerable distance between themselves and the Wasshoi crowd.

Shanosuke, frantically fleeing from room to room, suddenly burst into a chamber—and there stood Kyonosuke, the man who had been pursuing him. He gasped in shock! He tried to— When he attempted to turn back hurriedly, Ukon’s Kyonosuke was approaching from behind as well. Thus Minebuchi Shanosuke became the first to learn the secret of the decoys when he saw both Kyonosukes together... However, caught between these two Kyonosukes and subjected to an eerie terror surpassing death itself, Shanosuke soon found himself beheaded. And so the mechanism of the twin shadow warriors remained undisclosed to their enemies.

“Hey! There are two Kyonosu—” Shanosuke was―a man! Before his shout could reach the ears of the group, his head had already taken its place upon the room’s threshold with a thud, as if sprouted from the floor joists—now a single severed head enshrined there. Afterward, when the group searched throughout the mansion, it appeared that Kyonosuke and Ukon had withdrawn shortly after cutting down Shanosuke. There were traces of them having washed their hands in the bathhouse, and on the wall’s wooden paneling, something had been written large in blood.

Fifth Head: Lord Kasama Jinpachi

Sixth Head: Lord Hyūga Ichigaku Seventh Head: Lord Nagaoka Tanomo Eighth Head: Lord Hakata Yūnojō

Ninth Head: Lord Minebuchi Shanosuke When Kyonosuke and Ukon emerged onto the Unagi Nawate thoroughfare, the light from ominous official lanterns seeped into the darkness, revealing the encircling force of captors surrounding Nagaoka’s residence… So this was it—! Here too, they were forced into another melee, and as the two once again took up their swords and assumed their stances— “They’re out! Run! Get out of here!” “They’ve got blades, so don’t go near ’em!” “There’s no way to take ’em alive! Everyone, run! Get out of here!…”

The captor officials, terrified of the blades, were shouting, “Run! Get out!” It was a samurai’s charge through and through. Of course they were armed with blades—that went without saying. The sheer absurdity of it—that they’d gone to all this trouble to swarm and lay siege only to flee now—drew a dark snort of amusement from Kyonosuke. Yet he recognized that voice urgently barking *Run! Get out!* Yes—Kabedatsu and his daughter had mentioned someone called Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu. That voice… the gravelly tones of that burly man who’d passed him off as Ukon during the Night of Nanakusa at Kabedatsu’s house in Shitaya, saving him from certain death… that tsunami-like laughter from back then—right. Once before too—at Fujimi no Baba—he’d appeared claiming Lord Ōoka was coming for an inspection ride and scattered his enemies to rescue him…

Tonight, could it be they had discreetly surrounded this mansion to prevent the enemies from escaping? Amidst these layered acts of goodwill, as Kyonosuke repeatedly nodded toward the voice in the darkness, Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu—having heard the commotion and rallied his men to rush over, summoned by Lord Ōoka through unspoken orders— “Get hurt and you’ll regret it. Run! Scram!”

He was still at it.

Outside was a tremendous crowd. However, since everyone had mistaken it for a fire, those who had rushed out in their nightclothes were shivering from the cold, “Hey! What’s this? There ain’t a lick of smoke anywhere!”

“Yeah, we’re an impatient bunch.” “Anywhere’s fine—just burst into flames!”

Blending into the crowd, Kyonosuke and Ukon parted through the boisterous uproar and exited Hongo.

Overhead, a single streak of the Milky Way gleamed white.

Six

Ibara Ukon and Kyonosuke, who had gone to launch a raid into Hongo, were taking too long to return. Shirazu no Ogen was unbearably anxious.

“I wonder what’s happened. Maybe I should dash over there myself.”

Here... At Kanda Obiya Alley, the four characters for *Conflict-Resolution Business* brushed in bold strokes on an oil-paper door—this was Ibara Ukon’s place of business.

Having thrown down the long-stemmed pipe she had been smoking with a clatter, Ogen stood up unsteadily when—

“Please, forgive the intrusion…”

The front door burst open in a flurry, and a young woman tumbled in—panting heavily, with a slam! While closing the door behind her, Omyou looked up at Ogen.

“Please let me stay hidden here for just a little while—I beg of you! I’m being chased by villains—” “What’s this now? You.” Ogen involuntarily made a terrifying face. “Aren’t you the woman who’s been loitering around our house lately? What’s this all about…?”

“Y-yes...” “A ‘yes’ alone doesn’t explain anything. Even if you say you were chased by villains, where are these villains now?” “No, um, just as I was arriving there—”

Shirazu no Ogen clicked her tongue repeatedly at Omyou, who seemed mentally disoriented and fidgeted nervously. “Tch!” “What’s this mess—damn frustrating!” “I’ve got a short temper, see? Speak plainly.” “You keep saying ‘just arriving there,’ but don’t you show up there every blasted day and night?” “Where exactly is this house of yours?” Pressed relentlessly by Madam Ogen, Omyou grew even more flustered,

“Y-yes...” “I am from Shitaya, Kuromonchō...” Just as she was about to speak, the rattling lattice door opened, and the face of a man with a cloth covering his cheeks appeared—it was Murai Chōan’s top underling. Though calling him “first and second underling” might suggest more, in reality, it was just this one man: Tozuka Sanji. He wore a short coat of karakami fabric dyed in indigo or something similar and had tied a hand towel over his nose. He did not have a pleasant countenance.

“Good evening.” While thinking this had become a night of strangely peculiar people barging in—and since this fellow was acting overly familiar—Ogen surmised it must be some conflict-related business. If that were the case, then given this was a conflict-resolution establishment, she smiled faintly, considering him a potential client.

“Welcome. Looking for a fight? The master’s not here.” Tozuka Sanji slid in without a word, flipped his hand towel off while taking it, slung it over his shoulder, and glared at Omyou. He clearly meant to intimidate. Boldly planting himself on the entrance step, he waited with exaggerated restraint, “Might be rude of me—but anyway, boss lady, you said she ain’t around, right?”

Sanji thrust out his thumb. While thinking he was a strange fellow, Ogen glanced over at Omyou—who had turned deathly pale and was trembling like a leaf in the wind—and immediately realized this must be the "villain" she had mentioned. Shirazu no Ogen quickly grasped the visitor’s true identity and took a strong stance at once. “The master isn’t here, but we won’t be looked down on by the likes of you. What’s your business?”

“What business? “Tsk! “What business? Tsk! I’ve got business or somethin’ here—” He jerked his chin toward Omyou—who was making herself small in the corner of the dirt-floored area as if hiding behind Ogen—and said, “Whose daughter is this? What family? Huh?” Her heart siding with the weaker party and her resolve to speak up for Omyou now firmly settled, Shirazu no Ogen began to reveal her innate fiery temperament. Squatting at the entrance step, resting her cheek on her knee, her long, narrow eyes sharpening with intensity—she glared at Sanji.

“Whose daughter? What does it matter whose daughter she is? She’s the daughter of someone I know. That’s a big help. And you—who the hell are you? You’re one ugly demon-faced roof tile we don’t see much in Edo, ain’t ya?” “What the hell are you spouting? There’s no such thing as the daughter of someone I know. This here’s my little sister, and I’m her own big brother. You listenin’? Got that? If you’ve got it, I’m takin’ you with me. Any complaints?” “That’s preposterous!” From behind Ogen, Omyou spoke in a voice trembling with fear, “Brother this, sister that—it’s all lies! I have never met such a person before.”

“There there—that’s exactly your condition.” Sanji softened his eyes and crept toward Omyou. “Ahh, pitiful... "So pitiful. "Even crazy, forgettin' your own brother like me—?” Suddenly Sanji stretched out his hand to pull Omyou closer. “C’mon. You’re comin’ home. “You’re comin’ home. “Hey, Dad ’n’ Ma are waitin’. “Why don’tcha come home with me?”

“What?!” “What on earth are you saying?” Omyou looked utterly dumbfounded, as though she couldn’t even speak. “When I was about to reach that point, this person jumped out from the side, said strange things, and tried to grab me—so I was startled and ran away, ending up rushing into this house.” “To completely fabricate being siblings right before your eyes and try to lure me out—that’s truly taking shamelessness beyond all bounds.”

“Hey, like I said—this here’s my sister, just a bit touched in the head." “She was supposed to go to her uncle’s place further up, but when she got that far, she suddenly dashed off and barged in here. I’m takin’ her back with me.” Sanji stood up as he said this to Ogen.

“Hold on there.” “That old trick might fly elsewhere, but it won’t work here in Kanda.” “While I’m still smilin’ sweet like this, you’d better hightail it outta here—smart move.” “Why don’tcha go wash that ugly mug o’ yours and try again?”

“Wh-What?”

Sanji’s demeanor shifted abruptly. “Wash my face and try again,’ is it? “Wash that ugly mug and try again,’ you say? “Hey, hey—d’ya have any idea who I am?”

Perhaps underestimating his opponent as merely a woman—of all people, he was trying to pick a fight with Shirazu no Ogen, the now-infamous boss lady of the conflict-for-hire business, dubbed “No Opinions Accepted, Life Unaccounted For”—this Tozuka Sanji clearly knew nothing of Ogen’s reputation in Kanda. Judging by this ignorance, the man was likely nothing more than a lowly underling running menial errands for Chōan at best. For all his bluster, he seemed little more than an unaffiliated thug within yakuza circles.

There was no disputing that aura of authority after all. Ogen chuckled quietly.

“I don’t want to hear your name. If you’re leaving, then leave!” With a dismissive air, she made a gesture as if shooing away a dog. “Now scram.” “Don’t fuck around! What’s wrong with a brother taking his sister, huh?! I’ll leave alright—but I’m taking my sister with me. Come!”

As Sanji was shouting at the top of his voice, the front door stood wide open, revealing the house’s interior. A passerby happened to peer inside,

“Excuse me. What’s going on here? Making such a racket late at night...” As they looked—while Ogen didn’t recognize him—Omyou had often seen this man at her father Kabedatsu’s frequented haunt: the Fudeya shop in Shitaya Chōjamachi, and remembered him. Moreover, from Fudeya Koukichi—the young master who had been persistently tailing and harassing her—she had once heard of Murai Chōan, a great doctor practicing in places like Kōjimachi Hirakawachō. In her girlish heart, Omyou had firmly come to regard Chōan as a distinguished physician. With such an unexpected savior appearing—and since it was Dr. Murai Chōan himself—Omyou must have thought this was truly a Buddha arriving in hell, for she rushed over as if leaping up,

“Ah!”

“Is that 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, are you not? Now that Chōan has arrived, you need not worry. I shall escort you.” Then, to Tozuka Sanji—who was attempting to slink away—Chōan squared his shoulders with an air of satisfaction and barked: “You there! Who do you think you are? Insolent wretch! It would be wise for you to withdraw at once.”

He declared the matter settled with great authority. Sanji, thoroughly cowed, bowed and scraped while scratching his head before leaving. Unaware that this was all a prearranged act, Ogen added her own urging from the sidelines, resulting in Chōan escorting Omyou to Kuromonchō. When Chōan—speaking as if he were a parent whose daughter had been saved—expressed his gratitude and exited with Omyou, overhead hung a sliver of the Milky Way, white and high—

These were Wakasaka Yamashironokami’s words: bring Kyonosuke’s wife Osono to Jinbo Zōshu in Shibagensukechō, and he would arrange for Brush Sachi to be granted the oil commission in exchange. If the Brush Sachi arrangement succeeded, a hefty reward would roll in—so Chōan, overjoyed beyond measure, had readily agreed and formed a firm pact with Yamashironokami. Yet Osono remained secluded in her Tsukudo Hachiman residence and never stepped outside. Days passed with Chōan anxiously awaiting an opening—until today, when Tozuka Sanji happened to visit, prompting Chōan to consult him.

The swordsman on the other side did not know Osono's face. Anyone would do, wouldn't they? Having come to think that any young, beautiful woman would suffice—Chōan then recalled Omyou of Kuromonchō, whom Fudeya Koukichi had a crush on.

Memorial for the Severed Heads

One

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

A mysterious figure was loitering along Obicho Alley in Kanda. A bizarre shadow figure—like a log with a single thin branch attached. It emerged buoyantly under this starlight and, as if it had begun to float and swim, was strolling through the late-night streets, blown by the wind. It was none other than… Gyoshindō-sensei. To explain in detail: what one might call the trunk of this shadow figure—the log-like part—was Gyoshindō-sensei himself, while the small branch-like thing firmly attached to it was the fishing rod he carried on his shoulder.

To explain: Our Gyoshindō-sensei had never once let go of this fishing rod. At all times—awake or asleep—he rises with his fishing rod and lies down to sleep with it.

If one were to ask if he loved fishing that much—well, of course he did enjoy it—but according to sensei, angling was not about catching 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, his very life—hence the name Gyoshindō-sensei, born from such intricate origins… Loitering along winding paths in the middle of Kanda—there was no way one could fish here.

But for Gyoshindō-sensei, simply shouldering his fishing rod and lumbering about as described was satisfaction enough. An eccentric… if ever there was one. He was a philosopher of the mind—a great master of the streets who lived a beggar-like existence yet possessed a princely heart. He had no fixed abode, embracing his vagrant lifestyle to the fullest—spending nights by fishing ponds or holing up for months at a time in the closets of vacant houses.

Nowadays, one would be arrested for vagrancy—but what’s more, Gyoshindō-sensei would often climb large trees, perch himself in the crotch of their trunks, and sleep there for two or even three nights at a time. Thus, he could be considered the originator of those tree-dwelling competitions now popular in places like America. Born in Ise and of distinguished samurai lineage—though what exactly moved him remained unclear—regardless of his background, his attire was truly a sight to behold. Clad in a cropped indigo-dyed kimono with a white cotton belt wrapped around his waist and rough straw sandals on his feet, he would head out wherever he pleased, fishing rod slung over his shoulder as mentioned before.

This Gyoshindō-sensei—after once playfully hooking his fishing line onto the head of Ibara Ukon, the man who made his living through quarrels, and getting into a tug-of-war—had developed a bond of mutual trust with Ukon, become involved in Kyonosuke’s secret, and was set to lend his assistance. However—that particular night, he was not walking about with any such intentions. He had been sitting cross-legged atop his usual tall tree, striving to sleep in a zazen-like posture, but with his eyes strangely alert and unable to drift off, he had merely come to stroll through the town.

A late-night stroll... with no purpose.

He encountered the fire watchman.

Since the fire watchman also knew Gyoshindō-sensei,

“This is quite late for you to be out，Sensei.” After exchanging greetings，the fire watchman passed by.

Gyoshindō-sensei was unfazed,

“I am not a night owl. I’m an early riser. I’ve already risen.”

It was a mocking retort.

With laughter accompanying his steps along Obicho Alley, "Well then, I'll take charge and escort you to your home—no need to worry at all—"

A loud voice rang out, and there were two figures—a man and a woman—emerging from the quarrelers’ shop. In Shirazu no Ogen’s voice, “Well then, Sensei, I’ll leave it to you!” “The girl’s home was in Kuromonchō, you said, right?” This clearly reached Gyoshindō-sensei’s ears.

Two "Indeed. "She’s the daughter of Mr. Kabedatsu, the plasterer from Shitaya Kuromonchō—and you said her name was… Miss Omyou, wasn’t it?" "I’ll escort you myself, so there’s nothing to fear on the night road." "Let’s take a palanquin." "No need to go out of your way to summon one from the stand—there should be night palanquins around here." "Yes, I humbly ask for your kind assistance." Omyou remained utterly unaware that this had all been a plot with Tozuka no Sanji—that they had timed their intervention to feign rescuing her, and were now attempting to insert her as a substitute for Kyonosuke’s wife Osono in Genzukechō.

Chōan, who was convinced he was merely accompanying a great doctor, was with them.

Completely at ease, they left the house on Obicho Alley together.

The fact that Gyoshindō-sensei was stealthily following them went unnoticed by both Chōan and Omyou. Gyoshindō-sensei had taken a strange interest in these two who had emerged from the quarrelers’ shop late at night—and being the idler he was, one who paid no heed to night or day, he had simply felt inclined to follow them on a whim—. Obicho Alley had night palanquins waiting for customers at an out-of-the-way crossroads.

Through Chōan’s negotiations, two palanquins were arranged, and Omyou appeared to have boarded first. As Gyoshindō-sensei watched from his vantage point, Chōan kept whispering to the palanquin bearers, who nodded in response.

Chōan had secretly rummaged through his pocket and made the palanquin bearers take something—likely an advance payment for their service. Before long, Chōan also boarded the remaining palanquin, and the two began moving through the night streets one after the other.

So far, nothing seemed amiss, but the odd thing was that the route they were taking did not lead toward Shitaya. "Hmm..." Gyoshindō-sensei tilted his head in genuine puzzlement. The next moment, with his fishing rod still slung over his shoulder, he broke into a run after them. Before long, Omyou too appeared to notice the altered direction. Her raised voice could be heard shouting something from within the palanquin, yet neither Chōan nor the bearers offered any reply. They simply hastened their pace along the road. The palanquins were making their way toward Shiba Genzukechō exactly as planned.

And Gyoshindō-sensei was following them.

In Genzukechō, where the two palanquins and Gyoshindō-sensei were now hurrying in a V-formation... It was the dojo of Jinbo Zōshu of the Mugendō Ittō-ryū. “Oroku…” Zōshu called.

He sat with his back against the tokonoma pillar in a wide-legged posture.

He placed an armrest before him and leaned his elbows against it as if embracing it, his body tilting forward. Having drawn a large sake cup close, Zōshu’s evening drinking had continued up to now.

The one called was Oroku, a middle-aged woman who had become something like Zōshu’s mistress. The one who had been sitting in front, turned sideways, and was absentmindedly lost in thought was— "What is it?"

“Pour the sake…” Thrusting out his cup, Zōshu pricked up his ears. At the entrance, voices could be heard.

“Shall I go check?” “It seems someone has come.” “Hmm—no need for you to go out. Someone else will handle it.” “But—” “You stay here. Bring more sake instead.” “If you drink that much—” “When I say bring it, bring it.” When Oroku reluctantly rose and went to the kitchen, the veranda’s shoji soon slid open, revealing a disciple who served as messenger. “Master.” “What? A guest...”

“Yes—they say someone has come from Lord Wakasaka to deliver the promised item—” “What? A delivery… From Lord Wakasaka—” “Yes.” The disciple snickered and added, “They’ve brought a young girl in a palanquin…”

“Oh—the promise from before! So that’s it.” When Zōshu broke into a smile, a figure appeared behind the bowing disciple, “I beg your pardon. I’ve taken the liberty of entering—come now, this way. There’s no need to be so afraid.” Chōan pushed his way in with Omyou.

Three

Having watched Chōan bring Omyou into the Genzukechō dojo, where had Gyoshindō-sensei gone?

Not long after that.

Another samurai was standing at the entrance of this dojo, requesting to be shown in. It was Myōken Katsusaburō. Myōken Katsusaburō... one of the Honorable Shoin Guardsmen. A broad-shouldered, solidly built samurai in his forties. He wore a black crepe haori over hakama, presenting an imposing figure—but what had brought him here so late at night without attendants? That was another matter altogether. "I request an audience... I request an audience..." It was the figure of his back as he kept peering into the depths and calling out insistently.

On the center-upper part of his back, concealing the haori’s crest, was a single sheet of hanshi paper pasted there.

On his back was a pasted note—"Deceased" written in bold characters. Carrying on his back a paper inscribed with "Deceased...", Myōken Katsusaburō came to visit Jinbo Zōshu.

Of course, he was probably unaware. After all, no one has eyes in their back—there was no way to know what had been written there.

"I beseech you—I humbly entreat." He was still at it. Myōken Katsusaburō, bearing a "Deceased" placard on his back... An eerie nocturnal visitor.

But perhaps they couldn't hear him—no one emerged from within. In the inner chamber beyond, Zōshu sat facing Chōan with Omyou between them. "This girl—the one Lord Wakasaka spoke of—" "That is correct. This would be... that very..." To mention "Kyonosuke's wife Osono" would be inaccurate, for this was not her. She was certain to declare "I am—" but since that revelation would inevitably follow later regardless, he had no choice but to force matters to their conclusion now.

Although Chōan tried to obscure things with ambiguous statements, Zōshu remained firmly convinced it was Osono and thus didn’t press for details. Only Omyou, having been brought to this strange place and hearing them discuss matters about her that made no sense whatsoever... found herself growing increasingly wary. Even so, still trusting Chōan, she remained silent with her head bowed when Oroku—who had gone to fetch sake from the kitchen earlier—returned and tried to enter by peering through the gap in the shoji screen.

And then their eyes met—Ah! In the moment both were startled, the flask slipped from Oroku’s hand—and just then, hurried footsteps came flying down the corridor. It was the disciple from earlier.

“Master! There’s a corpse at the entrance—a headless corpse… Please come see!” “What?!”

Jinbo Zōshu kicked off the tatami and sprang to his feet—as befits a master swordsman—and before anyone knew it, he was dashing from the room with his greatsword in hand. Whoosh! A nose-stinging incense smell wafted in from somewhere.

When he looked, it was the adjacent room. That was the reception hall. In front of the tokonoma alcove stood a single sutra desk. On top of it lay a head—Myōken Shōzaburō’s head, the very head of Myōken Shōzaburō who had been bellowing at the entrance moments ago… That head now clenched a scrap of paper in its mouth. On the paper was written in large characters: "Tenth Head." And before the desk sat a tobacco tray, with incense sticks standing upright in it. Purple smoke swayed languidly—a memorial for the head. Zōshu rolled his eyes at the head and growled, "Grr!" He growled.

Tearful rain.

1 Master Jinbo Zōshu, grandmaster of the peerless Mukei Ittō style, glared at the head entwined with swaying purple incense smoke and snarled—"Grr!" He growled.

In front of the tokonoma alcove in the study, a sutra desk had been placed, and atop it was displayed a single severed head…the head of Myōken Shōzaburō, who had just moments before been at the entrance bellowing, “I beseech you!—I humbly implore you!”

Moreover, that head was clenching a scrap of paper in its mouth. On the paper was written in large characters: "Tenth Head." And before the desk sat a tobacco tray with incense sticks standing upright in it... A memorial for the head! It was an utterly audacious display. Jinbo Zōshu—who had seized his famed blade Silver Centipede—stood frozen with one hand on the shoji screen, not stepping into the room! He fixed his eyes and stared intently. Why was this head here?—he tried to reason.

As he had been drinking with Oroku moments earlier, a visitor’s voice sounded at the entrance. He stopped Oroku from going to greet them and sent her to fetch sake instead, but just as she left, one of his disciples arrived announcing that this bald man had come from Wakasaka Yamashironokami’s residence to deliver the promised item—accompanied by Osono (though Zōshu mistakenly believed Omyou to be Kyonosuke’s wife)—and was now being led into the parlor. At that moment, Oroku returned with the sake, and when she and this man who had introduced himself as Murai Chōan saw each other, they both froze in shock. Oroku dropped the sake flask. Simultaneously, the disciple from earlier came rushing back again, reporting there was a headless corpse lying at the entrance.

"What absurd nonsense!" As he stood up, the scent of incense wafted in from the adjacent room. When he opened it, there lay the head enshrined like this. Myōken Shōzaburō—now that he thought of it, this was the Myōken Shōzaburō who had sent word that he would come alone tonight as the representative of the surviving guards to discuss the Kyonosuke matter... When had Myōken been killed? Who had brought his severed head into this room—?

From the direction of the entrance, the voices of disciples clamoring around Myōken’s headless corpse could be heard as clearly as if reaching out to grab them. Zōshu’s hand gripping the shoji screen trembled with rage and shock, and the screen clattered noisily.

“Knowing this is the Mukei Ittō dojo, there’s no doubt it’s their doing! —The insolence!” As fury surged—snap! Growling as he whirled around, over Zōshu’s shoulder stood Oroku, the disciples, Chōan, and Omyou—eight eyes locked on the head, voiceless, motionless, stupefied… A dreadful silence.

One moment, two moments, three moments. In the room, incense smoke swirled around the severed head, while in the corridor outside, five people—starting with Zōshu—stood wide-eyed, holding their breaths and frozen in place—. Suddenly, overwhelmed by terror, Omyou began to wail hysterically. “Lord Chōan! Please let me go home! Why did you bring me to this terrifying mansion?! Let’s leave quickly! Please hurry and send me back to my home in Shitaya right away…”

Zōshu overheard this and turned his gaze toward Chōan. "Chōan!... That's what you said now!" "Heh."

“I am Murai Chōan of Kōjimachi’s Hirakawachō…”

“Shut up! I’m not asking about your damn registration!” Chōan had tried to cloud the situation with his usual buffoon’s antics and frivolous distractions, but being snapped at like a rabid dog, he blinked rapidly and fell silent. The atmosphere grew dangerous. The severed head became an afterthought as Jinbo Zōshu wheeled around to face Chōan.

“You bald bastard! Where did this wench crawl out from?” His words were rough.

II

“Urk! A stray of unknown origin?! Master, that’s too cruel. N-now really, calling her a stray is too harsh…” Chōan desperately tried to deflect. “To call Lady Osono—the very woman you pine for—a stray... Master, that’s unthinkable! Why, it was at your own request to Lord Wakasaka that I went to fetch her—” “Lord Chōan! What are you saying? I’m not—”

As Omyou desperately tried to speak out, Chōan reached out as if to cover her mouth, "What are you saying?! Lady Omyou—..." Chōan had carelessly let slip "Lady Omyou," and Zōshu, with sharp ears, caught the slip— "Hmm. So her name is Omyou." "I had thought it might be something like that." "There we go, bald bastard! You keep your mouth shut!" Jinbo pressed Chōan, then glared sharply at Omyou. "Omyou! "You! Where are you from?" "You said Shitaya, didn’t you?"

"Yes. Kuromonchō in Shitaya..." "Kuromonchō in Shitaya..."

When she began to say it, he couldn't bear to hear it. Chōan was thrown into a panic, "My lord! "The head moved!" "Huh?!" "The head moved!"

He desperately pointed at the head on the desk in the room.

But— "Shut up! Do heads move on their own?!"

Cornered by Zōshu’s interrogation, Chōan now grabbed his sleeve.

“This is no jest! As you can see, the head is laughing!” “Silence!” Having shaken him off, Zōshu turned to Omyou. “Hmm... What shopkeeper’s daughter from Shitaya Kuromonchō are you?” “My father is Kabedatsu the plasterer.” “Ah—she said it!” Chōan slumped in dismay while edging backward to flee. Zōshu firmly pressed him down while still addressing Omyou— “A plasterer’s daughter then. Not Kamio Kyonosuke’s wife Osono.” When asked if she was the wife of Kyonosuke—the man known for his devotion—a question that would normally have made Omyou blush crimson, this was no occasion for matters of romance.

“No—to claim I’m Lord Kyonosuke’s wife would be utterly absurd—” “Bald bastard!” Zōshu’s fury exploded with a—! He lunged forward and seized Chōan by the collar. Oroku pushed her way between them. “How tedious,” she sneered. “Arguing over semantics with a severed head present? The real killer still lurks within these walls. Shouldn’t we focus on that?” “Silence!” Zōshu roared. He tightened his grip on Chōan. “Was this decoy scheme your doing? Or did Yamashiro approve it? Regardless—take this girl and flee tonight. Escort her back to that hovel in Shitaya Kuromonchō. I’ll deal with Yamashiro myself later.”

"What are you talking about?" It was Oroku. Her protest was half jealousy. "This is what happens when you go around womanizing and getting strange ideas!" “Didn’t I tell you to shut your mouth?!” “Omyou… Didn’t I tell you? A rain of blood will soon fall upon this house. Stick close to Chōan the monk and get out of here immediately.” Instantly, the five gasped as if in unison. A laugh echoed—from somewhere, kukukuku... the sound of muffled laughter.

“Agh!” It was Chōan who let out an uncharacteristic scream. “Look at that! “That’s why I told you! “The head—the head is laughing!” “Enough!” Zōshu forcefully asserted his authority. “Monk! Take the girl’s hand and get to Shitaya—now!” Even as he bellowed, the muffled laughter ceased to be muffled. A raucous guffaw erupted nearby with a rustle! In the room where the head had been enshrined, a strangely dressed figure slid open the closet beside the tokonoma alcove from within and slowly emerged. Here stood a man carrying a fishing rod indoors—his greeting chillingly blunt.

“It was I who presented the head. You are Master Jinbo, aren’t you? How about hauling one up?”

So he declared. It was none other than Gyoshindō Dōjin. He deftly plucked off the scrap of paper held in Myoken Shōzaburō's mouth and tossed it at Zōshu's feet.

“There! The Tenth Head!” “The Tenth Head!” He was grinning broadly.

3

Before that, the entrance of the Genzukechō dojo bearing the Mukei Ittō-ryū placard was in an uproar. After all, a guest had arrived late at night with a label stuck to his back—on it, the word “CORPSE” written in large characters. To make matters worse, when they went out to receive this guest who had been insistently requesting guidance, they found he had somehow become a headless corpse lying quite meekly on the ground—it was only natural for their courage to shatter.

Roused from their slumber by the discoverer’s loud shout, the entire group—including the Three Elite Swordsmen Ōyauji Shuri, Hiki Ichiryūsai, and Tendo Toshitarō, along with Haruto Kikuma, Yusa Gōshichirō, and Kagami Tanba—were clamoring in uproar.

“Hey now! You forgot your head when coming to someone else’s house!” “Tsk!” “What careless fools exist in this world.” “Who the hell is this?” “Idiot!” “Do you think anyone would forget their damn head and come here?” “First off—can you walk without a head?” “You wouldn’t know directions.” “Eyes are attached to the head too, you see.” “That’s logical enough.” “But without his head, how did he make it all the way here?” “Until just now, someone was crying ‘Help! Help!’—but that voice undoubtedly came from a mouth.” “A mouth should be attached to a head.” “That one could emit a voice without a head—well, in your presence I must say—it’s utterly incomprehensible...”

What nonsense! How could there be such an impossible thing? “Who on earth is this?” “If you ask who it is, that’s impossible, I tell you. As you can see, it has no head—we can’t tell where it’s from or who it is.” “Oh! Then isn’t the head rolling around here somewhere?” He thought it was a crude dummy. One guard examined the corpse— “What—?! There’s paper stuck to his back! What’s this...‘Corpse’? Gah! It says ‘Corpse.’ Hmm... Yes—another of Kyonosuke’s pranks—”

"Then they concluded it was one of the palace guards." "We can't let this go on like this!" Though they said they couldn't let it continue, there was nothing they could do for now. The swordsmen noisily bustled about while clattering their sword hilts—moving from the entrance platform to the front garden's shrubbery and the wooden corridors connecting various rooms—when: "This is terrible!" "Hurry! Now!" Voices rang out from above their heads as two figures came flying from the inner quarters like a sudden gust of wind. "There they are!" At this shout, the quick-acting Kagami Tanba and others hastily drew their swords and encircled them—only to find Master Chōan and Ichimatsu Oroku. While Chōan was one matter, Oroku—though neither officially Master Zōshu's wife nor concubine—effectively served as the matriarch of this downtown dojo. For this reason, all disciples treated her as their mistress, showing her both deference and wariness.

“What is the matter?” Hiki Ichiryūsai spoke up, “Who the hell is this monk?! Will you deal with this bastard?” When she noticed that she and Chōan were holding hands, Oroku hurriedly let go. “No, that’s not how it is! This gentleman is an important guest—I was just escorting him out when, more importantly, a strange monk carrying a fishing rod has burst into the inner quarters and is now crossing blades with Master! Everyone, please go and take a look quickly. That monk beheaded Lord Myoken here!”

“Wh-what?! Th-this is... Lord Myoken Shōzaburō?!” “How do you know?”

“There’s a head displayed before the inner tokonoma alcove.” Hearing this alone, they stomped down the hallway—every last disciple rushed into the inner quarters. Oroku and Chōan, who had bolted through the entranceway, stumbled over Myoken’s corpse, their courage freezing as— “Come now, Chōan. “Let’s escape in this moment!” “Steady yourself!”

“Orokubō, been too long. Even Buddha’d frown on you nesting in this dump—” “What’re you on about? Let’s scram to your Kōjimachi hideout before they catch us. I’m sick of that lush. Just now—poof!—you popped into my head and made me all gloomy.”

She would never utter something as pallid as "gloomy." With a sharp tug, Oroku hitched up the hem of her kimono. Walking briskly alongside Chōan, they abandoned Master Zōshu and fled into the night.

Darkened streets.

A conversation as they walked. “Oroku, what an unexpected journey this is.” “Oh well. It’s a stylish scene that needs fine threads, but this outfit isn’t very striking, is it?” “But, well—even though you were the one who brought out the sake, I was taken aback too.” “I was the one who was shocked—how many years has it been since we parted, I wonder?”

“Well… that talk can wait.” But wait—given that incident with the girl, Jinbo would no doubt lodge a strong protest with Lord Wakasaku. Now that this 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 risky position. “Until these embers cool,” he thought, “it might’ve been wiser to leave Edo for the time being.”

Without stopping by his home in Hiragawa-chō, he set off wearing long straw sandals to parts unknown together with this Oroku—with whom he had been out of contact since they had come up to the capital together several years earlier from Ōhira Village in Ejiri, Suruga Province.

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.

IV

To Gyoshindō Dōjin, who had appeared nonchalantly with a fishing pole slung over his shoulder, Jinbo Zōshu fixed a puzzled gaze. "Who might you be?" "Who, me? I'm the god of fishing." Gyoshindō responded absurdly.

“Hah! Well, well—the god of fishing.” “And what brings this great angling deity back here?” “...Was that tenth head your handiwork?”

“Indeed,” “Just gave him a quick dispatch and made him into a head.” “After all, it was Kyonosuke-dono who labeled it as a vengeful spirit and sent it here.” “For a God, what you say makes no sense at all.” “You’ll understand soon,” said Gyoshindō Dōjin. After Chōan and Oroku ran off toward the entranceway, saying they’d go summon the disciples, he turned his gaze to Omyou trembling alone in Zōshu’s shadow. “The real purpose is that girl.” “I’ve come to take back that girl.” “I thought I’d escort her down to Shitaya myself.”

“I see. You came to take back this girl.” “If that’s your game—I won’t let you!” Zōshu raised his voice here. “How’s this?!” Do this... Just as one might wonder what he would do, Zōshu suddenly drew his large sword Silver Centipede from its sheath. Grabbing Omyou by the collar and yanking her down, he simultaneously pressed the tip of his blade against her paper-white throat. “You coming? “If you come, I’ll run you through…” But at that moment, the Three Elite Swordsmen and their group—informed by Chōan and Oroku—came stomping in with a THUD THUD THUD! With heavy footsteps, they came stomping in—could they be enemies? At this, Zōshu’s attention darted momentarily in that direction. No—even if his attention hadn’t fully shifted, the movements of those people abruptly entered Zōshu’s awareness. And then, in that instant, Gyoshindō Dōjin—swift as a flash—! He whipped the rod downward with his entire body, as if casting a fishing net. The thread—a spiderweb-like fishing line—glistened with viscosity, shone, and flew like a rainbow. It had become entangled. The line had coiled around Zōshu’s blade in a spiral and clung to it.

However, it was just a thread—the moment Zōshu pulled his blade, it snapped clean through—but even such trivial interference was like a feather brushing a horse's eye: enough to disrupt one's focus. It was the opening he needed. In this situation where subtle swordplay reigned supreme, Gyoshindō Dōjin had splendidly seized the initiative through this maneuver. As Zōshu swept his blade sideways to sever Gyoshindō's thread, Gyoshindō had already scooped Omyou under his arm, kicked through the storm shutter, executed a flawless backflip along with the wooden panel, and landed magnificently in the garden. Zōshu's swiftly swung long sword—like a silver centipede—sliced through a storm shutter about to collapse into the garden with a whoosh! merely slithered through and split it in two.

With his back to the door where he had evaded the sword, Gyoshindō Dōjin urged Omyou onward and ran across the garden. Two black shadows were circling around the artificial hill, about to vanish. “Master! Was that the ruffian? Understood.” “There!” He barked an order to his men—clatter clatter clatter! As Tendo Toshitaro was about to jump down into the garden and give chase, Zōshu thrust out his gleaming blade and stopped him. “Enough! Let them escape. He’s an amusing old man.” “Besides, even if you all band together, you’re no match.” “No match at all.”

Ah ha ha! Gazing up at the moon through the garden pines, Zōshu shook his shoulders and roared with laughter.

Five

Attending to duty at the castle.

He left the castle.

By the moat. Sunlight like rain.

Ōoka Tadasuke, Lord of Echizen and Magistrate of the Southern District, was leaving the castle.

Lord Tanbanroshu attended to duty at the castle.

It was the main gate approach. The two processions had merged into one. Under a pine tree shaped like a bamboo hat, they brought their palanquins so close they nearly touched—these two were intimate allies. From palanquin to palanquin, they traded words in hushed whispers. When wrinkles—ironically sharp yet resembling pure intellect—gathered at Lord Awaji’s eye corners, it signaled his habit of casually voicing grave matters. This was such a moment. Knowing this, Lord Echizen let a flicker of tension show through his habitually mild expression as he fixed an unblinking gaze on his counterpart’s eyes.

"I had considered this as well - the situation seems settled." It was Lord Tanbanroshu who spoke. "At this juncture, I believe we should oppose Yamashiro's position." "That requires no explanation - Lord Yamashiro acts from private interests." "For him to obsess over trifles like stripping Izuiya's oil commission for Fudeya Koubei... No, this is merely Echizen's personal view-"

“Personal motives? A masterclass in personal motives! As ever, Lord Ōoka, your irony cuts deep.” “Heard carelessly, they’re just words—but dissect them… Ha ha ha ha! One can never drop their guard.” “Those with shins bearing scars will always draw suspicious eyes.” “Ah, splendid personal motives!” “Deceitful motives—base motives! Greed for coin drives us to scheme with bribes in hand.” “With self-preservation as my prime mover—ah yes! These are personal feelings through and through!”

“Ohoho, that was not quite what I meant—” “I shall resolutely reject Yamashiro’s proposal and uphold Izuiya Gohei’s position as before—this I deem proper. Lord Echizen, what is your esteemed counsel?” “This must remain incontrovertibly so.”

"Then would you not immediately make such arrangements?"

“As for that matter, this Echizen has a stratagem…” Afterward, they drew their palanquins even closer together, their hushed discussion turning to whispers, and soon parted ways to left and right, leaving behind carefree laughter.

That evening.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

The one who brusquely entered Izui Go's shop in Kanda was none other than Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu. Before the presiding monthly town elder, he handed an official missive to Izui Go and his wife as they stood fidgeting nervously. When they unfolded it—expecting another censure—they instead read: "Your devoted service in the oil contract has met with the authorities' approval. Continue exercising utmost diligence in your duties henceforth..." It amounted to nothing less than a letter of commendation. This had been discreetly issued by Lord Ōoka himself—the very stratagem he had mentioned. Thus, even without any formal proclamation, Izui Go's oil contract became permanently secured, while Fudeya Koukichi found himself thoroughly thwarted, as though a searing nail had been driven through his ambitions. Needless to say, Lord Wakasaka Yamashironokami suffered complete humiliation. He soon resigned his post and retreated into secluded retirement.

Six Ever since displaying the Tenth Head at their own residence, those of Gensukemachi had been driven to desperate measures. Day and night, swordsmen formed search parties combing through the streets for Kyonosuke. With ten already beheaded and panic gripping those who remained, these guards found no recourse but to seek protection at Gensukemachi. Naturally, their dojo took on the air of a "Kyonosuke Elimination Bureau," hosting grand councils that stretched across days. Though termed meetings, strict decorum proved impossible—particularly with Master Jinbo Zōshu and his cadre of drinkers present—making them little more than raucous banquets. During one such revelry came an arrow from the garden's shadows... its tip bearing a missive. Unfurled, it read: *Tomorrow night I come to claim what heads remain. Prepare yourselves.* A chill-inducing taunt that mocked all propriety.

The next night. Having completed their preparations, with all present stroking their swords in anticipation, Kyonosuke and Gyoshindō Dōjin with Shirazu no Ogen—alongside Kyonosuke's younger brother Kotarou—boldly stormed into the fray. It was the fighters' time to shine. Kyonosuke and Ukon's decoy pair moved with their usual ghostly unpredictability; Gyoshindō brandished his specially made fishing rod—his only weapon; while Shirazu no Ogen wore men's attire. Moreover, clad in identical garb to Kyonosuke and Ukon while twirling a long sword about, she created such confusion that at first glance there seemed to be three Kyonosukes—a truly bewildering spectacle. The clash erupted into tremendous chaos, blades crossing both within and outside the mansion until dawn. That night saw three palace guards lose their heads: Eleventh Head Iinō Shumma; Twelfth Head Yumizaku Hikojūrō; Thirteenth Head Ikeue Shinrokurō... The amiable Hori Shōzaemon survived by repeatedly dunking his head in a pond, while Araki Yōichirō—who brought profound shame upon his ancestor Mataemon—saved himself by fleeing to the maids' quarters and hiding beneath a futon disguised as a servant. Only Yamaji Shigenoshin and Yokochi Hankurō fought honorably and survived until the end—a mere two men remaining.

At this time, Shirazu no Ogen's exploits were so extraordinary that all reportedly believed her to have been male until the very end. Through the vast mansion grounds she roamed alone, a bloodied sword at her side as she sought opponents—a scene recorded as demonstrating the admirable bearing of a young samurai. To be precise, she wore that gandō hood pulled fully down, leaving only her eyes exposed. Being the fiery matriarch known as Shirazu no Ogen, she must have appeared indistinguishable from a man.

That night, upon receiving word of the Gensukemachi brawl, Lord Ōoka immediately summoned Kinkanjaya no Otomatsu, whispered instructions to him, and urgently sent him running to Kabedatsu in Kuromonchō. Officially, he had ordered Kabedatsu to apprehend Kyonosuke. For Kabedatsu, there existed an agreement that he himself would bind Kyonosuke when the time came. Alone, he quickly readied himself and raced toward Gensukemachi. It was precisely as Kabedatsu prepared to depart his home.

Tormented by her unrequited love, Omyou, knowing that the final hour had at last come for her beloved Kyonosuke,

“Dad! “You promised! “This time I won’t stop you—so please bind Lord Kyonosuke properly.” With a piercing shriek, Omyou took her own life and perished. Kabedatsu wanted to tend to his daughter, but time pressed onward. He couldn’t afford to linger. Even Otomatsu, who had been waiting, hid his tears and urged him forward. At last, with a heart heavy as if his hair were being pulled from behind, he rushed to Gensukemachi, dove into the heart of the commotion, and single-handedly bound Kyonosuke—but when they finally brought him before Lord Ōoka, it turned out to be Ibara Ukon. Kabedatsu had deliberately captured Ukon and, perceiving his dead daughter’s wishes, used the mistake as a pretext to let Kyonosuke escape. Through the arrangements of Otomatsu and Gyoshindō Dōjin, Kyonosuke immediately fled down the Tōkaidō to Kyoto with his wife Osono, who had been summoned from the scene of the Gensukemachi brawl. Just as they were about to depart, Otomatsu called out to stop them and said nonchalantly:

“Miss Omyou sends her regards.”

He did not inform them of Omyou’s death. Kyonosuke smiled in return, took his wife’s hand, and hastened westward. At dawn, Tadasuke privately interrogated Ukon. Learning he came from an esteemed Ise family and was the son of a friend from his Yamada Magistrate days—and since this was a case of mistaken identity, Ukon being not Kyonosuke after all—he pardoned both him and Ogen. Everything had been comprehended and the entire affair hushed up by Tadasuke alone. The two—their appearances altered through Tadasuke’s mercy—departed several hours later along that same Tōkaidō road toward Ise. Before long, Kyonosuke and Osono together with Ukon and Ogen—the two couples—continued their boisterous journey onward, their two strikingly similar husbands at the center, turning all past events into amusing tales. Gyoshindō Dōjin came to see them off as far as Shinagawa’s outskirts. Wishing them auspicious travels, he sent a breeze from his fan behind the four... Their party of four journeyed on, drenched in a sunshower like the tears of tragically deceased Omyou...