Pathway to Japanese Literature

Aftermath of Snow

The northern roof likely still retained snow; from beneath the eaves, the spacious interior remained dim enough to desire lamplight, while slightly stronger sunlight rebounded off the small sparrow-mouth window to the south.

As if rupturing the tedium of raindrops that had repeated their monotonous sound since yesterday, the thud of snow striking ground occasionally resonated through the seventeen men's guts.

Shioda Matanojō—who had borrowed the *Taiheiki* and begun perusing it that morning—invariably lifted his eyes from the volume each time, causing Chikamatsu Kanroku seated beside him,

“That’s snow.”
He whispered in a low voice.
“I wonder if it snowed in Akō this year too.”
When Tomimori Sukeemon murmured,

“Hey, Jūrōza.”

Ōishi Sazaemon, sitting three or four places away, leaned forward and looked toward Isogai Jūrōzaemon.

“The snow reminded me—over ten years ago now, at the horse grounds in our home province, you were quite the troublemaker when it came to snow.”

“Hmm.”

Jūrōza nodded with a dimpled smile.

“Even now among us, you’re the youngest—but back then in the page group too, you were still the smallest.”
“And since it was always Jūrōza who was the crybaby, snowballs would come flying aimed right at your face.”

“If we’re talking crybabies, there’s a senior here who’s even more tearful.”

“Who?”

Akahashi Genzō, who was cleaning his ears with a paper twist,

“Cut it out with that story!”

The friends, all seeming to know about it, snickered in unison.

Even amidst these occasional moments of amiable respite from their solemn tedium, the young men of this room would cast furtive glances toward the adjacent chamber—their laughter quick to subside as if restrained by propriety.

In the lower chamber were these nine men.

In the upper chamber were eight men.

They were divided into two groups.

In the group of the upper chamber, there were many elders including Ōishi Kuranosuke, and today many had borrowed stationery and inkstones to write letters.
The eldest, Horibe Yasubei; Yoshida Chūzaemon with his fearsome face; Maki Heihyōe, who remained silent; along with others like Hara Sōemon and Mase Kyūdayū—all sat with their knees squared, reading or engaged in similar pursuits.

Kuranosuke alone had his face tilted at an angle, his eyes—which usually held such deep calculation—now half-closed as if he had nothing left to think about, staring absently into space.
He was neither writing nor touching any books; his rather small, round-shouldered body sat with impeccable posture, as if he had finally placed himself exactly where he belonged.

December 16th—

People were writing on the envelopes of letters.

The night before the raid was already in the past.
Somehow, it felt like the distant past.

Last night, it had rained.

After offering Lord Kira’s head before their lord’s grave at Sengaku-ji, they had directly appealed to Matsudaira Hōki-no-kami’s residence and awaited judgment from the authorities.
As a result, when night fell it was decided to divide all forty-six men among four houses—Mizuno, Matsudaira, Mōri, and Hosokawa—and under guard by a force befitting a battlefield march through the rain, Kuranosuke and his seventeen men were delivered to this Nakayashiki residence in Shirogane already at the Hour of the Ox and Boar.

What surprised them was that after arriving there, amidst the commotion of removing the mud-stained garments from two days prior, Echizen-no-kami—a lord of 540,000 koku—had casually come himself into their midst,

(This must indeed be the fulfillment of their long-cherished desire.)

and offered words of commendation.

Next came the elaborate vigilance of an all-night watch.
When they made discreet inquiries this morning, they realized it was preparation for a night attack by Uesugi Danjōdaibu, whose house stood in such intimate relation to the Kira family that they were like lips and teeth.

Kuranosuke—
(The Uesugi have Chisaka.)

He smiled wryly, but in the lower chamber where the younger members were,

(No—it’s still unpredictable.)

And yet, the embers in his chest still had not been extinguished.
And yet—though they knew it was snow, each time the ground thudded heavily with a *thud, thud*, Shioda Matanojō and the others would immediately shift their gaze.

Wrinkles around the eyes.

The boundary with the front officials was congested.

Chief Retainer Miyake Tōbee intercepted Horiuchi Den’emon at the corner of the grand corridor—one of those chosen from among Hosokawa retainers to attend upon the seventeen warriors—and...

“What? Give those men a hibachi? … Preposterous!” he reprimanded.

“Not to mention a hibachi—they are prisoners under the shogunate’s custody. And engaging in idle chatter with those men is strictly prohibited.”

Den'emon held the position of captain but was far junior in rank to Tōbee. He was not quite elderly, but white hair showed at his temples, and within his kindly eye wrinkles lay eyes filled with warmth. Though by nature he was not one to defy his superiors, the vivid resentment burning on his face prompted Tōbee to press further.

“We have permitted only stationery and inkstones. Matters such as baths, grooming tools, medicine, and others have been itemized and await the shogunate’s response.”
“Under no circumstances may you take arbitrary measures—this is absolute.”

“I cannot accept this…”

Den’emon stammered.

“What do you mean you cannot accept?”

“Does the Chief Retainer truly consider those men mere prisoners?”

“They are criminals under custody—prisoners without a doubt.”

“Criminals.”

Den’emon, tears glistening in his eyes, wore an expression of profound indignation.

“Not just samurai—even townsfolk running kitchen errands and monks of the lowest rank! All of society acclaims those men as righteous warriors, the very blossom of bushido!”

“Silence!”
“A crime remains a crime.”

“Chief Retainer—”

“Silence! If one disrupts honorable law with private sentiments, not only the realm’s governance but even a single domain’s order would collapse.”

“Words lacking a warrior’s compassion—Den’emon cannot abide them!”

“You refuse compliance?”

“Yes.”

“You said you refuse compliance.”

“I said what I said,” Den’emon declared, tears glinting in his eyes. “I could not remain silent.”

“Now, Den’emon—Den’emon!” Miyake Tōbee rebuked, his voice sharpening like winter frost. “A man of your years shouldn’t be swayed by popular opinion.”

“That you would attribute such shallow motives to me cuts deeply.” Den’emon’s hands trembled at his sides. “Look at the state of the world today—where is bushido? Where is the loyalty between lord and vassal? Do they not call it wisdom now for samurai to chase ever-larger stipends, hoard gold, keep concubines, dabble in idle arts, and swathe themselves in brocaded silks?” His breath hitched. “And was this not precisely the path walked by Lord Kira and Lord Takuminokami? The Akō ronin did more than avenge their lord—they tore the scales from this rotten world’s eyes. That you would equate them with common prisoners…” He pressed a fist to his chest. “I grieve for the sentiment behind such words.”

“What a troublesome fever this is.”
“In any case, a hibachi is absolutely out of the question!” He turned toward the back, where several boxes were being brought in, and glared at the hesitant storeroom attendants.
“Put them back!”

he scolded them.

Unlike his usual self, Den'emon,

“No— It doesn’t matter.”
“If there’s any blame to bear, Den'emon will simply commit seppuku in apology.”
“Let them through!”

“It shall not be!”

“Chief Retainer—are you not yourself one of the reception officials?”

“Precisely because of that,” Miyake Tōbee retorted, “I am arranging matters to avoid any oversight! If settling this required only Den’emon’s seppuku, that would be one matter—but this concerns the entire clan!”

“If samurai withhold their tears from those men’s sentiments,” Horiuchi Den’emon countered fiercely, “then bushido will indeed crumble to dust! Den’emon stakes his life on fulfilling these custodial duties—even against you as Chief Retainer, I shall never submit to such heartless treatment!”

“What has Den’emon done here?” Miyake barked at the storeroom attendants. “Return all hibachi!”

“Disregard that order!” Den’emon roared back. “Carry them through!”

“Silence!”
“Obey your superior’s orders—”

The loud voices of the two men resounded all the way to the hall where the seventeen samurai were; the group, all straining their ears, bowed their heads with faces full of heartfelt gratitude toward Horiuchi Den'emon—a Hosokawa clan retainer they had recognized since the previous night.

Then, before long, Den'emon's face appeared there cheerfully, as though nothing had happened,

“One here, one over there,” he instructed the storeroom attendants to place the hibachi. It was a large bronze hibachi with a metal grate; over it, they had them drape a small quilt dyed in bengara red.

Feelings beyond words—and concern for the blame that might fall upon Den’emon—kept them all silently bowing their heads.

Last night, Tomimori Sukeemon—who had first struck up a rapport with him—had happened to mention that Lord Kuranosuke suffered particularly from the winter cold. Den’emon must have remembered this and made the thoughtful arrangement. This went beyond mere kindness—it was hospitality staked on his very life. The group’s hearts warmed not from the fire’s heat, but from Den’emon’s compassion.

“This should make the nights somewhat more bearable.”

Den’emon looked thoroughly satisfied.

“Especially for Ōishi-dono...”

He offered a gentle smile.

Kuranosuke, from afar,

“Den’u-dono.”

His profound gratitude was conveyed through that gaze and bow, imprinting itself upon the other’s heart.

“Your kind intentions—I have received them.”
“However, we who await the shogunate’s judgment… Such kindness exceeds our station.”
“As for the hibachi—I must ask that you remove it.”

“Ha ha ha.”
“You heard that, did you not?”

“This is not a situation where Sukeemon would speak of unnecessary trivialities like the cold.”

“Please do not trouble yourself. Just now I quarreled with my superior, but at that very moment came a directive from Lord Etchū-no-kami—tomorrow he wishes to offer purification meals to all of you.”
“His Lordship himself will visit Atago Shrine tomorrow to offer prayers... You grasp my meaning.”
“…The hibachi poses no problem.”
Tōbee made no further protest when he heard this.
“You needn’t trouble yourself any longer. Now—modest though it may be—please accept the Hosokawa family’s goodwill. Warm yourself... Relax and warm yourself.”

Purple

There were nineteen reception officials.
They created days off in rotation, and on those days, they would return home from dusk onward to rest.

Horiuchi Den'emon had a town residence.
He would always return by horse, accompanied by his young retainers from Takanawa to the town near the Hosokawa family's upper residence, thinking of his own bed at home while savoring the slow clatter of hooves.

At evening palanquin stands, ox-drivers’ quarters, taverns, and thoroughfares—wherever one lent an ear in Edo—the topic now was abuzz with praise for the Akō ronin.
When Den’emon heard such talk, he felt as though it were his own honor. Moreover, knowing that the ripples of their righteous deed permeated most strongly among the impoverished classes, he turned to his young retainers and—

“The world—the lower you go, the more reliable it becomes.”
“Even when you look at the Akō group—Lord Ōishi excepted—among senior retainers like Ōno, Okuno, and Sengoku, there’s not a single one with integrity.”
“Many of the righteous samurai are all lower-ranking retainers.”
“The saying goes, ‘Despise the meat-eaters,’ but bushido resides not in the upper echelons—it lies with those below.”
“The power to purify society and the strength to uphold the nation lie not with those in power but with the powerless lower strata—isn’t that a curious thing?”

he said from atop his horse.

The year-end pines and bamboos did not register in their eyes.
At crossroads and by bridges, whenever they saw crowds gathering,

“It must be a lampoon. Go and read it.”

and brought his horse to a halt.

Saosuke, the young retainer, ran off,

"I went to look."

"What did it say?"

"The Hosokawa and Mizuno currents run clear, yet…"

“Hmm.”

“—only Ōkai’s Oki lies muddied.”

“Ah, the townsfolk’s intuition is a fearsome thing.”
“Among the four houses entrusted with the righteous samurai, it is said that the Hosokawa and Mizuno families have treated them with compassion, while the Mōri and Matsudaira houses have shown coldness.”
“Indeed, that must be the satire in question.”
“Hahahaha! They’ve done it!”

Den’u repeated the self-satisfied nod he would make in moments of triumph,

“They’ve done it, they’ve done it!”

With that, he urged his horse toward Kanasugi Bridge.
When he stood on the bridge, the scent of the cold tide and plovers wafted up from the river mouth there.

“Hmm, today as well—”

There, he turned his gaze to the opposite left riverbank.

Blown by the wintry wind, the woman clasped her two long sleeves to her chest. She stood in the shadow of the shuttered rice distribution hut. Chillingly, the ends of her sleeves and the hem of her robe stirred. And as a hood, she wore cloth of Edo purple so vivid it seemed to leap into one’s eyes even from afar, draped loosely.

Her features bore a somber shadow. Young and radiant as dew-fresh blossoms, she stood frozen beneath a barren willow like a solitary mandarin duck, her gaze unwavering until Den’emon had crossed the bridge in full.

“Whose daughter is she?”

Den’u thought on the saddle pommel.

She was not a townswoman; her attire and demeanor were those of a samurai’s daughter.
However, it was strange for a daughter from a respectable family to be standing alone in such a place.

When he counted, Horiuchi Den’emon realized he had lost track of how many times he had seen that Edo purple hood.

Near the Shirogane Nakayashiki once or twice, around Fuda no Tsuji—and here at Kanasugi Bridge, already three or four times today alone.

At times she would startle, her eyes darting about as if on some urgent errand, yet she never made any move to approach—merely standing there, casting those perpetually damp-looking eyes into the distance.

“She may carry herself with refinement, but she could well be a prostitute.”

He also considered that possibility—the garish Genroku customs, gaudy women, and oily scum floating atop society’s surface—Den’emon had concluded they were all frivolous things veiling corruption.

“Welcome home.”

At the entrance, as always, his wife Isonae and daughter Orei knelt with their fingers pressed to the floor in greeting.
The sight of Orei’s smiling face and his chaste wife’s was enough to make him forget his fatigue.

Even at home, he was, of course, a good father and a good husband.
The meticulous furnishings and spotless cleanliness exuded an air of undisturbed tranquility.

But—with a flicker of displeasure—

“Is Shūzō out again?”

When he took his seat at the meal, he immediately inquired.

Isonae poured a cup of evening sake as she...

"He said he went out to buy books..."

"Books."
"—He's never read a book in his life."
"—Must be prowling Sakai-chō's theater district again."

"No—lately he's been following your teachings faithfully and training diligently at the dojo."

"What use is dojo attendance?"
"It's your naivety that blinds you to how youths behave."
"I've heard rumors he frequents brothels with his dojo comrades."

“He still finds Edo unfamiliar.”
“He might have been pressured by his friends and gone along just to see the sights.”

“That’s exactly why it’s no good—you keep making excuses for him.”

Den’emon was thoroughly disgusted.

He was a young man sent up to Edo this spring under the watchful eye of relatives back home. To secure a successor for the Horiuchi family and a young man worthy of becoming Orei’s husband, they had declared that none among those from Edo or retainers steeped in urban ways would suffice—thus selecting one from Kumamoto, their home province that prided itself on its robustness. They had taken him in under the agreement that they would let him study under their supervision for two or three years and decide if he proved suitable.

Toda Shūzō—as per the accompanying letter from relatives back home that had praised him as a top scholar—was indeed intelligent, and his character had won Isonae’s favor. Precisely because of that, Shūzō had quickly assimilated into Edo. Once word that he had visited a bathhouse for leisure reached Den’emon’s ears, all trust had been completely lost.

“Well, he’s useless too.”

He placed the cup upside down on the tray with a decisive clack.

“A weakling like him could find a hundred positions in Edo as some household’s second or third son.”
“No need to go out of—”

The fusuma slid open.

When his daughter Orei pulled the rice tub closer and sat down, Den’emon fell silent.

“Father, would you like more sake?”

“That’s plenty.”

“Would you care for rice?”

“Hmm... Hmm... I’ll have some.”

Watching her father silently chewing his rice, Orei endeavored to find a topic of conversation.

“Father.”

“What is it?”

“Today, the swordsmith in Tsukimachi has finished polishing only two of the ten swords you graciously handed over the other day—the Yasusada and the Mumei.”

“I see.”

“At that time, even the swordsmith seemed puzzled. Why are you having so many swords polished all at once?”

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

“But there’s no battle.”

“For a samurai, there is no distinction between ordinary days and days of battle.”

“And then, that swordsmith said something interesting.”

“What did he say?”

“The swordsmith said: ‘As for you, Master—having now been appointed to this attendant role for the Akō ronin—it is truly enviable...’”

“Hmm.”

Den’emon relaxed his stiffened expression and, for the first time, broke into his usual smile.

“Another bowl.”

and handed him a rice bowl,

“Hahaha. ‘Envious of my role,’ he says?”

“It’s not just the swordsmith—the fabric store manager, the ikebana teacher, even our regular greengrocer say they’d do anything for the righteous samurai. They’d even offer to take their place. They say they envy you, Master, for being able to serve them.”

“Sincerity moves people... I suppose.”

“On the other hand, I get asked such pesky questions that it’s quite troublesome—what Lord Ōishi Kuranosuke looks like, what Lord Horibe is like—”

“Hahaha. They want to see them, do they?”

“The most troublesome is when they ask me how the execution will be decided—as if I would know—and try to probe.”
“Just say you know nothing about anything.”
“But wherever you go, the townspeople fret over how they’ll be judged as if it were their own affair—sometimes, just hearing them talk of it brings tears to my eyes. … Truly, Father—how will their punishment be decided?”
“I know not.”
“Would it be exile, perhaps?”

“Well...”

“So… will it be the death penalty after all?”

“It’s still… undecided.”

“Even if it’s the death penalty—will it be beheading, seppuku, or crucifixion?”

“Don’t say it.”

Den’emon shook his head.

“The judgment lies within the Shogunate’s governance.”
“It rests within the prudent deliberations of His Excellency the Shogun and the Senior Councilors.”
“It is not for the likes of us to speak of.”

But with his mood completely improved, Den'emon eventually stretched out comfortably and settled into his restful bed.

As he began to fall asleep,

“Welcome back, Lord Shūzō.”

Then, from the direction of the entrance, the voices of Oiso and Orei rang out.

—Has he come back?

Den’emon thought so, but no footsteps that might signal someone entering Shūzō’s room reached his ears.

“Ah.”

"Ah," Den'emon had recalled.

As expected, after night had deepened, someone opened the back garden, and quietly, footsteps faded into the bedroom.
That was Shūzō.

“Tch...”

With that, he turned over.

Tasaku

Through the Hosokawa clan’s favorable treatment—as they came to learn of the world’s rumors, news from relatives, and even the subsequent attitude of the Uesugi clan—the seventeen ronin, having nothing to occupy them, grew closer by the day to the domain’s attendants.

Den’emon was on night duty.

From the direction of the hall came an overly cheerful burst of laughter. He took the sardines simmered in soy sauce—which he had discreetly procured from the kitchen that evening—sprinkled them with chili peppers, placed them in a lidded bowl, and ambled off toward the commotion.

“Oh, what a lively gathering this is.”

“Ah, Master Den’emon!”

“Master Den’emon—do come here.”

The young men in the lower room gathered around the bengara-dyed kotatsu quilt.
Den’emon narrowed his eyes as though surveying his own sons.

“You’re always so lively.—Did something amusing happen?”

“There’s one! Well, do sit down.”

The unconventional Kataoka Gengoemon said.

“—That Chikamatsu Kanroku was just boasting about his romantic affairs.”

“That’s a rare occurrence these days.”
“And what sort of amorous tales?”

“He claims that during his Edo posting, he visited Yoshiwara with retainers from other domains and became so thoroughly pampered by top-ranking courtesans that he couldn’t extricate himself—quite the predicament, he says.”

“Ha ha ha ha.
“This Master Kanroku, I tell you.”

And with that, he sat down beside Kanroku.
The kotatsu’s warmth radiated genial comfort, and Den’emon felt his own spirits growing youthful.

During the raid, Kanroku had encountered one of Kira’s fiercest retainers, tumbled into a garden pond, and injured his forearm—hence the white cloth sling supporting his left arm.

Scratching his head,

“Lies, lies!”

“Two words—they thought Master Den’emon was coming.”

“Ha ha ha ha!”
Laughing, one noticed the lidded bowl beside Den’emon and,

“What’s this?”

Den’emon removed the lid,

“I thought that on occasion, such tea accompaniments might be welcome.”

“Oh! Sardines!”

“What? Sardines?”

With that, the group craned their necks,

“Not just acceptable—this is a rare delicacy!”

“Please have one as a tidbit.”

Akahashi Genzō, under the pretext of testing for poison, picked one up,

“This is quite the treat. The chili peppers have quite a kick.—No, they’re a bit too strong,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Delicious—so aromatic!”

“These sly sardines—they even made Genzō shed tears!”

Unexpectedly, the reception was favorable, so Den’emon was pleased.
Then, from the direction of the upper room that had fallen silent, Yoshida Chūzaemon said:

“Master Den’emon. You do dote on the young ones to a fault. Why not grace us elders with your company for a spell?”

“Ah, forgive my discourtesy.”

Den’emon, taking this seriously, stood up holding the lidded dish of sardines, causing both rooms to collapse into laughter.

Had the noise roused him? Ōishi Kuranosuke, who had been resting his cheek on the same red-dyed kotatsu quilt, suddenly lifted his face.

Horibe Yasubei removed his glasses,

“I’d like to have some of that fine treat over here too.”

“Here now, please take.”

“Myself as well—when drinking sake.”

Onodera Jūnai solemnly produced a sheet of folded paper, carefully portioned out four or five sardines onto it, and wrapped them properly.

Mase Kyūdayū picked up some with his chopsticks onto his palm and tried them while munching vigorously.

“Indeed, this is excellent. It’s been an age since I’ve eaten proper side dishes like these.”

Of course, it had been uttered casually, but at Kyūdayū’s words, the group seemed to startle. A shared sentiment—that Kyūdayū’s remark must not carry even the faintest hint of ingratitude toward the Hosokawa clan, who had shown them, criminals condemned by national law to await death, treatment so lavish it bordered on inexpressible benevolence, nor toward their attendant retainers—involuntarily caused every brow in the room to twitch. However, Den’emon did not seem to possess such sensitivities; rather, with a pleased expression at having been told this,

“Hoh. So they were very much to your liking? As for myself, on my days off duty, I partake in a bit of evening drinking, so I believe I understand the palate of a seasoned drinker.—But sardines simmered with chili peppers are such a humble offering; I was concerned they might not be to your liking—”

Then Kuranosuke,

“Master Den’emon.”

As Ōishi Kuranosuke quietly pushed aside the kotatsu quilt and advanced his squarely angular knees forward, Den’emon—who had unwittingly relaxed upon coming here—abruptly straightened his posture.

“Hah? What is it?”

Den’emon gave an altered reply.

Ōishi Kuranosuke seemed to struggle for words,

“Truly, this is a most presumptuous request of me, but—”

“Yes.”

“Having grown accustomed through long years of ronin life to coarse garments and simple fare, we find the two soups and five dishes graciously provided morning and evening by your esteemed household too splendid—somewhat burdensome upon us.”
“Though it may seem an extravagant petition—as if lowly men have grown glutted with luxury—henceforth, I humbly entreat you to instruct the kitchen stewards to furnish us with one soup and one dish, or at most two dishes, such as clear broth or bran-miso pickles.”

Horibe Yasubei, Hara Sōemon, Onodera Jūnai, and others followed in his wake.

“Indeed, that is what we wish for.”

“To speak truthfully, I find myself somewhat overwhelmed by the daily feasts.”

Den’emon burst into laughter.

“Then that would be what they call killing with kindness.”

“Exactly, and besides reading, we hardly move our bodies at all.”

“However, as the two soups and five dishes are by the lord’s directive, I cannot reduce them on my own authority…”
“Moreover—not only the kitchen staff, but the cooks spare no effort in their craft, desperately striving to prepare delicious dish after delicious dish for everyone’s enjoyment, so—”

“Oh dear, this grows ever more trying.”

“It would be good if you could move your bodies a bit, but that alone is constrained by official policy.”
“You must be starved for fresh air as well, I imagine.”

The taciturn Okuda Magodayū spoke up for the first time from his corner.

“Every night, the soles of my feet grow parched—it’s unbearable.”
“We have no desires now.”
“I long to tread barefoot on earth.”

“You’re quite right.”
“The Hosokawa residence has spacious gardens and commands a view of Shinagawa Bay.”
“Due to fire safety regulations requiring all to gather in the courtyard during emergencies—if only there were a fire… I would gladly show you the gardens then.”

In a heartfelt tone, Den’emon spoke.
And then,

“Oh, the clock has struck.
You should retire for the night.”

He started to leave but turned back again,

“I nearly forgot to mention—starting tomorrow, carpenters will be working in the rear actors’ quarters, but as this is no untoward matter, please do not concern yourselves.”

With that explanation, he withdrew to the guardroom.

Several small folding screens were brought out.

Kuranosuke donned a brown crepe hood and lay down to sleep in the alcove of the upper room.
In the lower room, they fell asleep quickly and soon grew quiet, but in the upper room, the coughing showed no sign of abating.
Shioda Matanojō had a habit of grinding his teeth in his sleep and was often teased about it.

The eldest among them, Horibe Yasubei—now seventy-six years old—was one night,

“Hrah!
“Hrah!”

On two occasions, because he had let out battle cries in his sleep—as if cutting down foes—the young men in the room startled upright and burst into laughter in the dead of night.

Apart from going to the toilet, even though their bodies did nothing during the day, at night sleeping was still enjoyable.
In the first two or three days of being held in custody, everyone said the same thing—when they closed their eyes, white snow and swords flickered relentlessly before them. But then, they developed a habit of contemplating with grave intensity the death that would soon come.
The younger people thought about it all the more.
The old man, at the same time, would each night recall the events of his life up to his death as though flipping through a picture book, and fall asleep just as his coughing subsided.

But as time passed, there were no more problems left to consider.
Death had become as commonplace a notion as looking at white paper.

They all began retiring to bed earlier, and soon the soft breathing of seventeen men fell into rhythm.
And into each of those small folding screens, their children and friends, their mothers back home and brothers—all sharing the same plight across four daimyo households—transformed into dreams and quietly slipped inside.

Jūrōza

Dawn.

Ah... I'm still alive.

When they saw the sun, everyone shared the same thought.
No one spoke of the previous night's dreams.

It seemed something most delightful had occurred, for Den’emon came carrying something with a beaming face.

“Everyone, permission to smoke tobacco has been granted starting today!”

This was indeed gospel.

Most of those present were fond of tobacco, but Lord Etchū-no-kami detested it, making abstinence something of a clan custom—yet Den’emon had contrived to obtain the lord’s permission.

A guest tobacco set of splendid maki-e lacquerwork containing a celadon fire container.
He added a pipe and presented it to both upper and lower rooms,

"I cannot leave this prepared here permanently, but whenever desired, I shall bring it forth at once.
Now, smoke your fill."

“Ah…” they all murmured solemnly.

For some reason, they all solemnly bowed their heads.
The sensitive and earnest Okuda Magodayū blinked rapidly, while Elder Horibe turned away to blow his nose.

“Now, now, please go ahead.”

“We shall gratefully accept your kindness—let us start with Lord Ōishi,” urged Hara Sōemon.

For a while, slow purple smoke flowed from both the upper room and the lower room.

“Another year draws to a close, hmm.”

Hayami Tōzaemon spoke while watching the smoke drift.

“In that case…”

Den’emon started to say something but closed his mouth, then suddenly spoke at a sound from the back:

“The carpenters have entered; it must be disturbing you.”
“Instead, early in the new year, you will be able to move to the actors’ quarters over there.”
“It is dark here, but there you will see the garden and the sky…”

He started to say,

“Genzō-dono, what troubles you?”

Akahashi Genzō, who was frantically scratching his body,

“I’ve developed a rash, you see.”
“It’s unbearably itchy.”

“That must be difficult for you.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I shall inform the clan physician and bring an ointment for you.”

As he started to leave,

“Den’emon-dono, Den’emon-dono! While you’re at it, could you send a smoke over to Jūrōza as well?”

someone said.

“Jūrōza-dono as well?”

When he looked around, Isogai Jūrōzaemon—the youngest among them with refined features—had a slightly pale face and was pressing his abdomen with one hand.

“Are you unwell?”

“No, just slightly.”

Jūrōza shook his head.

Someone nearby spoke up:
“This is indelicate to mention, but Jūrōza has been suffering from loose bowels.”
“For two or three days he has endured it—we humbly request your remedy.”

“Why would you endure such discomfort?
“If you do not confide thusly in me, this Den’emon cannot properly relay your lordship’s intentions.”
“A failing in my duties.”
“I must insist you share your needs more freely.”

“I shall be more careful from now on.”

As if scolded, Jūrōza apologized with complete seriousness, making both those nearby and Den’emon laugh.
Jūrōza’s face flushed red, and he fidgeted like a boy.

Having cared for them morning and night, Den’emon no longer thought of these people as strangers.
Especially toward Isogai Jūrōzaemon—perhaps because he was the youngest—he felt an attachment as if the young man were his own child.
Suddenly, in his heart, he found himself comparing the face of his only daughter, Orei, with that of Jūrōza.

“Speaking of age, there’s hardly any difference between him and that Shūzō from Kumamoto,” he thought.

Moreover, having heard Jūrōza’s life story from Horibe the elder during one idle evening had also contributed. By all accounts, Jūrōza had begun his service at fourteen when Horibe the elder recommended him to become Lord Asano’s page. While the majority of the ronin—even those of lower rank—had received profound generational obligations to their lord’s house over two or three generations, Jūrōza’s own duties were exceedingly shallow. His position was such that even had he abstained from joining the revenge, none would have reproached him. Yet when he went to Edo, disguising himself as a townsman alongside Maebara Isuke and others, he fully accomplished the role of spy—considered the most crucial task—by infiltrating Kira’s household.

Among all their spy work, what they ultimately failed to ascertain was the location of Kira Kōzuke-no-suke’s bedroom.

How much the comrades had struggled to learn this before deciding on the raid surpassed imagination—and yet, in the end, they had pinpointed it and informed their allies,

“All right.”

It was said to be Jūrōza’s singular achievement that he had overseen these final preparations; that night, circling to the rear gate with Horibe Yasubei and charging in with his signature spear technique, then amid the raid’s chaos capturing one of Kira’s retainers and calmly ordering him to light a candle—all were recounted as quintessentially Jūrōza in character.

Furthermore, after taking Kira’s head and while bringing it back to Sengakuji Temple, when they reached Kanasugi Bridge, Kuranosuke beckoned Jūrōza,

“Go and see your mother for a moment.”

It was said that Kuranosuke had told him this, but Jūrōza shook his head and did not go—and these stories, though no one knew exactly when, had undoubtedly become the reason why Den’emon particularly favored him.
Kuranosuke knew that Sadayanagi—the mother who had doted on Jūrōza as if he were the apple of her eye—lived alone in a tenement behind Shōgen Bridge, a mere stone’s throw from Kanasugi Bridge.
On his days off, when passing through there on horseback, Den'emon would often—

"This must be the area."

It was a story he would recall.

Yet through daily observation while sharing these quarters, Den’emon found it strange—Jūrōza possessed such delicate beauty with his sloping shoulders, yet where in him lay that unyielding spirit? Even now, when someone mentioned his diarrhea, he flushed crimson and acted as bashful as a maiden.

A man that men would fall for.

Den’emon found himself staring fixedly.
He pictured Orei’s figure beside him—...

“Well then, I shall bring the court physician.”
“That would be quicker.”

A Youth

New Year arrived.

When the New Year period ended, the issue of "the disposition of the Akō ronin"—which had been brewing among senior councillors and society—suddenly came to the forefront.
The public were ablaze with debate over the issue.

The main point of the written opinion submitted to the senior councillors by the fourteen members of the judicial council was,

The argument for sparing the ronin.

That was their position.
The Akō ronin’s act served to exalt the virtues of lord and vassal; to give them death would be no different than dealing a death blow to morality itself.
Moreover, the Akō ronin’s actions had not violated a single provision of the legal codes—the protocols set forth in the Buke Shohatto.
Therefore, their act was not deemed a riotous act of a mob.

That sentiment was nearly identical to public opinion.
There were even rumors that the shogunate privately agreed in its heart of hearts.

However, hardline opposing arguments also emerged.

Many were scholars.

Among academic institutions, the highest authority, Ogū Sōemon, was the first to insist on the death penalty for the ronin.

The reason was the dignity of law.
They insisted that not a single hair’s breadth of it should be violated.

The shogunate was torn between the weight of righteousness and law.
The senior councillors’ opinions were split, and there was also the Uesugi faction watching with cold disdain.

But the public, united in opinion, believed the ronin would be spared.
In particular, within the Hosokawa clan—from the kitchen officials up to the lord himself—their hearts were filled with reluctance to kill.
The lord himself had even prayed to the gods, so passionately,

“They’ll survive,” “They must survive,”

they said to one another.

And so, in secret,

――In the event of a pardon.
――When sentenced to exile.

——When sentenced to death.

Anticipating three scenarios, they had made preparations to avoid confusion in an emergency.

Horiuchi Den'emon, particularly regarding the possibility of the seventeen samurai being permanently entrusted to the Hosokawa clan, naturally anticipated an official reinstatement edict; moreover, since the need for swords would inevitably arise alongside seasonal garments, he had long since sent ten treasured old and new swords to a swordsmith for maintenance and composed himself in solemn readiness so they might prove useful when the time came.

“The plum blossoms have bloomed.—I wish I could show this year’s flowers to them soon, bright and clear.”

It was already the end of January.

That day too, being off-duty, Horiuchi Den'emon was returning home.

When they reached Kanasugi, the retainers—

"Oh, my lord—again."

They approached the saddlebag and pulled their master’s hakama.
On Shōgen Bridge, a vivid deep purple and a white face came into clear view.

“Hmm, a madwoman, I suppose.”

“People around here are saying the same thing.”

“Young, isn’t she.”

“She’s a woman so beautiful it’s frightening.”

“How pitiable… She must be around the same age as Orei.”
“She must be just about the same age as Orei.”

“Speaking of the young lady—we have observed that she too has not been quite herself of late.”

“Does she appear thinner to your eyes as well?”

“Her complexion is a bit…”

“Hmm…”

When he returned home, Shūzō was also there today. Orei and her mother were both there to greet him.

He was in a good mood.

However, he did not say much to Shūzō and retired to his bedroom immediately after finishing his evening drink.

Though he thought he had slept quite a bit, the nearby drum’s beat still came too early for midnight.
Though he thought all household members should have gone to bed, there was a noise in the backyard.
A door... Footsteps...

“That’s Shūzō.”

Instinctively raising his head,

“Lately he’d grown quite skilled at slipping out once I’d settled down to sleep.
Alright—tonight—”

With his drawn sword, he opened the storm shutters.

From behind the main house, a swift human figure hid among the garden trees.
Den'emon jumped down and ran there barefoot.

“Who’s there?—A thief? Shūzō? Come out here!”

With a dragging sound, he grabbed the collar and dragged them out,

“Ah, please forgive me!”

“Shūzō! You…!”

……

“Coward, look up.”
“…What is this… What is this—the thing you dropped from your pocket and tried to hide?”
“Show me.”

“Ah, not this!”

Shūzō clutched his chest with both hands.
Without thinking, Horiuchi Den’emon flared up and kicked his shoulder.
Orei’s cherished handbox rolled away.
Silver flat hairpins and tortoiseshell combs scattered about.

“Ah… My daughter’s—”

A pallid fury flashed at his temples as Den’emon seized Shūzō’s collar once more.

“You despicable wretch! You stole this from my daughter’s room to fund your escapades. This is the act of a thief! You thief!”

“Father…!”

Suddenly, Orei came running to his feet and collapsed in tears.

“I was the one who gave it to Lord Shūzō. To Lord Shūzō.”

“Wh-what…? You—you gave it to Shūzō?”

“Yes, as Lord Shūzō said it was a matter of urgent need…”

“You imbecile!”

He bellowed from his very brow,
“Call your mother.—Oiso!”
“Yes…”

She came up behind them and stood there dejectedly.

“You—you’re just as much to blame! Listen well! This foolish daughter has been funding this prodigal son’s escapades!—And you! As a mother, why didn’t you notice such a thing? Utter negligence!”

“I deeply apologize.”
“It’s entirely my—”

“Half-hearted!”
“Do you think such an apology will suffice?”
“Your and Orei’s interrogation will come later.—First—Shūzō.”

Letting go of his grip,

“Shūzō, get out!”

……

With a sniffle, Orei began to cry, and prompted by this, Oiso and Shūzō too let their tears flow.

“To even look at you is defilement! If I boiled the grime beneath the Akō retainers’ fingernails and forced it down the throat of a weakling samurai like you, might you finally grow something resembling a human soul? You must have heard at least some of the rumors about those men circulating in society—yet you remain a hopeless fool. No—no more words. Return to Kumamoto at once.”

“I have no excuse.”
“It’s just that... I recently began drinking with comrades from our school.”

“Don’t make excuses.”
“When I say go, you go.—Oiso! Have him given a sedge hat, straw sandals, and travel funds.”

“You…”

“Hurry up and do it!”

“But if I may say… this seems excessive.”

“Tonight of all nights, I’ll have no covering up or excuses.”
“I’ve swallowed bitter patience until now.”
“If you don’t hand them over, I’ll personally strap that sedge hat and straw sandals to his back and hurl him out!”

With this final declaration, Den’emon washed his feet in the bathhouse and went straight to bed.

The next day, just before departing for duty,

“Has that wretch Shūzō left?”

“Yes…”
“Most pitiable… yet as you commanded…”

The mother and daughter answered dejectedly.

Atsumori

It was the evening of February 2nd.
When Den’emon momentarily appeared on business, from the upper room,

“Ah, perfect timing!”
“Den’emon-dono, over here.”

Unusually, it was Kuranosuke who called out.
And that, more cheerfully than ever before.

When he looked, sake had been laid out.

The sweet-toothed Akahashi Genzō, Yoshida Chūzaemon, Horibe the elder, Onodera, and those from Mase were drinking sweet mizore.
Even Okuda Magodayū, the Silent Recluse, was beaming brightly tonight.

“I hear you’re bestowing a cup upon us?”

When Den’emon sat down,

“In that case,”
“Jūrōzaemon, pass that cup to Den’emon-dono.”

“Yes.”

Having poured the sake cheerfully,

“That’s Lord Jūrōzaemon’s cup, is it?”

Den’emon drained it and returned it.

Jūrōzaemon waved his hand,

“I’ve had enough.”

“Isogai, you coward!”

From the lower room, Chikamatsu Kanroku shouted.

Den'emon reached out his hand,

“What manner of behavior is this? A poured cup—is there any law that says you can’t take it?”

“But tonight, I have already drunk my fill. Please, Den’emon-dono, have mercy.”

He fled to the corridor.

Kuranosuke laughed as he said,
“Ah, but Jūrōzaemon may look like such a delicate fellow, but he can drink quite heartily. Den’emon-dono, don’t let him get away!”

“Give it back, Atsumori!”

Den’emon, jesting all the while, finally caught him and made him drink from a large cup as a penalty.
Jūrōzaemon collapsed into a seat and,

“Killed in action!” he declared.

“It’s still a bit early,” retorted Hayami Tōzaemon as he rolled up his sleeve.
“Another round.”

“Please don’t torment me further,” pleaded Isogai. “I’ve… I’ve already surrendered completely—see? Atsumori offers his neck.”

“You’re no such weakling, Jūrōza,” Den’emon countered. “Very well—if you won’t drink, I’ll reveal that matter.”

Kanroku and Sezaemon chuckled in amusement,

“That’s right—if you don’t drink up now, we’ll let Den’emon-dono in on that matter.”

“What’s this? I want to hear that.”

“The tale of Jūrōza’s exploit—the incident where he scouted Lord Kira’s bedchamber.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“No—this tale connects to that one.”
“Horibe-dono hasn’t heard it from everyone yet.”
“Don’t you want to hear it, Den’emon-dono? Our Jūrōza here’s quite the ladies’ man.”

“No good!”
“I yield!”

Jūrōzaemon, flustered,

“At least spare me that!”
“I’ll drink… I’ll drink…”
“In exchange, Den’emon-dono, tomorrow I ask that you summon the court physician again—”

“No—rather than having you drink, I’ve come to want to hear that story.”
“What could it be—this matter connected to Lord Jūrōza’s tale of exploits?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know—’tis called the secret of Shingon, as they say.”

“Hahaha. Look—Jūrōza’s making that troubled face of his.”
“Look—Jūrōza’s making that troubled face.”

As if they had completely forgotten the boisterous evening before, on the third day that followed, they were all diligently writing letters to their hometowns and acquaintances.
Particularly, Kuranosuke, Onodera Jūnai, and others spent half a day writing lengthy texts in small characters, sucking on brushes, unable to even make requests for tobacco.

“Well now.”

Den'emon sensed a different demeanor in the people than usual.

And then, when night fell, a messenger came from the upper mansion.
A heavy night air filled the prison quarters.

The verdict concerning the ronin had been settled.
The shogunate’s confidential decision had been dispatched to the four houses that day.

Forty-six men—seppuku.

“So…it came to naught after all?”

Den’emon lost even the courage to rise from the prison quarters and the courage to speak.

At the same time,

“Ah, how noble.”

The thought pierced him from the gut’s depths—come to think of it, the New Year brimmed with ceremonial days. February first brought Nikkō’s Mirror Opening, another such occasion. Once that day passed, little time would remain—and there they stood before him, Kuranosuke and the rest who had shared farewell drinks last night and now readied themselves for death today, like a mountain range emerging through parted mist.

Echizen-no-kami’s message proved too frigid for words. Tomorrow morning, flowers would grace the tokonoma—blooms in a criminals’ room left no room for doubt.

"The day came to show them flowers…"

As he took out the vase, Den’emon contemplated the laws created by humankind.

Even after finishing his duties, he felt unable to bring himself to go, yet still concerned, he peeked into the ronin’s hall—where already half of those in both the upper and lower rooms had retired to their bedding, but Ōishi Seizaemon, Tomimori Sukeemon, Chikamatsu Kanroku, and others remained awake,

“Oh! If it isn’t Den’emon-dono who’s come before us.”
“Come in.”

“You all should be asleep by now.”

“Nay—there’s something we’d like to show you. To speak plainly, we too shall soon conclude our matters in this world.”
“To call it gratitude would ring belated now.”
“As our parting courtesy, let us present a full display of arts here.”

They brought out a small screen, behind which Sukeemon and Kanroku mimicked Ryūdatsu’s melodies in song.
Seizaemon then performed—with exaggerated solemnity—the Sakai-chō Kabuki dance.

From behind the folding screen, two pairs of buttocks protruded, and Seizaemon’s deadpan foot-stomping with his hairy shins exposed was comical.
Everyone laughed.
Den’emon’s sides ached from laughter.
He spilled tears even as he doubled over laughing.

Jūrōza was in bed, but lying prone, he raised his head,

“What troublesome grown-ups you all are.”
“Den’emon-dono, tomorrow you should give that lot a good moxibustion treatment.”

he said.

“I humbly comply.”
“But Lord Jūrōza—how fares your stomach?”

“Clear skies.”

“Hahaha, clear skies.”

“Tomorrow’s weather too—”

“Let us carry on—it’s a fair spring.”
“No—you must rest.”

“You must rest…”

“Den’emon-dono, you should rest.”

“You should rest…”

Every last one of them had gone to sleep.

Koto pick

The following day, the fourth, was his day off.
Den’emon had wanted to remain at the guardhouse even a moment longer, but with the appointed hour having come and his relief colleague now visible, he withdrew dejectedly from the middle residence.

Around the edges of his eyes, dusky flesh sagged.
Even on horseback, he did not speak a single word.

“Ah! Lord Shūzō is—”

The young retainer blurted out.

From the crossroads of Fuda no Tsuji, Shūzō’s shadow darted into an alleyway—a sight Den’emon pretended not to notice as he passed by. He should have long since left Edo, but there he was—without even wearing straw sandals, in his usual attire—apparently still taking shelter somewhere.

When I return, I’ll get to the bottom of this.
Oiso was no good.
He probably intended to stash him somewhere, make him apologize once more, and then let him back into the house.

Even that—he couldn’t think beyond it in his clouded mind. Only last night’s voice singing Ryūdatsu melodies, the hairy shins bared in dance. And the memory of laughing through spilled tears swirled chaotically in his head.

Then, it happened suddenly.
It was a woman who had come running.

With a scream-like voice, suddenly—

“My lord...”
“My lord…!”
“I beseech your mercy!”

Her words tangled—what she meant to say in that instant—and with the horse’s hooves thrown into disarray, he couldn’t make them out.
All Den’emon saw was the woman—her black hair desperately clinging to his stirrup, her pale face, and the deep Edo purple cloth that had seeped into his very vision—now unraveled and hanging from her shoulders to her chest in a ghastly display, striking him like a bolt.

“You lunatic!”

The young retainer shoved her aside from the flank.

With a wail, the moment she fell, the woman’s voice—a scream that seemed destined to linger in his ears for a lifetime—burst forth. Immediately, as people came running from the guardhouse near the bridge, Den’emon urged his horse forward, seizing the opportunity—then a voice like tearing silk was heard behind him. And then, someone circled around to the front and clamped down on Den’emon’s horse’s bit with a jerk.

“What are you doing?!”

“It’s me!”

When he looked, it was his colleague and fellow reception duty officer, Hayashi Hyakuroku.

“Lord Den’emon, turn back at once!”

“Ah! The imperial envoy?”

“They’ve finally come.”

“Ah... Today... Today.”

Den'emon swung the whip frantically.

Already, the room of the seventeen samurai was quiet.
They had finished their last meal, and each was now putting on the garments provided by Lord Echizen-no-kami—their own underrobes, light yellow unlined ceremonial vestments, tabi socks, and sashes.

Den'emon was pacing restlessly between the guardhouse, that place, the corridor, and the waiting room for the imperial envoy and inspector.

This won’t do! This is unsightly.

Restraining himself, he guzzled water in the guardhouse.

The day before, there had been a notice, but instead, the arrival of the imperial envoy came abruptly.
To be sure, their numbers were many.
Everything had to be concluded before twilight fell.

Lord Echizen-no-kami too had arrived in secret.
He was said to be waiting in the Daishoin.
The garden stood arrayed with white curtains and white screens—
Den’emon turned his eyes away.

When he looked into the hall—
A row of identical white and pale yellow death robes stood neatly arranged.
To his feverish gaze, those who maintained composure seemed almost miraculous.
Through their eyes alone, they bade farewell to Den'emon.
Den'emon's own eyes brimmed with something fragile—even this silent exchange felt perilous.

Then one of them—

“Lord Den’emon, today we’ve been treated especially well, yet still no tobacco appears.”

“Right away.”

The members of the Hosokawa household—all those who would not die—were agitated.
The young acolyte who had brought the tobacco tray ended up crying when Hara Sōemon patted his head.

Writing paper and inkstones were brought out.

Death poems.

There were those who wrote, and those who did not.

In the meantime, Den’emon was finally able to bid farewell to the people.
He recorded various messages.
He exchanged final words with Kuranosuke.

“Is there anything… for Lord Jūrōzaemon?”

Jūrōza shook his head with a smile.

At last, the time came.
Ōishi Kuranosuke’s name was called first.
As his figure vanished behind the white screens in the garden, a moment of silence fell—deeper than midnight. Then came an uncanny thud—and in that instant, a pallor swept across every face.

“Lord Kuranosuke, it is done.”
“Lord Yoshida Chūzaemon, please come forth.”

In the garden, an official called out.

Then, by the time Ōishi Seizaemon’s seppuku—the last in order—had concluded, it was already evening. In the garden, only the screens and curtains lingered in the fading light.

Den’emon could no longer tell whether he was a demon or a human.
They were attaching labels and numbering each of the people’s belongings and discarded items before piling them up in the corner of the empty room.

And there lay Jūrōza’s clothes—ones he remembered.
They were neatly folded.
The old obi, the old belongings—all were meticulously arranged.

He was so young…

He pressed his profile firmly against them.
He felt as if the young Jūrōza’s warmth still lingered.
Then, something fell from between them.

…?

He looked and saw that it was a small piece of deep purple crepe silk cloth.
Though resembling gauze, there were no hemstitches.
When he unwrapped what was inside, there lay—of all things—a single koto pick.

A koto pick?

Was this what that handsome, resolute samurai had kept until his dying hour? Den’emon felt an incongruity, but remembering him from that second night—

"So that’s it…"
"Lord Kira’s bedchamber—"

He had pieced it together.

Now he felt responsible for witnessing another’s separate end. But night had fallen, and as he guided his horse homeward through the late hours—wondering whether she still lingered there or not—Kanegasubashi Bridge lay shrouded in darkness.

When he knocked on the guardhouse and had them questioned, it turned out she had indeed been waiting for Den’emon.

But she was no longer among the living.

After that—taking advantage of the guards’ moment of inattention—she had immediately thrown herself into the river out front, they said.
And since she had been clutching some sort of letter and there was the incident from earlier in the day, they said they had covered the corpse with a straw mat and waited once more for Den’emon to pass by.

“Well then… I’ll see her.”

Bantaro lifted the straw mat.
A white face lay upturned, as if directing its usual gaze toward Den’emon on horseback.
And the purple crepe hood draped over her chest had a square piece—about five sun in size—cut from its corner, missing a portion roughly matching the small cloth in which Den’emon carried the koto pick within his pocket.

“Very well. I will take custody of this corpse.”

Den’emon placed only the letter she had reportedly been clutching into his sleeve and urged his horse homeward, the sound of hooves now somewhat lighter.

The young retainers and companions running alongside the horse could not comprehend their master’s feelings.
And looking up at his face, now somewhat cleared,

“Master, what exactly is that woman?”

“A servant.”

“I see.
“Where from?”

“Lord Kira’s—”

“With that,” he said immediately from below,

“Don’t tell anyone about this.”

Den’emon loosened the reins, arched his back, and looked up at the February stars.
Once more, he muttered to himself.

“Shūzō can stay as he is. I’ll grant Orei’s wish as well.”