Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mountain Inspector

Such a deep mountain gorge should have felt cold when imagined from town, yet there was surprisingly no icy wind; choosing to walk along a southern slope brought sweat that prickled at one's hair roots from the muggy breath rising through sprouting grasses.

It was early spring in Tenmei 2.

The color of budding leaves, a limpid sky, a shimmering heat haze—truly a spring-like spring in the mountain village.

Suzuki Mokunosuke, a dark-complexioned samurai serving as Mountain Inspector for the Nabeshima clan of Hizen, walked along a sunlit shrub-covered slope with a winter bamboo staff in hand, his steps heavy and rustling through the brush.

"This is really... utterly boring."

With a face that seemed to declare as much, he found a suitable spot and thudded down onto a patch of mountain grass.

Hugging his knees, Mokunosuke sank into sunlit contemplation—as if realizing it only now—and began tallying grievances of boredom: what an effortless duty this Mountain Inspector role truly was.

However, this was a position he had initially sought to escape the mundane duties of castle town service. Yet in practice, his daily work amounted to nothing more than trudging through these Ōkawachi mountains from Sarayama onward—no foreign agents came stealing the official kiln’s secret techniques, no villains smuggled goods. These were mountains inhabited solely by virtuous artisans meticulously crafting Saga’s pride—the Iro-Nabeshima pottery of the official kilns.

At the same time, the Mountain Inspector’s jitte and swords became mere ornamental accessories to be carried about. After seven or eight years performing work akin to hunting mushrooms in spring mountains, not only had any samurai-like pride or vigor vanished—he even found himself briefly wondering whether he was human or rabbit.

If only there were some turmoil.
If only something like a rain of blood were to fall.

Be that as it may, these mountains were excessively tranquil.
Even when gazing across the mountain valleys directly below, one could see forty or fifty roofs scattered among the distant ravines and nearby mountain streams—all pottery huts of the official artisans crafting the renowned Iro-Nabeshima ware—yet the view remained eerily desolate, so devoid of human presence it seemed unimaginable anyone lived there.
When one grows weary of peace, even peaceful scenes begin to appear languid.
That only deepened Mokunosuke’s melancholy, making him yearn for some turmoil to arise.

"Thinking of that, Kumeichi is an impressive fellow."

Mokunosuke recalled the bizarre fiery spirit he had once heard described by Kumeichi and sought to somewhat console his brooding.

“He did say once… someday, he…”
“No good, no good at all! You young lads who spend five years in these mountains turn as dry as barren rocks and bleached bones—the clay loses all its richness and luster.”
“Such bastards should go off to Kakiemon’s place that deals with tea masters!”
“The Iro-Nabeshima I create from my mountain has earthly desires and blood coursing through it—pottery made for real humans!”
”
“That does have some merit.”
But the latter words were still unmistakably Kumeichi.
“Bastards!”
“And this guy—that man’s damn habit—thinking if you become some Saigyō or Bashō type, just taking shits in silver grass and dandelion fields while drifting through life, could you ever make real, living pottery?”
“Pottery ain’t just cold stuff! It’s supposed to be warm like a beloved wife’s skin, right?”
”Hahahaha! It might be an uneducated rant, but you could take it as a valid opinion. At any rate, he seems like a man brimming with life—even compared to this Mokunosuke here.”

Without any conscious thought of standing, he rose to his feet as if lifted by an unseen force. Suddenly, he felt like visiting Kumeichi's workshop.

And then, pushing through the branches of shrubs while rustling through the brush as he started to descend toward the lowland—but something caught his eye—

“Ah—”
He stopped dead in his tracks.

The figures ahead seemed more startled by his presence than he was by theirs.
Like a pair of pheasants taking flight, they scattered toward the ravine.

Their retreating figures—both were beautiful youths.
“What a sinful thing I’ve done...”

He felt strangely unsettled.
This stimulation proved too sharp for melancholy born of tedium.
Yet he thought it preferable that such things existed in these mountains.

“Mr. Suzuki! Mr. Suzuki!”

At that moment, he heard someone’s voice calling from behind.
When he turned to look, there stood Hyakusuke—the kiln stoker from Kumeichi’s workshop.

“Oh—Firewood Mountain? —”

“No, there’s a small matter I’d like to bring to your attention, sir.”

With an absurdly solemn face, he approached.

Theft of Secret Techniques

“The man and woman who just fled in panic are Miss Natsume—Kumeichi’s daughter—and that brat Chōjirō working at the painting studio.”

Hyakusuke the kiln stoker rubbed his nose in vexation.

“Ah, Chōjirō from the painting studio? Young though he may be, I hear his work shows considerable skill.”

“He may be skilled with a paintbrush, but he’s a cunning bastard when it comes to women—before you know it, he’s been pawing at the Master’s daughter like that.”

“Well, it can’t be helped. Sooner or later, Kumeichi will have to find a husband for his daughter Natsume.”

“What?!”
Hyakusuke suppressed his displeased expression. “It’s not about makin’ a fuss over that particular thing, but there’s somethin’ I gotta report to the authorities no matter what. Figured I’d let you take credit for it, sir.”

“To report?”
“What exactly?”

“That Chōjirō bastard is definitely a spy sent to steal the secret techniques of the official kiln, I tell ya!”

“Hyakusuke, surely you’re not speaking in jest?”

“How could I possibly be telling a bald-faced lie about something like this? That bastard was sixteen or seventeen when he snuck into these mountains disguised as some pilgrim—a complete outsider! He sweet-talked his way into Kumeichi’s good graces and put on airs as a painting studio artisan, but some pilgrim ain’t gonna magically get skilled overnight! He’s gotta be a spy from Kanazawa’s Kutani or wherever—no doubt here to steal Iro-Nabeshima’s brocade patterns and glaze secrets, I tell ya!”

“However, Hyakusuke, with that reasoning alone, I cannot deem Chōjirō a violator of prohibitions.”

“So—though I hate to impose—you must come with me to the Master’s house now.”
“When that bastard and I face off, I’ll tear off that sickly-pale mask and show you what lies beneath!”

“So what—are you saying that because you’re framing Chōjirō, you want me there as a witness?”

“We’ll have Master Kumeichi hear this too.
“The Nabeshima ware from these mountains has been fired in secret kilns for two hundred years—a treasure second only to Saga Castle itself by our lord’s decree.
“You think we’ll let Kutani dogs steal our kiln-building methods and glaze recipes?
“First off, if this forbidden business comes out, the Master’s neck’s on the block too! For my sake and Kumeichi’s—hmph—time to bare my arms and settle this!”

The Arrogant One

In the narrow basin between Kurokami Mountain and the valley stream stood the workshop of Kumeichi the potter.

The Nabeshima family’s official artisans—overseers of Ōkawachi’s forty households comprising clay kneaders, kiln stokers, menial workers, and others—resided in a compound enclosed by earthen walls yet of considerable size.

Kilns were scattered across over ten locations throughout the basins, with one additional site situated on the residence’s back mountain.
It was the restricted kiln that fired only offerings for the Shogunate and utensils for Saga Castle.
Ordinary items sent to various provinces—in the sunny spot beside Kumeichi's residence, unglazed clay dishes, soup bowls, incense burners, Kannon statues and such still lay half-dried and spread out to dry, having undergone neither firing nor glazing.

However, even these—their glaze formulas, kiln construction methods, and firing techniques—were all strictly guarded secrets not to be divulged; anyone who leaked them faced crucifixion.

“Pardon me—”

A splendid samurai visited Kumeichi’s residence.

A samurai named Kariya Tanomo—chamberlain of the Nabeshima clan from Saga Castle Town—was ushered into the inner quarters.

There sat Kumeichi cross-legged atop a thick quilt in an extravagantly opulent room, clad in a striped Nanban-imported robe.

A beauty with powder-and-paint makeup kneaded the thick muscles of his shoulders like tumorous flesh.
One beauty prepared tobacco for him while another brought tea—surrounded by cosmetic fragrances and dazzling furnishings sat the potter Kumeichi: one-eyed with a crushed left orb, ugly-featured, corpulent yet aged between sixty and seventy.

He possessed an infuriatingly spry vigor.

Moreover, he was truly detested by others as well.
Not to mention the mountain folk, there was not a single official who did not despise him.
Because Kumeichi was extraordinarily arrogant.
He had never yielded to anyone, reigned arrogantly over all, and in matters of art—needless to say—looked down upon every potter under heaven.

And yet, from the domain lord down to the officials and mountain folk, all had to kneel before him.
Undoubtedly, Kumeichi was a master potter.
The resplendent and voluptuous carvings of Iro-Nabeshima—those masterpieces radiant with youthful brilliance—emerged from the weather-beaten fingers of Kumeichi, works that could not be produced by the hands of other young artisans.

Kyoto's Ninsei and Kakiemon of colored porcelain—each had their distinctive characteristics.
"The Iro-Nabeshima we produce from these mountains has no path forward but this one!" he would often rebuke his disciples when they grew complacent in their austerity.

The envoy of the Governor of Hizen—Chamberlain Kariya Tanomo—was ushered into the room of this arrogant artisan.

“Come in.”

With just that said, Kumeichi neither offered a seat of honor nor made any particular gesture—merely straightened thick-kneed legs with visible reluctance.

“It gladdens me to see you in such robust health as ever.”

Contrary to protocol, the domain lord’s envoy offered flattery.

“Still holding up.”
“But I mean to grow younger still.”

“How did you find the Korean ginseng presented from our lord?”
“Did you partake of it?”

“Gave it a go. Stuff’s got bite.”

“When next Amoy ships dock, I shall arrange further deliveries.”

“Best be hunting down eternal youth grub for this Kumeichi’s sake.”
“Mountain fare’s fit for shit.”
“I wither—Iro-Nabeshima dies with me. Your loss then too.”

“I understand full well,” Envoy Tanomo replied. The composure he had maintained despite his simmering irritation suddenly twisted into a bitter expression, causing him to lower his gaze. But then he straightened his posture with formal precision.

“Now then, Lord Kumeichi—”

“Hmm, so it’s a message from the lord?”

“Indeed. That is why I have come here so abruptly. To come straight to the point—this is an earnest request. With once-in-a-lifetime dedication, would you deign to undertake work at the official kiln?”

“Hmm. The official kiln’s use follows a three-year cycle by regulation. Last year saw a three-colored lion and peony-painted lapis lazuli vase fired—one sent to the Shogunate and another to the castle, as was proper.”

“Now, that is precisely the matter at hand.”

“Not to your liking?”

“Perish the thought! When the three-colored lion was viewed by the Shogunate, not only did it earn their profound admiration, but our lord’s standing at Edo Castle was greatly elevated—or so I am told.”

“You think the Shogunate could possibly understand this Kumeichi’s work? Don’t be absurd—that’s just empty flattery to stroke some daimyo’s ego.”

“No, this is by no means empty flattery—such is the depth of His Lordship’s admiration that he earnestly desires another ceramic piece for Kuroki’s audience chamber. A request from none other than His Lordship himself—indeed, he finds himself quite unable to refuse.”
“Lord Kumeichi—I prostrate myself thus to beg this of you. For the clan’s sake, I entreat you to undertake this commission.”

“Ah, I see now.”

“Huh...?”

“That won’t be going to the Shogunate.
This Kumeichi is also getting on in years.
Since I don’t know when I’ll lose my edge, you must be thinking—better have me create a lifetime masterpiece while I still can.”

“Not at all—that is most certainly not the case.”

“Don’t play coy.
Very well—I’ve caused the Nabeshima clan considerable trouble. There’s even a retainer who committed seppuku over my arrogance.
And no matter how much of a Kumeichi I am, my youth won’t last forever—let me make this my final work.”

“You... You would deign to grant your consent…?”
He stepped back from the tatami mat and bowed with propriety befitting a lord’s vassal.
Having left behind lavish gifts of gold and cloth, Kariya Tanomo retreated from Ōkawachi Gorge in his palanquin.

“Come now, women—rub my feet! These feet!”

Kumeichi flopped onto his back and summoned the young women before him.
They were harbor courtesans rotated from Imari Akaemachi in groups of four or five—whenever vermilion-lacquered palanquins traversed the mountain pass, it meant jaded women were being returned while fresh-faced beauties were chosen anew.

× × ×

Hyakusuke the kiln stoker and Suzuki Mokunosuke the Mountain Inspector entered through the garden gate and surveyed this scene, but finding nothing particularly novel, thought *Same as ever*, and approached the veranda.

“Master, wake up for a moment.”
“It’s Hyakusuke the kiln stoker.”

“I ain’t sleepin’.”
“What?” Kumeichi turned his reclining body prone and propped his raised head on his hand.
Hyakusuke, finding this grating,

This old fool’s gotten so damn full of himself over his craft.

He thought.

The most crucial aspect of pottery making was kiln firing—a single miscalculation during firing could make even a master artisan’s painstaking work shatter with a piercing crack. Thus, even in ordinary firings, people generally regarded kiln stokers’ treatment with anxious scrutiny; an exception like Kumeichi—lying prone while conversing in such ill-mannered fashion—was an affront none wished to witness.

“There’s a rather pressing request I need to discuss with you, Master.”

“Not gonna spit it out? What a day for one ‘pressing matter’ after another to come knocking.”

“Mr. Suzuki,” he said, turning around,

“Why don’t you take my place and lay into Master about that earlier business?”

“Very well,” said Mountain Inspector Mokunosuke, explaining Chōjirō’s suspicions in a manner calculated not to irritate Kumeichi.

Love's Phantom Flame

What they called the painter’s studio was the pottery painters’ workshop—a quiet room in the back.

Kikuta Chōjirō, who had just returned there, was feigning nonchalance as he took up his brush to paint carp designs on an incense burner or similar object.

Just then, Kumeichi’s daughter Natsume entered with a slightly altered complexion.

“Mr. Chōji.”

“Have you come again?”

“Do you dislike it?”

“It’s not that, but it would catch Master’s eye.”

“Father is fine. But it seems a troublesome matter has arisen... Hyakusuke the kiln stoker and Mr. Suzuki have come, and for some reason they want you to go to them—”

“Where to?”

“To Father’s room. Mr. Suzuki’s decent enough, but that Hyakusuke wretch—there’s no telling what he might spew out.”

“If I go, I’ll tell them myself—about when he tried to lure you to Okamayama.”

“You ought to strip that hypocrite bare. But listen, Chōji—if they keep quiet over there, best let it lie.”

“Oh, I absolutely won’t!”

With such feelings, Chōjirō casually made his way along the veranda to his master’s room and knelt formally on the wooden floor.

He had only recently had his forelock shaved; the hair oil gleamed vividly against his freshly shaved bluish pate. With a small sword thrust into his front sash and the arrangement of his hakama pleats, it was precisely the sort of appearance that would catch Natsume’s eye.

Hyakusuke the kiln stoker shot him a stomach-churning glare, then abruptly closed in.

“Hey!
“Kaga scum!
“Chōjirō from Kaga’s Kutani!”

“What?”

“Look at that—your face has gone pale!
“What are you—a retainer of Maeda from Daishōji? Or some Kutani potter’s brat?
“You’ve been hiding it well, haven’t you?”

“Preposterous!”
“…Hyakusuke, I was originally from Edo—my brother’s an ukiyo-e artist—”

“Shut it!
This kiln stoker Hyakusuke here’s done his share of loafing around Edo too, y’know.”
“A sickly-pale mud doll like you—who’d swallow that rot about bein’ Edo-born?”
“That accent’s pure Kaga scum.”
“No different than Maeda’s lackeys!”

“What vile things you insist on saying.”
“Master himself knows this Chōjirō’s circumstances full well.”

“Shut up!”
“Playing at being some pilgrim or rokubu beggar—using feigned illness to collapse before this mansion! That’s your trick!”
“I’ve had my eye on this for three years!”
“Now—confess here or come with me to the magistrate’s office.”
“We’ll settle this at the white sand court!”

He grabbed Chōjirō’s collar with a jerk.

With a scraping drag, he tried to haul him down the hallway.

Natsume, who had been watching from the shadows, lost all color from her lips and trembled. Then Kumeichi—who had been silently holding his pipe between his lips—suddenly stood up and delivered a thudding kick to Hyakusuke’s side.

“Ah!” Hyakusuke the kiln stoker was sent sprawling into the garden.
He tried to shout something, but upon seeing Kumeichi’s figure standing abruptly at the veranda’s edge—his expression fearsome—his very bones stiffened involuntarily.

Even Suzuki Mokunosuke was daunted by that bloodthirsty expression.
It was often said among the mountain folk that they despised Kumeichi’s arrogance, whispering behind his back with epithets like ‘Virūḍhaka.’ Yet even so, the sight of him now—kicking Hyakusuke, whose skill as a kiln stoker in Ōkawachi was second to none, in a fit of wrathful hubris—truly bore the very visage of Virūḍhaka himself.

“P-please don’t act rashly!”

Mokunosuke intervened regardless, but Hyakusuke snapped into fury and glared up at Kumeichi’s face.

“H-hey! Why’d you kick me?!”

“Calling you a viper wouldn’t suffice—you’re subhuman filth! A mere kick’s too light for your sort.”

“Subhuman filth?!”
“Listen here Kumeichi! I don’t care what master artisan you fancy yourself—don’t let that arrogance rot your brains!”
“By unmasking this foreign spy breaking prohibitions to steal secret techniques, I’m saving you from your own negligence!”
“You call this no favor—since when does that grant license to kick men?!”

“Shut your mouth!”

Glaring sharply, Kumeichi—as if no one else were present—spoke thus.

“This artistry I possess isn’t some trifle meant to rot hidden away in these cramped mountains! The grander the craft’s technique grows, the louder it’ll echo through the world and spill into society! That’s how things ought to be! But this tale of Chōjirō being some Kaga spy? Nothing but your poisoned guesswork! You lusted after my Natsume, and when she wouldn’t have you, you brewed up this coward’s lie for vengeance—that’s what’s festering in your gut! You—! You blathering fool!”

“Umm…” Hyakusuke ground his teeth in resentment, but those dagger-like words had pierced deep into his venomous heart. Hyakusuke’s temples to his forehead swelled with earthworm-like blue veins,

“Tch... Damn you! You’ll pay for this, Virūḍhaka!”

“What was that?”

“Y-your pottery—from today onward, this Hyakusuke won’t lay a hand on it! Mark my words!”

“Do as you damn well please!”

“Kumeichi! I’ve severed ties with you!”

With eyes blazing like phosphorescent flames and pallid with rage, Hyakusuke the kiln stoker left his parting threat hanging in the air as he stormed off headlong.

Passion of the Wheel

In the mountain village nestled in the gorge, spring passed, summer passed, and autumn arrived—the mountains themselves now resembling polychrome porcelain, their hues as intricate as brocade.

Lately, potter Kumeichi’s daily life underwent a complete transformation.

Not letting anyone peek inside, he shut tight the ceramic door of his workshop and devoted himself to creating his life’s masterpiece.

The statue of Virūḍhaka, over two shaku in height, which he had now embarked upon creating as his final work, was inspired by Hyakusuke the kiln stoker’s insulting words hurled at him.

Kumeichi had always disdained Kakiemon’s neurotic creations and found Ko-Imari’s pretentious maturity even more intolerable.
And so, into this Virūḍhaka he resolved to pour every ounce of splendor and passion, youthful vigor and pride, and his own very lifeblood.

In the profound depths of midnight.

Inside the ceramic door, Kumeichi gathered the clay and took up his spatula with single-minded focus.
Creak, creak—his bones groaned so fiercely it seemed as though blood might drip from the spatula’s tip.

His figure, bent over the potter’s wheel, cast a demonic shadow upon the wall.
Nights piled upon nights, days followed days, and the work progressed in sequence: glazing, then painting.

However, when people’s slumber deepened, Kumeichi would begin muttering monologues about his work as if possessed by a demon.

The secret techniques of the spatula, the blending of glazes—all the secrets he had never so much as hinted at until now—he muttered each one aloud in soliloquy as he worked on completing Virūḍhaka.

Strange—?
No sooner had one registered this strangeness than attention shifted again—this time to his daughter Natsume’s room, equally suspicious.

Night after night, a man would sneak in.

Needless to say, it was Chōjirō of the painter’s guild who came each night—yet upon entering that room before long his figure would vanish somewhere. And then the ceiling board above the cupboard opened its black maw.

Night after night Chōjirō—having climbed up to the ceiling—would creep through the attic space until positioned above Kumeichi’s secret chamber; there he painstakingly bored a hole barely sufficient for peering through.

During those hours Natsume kept watch to prevent other disciples from approaching.
Chōjirō pressed his eye to the ceiling’s aperture and stared breathlessly at Kumeichi’s work.

And so—from that night onward, Kumeichi’s soliloquies began.
The mysteries of techniques that couldn’t be grasped through mere observation—when it came to those, he would expound upon them.
Ah, the master knew everything… How many times had Chōjirō clasped his hands in the pitch-black attic—realizing this was a heart that forgave not only the secret techniques of polychrome glazing but also his daughter Natsume?

Wheel of Rebirth Chapter

Hyakusuke the kiln stoker, of course, had no intention of remaining silent after that.
Furthermore, with tenacious persistence, he probed numerous points of suspicion regarding Chōjirō and went to Saga’s castle town to file a secret accusation.

However, the Nabeshima clan’s officials were greatly troubled by the accusation.
Particularly, Kariya Tanomo did his utmost to suppress it and strove to reconcile Hyakusuke and Kumeichi.

If a criminal who stole secret techniques were to emerge from Kumeichi’s workshop, there arose the difficulty that his master—the man himself—would also have to be charged as an accomplice.

Moreover, if they were to anger Hyakusuke there, he would undoubtedly refuse to light Kumeichi’s official kiln.
However, kiln firings conducted by a master of Kumeichi’s caliber were not so commonplace, and even when surveying all three regions of Ōkawachi, Imari, and Arita, the current tribute pottery firing simply could not be completed without Hyakusuke.

This was one difficulty.

Given that losing either would make this critical production impossible, it was only natural Tanomo grew flustered.

Yet Hyakusuke had been compelled to swallow everything through lavish monetary appeasements.

With forced apologies delivered to Kumeichi that same day, they took custody of the Virūḍhaka statue now primed for firing.
Upon seeing it, even these hardened men had to acknowledge a mastery surpassing mortal ethics.
Every lingering grudge and smoldering fury found themselves involuntarily bowing before Kumeichi’s artistry.

When the handover was completed.

The magistrate office had already made all necessary arrangements.

With a shout of “Now!”, they sent the arresting officers storming into Kumeichi’s workshop.

Without any resistance, Kumeichi was immediately bound with rope and dragged out.
But when the officials and mountain folk caught sight of him, in that instant they forgot all the hatred they had harbored toward him in ordinary times and were moved to tears.

Does single-minded art truly drain a person’s lifeblood so completely?
In that brief span, the extent to which Kumeichi had withered away was truly extraordinary.
Transformed into a figure floundering more than a moth deprived of its thread, he was dragged weakly toward Saga’s castle town without uttering a single boast.

However, by the time the captors stormed in, the figures of Chōjirō of the painter’s guild and his daughter Natsume—criminals even more crucial than Kumeichi—had already vanished without a trace. Naturally, judging they had fled over the mountains, Mountain Inspector Suzuki Mokunosuke had ordered a search—but ultimately, they slipped through the net.

Before the evening moon could rise, deep within Kurokami Mountain, the Official Kiln was lit—jet-black smoke billowed up from the gorge.

The one working there was Hyakusuke the kiln stoker.
He vented his pent-up resentment, brimming with self-satisfaction.

“Serves you right!”

Alone, he raised his victory song.

Yet even after witnessing Kumeichi’s workshop fall to ruin and seeing him crucified in the castle town, his resentment had not subsided.
Even if that bastard were to die or be killed, he knew something of him would still linger.

When it came down to it—the soul of Kumeichi’s craft.
The radiant reputation he left upon Iro-Nabeshima.

“Alright… Damn it all!”

Hyakusuke conceived a terrifying scheme to annihilate even that intangible renown.

Now, within this Official Kiln blazed a fiercely burning fire of intense heat.
There in its fiery womb lay Kumeichi's once-in-a-lifetime creation—the Virūḍhaka statue into which he had poured his very life force—now receiving its final nurturing through the kiln's flames as it prepared to emerge into the world.

"Whether this thing comes outta the fire proper or turns to ash in the dark—ain't that all down to my skill with the flames?!"
"Hmm!" He nodded at his own wicked ingenuity and let slip a diabolical chuckle.

Now Hyakusuke's formidable expertise found purpose in crafting terrible mischief.
He sought to skillfully warp the kiln's pottery through calculated temperature manipulation—not through any crude method where common stokers might spite their masters, but through pains taken to ensure any later inspection would reveal only Kumeichi's own flaws in craftsmanship rather than evidence of deliberate sabotage.

And so, he intentionally conducted an irregular firing.

As night fell and deepened, the shadow of a thick pillar of fire appeared to pierce through the moonlit sky.
And by then, it was already nearing the fifth watch, the hour before dawn…

Now was the critical moment for temperature control.

The thickly built kiln's clay began glowing red like human blood held up to daylight. Had the kiln stoker applied his full efforts here, the ceramic Virūḍhaka might have emerged from the flames with vibrant life into the world—but Hyakusuke had cursed this outcome from the start. With cold detachment akin to watching an enemy's unborn child perish, he settled onto the firewood bundle and began puffing vigorously at his tobacco.

Instantly the kiln's surface turned murky black, flames at its mouth dwindling until darkness engulfed everything. Kumeichi's lifetime masterpiece now lay in unknowable condition. Hyakusuke gazed at it and sneered—a derisive twist of lips.

At that moment, a black figure suddenly stood silently behind Hyakusuke.

“Hm?”

With that realization, he whirled around—directly face-to-face!

Swiftly, a light like crushed fireflies shot forth.
When he cried “Ah!”—his vision blurring at the sword’s gleam—Hyakusuke the kiln stoker clutched his forehead, leapt back with a start—, his face flushing crimson,

“Ugh!... Wh-Who’re you?!”

He spat blood pooling in his mouth and roared.

The pale blade’s tip offered no reply, relentlessly driving him backward.
Hyakusuke desperately staggered away, but another shadow—swooping like a hunting falcon—dug a dagger’s razor edge into his flank where they’d grabbed him.

“Oh—the fire’s dying!”

The moment they thought their opponent had fallen, paying it no further heed, the two shadows set to work busily before the kiln.

The youth dismantled the mountain of pine firewood cut from the fuel forest, grabbed a bundle, and peered intently into the kiln’s fiery maw.

“Hngh!”

He summoned his strength and hurled it in with a forceful toss.

“Hngh!” He immediately grabbed another log, then another.
The fire’s life force—now on the verge of extinction!
As though resurrected, it blazed fiercely—and the surroundings were illuminated in a crimson glow like the light of day.

The shadows of two youths—having struck down Hyakusuke and now working feverishly at the kiln—became clearly visible in that moment.

It was Chōjirō of the painter’s guild and Kumeichi’s daughter, Natsume.

Chōjirō the painter had never been a mere artisan from the very beginning.
He inherited the warrior blood of Kaga Daishōji, his father being a Kutani pottery kiln owner.
Not only did he possess some mastery of breathing techniques, but now he burned with single-minded determination to fire his benefactor’s final great work even at the cost of his life.
There was desperate exertion amidst scorching heat.

The kiln roared as it raised flames to their maximum heat, and night began to glimmer toward dawn.
Crimson lacquer-red maple leaves worthy of a blazing inferno descended from the peaks and, whipped by the kiln’s fiery breath, tumbled and swirled through the sky.

Soon, a tsunami-like roar of voices rose.

Along the narrow mountain path, a great number of arresters swarmed into Kurokami Mountain. But the arresters' eyes found only Hyakusuke's corpse buried in fallen leaves before the Official Kiln; neither Natsume's form nor Chōjirō's shadow could be seen throughout their daylong mountain hunt, rendering it ultimately futile.

However, the one who had clearly seen them off—

Mountain Inspector Suzuki Mokunosuke.

Standing atop the peak at Izanagi no Mikoto’s Hair Mound, he discerned two figures fleeing hand in hand along a nearby mountain path toward the province border.

Yet—however—Suzuki Mokunosuke, in that moment, though a prayer welled within him—“May bright spring come, may fortune be theirs upon these youths’ path”—he did not entertain even a dewdrop’s worth of thought toward unleashing a merciless restraining rope.

Kumeichi had said.
“When I kicked down that kiln stoker Hyakusuke long ago—‘My art isn’t some trifling thing to be sealed away in these mountains and forgotten!’—”
“Great things cannot help but spill forth into the world.”
“That’s right! How could such overflowing power ever be contained by Mokunosuke’s jitte and arresting ropes—mere playthings?!”
……

But even if his heart grew weary of this mountain village’s peace once more, would it still crave further upheaval?
That was something even Mokunosuke couldn’t comprehend.
Yet for now, he must have earnestly wished for Ceramic Mountain to regain its tranquility as soon as possible.

× × ×

On the day when potter Kumeichi was condemned in Saga’s castle town, his kiln—the Official Kiln at Kurokami Mountain—was destroyed.
From within that destruction, something had been born.
It was the Virūḍhaka ceramic statue—an object both the domain lord and Kariya Tanomo had utterly abandoned hope of ever seeing.
Moreover, flawless in every detail, with carvings of exquisite precision and underglaze decorations of resplendent luxury, it stood as a divine masterpiece of Iro-Nabeshima pottery unmatched since the kilns first opened in Ōkawachi’s mountains.
Furthermore, its firing had achieved peerless perfection.

Upon receiving this joyful news from the mountain officials, Nabeshima Hizen-no-kami immediately dispatched a swift messenger to stay Kumeichi’s execution.

The swift messenger arrived at the execution grounds in time.

But Kumeichi’s reprieve proved futile.
For the reason was that he, on the way to the execution grounds, had already—without waiting for the sword—died of old age like a withered tree snapping, without even appearing to meet his end.

Now then—to conclude this tale—a word must be said about where Virūḍhaka, which he left behind, came to rest.

In the early days of Tenmei 4 (1784), the Virūḍhaka statue created by Kumeichi was sent forth from Saga Castle toward Edo under the guard of an armed escort. Contrary to what Tanomo had told Kumeichi, its destination would not be Chiyoda Castle but rather became designated as a gift for Tanuma Yamashiro-no-kami Okitomo—the era’s most influential powerholder.

This constituted a meticulously crafted bribe by the Nabeshima clan, who had fallen under Yamashiro-no-kami’s disfavor and sought to mend relations. Knowing Kumeichi would refuse if called a bribe outright, they had instructed Tanomo to imply their true intentions.

However, while they were processing the delivery of Virūḍhaka to Tanuma Yamashiro-no-kami’s residence, in March—on the very day of Edo Castle’s morning assembly—Yamashiro-no-kami reaped the reward of his misgovernance and was assassinated within the palace precincts.

As a result, Virūḍhaka remained in the secret vault of the Edo upper residence for some time, but was later moved to Edo Castle’s main keep at Shogun Ienari’s earnest request.
However, that too soon met its end during the accidental fire of Ansei 6—a blaze that presaged the shogunate’s collapse—when bathed in the crimson inferno of the main keep’s destruction, it finally lost its eternal form and returned to mere clay.