Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter One

Three Men "I envy dogs." "Ah, why was I ever born human?"

Ironically, among humans, hearing such words was no longer rare in recent years.

When people could still laugh, it was bearable—but nowadays, even when such jests arose, there was no one left to laugh.

“After all, it had become such an absurd world.” “The Honorable Dogs might understand, but us humans couldn’t make heads or tails of it.” This was a phrase uniformly spoken by those called commoners, yet their minds were not united as their words pretended. Such was this era’s nature—three people meant three philosophies. Ten people meant ten distinct shades. People’s worldviews and ways of living diverged wildly—scattered and mismatched—while on the surface they strangely vied in gaudy fashions and frippery, weaving a society dyed in eerie hedonism and decadence that feigned universal contentment.

It was a summer night.

—The post-Obon period of Genroku 14.

Though this was no night for firefly hunting, three men walked through an area near Yodobashi aqueduct where no proper path existed—their dazed movements making them look as if bewitched by foxes.

“Hey, Ōkame! Wait! Wait up!”

“What’re you trying to do, Anōjū?” “That idiot Misohisa’s gone and fallen into the rice paddies.” “It’s pitch dark—even if I tried to pull him up, I can’t tell where he is.” “That guy’s always tripping over his own feet.” “I don’t give a damn about Misohisa, but that feast we made him carry better not have gotten scattered all over the paddies.” A different voice emerged from the darkness,

“Yeah, you say such awful things.” “You’re both so nimble, but…” “Take this load for a bit, will ya!”

With that, he seemed to be crawling up the rice paddy ridge. Ōkame and Anōjū laughed together—at the absurdity, at the gloom, for no reason at all—

“Now don’t say that—our destination Nakano’s just ahead. Endure it! Endure it!”

“But if I don’t wring out my kimono’s hem, my shins’re all clammy—can’t even walk proper.” “Anō. Crybaby’s sniveling again.” “Let’s take a smoke break here.”

On a low hill covered in a mixed grove, the men sat down.

All three were between twenty and just under thirty. Two bore the look of masterless samurai; one was a townsman. And only Misohisa carried a pungent bundle slung across his shoulders.

In the dead of night—though there was a main road—why did they deliberately traverse this darkness, burdened with such strange cargo? Where did they come from? Where were they headed? Would this too be called one of those ‘Collections of Incomprehensibilities’ spawned by the age—just another trio from the back alleys caught in its web?

Owl.

How was one to trust humans? How was one to make sense of the world? And how was one to live truthfully? Strictly speaking, it seemed none in Genroku’s generation truly understood. Those who had grasped this truth and cherished life stood as sparse as scattered stars.

Especially for the young, there existed neither direction nor hope beyond seizing momentary pleasures. For them—who knew nothing of the Kan'ei to Manji eras deemed more robust than their own—the absence of comparison with earlier times meant they could synchronize effortlessly with this dissolute age, free from lamentation or inner turmoil. Even when perusing printed materials like "Compendiums of Contemporary Incomprehensibilities" sold in town, those below a certain age no longer grasped the satire within those very compendiums of incomprehensibility.

“Look at that, Anōjū. Even from this far out in Gofugai, Sakai-chō’s night sky glows faintly red.”

“Truly, by now both theaters and male-attended teahouses must be awash in lantern light.” “Cut it out, Anō. Ah damn—nothing but insect sounds around here. The moment I remember her face, tonight’s task suddenly feels terrifying.” “Not very brotherly of you.” “...Hey, Misohisa.” “Exactly! If you’re the one showing weakness, then I—Kyūsuke—would only want to bid farewell right about now.” “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Anōjū acted tough when the moment demanded it.

Ōkame, with his pockmarked face, was the eldest in their group and had a sturdy build, but despite his smaller stature, Anōjū possessed the dignified bearing and agility befitting the son of a samurai.

“Tonight’s operation was my idea. Even if we make mistakes, I won’t let Ōkame or you bungle this and walk away unscathed. I’m here. Let’s move out.” Anōjū untied the cloth covering his cheeks, shook it out with a snap, rewrapped it around his face, and rose to his feet, letting the curve of his long sword catch the light as he stood.

In pitch-black darkness nowhere near the pleasure quarters, Ōkame watched from behind as Anō—true to form—strutted along with affected airs, then he too lumbered forward, sandwiching Misohisa between them. Descending the slope of terraced fields, crossing the valley, and climbing up the hill on the opposite side. And after proceeding half a ri along the narrow path through the mixed grove, the mournful distant howls of dogs began to reach their ears. Not just one or two. It was the voices of a pack of dogs—hundreds, thousands, impossible to tell. Their howls reverberated, and for an instant, the night was enveloped in a ferocity that seemed not of this world.

“Oh, that’s it—the Dog Kennels!” “Did they catch a whiff of unfamiliar humans? They’re already barking up a storm in protest. Watch yourselves!”

The distant howling soon ceased, and the three resumed groping their way forward. As they emerged from the edge of the grove, they came upon a high wooden fence. To the night-accustomed eye, only the endlessly long line of the fence could be seen, stitching ceaselessly through the darkness. The renowned Dog Kennels at Nakano Field—this must be them. “Shh!” “Let’s go back.” “If you go that way, the guard post’s light is shining.” “No, become dogs and go. Become dogs.” “Wh-what are we doing? ‘Become dogs,’ you say?” “Become dogs, you say?” “Like this. Like this…”

With that, Anōjū got down on all fours and demonstrated by going first through the edge of the barred gate.

Ōkame and Misohisa too followed suit, passed through, turned toward the guard post’s light, and laughed soundlessly together.

They set to work on their objective. The furoshiki they had Misohisa carry contained a large fish basket filled to the brim with fish-and-meat fried dumplings sure to stir the dogs' appetites. Using Misohisa as a stepping stool, Anōjū peered inside the wooden fence. The plan was to receive the fried dumplings from Ōkame’s hands and scatter them like pebbles across the inner square as they moved. “Anō-san, we’re all out.” “All gone? Good.”

With that, he jumped down from Misohisa’s back,

“Let’s wait for dawn... somewhere up in one of those trees nearby.”

With that, he surveyed the surrounding lofty trees. “This spot’ll do.” With that, Anōjū was already clambering toward the treetop of a tall red pine. Ōkame had also begun climbing a large neighboring tree when he suddenly noticed Misohisa’s restless pacing. “Hey, Kyū no Ji. You’d better head back now. Tomorrow before noon, Anō and I’ll go to the usual spot on empty stomachs—tell Osode to prepare some good grub for us.”

Smoothly, his figure had already become an owl in the tree. Misohisa, who had endured their company this far with every ounce of his patience, felt his spirits lift when Ōkame spoke those words, “Right, understood. Alright then—I’ll meet you at Osode’s place.” His figure, resembling a night bird, vanished in a flash toward Edo proper.

Though they say summer nights are short, for the two men perched in the trees imitating owls, the sky from then on felt excruciatingly long.

“Anō. “Feels cold, huh?” “Hmm. “Classy way to cool off.”

“Can you sleep?” “A little...” “I figured I’d fall if I slept.” “They say our human ancestors slept in trees before living in caves.” “No reason we can’t sleep now.” “That explains it.” “Nowadays Lord Dogs and their beastly kin get treated better than humans—makes perfect sense we’re sleeping in trees.” “Not a damn thing strange about it.” “Just back to ancient times.”

“Hahaha.” “Maybe so.”

Had there been any to hear this laughter echoing under the dark heavens, they would surely have been struck by its uncanny quality. However, this too was undoubtedly one form of karma that the world forced upon its people.

A Corrupt Age and Misgovernment

The so-called Genroku youths' appearance, when viewed through genre paintings, appears elegant and resplendent, but from a social-historical lens, it amounts to nothing more than the flashy affectations vied for by the delinquent youths of the age.

After all, there were so many delinquents nowadays. Or rather, the entire realm brimmed with corruption. The people of Edo knew the fact that even within the shogunate’s inner palace, there were many delinquent girls and delinquent old women.

The shogunate house of the time—the fifth Tokugawa Tsunayoshi. The common people had long since seen through this man's misdeeds. Now, Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu—said to be the most feared among the senior councillors, manipulating fellow councillors like Sakai, Abe, Ōkubo, and Tsuchiya at will—was himself considered a prime example of corruption, having risen unprecedentedly from the minor position of chamberlain. In any case, there was none among high or low who did not bear some degree of corruption, and should one walk the world with integrity—as people often said regarding that incident of Asano Takuminokami this past spring—they would meet his fate.

And now, the defining characteristic of society was that it had fallen into a state of paralysis—no matter what edicts were issued, people no longer reacted with shock to misgovernment.

An era in which lamentations could still be heard might yet be called a relatively healthy age. To hear such lamentations, the people of the age had already become too intoxicated by worldly hedonism and too accustomed to complacency.—Thus, only old-timers who remembered earlier eras like Kanei and Keian would occasionally mumble such things through their missing teeth.

“Back when there were still those who raised cross flags at Shimabara’s isolated fortress and faced the realm’s armies—when men like Yui Shōsetsu and Marubashi emerged, even if they didn’t succeed—those who dared show rebellious spirit against Tokugawa—that was an age when society still sought something, refusing to tolerate human decadence.” “In those days, we exerted a counteractive force against decay itself.” “But now in Genroku times, even when humans are ranked below dogs, not a soul raises so much as a straw mat banner.” “High and low, men and women alike cavort together, plunging this world into the realm of beasts for as long as their brief lives last.” “For corrupt rulers, this must be their golden age.”

Among all the misgovernment, no two edicts worsened society so rapidly and tormented the people of the age as the currency reform and the Edicts on Compassion for Living Things.

Even the formidable gold reserves in the shogunate's coffers had verged on depletion in recent years—victim to reckless fiscal management and the profligate spending of Shogun Tsunayoshi and his biological mother Keishō-in, whose expenditures flowed unchecked like water. Thus emerged a proposal: by prohibiting all currently circulating old gold and silver coins, recalling them from the populace, then issuing new currency—gold alloyed with silver, silver adulterated with tin—the shogunate could amass the realm’s wealth without expending a single coin. The man who devised this scheme and rose meteorically was Finance Magistrate Ogihara Omi no Kami Shigehide—and behind him stood Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu.

Needless to say, Yanagisawa, Ogihara, and their ilk used this period to enrich their own coffers, then employed the new currency’s might to further invigorate their cabal of misgovernment. The increase in debased currency caused prices to surge. The frantic surge in prices in turn compelled the reckless minting of currency. In response, the shogunate oppressed commoners’ livelihoods with one austerity edict after another and prohibition orders. Eating, sleeping, dwelling, dressing, observing, walking—to put it extremely, they promulgated edicts reaching even into the very bowl of rice one ate from.

Yet Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, the fifth shogun, gladly accepted invitations from his vassal Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu, visiting his residence countless times a year—and these banquets were such that even the glory of Fujiwara no Michinaga, who had once boasted "This world I deem my own," would pale in comparison. On that day, even resplendently attired feudal lords joined the retinue's procession, and the winding pleasure cavalcade blocked the bustling townspeople's passage. Yoshiyasu welcomed him with his entire clan, indulged in revelries, and within secret chambers behind screens perfumed with aloeswood—it is even said that he did not refuse to offer even his own wives and concubines, or the fairest maidens of his household, to attend upon Tsunayoshi.

Tsunayoshi’s “Yanagisawa processions” had surpassed fifty in number, yet Yoshiyasu still repeatedly extended invitations to the shogun’s birth mother Keishō-in as well. Yet for her, pilgrimages to Gokoku-ji appeared to hold far greater appeal than viewing Noh performances or partaking of fine wines and beauties at those gatherings. Nothing ensnared her like vanity, superstition, and this blind devotion to Tsunayoshi. In every aspect, she remained a being ruled by unchecked passions.

She blindly loved Tsunayoshi, blindly favored Yoshiyasu, and blindly believed in Ryūkō of Gohōin. The seven halls and pagodas of Gohōin were what she had donated by expending gold. During its construction, so strict was this project that numerous individuals—including the initial magistrate, master builder, and junior construction officials—were sentenced to distant exile on charges of negligence. At that time, when Yoshiyasu was still a chamberlain, his appointment as the next magistrate—and the favor he thereby gained—marked the beginning of his rise to prominence. From this alone, one can see how political influence through women’s audiences in the inner palace—conducted by him, Ryūkō, and Keishō-in—developed thereafter, and how their tripartite secret has been cherished.

Dark lords and tyrants were not uncommon in the world, but never before had any nation's history of misgovernment witnessed—the sudden issuance of such a bizarre decree as the Edicts on Compassion for Living Things. That too came to pass thereafter.

Era of Human Suffering “Edicts on Compassion for Living Things” This edict was issued in the first month of Jōkyō 4 (1687). Thereafter, this law remained in effect for a full twenty-three years until Tsunayoshi’s death, never once being repealed. It was an era of human suffering—when mankind was subjugated beneath beasts.

Now, Genroku 14th Year marked the tenth year since the edict’s issuance, yet people had still not grown fully accustomed to this law. Pelting cats with stones, dumping rats into rivers, secretly consuming snake charcoals, knocking down sparrow nests, illicitly selling grilled eel, refusing medicine to sick horses, resisting service as canine physicians—under countless such criminal charges, from the law’s enactment until this very day, not a single day passed without hundreds across the capital and provinces being sentenced to beheadings, distant exile, imprisonment, or severe banishment.

“So what happens if you smoke out mosquitoes or swat them?” “That’s a given. The one who smoked them out gets smoked out with pine needles. The one who swatted them gets a hundred lashes.”

“Then you can’t even crush fleas?”

“That’s right. If you carelessly keep fireflies or katydids as pets, they’ll throw you in perpetual imprisonment.” Edo’s commoners knew only the art of distracting themselves from the law’s oppression and their own afflictions through such jests and wordplay—they never thought to ask, “Why must humans…?” And so, while amusing themselves with small acts of rebellion through defamatory posters and caricatures, they never forgot to address dogs not simply as “dogs” but with the reverent title of “Lord Dog.” The shogunate too—for Lord Dog stood at the apex of all living creatures—had given dogs particular priority even among the prohibition clauses.

This was because Shogun Tsunayoshi was born in the Year of the Dog. Moreover, Tsunayoshi’s youthful name was Umanosuke, and Tenna 2—the year he emerged from the Lord of Tatebayashi to inherit the shogunate—was also a Year of the Dog.

Even such trivial coincidences became fortuitous events for Ryūkō of Gohōin to fully exploit. His scheme first made the superstitious Keishō-in believe it; she then persuaded the Shogun until finally being codified into law.

Dazai Shundai, a prominent figure of the time, wrote of these circumstances in his work *Sangō Gaiki* as follows: "The ruler lost his heir (the Shogun’s successor); thereafter, the women of the inner palace bore him no further children. Monk Ryūkō advised, saying: 'Those who lack human heirs—all suffer retribution for having killed many living beings in their past lives. If the ruler (the Shogun) truly desires an heir, why would he not prohibit the killing of living beings? Moreover, the ruler was born in the year Hinoe-Inu (Fire Dog). The Dog belongs to canines; it is most fitting to love dogs above all.' The ruler accepted this as truth. The Dowager Empress (Keishō-in) again held deep faith in Ryūkō; together they advocated this. The ruler gave his assent. Establishing the prohibition against taking life, on that very day, they promulgated the Dog Protection Edict throughout the capital and provinces."

The edict stunned the masses. No—it threw them into disarray. Moreover, it was thoroughly and strictly enforced, with not a shred of leniency shown. The first violation to be prosecuted occurred in early spring of that year, when subordinates of Mizuno Tōemon, Head of the Arquebus Unit, were charged with knocking down pigeons gathered at a gate using stones. Tōemon was dismissed from his post, and all his yoriki and dōshin were placed under house arrest. In the second month of the same year, Amano Gorōdayū, a steward of the shogunal kitchen, was sentenced to distant exile. This was because he had been charged over a cat that fell into the Honmaru’s kitchen well and died.

Also, around early summer. It was discovered that a low-ranking retainer from Akita Awa-no-kami's secondary residence had shot swallows with a blowgun—and since this violation had occurred on the shogunate's official mourning day, both husband and wife were sentenced to beheading. According to rumors later formalized in proceedings, this minor retainer had a beloved young daughter suffering from a grave illness. Having been told by others that swallow charcoal would cure her, he violated the prohibition out of paternal love—thus incurring this cruel punishment. All who heard of it cursed the evil law while being unable to restrain tears of sympathy.

These examples occurred within a mere four or five months after the edict’s issuance, and even in that single year alone, the number of offenders apprehended across Edo City and the provinces numbered in the thousands—it is impossible to know precisely how many.

"The 'Edicts on Compassion for Living Things' had effectively become the 'People Abuse Edict.'" The edicts grew increasingly intricate year by year, piling on nitpicky clauses. Falconers and constables of the Bird Watcher Unit all found themselves reassigned as Dog Magistrates or Dog Inspectors, while signboards for dog doctors multiplied abruptly across the city. A child who threw a stone would be dragged off to the neighborhood watch office, and their parent would face denunciation by Dog Inspectors—resulting in handcuffing and exile—minor incidents that occurred daily even within a single ward.

From those engaged in daily occupations using cattle and horses, a particularly large number of violators were apprehended. For reasons as trivial as whipping cattle or horses or abandoning sick ones, many were sentenced to death or exile. The shogunate’s intent all but declared: All people must serve not only the shogun’s house but even beasts. Should a beast fall ill or become injured—even if they had no food to feed their children or scarce clothing for their wives—they must pawn their belongings to summon dog doctors and administer medical treatment, lest they face charges under the law and severe punishment.

They wished they were dogs. They envied the dogs.

The suffering people proclaimed from the depths of their hearts. The children of those who had lost homes through death sentences, exile, severe banishments, and the like inevitably joined the vagrant masses. Moreover, even youths from respectable families swelled the numbers of those wishing to become dogs out of disgust for the world's absurdity and folly. These two forces combined with the era's decaying fashions to forge an image of pervasive societal corruption.

Late at night. Ōkame and Anōjū—who had snuck into Nakano Field’s dog kennels, scattered fried dumplings, and spent the night in a tree—were unmistakably children of this era themselves.

Pent-up bile. Dog kennels existed in Ōkubo, Yotsuya, and several other locations outside the city proper, but Nakano boasted the largest scale. Dogs gave birth and were prolific; moreover, with even the production of drum leather having been prohibited for over a dozen years by then, their breeding rate had reached tremendous proportions. As violations across society naturally continued rising in proportion, even the Shogunate and Dog Inspectors could no longer suppress their cries while striving to rigorously enforce the law.

Thus, for ownerless dogs in the city—(as only those currying favor with officials still indulged in keeping dogs)—the shogunate devised a plan to collect them into dog kennels immediately upon discovery and maintain them at government expense. They appointed former Falconer Unit member Ozeki Jinzaemon as overseer, established positions such as Dog Yoriki and Dog Dōshin, employed over one hundred Dog Associates under them, and newly constructed a massive kennel in Nakano where thousands of dogs were kept. Therefore, Finance Magistrate Ogihara Omi-no-kami ordered the daikan of the eight provinces to impose a dog stipend of one koku per hundred koku of assessed yield, while commanding Edo’s townspeople to provide five to six shō of unhulled rice per town block as requisition.

The daily provisions per dog consisted of three *gō* of white rice, fifty *me* of miso, and one *shō* of dried sardines—the specific items varied by day, but this was the general standard. Thus, even at Ōkubo Kennel—which was smaller in scale than Nakano—the consumption figures showed records of daily provisions for the dogs consisting of 330 koku of rice, ten barrels of miso, ten bales of dried sardines, and fifty-six bundles of firewood. As for Ōkubo’s total area—25,000 tsubo—Nakano was said to have spanned 160,000 tsubo. Given this, one should grasp the scale of canine consumption here.

Children without homes filled both city streets and mountain wilds, yet if even a single dog fell ill, they would make an elaborate affair of it. When looking at articles such as those in the *Jisei Fudoki* (Chronicles of the Age): ——If a dog fell ill during winter, they would thicken its night garments and bedding and summon a dog doctor. These dog doctors were official physicians who, like the Court Pharmacists, arrived in grand procession—carried on the shoulders of six men with attendants, sandal-bearers, and medicine chest carriers in tow. They examined its pulse, prescribed medicine, and departed. Two days later, inspectors from the Foot Soldier and Attendant divisions would conduct follow-up examinations. In such cases, townspeople faced financial burdens matching these protocols; yet harming a dog meant imprisonment extending to relatives and entire neighborhoods—victims reportedly numbering in the hundreds, though none could say exactly how many. Even if a barking dog made one’s hair stand on end while passing by, or if bitten, one dared not scold it—flight remained the only option. Convicts—fifty or thirty daily—met death by beheading. Bloodied heads were stuffed into straw bags, thirty loads hauled out and dumped into pits, or so it was said.

The litany of grievances against this misgovernment was endless—yet this was a case of humans tormenting humans. But mere vagrants like Ōkame Kamejirō and Anō Jūzō possessed no power to protest against those very humans. They had no spirit.

Let’s give those Dog Shogun bastards and their Dog Magistrates a taste of their own medicine—turn their precious kennels upside down and make ’em foam at the mouth! That was their objective tonight—the full extent of their righteous indignation. This was Anōjū—Anō Jūzō’s suggestion. His father, Anō Seizan, had been a Confucian scholar of the Zhu Xi school. One day, on the stone steps of the temple, he kicked away a red dog that suddenly lunged at him with a bark—whether intentionally or reflexively—and upon returning home, before the constables could arrive to arrest him, he committed seppuku. His son Jūzō had been captured while away from home and sentenced to exile, but mid-journey under cover of night, he leapt from the deportation ship into the sea. Since slipping back to Edo, he had been cultivating a self-destructive, feral vitality as a man with nothing left to lose.

As for Ōkame—Ōoka Kamejirō—his background differed somewhat, but his current circumstances and state of mind were exactly the same; in any case, whether he acted or not, once in the hands of the constables, he was destined for severe punishment.

(Amusing. I'll act clueless and watch the chaos unfold.) With that, their scheme was sealed. Misohisa's parents had been miso wholesalers in Fukagawa until their estate was confiscated for hoarding old currency coins, plunging him into vagrancy. Judging him trustworthy, they'd forced him to carry poisoned dumplings and painstakingly led him through hidden paths to execute their plan. ...Chirp. Chirp. Chirp— "Hey. Ōkame! Ōkame!"

“What is it, Anō?”

“Look there,” Anōjū urged. “The eastern sky’s starting to brighten!” “Dawn already?” Ōkame mumbled drowsily. “Must’ve dozed off.” “What nerve... Hey!” Anōjū’s voice sharpened. “They’re out—the dogs are coming out!”

“Huh? What is?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? The dog horde!” “Oh….” “Heh. Coming coming.”

From their perch in the trees, the two peered intently into the enclosure spread out below them.

Across the 160,000-tsubo field, even the numerous dog kennels appeared as nothing more than small boats dotting a sea of morning mist. Then, Dog Officials in knee-high hakama and Dog Associates emerged from the government quarters and threw open kennels across the grounds. The astonishing pack of dogs burst forth for their morning exercise like a broken dam, then scattered across the misty dawn fields—sniffing at the earth as they frolicked wildly.

“Ah! They’re eating them!” “Ōkame! Look! Look!” “Shut it!” “Ah.” “You’re right.” “They’re eating them.” “They’re eating them.” “Anō, keep your voice down! If you keep stretching up like that, your pine tree’ll sway—they’ll spot you from a mile off!” The fried dumplings they’d scattered during the night now drew competing snouts from every direction, the air splitting with snarling barks as dogs fought ravenously over them. Then—Yelp! With an unnatural shriek, two or three dogs spun madly before bolting like loosed arrows in random directions, only to collapse one after another with heavy thuds.

“There! There?” The Dog Inspectors also began screaming something. “Anō! —Run!” “What the—damn it! His chest tightened. “Ōkame! We gotta get out of here!”

The two slid down like monkeys. There was no time left to exchange even a word. They had no idea where or how they had run.

Ōkame had made it out to Nerima. At a spot along Itabashi Highway heading toward the Hongō Moriguchi entrance, Anō—for the first time— He looked around—but whether they had become separated somewhere along the way, the man was nowhere to be seen ahead or behind.

A Mother Too Young

Due to the long-standing prohibition on killing, businesses along the riverbank were ruined. The prohibitions on fish and birds were not as severe as those for dogs, but even river fish—particularly the tasty varieties—were generally included among the banned items. Fishermen, fishing gear shops, fishing boat rentals—none of these could sustain their businesses.

But where there’s shadow, there’s deeper shadow—apparently there were black-market boatmen and fishermen too. They slipped into mansion districts as well, and though every restaurant claimed to serve vegetarian fare, not one lacked fresh fish like sea bass, bream, or flounder. Thus along Kyōbashi-jiri’s riverbank—once fallen to utter desolation—houses with faint lights had begun multiplying at dusk along the hidden waterfront. “Kyūsuke-san, you’re always lying, aren’t you? Those two haven’t shown hide nor hair of themselves—have they?”

Osode was lighting the paper lantern when she suddenly noticed the tray left there since morning, still covered with fly repellent, and clicked her tongue at Misohisa.

Misohisa kept playing with Osode’s three-year-old daughter Otsubame on the drying platform while enduring the river wind’s buffeting. "What could’ve happened to them?" "It’s nearly sunset already."

Imagining what had happened to Ōkame and Anō since parting last night, Misohisa suddenly raised his anxious eyes to the evening clouds. “Come on, Otsubame-chan, let’s take your bath now.” “You’re such a good girl… There…” “There…” “Let’s put on some face powder and get you all nice and clean and prettied up.”

Osode came to pick up the child. And under the kitchen eaves, to the tub surrounded by storm shutters laid sideways, she too undid her obi and concealed her white skin.

In the deepening dusk, intermingled with the sound of bathwater, “Oh, you’ve become so lovely. “Though you’ve grown into such a fine child, why won’t your Father come see this adorable face? You must want to meet your Papa too, don’t you?” Perhaps believing no one could hear, the young mother poured out her heart as if playing make-believe, addressing this innocent, godlike little being before her.

Misohisa, who had been leaning against the drying rack as dusk deepened, caught fragments of her words and felt their sting— "...Can't blame 'er." "Yeah... figures." He muttered the words under his breath.

“Seventeen when she had that child—now the kid’s three—and Osode-san’s still nineteen. So pitiful… Way too young to be a mother.” Slapping the mosquito on his knee with a smack, he thought again of those blasted edicts. If those two from last night had messed up and gotten caught—the thought made him unable to stay put. “Oh, Kyūsuke-san, where are you off to?” “Figured I’d go check things out.”

“The bath’s free now. Don’t you want a quick rinse?” “This ain’t the time for that!” Because Kyūsuke had left, she applied her evening makeup and patted face powder onto Otsubame’s forehead.

At that moment, there came the tap-tap sound of a cane at the entrance. “Oh! Papa, welcome home!”

“I’m back. It was hot today too, wasn’t it?”

Umega the masseur removed his hood and handed it to Osode. He probably hadn’t yet reached sixty, but for his age, he possessed a robust frame. Without showing any fatigue from returning from his rounds, he immediately immersed himself in the wash basin and muttered to himself, Ah, paradise...

“Osode-san—hold on, let me tell you again.”

In a hushed yet hurried voice, Misohisa—who had returned from outside—crouched in the shadows of the dirt-floored entryway and beckoned. “What is it? You’ve gone pale.” “Since I was feeling uneasy for some reason, I went out to check around the area—and wasn’t the whole town in an uproar!” “What is it? Calm down and tell me properly.” “That’s why… this morning, this humble one secretly told only you, Osode-san—didn’t I?”

he said, glancing around restlessly at the rear door— “The dog kennel incident.” “Ah. Is it about those two?” “Seems they did it... All over town now—rumors and defamatory posters everywhere—it’s the most satisfying thing to happen in ages. Whether it was townsfolk or hatamoto who pulled it off... Nah, those blowhards who’re always puffing themselves up couldn’t pull off something that clever—this has to be demons’ work! The whole town’s venting their pent-up frustrations and buzzing with excitement over it.”

“That’s right,” Osode grinned. “So, is this commotion like when Lord Asano slew Kira Kōzuke-no-suke in the shogun’s court this spring?” “Of course not—it’s not nearly that significant, though.” “However, deep down—compared to that time—tonight must have everyone feeling their chests lighten. But for the Dog Shogun of the Dog Year and Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu of the Dog Year, it must’ve been like a slap in the face—who knows how furious they might be.” “Perhaps because of that, at every guardhouse in town, dog inspectors and town magistrates have mobilized their forces to watch the streets—and they’re saying every river mouth along any waterway has halted boat traffic until dawn.”

“―This humble one will also slip into Sakai-chō’s entertainment district while there’s still daylight and hide among the theater people. If those two come here, make sure you tell them that.”

“Ahh, fine… But with such a massive manhunt in motion, those two probably won’t come near this place for a while.” “Be sure to whisper it to Umega-san too.” “Well then—I’ll come back later.”

He had dashed out once, but Misohisa came hurrying back again,

“Osode-san! Osode-san!” “Apparently, town inspectors and their underlings are combing through every house along the riverbanks tonight.” “You’ve gotta be careful!”

Mindful of his rapid speech, he vanished without trace into the gathering dusk.

Ichijūrō's Love Umega the masseur wiped his body after rising from the bath and assumed the appearance of wearing a yukata and holding a dark fan.

“Osode, looks like Anō and Ōkame’ve finally gone and done something stupid.”

“Were you listening to that just now?”

“Oh, I’d already heard the rumors while treating at a client’s teahouse.” “If they’re caught, it’ll be crucifixion, won’t it?” “Might end up boiled in oil. “Not worth a penny’s trouble.” “Reckless fools.—Osode, serve dinner.” Holding a rice bowl, Umega glanced at Otsubame’s innocent sleeping face where she dozed. “The bastard who fathered this brat’s another of those unfathomable men. “Kids these days—so besotted with Lord Dog they think nothing of knocking up girls and walking away.”

“Oh… You don’t have to say such awful things.” “Heh heh heh… Osode. Even after being shown such coldness, you still mean to wait for Ichijūrō?”

"But there's nothing to be done about it," Osode said. "He's a live-in retainer in that strict mansion's household." "Don't make me laugh," Umega retorted. "Ichijūrō's an adopted son. And he's got a fiancée from an established family."

"But between him and me lies the bond of a shared child. He swore sacred vows to me. Five years... ten years if need be..." "You mean to wait? What an admirable paragon of virtue!" "Ōkame-san is his cousin—he’s promised to bring him here soon. To let us meet." "That’s no promise to trust. True enough, Ōkame and Ichijūrō may share blood, but he’s a shadow-dweller who can’t even proclaim ‘I was once Ōoka Kamejirō’ in daylight streets, let alone claim kin... Though I suppose you and I both dwell in those same shadows."

The sound of tears falling onto the tatami suddenly struck his ears, prompting Umega to set down both his chopsticks and broth. Even the neighbors believed Umega was blind—but from how he handled his chopsticks and the gaze with which he had just looked upon Otsubame’s sleeping face, it seemed he could see at least a little. There was an artificiality in the way the two spoke that felt unlike that of true parent and child. The neighbors had their suspicions about this, but knowing only that she was an adopted daughter, none were aware of the deeper circumstances.

Osode’s true father had been a retainer of Akita Awa-no-kami, a low-ranking samurai with a mere fifty-koku stipend. When Osode was just five years old and contracted a grave illness that doctors had abandoned all hope of curing, her parents—having been told that swallows held miraculous curative properties for the disease—were discovered using blow darts to shoot down swallows. Unfortunately, this coincided with the shogunate’s memorial day observance, resulting in both husband and wife meeting the grim fate of beheading. All her relatives connected by blood were each accused of crimes—some perished, others scattered to their ends—but Osode’s illness was instead cured through others’ care. In exchange, her body came to taste the bitterness of life’s path through constant upheaval, sold off as a tea-serving girl at a roadside teahouse from an early age.

Seventeen.

She came to know love.

Around that time—to one of the young samurai sons who frequented the waterside teahouse— She had committed to memory the name Ōoka Ichijūrō—he of the Akasaka estate—from their very first encounter.

The one who had brought Ichijūrō was his cousin Ōoka Kamejirō, and Kamejirō was not only two or three years his senior but also more experienced in debauchery. (I’ll set them up.) And so, that night, Kamejirō finally borrowed Umega the masseur’s house, left the young man and woman in a lightless room, and returned home. Umega was a man who, while ostensibly practicing massage therapy, was in truth a cunning villain who exploited society’s trust to find vulnerabilities everywhere—having his criminal associates extort them and skimming profits from thieves’ loot.

But with the cunning of an old villain, he would indulge in his desired luxuries several times a year by claiming he was traveling to the capital for kengyō exams during Ise pilgrimages, squandering money in Kamigata, while in Edo, he maintained the facade of his massage therapy livelihood, never revealing his tail.

However, that house became a den for him and his bad companions, where young delinquents would often gather, treating him as their leader.

Kamejirō had long been part of this group, wearing down his young life with women, sake, gambling, and criminal mischief.

His cousin Ichijūrō had been carelessly dragged into it too. By the time he realized it, it was already too late. He had become entangled with Osode, and as an adopted son, this posed a terrifying vulnerability toward his adoptive family. Regret tormented his conscience, yet his trysts with Osode—so steeped in sin they verged on theft, so agonizing they bordered on suffering—only grew deeper in sweetness and delight.

Ichijūrō, too, learned lies, wrenched out wicked wisdom, paralyzed his education, and rapidly plunged into all manner of dissipation. In matters of vice, he left even his senior Kamejirō speechless—so much so that it seemed he might plummet straight to the depths of depravity through his affair with Osode alone.

A shower of insect cries

However, whether fortunately or unfortunately, the year after Ōoka Ichijūrō became acquainted with Osode, a calamity befell the household of his clansman Kamejirō. No—it was an incident where calamity befell all eleven families sharing the Ōoka surname.

It was that Kamejirō’s father, Ōoka Gorōzaemon Tadafusa, had struck down the chief retainer Takatsuki Iyo-no-kami at his own residence due to a political dispute. Gorōzaemon was then and there cut down by Iyo-no-kami’s retainers, but due to his misconduct, the family name was ordered extinguished.

The other ten related Ōoka families all fell victim to the misfortune of house confinement and seclusion.

Ichijūrō’s adoptive household—Ōoka Tadaemon’s family—was not spared either. The entire family was collectively placed under strict house confinement. No love could breach the watchful eyes of strict surveillance or these iron gates. During this period—one year and four months of house confinement—Ichijūrō regained himself. His disposition possessed an aspect that turned to reflection. During his days of seclusion, immersed in reading and plunged into Zen practice, as he battered his young spirit awake, he wept alone without end.

However, Kamejirō—the only son of Gorōzaemon Tadafusa, who had met a violent end—had been granted no such chance at redemption. His flesh and blood had been condemned to double exile, scattering to clutch at servants' country hovels or pin their hopes on distant relatives with threadbare connections—yet Kamejirō had slipped back to Edo almost at once. With his appearance transformed root and branch.

His pockmarks were artificial ones he had created himself using moxibustion and medicine.

“Lord Ichijūrō,” “Might I prepare you a cup of pale tea?” Onui, born to the household, was a maiden whose countenance could not be called beautiful, yet she shone with brightness and purity—a young woman of cultivated refinement. The two naturally knew they were betrothed. Onui was twenty years old. Ichijūrō had already reached twenty-six. “Tea?” “No—let it be.” Ichijūrō lifted his eyes briefly from his book but kept his body angled toward the desk; to Onui’s gaze, he seemed a man willing her departure this instant.

However, having lived in the same household as Ichijūrō since he was ten years old, she lacked both the disposition and the sensitive awareness to perceive the subtle nuances of interaction that exist between lovers.

“You must be exhausted, reading so many books like that.” “That’s quite all right. Please leave me be.”

Autumn evenings were for finding solace in books by lamplight. "I don't notice night deepening." "Father and Mother both say Ichijūrō has changed completely. They whisper worries about your house confinement... fearing something amiss." "If I go out now they fuss." "Truly. But three years past - no matter how considered - went beyond measure. Night after night you roved carousing." "......"

Despite his annoyed expression, Onui continued talking to him on her own. "There was even that time once—near dawn—when you climbed over the wall to come back home, wasn’t there?" "Lady Onui. Please go to bed." "Still reading, I see—the door—"

"I'll close it myself." "Then I shall take my leave to retire first." She now even appeared somewhat like his wife. Ichijūrō felt no interest. He didn’t dislike her, but neither did he like her.

Reading. He still found that unless he constantly immersed himself in it even now, his heart would remain perilously unsteady somewhere.

He thought that the house confinement three years ago had truly saved his precarious youth from a perilous crossroads one step before it.

Let me humbly inquire of the ancients' texts. Let me become a child and be taught by adults' experiences. Ultimately, it was a matter of life itself. How ought one accept the meaning of being born human? This world of men. Should it be seen as fascinating? Should it be seen as sorrowful? Or should it be seen as ephemeral foam?

"...Hm?"

He suddenly fixed his gaze on the autumn grasses in the garden. Abruptly, the chorus of insects fell silent all at once.

“Hey. “…Ichinoji.” “Do you remember?” “me?”

Parting the bush clover thicket near the wicker fence, the figure of a man with cloth covering his face suddenly stood half-crouched, exposing his face to the light of this study. “Wh-who are you?...”

He held his breath and stared intently, but couldn’t recognize him. “Wouldn’t figure it out.” “No way you’d recognize me, O-Ichi.” “Four years since.” “Ah... this room brings it all back.”

Like a toad, he lumbered closer, settled onto the stepping stone, removed the cloth covering his head, leaned his elbows on the veranda edge, and let out a rasping laugh. Though his face was pockmarked, that laugh—its very cadence—jerked Ichijūrō’s recent memories sharply awake.

The Bonds of Comradeship

There is nothing as fateful as the bonds between bad companions.

Even if one could sever the bonds of brotherhood or lord and vassal, the path to extricate oneself from bad company and return to righteousness remained arduous.

In the mentality of their comradeship,

(What—trying to become proper? No matter who you are—there's no fool alive who hasn't considered it. But even now, thinking you can turn respectable all on your own—that won't work. How presumptuous!)

This was undoubtedly their mindset.

That night—

In the figure of his cousin Kamejirō—who had crept into the study where Ichijūrō had spent this autumn immersed in books under lamplight, quietly cleansing past wrongs from his heart, and who now approached whispering with a fierce gaze while wary of the surrounding silence—there too dwelled such a mindset.

“Hmph. Studying, eh, O-Ichi?” “…Yeah, hey.” “Awfully scholarly, aren’t you? What’re you reading there?”

Then, Kamejirō stretched up from the edge of the veranda and peered over the desk Ichijūrō was leaning against,

“What’s this—the Analects? It’s not like it’s the Analects anymore—what do you think you’re doing, reciting that ‘The Master said’ drivel? Confucius himself—that bastard’s nothing but a big liar and swindler who preys on honest folks. The greatest proof of all—look at the world around you! Where’s this ‘Way’ Confucius preached about, huh?”

As if encountering someone he detested daily and suddenly spitting in their face, he began to berate. “Confucius, Shakyamuni, Hōnen—every last one of them’s just a peddler of sanctimonious lies!” “How many fools swallowed those hucksters’ sermons whole—never doing what they wanted, living cramped lives, throwing their years away—I know that all too well.” “The first was my old man—Ōoka Gorōzaemon.” “Going on about establishing just governance or not, he cut down Takatsuka Iyonokami, got himself killed, had our house abolished, then went and died leaving even a son like me with this life in the shadows.” “The Ōoka clan’s crawling with samurai who’re honest to the point of stupidity—starting with your old man here—your adoptive father Tadayūemon, for instance—”

“Kameji. “…Sh-shush… quiet down… please.” Unable to bear it any longer, Ichijūrō waved an imploring hand while directing his eyes toward the inner rooms.

Ōkame (Kamejirō) hunched his neck and flicked out the tip of his tongue, "Is he still awake?" "...And the inner rooms?" "He's asleep, but if my adoptive father were to wake and come here... neither of us will escape unscathed." "Ah, I'm fine. Don't fret 'bout it." Ōkame said pointedly, "—But you're adopted. "Can't blame you for being cautious." "Let's keep quiet."

“Kameji. Just what have you been doing since then?” “I’ll save the long story for later. Anyway, Ichinoji. Hide me—starting tonight.” “Huh? Here? You mean here?”

“Just a short while. Once twenty days pass, I’m certain the manhunt’ll ease up. Let’s make do with some cramped hideout around here... Take care of me for a while, will ya?”

He shuffled up into the room. And opening the corner cupboard in the study, he burrowed into it from the rear as if it were already his home.

Without meeting in this world,

The Ōoka family crest was a ring of rice ears. The family founder had been a devotee of Inari, and it was said to derive from that affiliation. Perhaps because of this connection, Toyokawa Inari had been enshrined within the grounds of the Akasaka estate since ancient times. When autumn deepened and the trees shed their leaves, the small shrine became visible through the sparse growth on a low wooded hill. From the hill's western slope ran a single narrow path. This pilgrimage route had been worn flat over time by townspeople devotees who heard of the shrine, and the estate left even the broken boundary fence to decay naturally rather than repairing it.

“...Well.

“You look so comfortable, falling asleep like that.”

Back-to-back with the Inari shrine, bathed in dappled sunlight upon scattered leaves, there was a young mother peering down at her child who had fallen asleep at her breast.

When she gently tried to pry the nipple away, the nursing child’s instincts made it clamp down harder still—painfully—producing a wet sucking noise. “...No, no. Not like that...”

The too-young mother writhed. The peculiar throbbing coursing through her body left her dazed, while sensual torment and smoldering resentment toward the man’s fickle heart coalesced into a single flame within her eyes. And she stared fixedly at the great roof of the Ōoka house below.

“Osode-san… Did you wait long?” Suddenly, Misohisa came climbing up there. Today, he had disguised himself as a bookseller’s clerk. He lowered a book parcel marked “Tsuya-ya” from his back and sat down beside Osode. “I thought some stinking guy was tailing me from Mitsuke checkpoint, so I took a detour. That’s why I’m late.” “Whew! Being a go-between for secret meetings ain’t easy work.” “I waited so long I was just thinking maybe I should go home.”

“Lies! You’re lying through your teeth, Osode-san. Before you’ve even met with Ichinoji—you think you’d just slink home even if I told you to?” “If you truly understand my feelings that well, then hurry over there and summon Lord Ichijūrō for me this instant!” “Now now—no call to get all worked up...”

And Kyūsuke, puffing out a ring of tobacco smoke while glancing sideways at the distant great roof, “Even if you tell me to fetch Ichinoji, it ain’t gonna happen smooth as you think, Osode-san.” “If we botch it, things could get dicey.” “You’re such a coward, Kyūsuke-san.” “Who was it that clasped their hands and begged Kyūsuke for mercy, crying and pleading like that, saying they’d owe him for life?” “Enough about that.”

When she made as if to strike and pressed him further, Kyūsuke finally rose to his feet, hoisting a cloth-wrapped bundle of Japanese books from shoulder to side,

“Then don’t leave this spot—wait right here. If things go smooth, you’ll get your treat.”

“Please……” Osode pleaded as if in prayer and watched Misohisa depart. Having descended by the same path, he circled the hill’s base until he walked along Akasaka-suji’s broad avenue where the Ōoka mansion’s main gate stood. The Ōoka clan maintained eleven households. Though Tadayoshi Tadazane of this branch belonged not to the main lineage, he had served as Master of Foot Soldiers, Vanguard Musketeer Commander, and Sunpu Garrison Commander. Even now in his sinecure post, his estate retained its imposing scale.

As they had no male heir, they adopted Ichijūrō (childhood name Kyūma), the seventh son of their relative Yazaemon Tadataka’s family, when he was ten years old. It went without saying that they intended to marry him to their daughter Onui and have him succeed as family heir.

However, as the adopted Ichijūrō came of age, he too—not immune to the trends of recent youth—began to display troubling conduct. In his haste to marry Onui during this time, due to the sword assault incident involving their relative Gorōzaemon Tadafusa, the entire clan’s house arrest had continued, and even now that it had been lifted—because they still hesitated to seek an audience with the shogunate—the couple’s wedding ceremony had been repeatedly postponed.

That said, Onui of the household was still twenty—by no means a late age. Rather, she—like cherry blossoms in early spring awaiting rain—kept their budding readiness hidden both in her posture and heart, yet never failed to attend daily lessons: tea ceremony at Edo Senke and koto practice under a certain master, always departing a little past noon.

Today as well.—At that hour.

Onui exited the gate and began descending toward Yagenzaka.

And there, in the shade of the trees by the road, stood Misohisa,

“Ah. Young lady... You would be Lord Ōoka’s honored daughter, I take it?” “What a fortunate encounter.” He stepped before her and bowed low. “Your continued patronage humbles this unworthy one.” “Who are you? And you…?” “We are but the Tsuya-ya booksellers of Ishimachi, at your service.” “As for the young master of this house—we have often been graced with his esteemed commissions and have faithfully—” “You claim to have met with him?” “Yes, yes. “Today in fact—the rare volume long sought has come into our possession. I’ve come to present it, yet…”

“How strange. Lord Ichijūrō has lately… He hasn’t stepped outside even once for a year or two now.” “No no, young lady.”

At this, Misohisa hurriedly retracted his earlier statement— “The times I met him were in the past; these days it’s been through letters—whenever certain books come up for sale, he’d order me to bring them without fail and…” “Yes—I’d been receiving his instructions.” “Is that so?”

—Onui tilted her head slightly, then— “Then enter through the main gate, go to the side entrance on the left, speak to the steward, and have him announce you.” “So young lady—might I humbly ask you to once again directly relay this to the young master?” “Oh? Why?” “That elderly steward seems to have misunderstood something. When I requested an audience earlier, Lord Ichijūrō said he knows no such bookseller and ended up refusing me.”

“But you do know him, don’t you?”

“Yes indeed—we’re well acquainted.” “Were you to meet him, there’d be no need for lengthy explanations...” “If you’d only relay these words, he’d surely recognize me at once.” “A humble one called Kyūsuke—once heir to a miso shop, you see—who’d occasionally pay respects at Mr. Umega’s residence in Kyōbashi-jiri.” “Then wait here.” Onui left him standing there and fluttered back into the estate. After what felt like an interminable wait, just when one might have expected her imminent return,

“Kyūsuke or whatever your name is—Lord Ichijūrō says he still doesn’t know someone like you. And he says he has no recollection of ever ordering books from Tsuya-ya or anything of the sort. You haven’t confused our estate with some other customer’s, have you?” With those words flung aside, she hurried down Yagenzaka at a brisk trot, as though eager to reclaim her unexpectedly interrupted leisure.

The Silent Harp

Tadayuemon Tadazane had always been known among all his relatives as a man of unwavering integrity. He was a typical old-fashioned man of this ever-changing yet unchanging Genroku world.

However, even Tadayuemon bent his will for his child’s sake; today, he visited the private residence of Senior Councilor Akimoto Tajima-no-kami, it was said, and returned listlessly in the evening. “Lord Tajima said we must somehow arrange an audience before next spring’s wedding permission is granted. You can likely rely on this—there’s no mistake.” “There’s nothing more unpleasant than having to bow and scrape before powerful families.” “Good grief—even samurai now need flattery and social savvy to get by in this world.”

After exiting the bath and sitting down to the evening meal, he reported the results of today’s outing to his elderly wife—who always shared his sentiments—mixing in personal reflections as he spoke. ——“If you wish to hasten the wedding between your adopted son Ichijūrō and Onui so urgently, why not pull strings, use bribes with Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu, and secure favorable arrangements with the Shogun’s honorable presence?”—so his clan relatives had advised him, but Tadayuemon Tadazane could not bring himself to do it. He understood that it would be effective, but his disposition would not permit it.

(You’re just like Asano Takuminokami. You know too little of the ways of the world now.)

Even among relatives, many mocked his folly.—But Tadayuemon never once crossed the threshold of the Yanagisawa residence.

Akimoto Tajima-no-kami had only been appointed last year to fill a vacancy among the Senior Councilors, and Tadayuemon felt that approaching this man wouldn’t bring shame upon himself. So he resolutely set out. The result was favorable. He said he would arrange an opportunity for an audience in the near future, and that after that, it would be advisable to submit the petition for wedding permission.

—Hearing this, his wife too raised her eyebrows alongside her husband, “Just so—our daughter has passed twenty years of age, and Ichijūrō has come of age to take up an official post.” “So before year’s end, we must make all manner of preparations.” she began counting the days and declaring they must bring in carpenters to do some repairs on the inner study and an old building for the young couple’s sake. When summoned for dinner, Onui too came and took her place at one end of the harmonious dining tray. Yet with each meal these days, Onui had been feeling a growing sense of dissatisfaction.

For about ten days now, Ichijūrō had been having his meals brought to the inner study both morning and evening, never showing his face among the family. "What could have happened to Lord Ichijūrō? …Don’t you think, Mother?" "Shall I call him here?" "Tell him to please join us for meals once in a while."

“No. Let him do as he pleases.”

Tadayuemon shook his head. "Night and day he remains immersed in his studies. "He may harbor some melancholy, but in my younger days I too knew such moods. "Let him be, let him be!"

"But Father," she said. "Even when I occasionally peek in, he makes such a terrifying face." "It’s fine," he dismissed. "When a man’s engrossed in his studies, women become nothing but nuisances." Is that so?

She had even greater doubts, but feared that mentioning things that sounded like tattling might truly anger her father. One particular doubt still lodged in her chest was how today at noon on Yagenzaka slope, she had been approached by—of all people—a clerk from Tsuya-ya bookstore. Though she had smoothly dismissed him earlier by citing Ichijūrō’s claimed unfamiliarity, upon returning home at dusk and questioning the servants, she learned that persistent clerk had come back again. Insisting with claims like “I’ve just now had the honor of meeting the young mistress there…”, he had ultimately gained entry to Ichijūrō’s study through a maid, talked at length about something, then departed.

When she asked Ichijūrō about it, he merely shook his head saying “I didn’t meet him,” his mood particularly foul that day.—Though Onui wasn’t one to dwell on things, as she fixated on “Why would he lie to me…?” even her post-meal hot water lodged in her chest. In times like these, she would return to her room thinking to play the koto—perhaps practice the piece she’d learned that afternoon—but even that failed to settle her heart. When her fingers touched the strings, she found herself wanting to weep without reason. Outside the window too, on this evening when winter-nearing shower clouds scoured the moon’s final days of autumn upon leafless treetops. She left the koto beneath candlelight and stepped down into the garden.

There was an old pond said to have existed since before this mansion was built. Autumn grasses left to grow wild covered the water's edge, and beyond them, a light was visible.—Ichijūrō’s study.

She had been circling the pond, unconsciously directing her steps toward that light, when suddenly—in the vast darkness of the dimly moonlit night—she stood still, straining her ears.

"Oh. An infant's cry...? Where could it be? 'That's definitely a small child crying?' It felt both distant and near. Ceased by the night wind, then heard through the night wind—a sorrowful wail that seemed worn out from carrying some dark life within this world."

Red spider lilies.

Though it was late autumn with shortening days, this had already been going on since noon. Though the evening had grown chilly with dew clinging to the trees, there by the hill's Inari shrine still crouched a young mother clutching her child, motionless as stone in the grass. “What’s wrong, Osode-san?...” “...Come on now, let’s go home.” “Go back and try again another day, yeah?” “...Hey... you.” “Osode-san, really...” Misohisa stood beside her, persistently coaxing and urging, but Osode—with her tear-soaked child on her lap—wept soundlessly, making no move to rise and offering no reply.

The crybaby Kyūsuke—the one his companions daily called Misohisa—tonight was the one who wanted to weep far more. “Hey, Osode-san. Enough already—stop giving me trouble. Today, I wrung out every last bit of cunning to meet with Ichinoji—and meet him I did—but no matter what, he won’t come out here, so there’s nothing to be done. No matter how much I pleaded or tried to appeal to your heart, he just kept his eyes tightly shut. Well… seems that guy’s become a different person altogether.”

“Kyūsuke-san…” Osode raised her reddened eyes— “So, I’m saying that even if he abandons me, there’s nothing to be done about it.” “L-like that—even if you snap at me with those terrifying eyes, I won’t have any part in this.” "But getting involved with some 3,000-koku adopted heir in the first place was your cursed fate." “What’s that?!” “What does his 3,000 koku matter?!”

“Oh.” “You’re angry now?” “Of course…”

With that, Osode buried her face in the crying child and broke into convulsive sobs. “Y-you... What do you know, Kyūsuke-san?! The relationship between me and Ichijūrō-sama isn’t... isn’t some casual thing like that!”

“Huh. “You’re still going on about that?” “...Well, since it’s a sin anyway—I’ll just come out and say it—Ichijūrō said this to me today.” “That man...?” “Yes. “He told me.” “I deeply repent my past misdeeds and have now completely severed all ties with Osode.” “As for the child born between you two—please send it away to be raised elsewhere. Let Osode take another man.” “When I’ve finally become able to manage my own finances, I’ll provide a severance and even send support for the child—so he said.”

“What?! “Ichijūrō-sama would say such a thing...?”

“So Osode-san, I think you should just cut all ties with that guy and make a clean break by going back home now—don’t you think?” “R-really? Kyūsuke-san. That thing Ichijūrō-sama told you—” “Kyūsuke-san.” “The fact that Ichijūrō-sama told you—” The woman suddenly rose. As Kyūsuke hurriedly caught and supported her when she staggered to her feet, Osode placed the child into his hands and began to stagger forward alone. “Ah, Osode-san! …Where are you going?” “Where? Where are you going?!”

To the clinging Misohisa, “You’re so noisy.” “I can’t keep relying on someone like you anymore.” “Why is it wrong for me to go meet my man myself?” “Until I hear Ichijūrō-sama’s true feelings from his own lips, I won’t return even if I die.—Take Otsubame and go back ahead of me, Kyūsuke-san.”

“D-don’t say such foolish things! The other party belongs to a high-ranking samurai household.” “Their damned high status galls me. Does being noble-born give them license to deceive women?!”

It was no longer being said to Kyūsuke. The woman was crying out toward the distant light. From this hill connected to the vast garden, hidden among the trees, that light flickered coldly. —coldly, like Ichijūrō’s heart.

Trampling through kudzu vines, bamboo grass, bush clover, and pampas grass—anything that entangled or obstructed her path—the woman tried to charge blindly down the slope. Yet at whatever she had seen—startled—Osode suddenly froze mid-step. Then, staggering, she leaned against a hazel tree nearby. Suddenly, the woman Osode had seen was also there—half-concealing herself against the trunk of a large tree beside the shrine, staring with piercing eyes.

"?"

The two women held their breath and fell completely silent. Their eyes burned together like red spider lilies.

“Who are you, and from where? …And where do you think you are going?” At length, the woman spoke quietly—yet in a trembling voice that held a uniquely feminine edge of severity—reproaching her thus. That was Onui.

Abandoned palanquin They were water and fire.

Osode rebuffed her with the strong resonance of Shitamachi dialect and emotion like splitting bamboo. “None o’ your business! Where I go’s my own affair.” “That will not do.” “Why’s that?” “Even beyond the garden, this remains Ōoka family grounds.” “To approach someone’s estate—without whose leave?”

“Ask Ichijūrō-san.” “If it’s where Ichijūrō-san is, I’ll go into not just the garden but even his room.” “There’s nothing wrong with going.”

“You mustn’t!” “I will not permit such a thing.” “Whether you permit it or not means nothing.” “To go meet my own husband—I, his wife—what’s wrong with that?” “Wh-what did you say?” Onui, choked with frustration, found herself unable to muster a single word in retort. Her face—whiter than paper—and her entire body were wracked with tremors.

Between Osode—who from thirteen or fourteen had worked in tea stalls, been tempered by hardship, and dealt with playful men—and Onui, raised properly in a samurai mansion, there could be no contest. But though her words rang strong, Osode held more jealousy, fragility, and resentment than Onui could ever muster.

—When she thought of this girl being part of the household—living in the same house as Ichijūrō—the tears surged up, and still she could not hold her tongue. “I don’t know if you’re some proper young lady of the household or what, but Ichijūrō-san and I have a bond that’s borne a lovely child. Don’t you go meddling where you’re not wanted.”

“Shut up—”

Snapped back Onui, refusing to yield,

“If you take one step beyond this point, I will summon the household staff.” “Ah, go ahead and call them. Call whoever you like.” “You mustn’t go! —Ah! Someone, come here—”

A short time before that.

An old steward named Kahei. Meanwhile, the young retainers and their companions had started making a commotion in Onui’s room when she was nowhere to be seen and came running this way.

Seeing the footfalls and lantern light—Misohisa panicked, shifted the weeping Oen to a cradle hold in his arms, and went stumbling down the path behind the hill that led into town. One of the brawny young retainers climbed up just a step behind him, and suddenly— "You hussy!"

grabbed Osode and forced her down. Without bothering to ascertain why she wailed frantically and screamed in tears, they delivered two or three kicks, causing her to collapse unconscious.

Onui too lay there, weeping prostrate.

In this state, Kahei momentarily wore a face as if possessed by a fox, but after whispering something to his fellow young retainers, he devoted every effort to placating Onui alone. And so Onui, weeping bitterly, was escorted by Kahei and returned to the mansion.

After that. The young retainers and their companions shoved the still-unconscious Osode into a crude palanquin and carried her out from behind the hill into the nighttime town. They raced through Yotsuya’s hollow, dashed past the myōga fields and Ichigaya’s rows of trees—still they ran on without stopping. From some jolt inside the palanquin, Osode suddenly regained her breath and let out a resentful sob,

“Alright—here’s good.”

The moment they did, the companions discarded her body—palanquin and all—into the shadows of the tree-lined path and ran back without a glance. All through that night… And again the next day.

The Ōoka household sank into a mire of crushing anguish. Ten days and more of the same misery dragged on.

Under shower clouds lingering since last evening, the day passed chillily all day long to the sound of rain, but within the house, not a single sound stirred. At times, faint voices leaking from the inner chambers were either Tadauemon’s exasperated groans or else those of his wife—or perhaps Onui’s stifled sobs.

“Hey... Hey. “...Ichinoji.”

In Ichijūrō’s study, no one was visible before the desk besides Ichijūrō himself, yet somewhere a faint whisper persisted. “They’ve found out.” “What’ll you do?”

From inside the corner cupboard, he tapped rhythmically on the back of the door with his nails while whispering outward. “Let’s both get out while our path’s still lit.” “Hey... Ichinoji.” “The world’s wide open.” “And nothing like this cramped, miserable excuse for a society.” “I figured I could tough it out here twenty days—but with your cover blown, I can’t stick around no more.” “...Put yourself in Osode’s place—no wonder she came busting out like that.”

Of course he was addressing Ichijūrō—but Ichijūrō remained leaning against his desk, hands clutching his head, neither responding nor turning around, listening only through his turned back. Though his eyes rested on the book, Ichijūrō's heart had long since scattered—torn asunder beyond recognition, leaving no trace of a living spirit. Since nightfall, neither family nor servants had ventured near his room. Yet he comprehended it all. He now endured the ultimate torment within the prison of his own making.

“I was wrong too.”

Even without a response, the faint voice from within the cupboard continued muttering to itself, like the rain outside. “Osode had been pleading with me for ages—‘Let me see you,’ ‘Bring me to him’—you can’t imagine how much she hounded me. But ever since that dog kennel business I told you about—the one that put us all in danger—we couldn’t even get near Umega’s place. So out of jealousy—that’s a woman’s heart for you—she sweet-talked that soft touch Kyūsuke into finally bringing her here. No doubt about it.”

When the voice from the cupboard ceased, the sound of the rain pressed upon their ears. The rain's bleak desolation only deepened as dusk drew near. "...Hey, O-Ichi. Don't you feel sorry for a woman with such true devotion?" "Kids can manage on their own, but a woman that steadfast's rare." "She ain't pitiful or pretty—no words do her justice." "If Osode gave the word, I'd want to take your place for her sake... Hey." "Say something, will you!"

Impatiently, he tapped rhythmically again, making a sound like a woodpecker,

“I figure in ten days, the heat over that dog kennel business will ease up for sure—got a solid line on that—but we can’t hole up here even one more night.” “You come back to the old nest with me.” “At that nest—Osode’s there, Umega’s there, and Anōjū’ll crawl outta some hole soon enough.” “With the old crew, let’s do what we damn please and have ourselves some real fun!”

“Shh... shh!”

Ichijūrō remained facing away and waved his hand under the desk.

“Are you there?”

It was a man’s voice. With a rough clatter of the sliding door, those who entered were Tadauemon and—contrary to Ichijūrō’s expectations—his birth brother Ōoka Toshidono, whom he feared more than his adoptive father.

Blood Before he could even sit down—or not—

Toshidono abruptly snatched the books from the desk, “You! For what purpose are you reading such things?”

and threw them toward the shoji screens. “Brother! “Hey! Show your face! Look me in the eye!”

Toshidono was agitated. Through those eyes, Ichijūrō’s silence appeared utterly cold and detached, only serving to amplify the turbulent waves of Toshidono’s fervent heart.

“I came here expecting some urgent message from Tadau-dono’s messenger—only to find this shocking situation!” “This is utterly inexcusable!” “To you both as husband and wife—to Lady Onui—this outrageous conduct! I could no longer maintain my dignity before them!”

Striking the tatami and edging his knees closer as he,

“Since the time of our founding ancestors Lord Tadanori and Lord Tadamasa, our house has never once spawned a shameless, gutless wretch of such ill intent!” “How could a reprobate like you have sprung from Ōoka blood? This elder brother burns with shame!” “...But even if you’re a damned fool, surely you’re not still mooning over that teahouse harlot—letting her steal your wits?” He swallowed his voice… let it drop low… “There, you see? “On this matter—this elder brother swears upon his blade.” “I told those three in Tadau-dono’s chamber moments ago—‘I refuse to believe my brother could sink so low.’” “Now—grant me this understanding, brother.” “What other path remains for this elder brother?” “Not even our honored late father’s ghost standing here would sway me—you see?”

Ichijūrō bowed his head, tears streaming down unchecked as he pressed both hands rigidly against his knees. “Now, brother. “In truth, your heart must be the same... These past two or three years—this elder brother secretly rejoiced at your restrained conduct and scholarly devotion since your confinement... I’ll speak no further. “A mere misstep from three years past needs no reproach. “...Only write me that pledge. “The severance letter you addressed to that Osode creature—the one proclaiming this ends your ties.”

“Ah… Brother,” “Now, wait,” he restrained— “Would I do something so cruel? Leave it. Leave it to me. Even if we must sell our ancestral heirlooms, I’ll send the woman her severance money and see to the child’s disposal.” “Th-that’s just it, Brother.”

“What have you done? Still clinging?” “Still clinging?” “I have no lingering feelings—but the woman refuses to consent.”

“You fool!” he barked, “That’s why I’m telling you to write that damn severance letter—show it to her, and this elder brother will make the cut. If you keep dithering with these womanly excuses and we get nowhere, I have a final measure.” “The final measure… you mean?” “I won’t trade it for your life. Furthermore, should unfavorable rumors reach the shogunate’s ears again—compounded by Uncle Gorōzaemon’s failure two years past—it would endanger the safety of the Ōoka clan’s ten houses… A single woman’s life is a small price.”

“Guh!... You mean to take her life—and call that acceptable?” “What’s there to be shocked about? So you’re still clinging?” “I-It’s shameful, Brother. The guilt lies entirely with this Ichijūrō.” “No—you know nothing of women. Why would a teahouse wench—” “B-but she... Osode isn’t like some ordinary woman of the streets!” “How is she different?” “Her disposition…”

To his younger brother, who was about to speak, Toshidono suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the collar, "You! Still shamelessly refusing to open your eyes?"

and shoved him with all his might. In the anger born of love for family, there burned a fiercer instinct than any wrath directed at strangers.

Ichijūrō’s deathly pale face trembled like a severed head. Tears streamed from his closed eyes as he offered no resistance to his brother’s force.

“Will you write the severance letter or not? Speak—now!” “Still silent?” “I… will write it.” “What? You’ll write it?”

“B-but, Brother…” “I beg of you.” “Even if she refuses to sever ties, please refrain from such sinful acts as letting steel speak for you.” “Please write me a pledge in your own hand—swear you’ll never resort to that.” “How could I dignify such idiocy with ink?” “Before Tadau-dono and Onui-dono’s very eyes?”

“Then… I refuse.” “What?!” “You refuse?” “If Osode cannot truly find happiness, I cannot write the severance letter.” “As for the cause, the guilt lies entirely with this Ichijūrō. Though she worked at a teahouse, until then, Osode was a pure virgin like unblemished white silk.” “You utter fool!”

The released hand instantly smacked Ichijūrō’s cheek with a sharp crack. To his younger brother, who had collapsed while covering his face, Toshidono’s hand pursued him, grabbing his collar once more and shoving him. In a fit of rage, he ground Ichijūrō’s face viciously against the tatami.

“Considering the standing of our adoptive family, how dare you utter such words! To whom do you believe this body belongs? Born into a samurai house yet showing no respect for your ancestors or the shogunate—you don’t even know your place! Y-you ill-bred wretch!” More than the younger brother being beaten, it was the older brother—clenching his fist and striking—who in the end contorted his tearful face, let his tears stream down, and bore an utterly exhausted visage.

“It’s not me striking you like this. For trash like you, I don’t have the kind of love it takes to strike. Our dead father struck you through me. Think of this fist as Father!”

With that final rebuke, “You—think again!” “Calm your heart thoroughly and think it through.”

Toshidono left the room without waiting for a reply. This was because outside the hallway, the steward Kaihei had come and informed him that Ōoka Hyōkurō had arrived.

Hyōkurō was likewise one of the Ōoka Ten Families, the uncle of Ichijūrō and his brother, and it was this Hyōkurō who had arranged Ichijūrō’s adoption into the family. Moreover, since he had already been designated as the matchmaker for Ichijūrō’s impending marriage to Onui, it was only natural that he too, upon receiving word of some urgent matter, would have hastened here with all speed.

Demonic laughter, Buddha’s tears

Night fell. ……The rain did not stop. No one brought a candle to his room. For the nightly lamp too, it was his custom in this study to light it himself.—

A single pale face lingered there desolate as dusk fell. Around the desk and in his heart deepened an ink-black twilight. "I beg forgiveness. ...Brother. Father... And to my adoptive family's honored parents." He alone stayed his hands. The hair at his temples stood disheveled like weeping strands. "For this ill-born Ichijūrō arises only confusion; he knows not what course to take. My sole atonement lies in departing while praying Lady Onui may become a virtuous wife hereafter—forgetting this day without further anguish... Grant me pardon."

He turned and raised his face. Then quietly drew the dagger from its sheath. His countenance had already attained death's serenity. He had resolved to seek atonement through death.

“Ah! That was close!—You shouldn’t go doin’ somethin’ so reckless!” In his panic, Ōkame inside the closet hit his head, removed the door, tumbled out along with it, and grabbed Ichijūrō by the wrist. “Let’s go! If you’re gonna die anyway, let’s rush into town! Either way, tonight’s my last night.—Hey, let’s go where Osode is!”

He yanked the arm forcefully. In the hand that had once dropped the dagger, Ichijūrō felt an irresistible allure to his cousin’s forceful pull. If he yielded to that force—there Osode would be. There were capricious lights of indulgence, and evil companions—like bubbles unaware of suffering—swarming about in amusement. “Oh! Someone’s coming! Hurry up!” “Brother.” “Ah, Brother…”

“Yeah, enough already! What’re you sniveling and dawdling around for? Grab my arm and come on! Just act like you’re on a grand ship—”

With arms tightly locked together，they dragged themselves out into the corridor and burst into the white night rain． “Hey！ Wait，brother！—Who’s that other one？”

The voice was Toshidono’s. Immediately, he too jumped down into the rain and circled around to block the path of the two figures. Startled by the bizarre noise, three men came rushing from within—Hyōkurō snatched a spear from the wall rail, while Tadaemon held up a hand lantern and stared intently from the edge of the veranda into the rain-lashed darkness. “Don’t flounder now, Toshidono.” “You’re not alone here!” Hyōkurō also leapt down and thrust his spear to one side. While letting the rain wash over the spear tip—

In response to his uncle’s voice, Toshidono too placed a hand on his sword and went forward, choking on the rain. “Oho! I know not who you are—abducting my brother and trying to flee—this defies reason, villain! State your name! Brother! What manner of man stands before us?”

And then—in the ink-like darkness and rain—a voice burst into raucous laughter.

Ōkame found the fervor of these two men unbearably absurd compared to his own world. He bared his white teeth, shook his shoulders, and kept laughing alone. "Hey now, Uncles—better not make such a ruckus if you value your skins. We’re tryin’ to slip away quiet-like outta consideration for you—" "Wh-what’s this?" "If word gets out, the Ōoka Ten Houses’ll be repeatin’ their three-year house arrest. Nah—this time it won’t end with some half-assed verdict. Three, four houses of my kin’ll get crushed to splinters. Bwahahaha!"

“Relatives?” “…And you—what do you profess to be?”

“Do you want to know?” “Once you know—don’t you go weak in the knees.” “Clansman Gorōzaemon’s son—Kamejirō.” “Gah.” “K-Kamejirō? You’re saying…?”

“You should’ve never asked.” “But don’t worry—I ain’t got no intention of hurtin’ worthless relatives or moochin’ off our clansmen’s piddlin’ stipends.” “Just ’cause that dog kennel prank bit me back, I’ve been dodgin’ heat for a hundred days straight. Truth is—been holed up in Ichinoji’s room ten days now, toughin’ it out in a damn closet. That’s all there is to it.”

He pulled Ichijūrō’s arm even more tightly under his own armpit, “Hey, Ichinoji.” He looked at the face right beside him. Ichijūrō’s hand was unconsciously reaching for the sword at his waist once more. The rain fell as if mercilessly beating down on him alone.

“You mustn’t! You mustn’t! “Thinking of dying? What a petty scheme! “Take a good look at me!” Defiantly, his life beckoned to Ichijūrō’s—two lives that by rights should have vanished together into obscurity.

“Hmm... He fears nothing in this world—this audacious wretch.” “Even if they are relatives, we must put them to the sword and surrender their heads to the authorities.” As Hyōkurō’s spear radiated lethal intent, he reviled and cursed them with venom—

“Cut it out, Uncle. “Even if you kill me and every last one of you schemes to protect the clan’s safety—I’ve got my own comrades. “They’ll spill everything, I tell ya. “The notorious prankster who killed dozens of dogs in a single night at Nakano Dog Kennels—that’s Kamejirō, son of clansman Gorōzaemon, whom the Ōoka Ten Houses knowingly sheltered!” At that moment, Tadaemon abruptly blew out the hand lantern’s light. It might have seemed like the wind, but Tadaemon had undoubtedly extinguished it deliberately—as his next words would also confirm.

“Go.” “Go. …I won’t stop you anymore.” “Both of you—go and lose yourselves in doubt.” “You’re young.—But know that you can return whenever you come to your senses.” “Kamejirō, there’s a home that will warmly welcome you whenever you return.”

“There isn’t—”

He bellowed. “I have none—so I’ll go raise hell in the wide streets!”

“No, there is.” “Come to Tadaemon’s side.” “And then bind us and hand us over as justification to the authorities?” “Were it to come to that, I wouldn’t let you leave without showing I could sever your head.” “Old though I may be—I am still Tadaemon.—Ichijūrō.” “This too I tell you.” “Return whenever you wish to come back.” “Come back… O-Onui too…”

He started to say—but then, with a sob, let his voice grow hoarse—

“Onui will wait for you… no matter how long… Now go.” “Before night deepens further.”

Then he himself pulled the rain shutters from their compartment, slid them one by one across the threshold, and stepped over. “Come on, come on. “Lord Hyōkurō, Lord Toshidono—go around to the bathhouse, change into yukatas, and come back. Let’s have a drink together. “On a night like this—with rain spinning its tales—the sake’s flavor must surely turn bitter—”

Chapter Two

The Chicklings

His still-sleepy eyes forcibly roused, Ichijūrō reluctantly opened them. The morning sun shone through holes in the torn shoji screen, starkly floating two faces—Ichijūrō’s sleeping visage and another woman’s with flaking white makeup—in the six-tatami room where last night’s drunken revelry remained shut in, making them resemble waterlogged corpses in a marsh.

“Awake?” Rubbing her sleep-crusted lips closer with their stale morning breath, the woman said.

The stench of her breath, the odor of hair oil, the rough skin visible beneath flaking white makeup. Ichijūrō could not keep his face turned away from her breath. The collar of the bedding even bore the distinct scent of another man—not his own. “Ugh...” With that, he stretched, trying to mask some unbearable emotion within as he turned and began to rise, “Well… …Why do you…?” Then, remaining lying down, the woman entwined both hands around his neck and suddenly pulled him downward.

Then, from above the small folding screen standing beside the futon, his companion Kamejirō stretched his neck forward, "Oh? What's happening over there?" "Oh, you shouldn't peek." "And even without that, this boy here..." And then, remaining as she was, the woman purposely wrapped her arms around Ichijūrō's nape, squeezing so tightly it stole his breath— "Is this your first time? Are you timid? Or do you hate me? Since last night, you've been pushing me away... ...Look at you—all you do is shrink away."

“Let me see.” “How so?”

Though it was last night's mischief, Ōkame still hadn't sobered up. Over the screen he stretched his arm and tried to flip the futon. The woman and Ichijūrō both sprang up. At that instant Ōkame too came crashing down with the screen, folding over both of them.

“Oh my, oh my!” “Oh…” “How awful…”

From behind the folding screen, another woman sprang up as well. With a single small folding screen as the boundary, there too lay two pillows.

This was the filthy back second-floor of a bathhouse near Kanda. There were bathhouse attendants who played shamisen and served alcohol, letting customers stay overnight or linger more cheaply than in Yoshiwara—it was one of the many pleasure bathhouses lining the alley.

The two had already been engaging in self-indulgence for three days, even by this morning.

It was the continuation of what had begun when they fled the Ōoka household on that rainy, pitch-dark night two days prior—both of them looking like drenched rats, with no prospects in their pockets—and ended up here. “Hey, Ichinoji. “What are you spacing out for? “Go downstairs and take a quick bath. …Hey now, wives—you all get some hot tofu soup or something ready in the meantime, and heat up a flask. “You got that, huh? “And today as well, let’s practice that little song from yesterday again.”

Ōkame showed no sign of weariness, whether asleep or awake. Whether by nature he was made to be a playboy, he had an uncanny knack for angering women, amusing them, or delighting them—all while boasting of grand luxuries without ever revealing a hint that his pockets were empty.

In stark contrast, even after coming here, Ichijūrō still couldn't shake his adoptive father's final words from his ears. He would try to gauge Onui's true feelings after that incident, contemplate the wrath of his brother and clan... Even as he lay within the red futon, something would torment him with self-reproach throughout the night—merely being here left him sullen and incapable of finding joy. He could only watch with nervous apprehension at his cousin Ōkame's relentless thoroughness. "With such a short life meant for wringing every drop of joy from this world—what's the use of being so small-hearted? Quit your brooding, I say." "I'll make damn sure you see Osode again too—just you wait!"

At the bathhouse washing area, while having Ichijūrō wash his back, Ōkame arrogantly lectured him. His back bore several sword wounds.

"...O-Ichi." "When evening comes, I'm gonna step out for some air." While wiping his entire body—a mass of flesh that seemed pure desire incarnate—he lowered his voice again and whispered. "It's money." "Money." "Gotta get us some cash somehow. Otherwise, wherever we slink around next won't be fun at all." Ōkame grinned with a vicious edge. Though freshly bathed, Ichijūrō broke into gooseflesh. He knew this man's nature—one who'd unleash ferocity without hesitation—and understood those actions would instantly become his own shared burden.

But now, all regret and remorse were of no avail. Like a lamb led to slaughter, Ichijūrō began climbing the dimly lit staircase back to the rear second floor, following his arrogant figure. Then from behind the secret curtain of the lower room emerged a disreputable samurai in his forties—an intimidatingly long sword at his waist, fierce eyes glaring, his samurai topknot grown out thickly—

“Hey. Hatchling brats. Wait a second.” Right from the start, he called out to them, treating them like children. Like fledglings weighed down, “Hatchling brats, huh? Don’t fuck with me.”

Ōkame, having spoken from midway down the ladder, descended determined not to show any flinching. “Did that rattle you?” The disreputable samurai snickered. His distorted lips revealed silver teeth. The Silver-Toothed Gang—a gathering of corrupt hatamoto, so it was said. This guy’s a tough opponent, Ōkame thought, flinching slightly. “I’m a friend of this bathhouse’s proprietor and Furoyamachi’s dispute mediator—a man called Akazari Sanpei.” “If what I hear’s true, you lot’ve kept up three whole days of reckless carousing—quite the feat, ain’t it?” “Do you have the money?” “If you’ve got it, show me you can pay up once.”

“I’ll pay, I’ll pay.” "What’s three or four days’ worth of petty charges?" “Hmph. Then pay up.” “But not now.” “I’ll settle it soon enough.” “The hell you will!”

Sanpei grabbed Ōkame’s collar with his right hand and seized Ichijūrō’s wrist with his left. “You damn brat! You come barging in like drenched rats, spouting big talk—but something seemed off. So just now, the proprietor and the women went through your clothes and belongings—turns out you’ve got not a single coin or even a sheet of tissue paper on you! What brazen bastards!” “No—today I was planning to have it sent from the estate.” “Estate? Where’s your hideout, you bastards?”

“Just don’t ask about that.” “I’ll definitely bring it.” “…Ichinoji.” “Sorry, but you’re the one who’s gotta stay here.” “I’ll head to the estate and get the steward to rustle up the money.” “I’ll be back by noon for sure.” “Lord Akazari—this friend here’s the son of a high-ranking family, a young master still wet behind the ears when it comes to vice.” “Take him as collateral and let me go, won’t you?” “You’ll really have it by noon?”

“I’ll definitely bring it.—Well then, Ichinoji, it must be lonely, but stay here alone for a while.” With his glib tongue and an oddly accommodating demeanor that belied his usual brashness, Ōkame managed to outmaneuver even Akazari Sanpei. Making only cursory preparations, he dashed out into the street before breakfast. “The weather’s fine like this—but first thing in the morning, there’s no damn way to come across any money.” Even his malice found itself at a loss. The clear late October noon. A shadowless sun. His malicious cunning found no opening to spring into action.

"Right, I'll go to Umega's house and squeeze Osode for her petty cash. "If I say I'll bring Ichinoji along—leaving him as collateral should wring out three or five ryō—"

Casually, he peeked into Umega’s house for the first time since that incident.

A child’s crying could be heard. Thinking it must be Oen—he entered the earthen-floored area and peered through to the back river— “Osode. Are you there?” “Who is it?”

――Unexpectedly, the reply came in a man’s voice.

“Well, if it ain’t Misohisa!” “Oh, Ōkame!” “What do you think you’re doing? Carrying a kid on your back, messing around in the kitchen—what a pathetic sight.” “But I can’t just let this child waste away.”

Kyūsuke washed chopsticks and bowls while soothing Oen, who kept sobbing on his back. "By the way...Osode?" "Since that night...she's vanished." "Huh?" "You mean she's been gone since that night?"

"She kept insisting she had to see Ichinoji, so I took her to the Ōoka residence three nights back." "...She hasn't come back here or anywhere."

“Huh. ……She couldn’t have gone and drowned herself or something.” “Or maybe they killed her at the estate—I was worried sick, so yesterday I finally worked up the nerve to ask some Ōoka family connections.” “They say that night, three or four servants forced Osode into a palanquin, carried her out, dumped the whole thing by the moat near Banchō, then just went back.” “I combed every inch of that Banchō area too, but came up completely empty.”

“Is Umega away too?”

“This one’s been gone for four or five days too.” “Kyūsuke, just give me breakfast already. We’ll figure things out after we eat.”

Ōkame immediately sprawled out. Resting his cheek on his hand, he surveyed the house; when the meal was ready, he began leisurely shoveling it in, “Kyūsuke, you don’t gotta wash this stuff anymore. Forget that. Go call a night-flighter.” “What do you mean ‘night-flighter’?” “It’s a secondhand dealer. There must be one around here somewhere. If you keep dawdling, you’ll get dragged into the dog kennel case too.”

Threatening Misohisa, he made him call a secondhand dealer, then sold off the entire household for the offered price of seven ryō and two bu.

Then he handed two ryō to Misohisa, "I'm giving you this much—take it and get Ichinoji out from Chōjiya pleasure bathhouse. Hole up somewhere. As for me, I'll be walkin' the roads a while longer in these straw sandals." "Town magistrate's gone bloodshot-eyed mad—still no culprit caught for that dog kennel business." "Countin' on you, Kyūnoji." Like the wind, Ōkame abandoned him at the town crossroads and vanished.

Kyūsuke immediately visited Chōjiya.

Ichijūrō had been waiting, craning his neck out from the back second floor. When Ōkame arrived—and unexpectedly, Misohisa as well—the sight of his own child being carried on the latter’s back seemed to freeze every drop of blood in his body. The women, having seen Kyūsuke settle the bill here in secret, "Oh. “What a cute child.” They grabbed Oen and scuffled over her, but when they realized she was Ichijūrō’s child, they suddenly thrust her back with hostility, “How despicable!”

This time, they surrounded Ichijūrō and tenaciously detained him, insisting he absolutely must return the child. Tearing himself free from the women, Ichijūrō fled outside. Behind him came shrill cackling laughter, but in such a daze that he couldn’t even see the road, he ran all the way to Kamakura Riverbank.

"Ichinoji. “How could you?” “You can’t run away! How heartless!” “This brat’s your own kid! — Wait up, I said wait!”

Kyūsuke came flying from behind. Oen’s neck faced upward, bobbing unsteadily as she was jostled along. Ichijūrō turned around and stood frozen like a rod.

“Where’s Kameji? And where’s Osode?”

Along the willow trees already beginning to shed their leaves, Ichijūrō walked weakly like a will-o'-the-wisp as he fired rapid questions. When he heard from Kyūsuke about Ōkame's reckless actions and Osode's disappearance since that night—his face turned a turbid blue darker than the moat's water. "What should we do?..." "...Ichinoji." Even kindhearted Kyūsuke was growing overwhelmed by the child on his back. He thrust Oen's face toward Ichijūrō's eyes.

Ichijūrō uncrossed his arms. And then, without protest, he turned and presented his back. “She’s my child.” “I’ll carry her.” “……Kyūsuke, let me take her.”

The Handsome Youth of the Back Alleys

November began. The cold bit into their hearts. As they wandered from one cheap lodging to another, the money in their pockets dwindled away. Misohisa looked up at the winter sky and lamented dejectedly.

“Hey, Ichinoji. We gotta do somethin’ somewhere. If you keep spoutin’ nothin’ but cowardly talk like ‘We can’t steal’ and ‘We can’t extort,’ this kid’s gonna freeze to death!” The two of them wandered aimlessly through the back alleys of the entertainment district once again today, taking turns carrying Oen on their backs. Cold and hunger drove one blindly toward evil, but without seniors like Ōkame and Anōjū, even Misohisa couldn’t so much as snatch a single thing. Moreover, Ichijūrō had no talent in that area either.

No—Ichijūrō was beginning to find something like pleasure in this daily routine of carrying a crying child through the town's back alleys.—Osode, Osode, where are you? His heart remained perpetually adrift. When he framed these romantic hardships as part of his search for her, even hunger and cold ceased to matter. The tattered sedge hat hiding his shame no longer felt like a disgrace to him alone. Even when sleet-laden winds whipped at his worn sandals, catching sight of a figure resembling Osode in the crowd would make his heart pound like fireworks. He'd run toward it, and even after recognizing his mistake, a bittersweet melancholy would linger—secretly remaking him into love's poet.

But Osode’s whereabouts remained utterly unknown. Even as they wandered about discreetly following leads, they couldn’t even ascertain whether she was alive or dead. And reality confronted the two of them with the question of how to secure tonight’s meal and lodging. Should they let helpless Oen starve to death, or abandon her? It relentlessly forced a cruel resolution upon them. “Ah, what a fine inro. If only we had that one inro.”

Kyūsuke’s attention was fixed on the waist of the handsome youth walking ahead. He was a tall, fair-skinned figure. Though dressed in rough clothes, there was an air of noble bearing about him. From crown to chin, he wore a purple cloth draped hood-like about his head, moving with unhurried steps in leather hakama trousers and new straw sandals along the theater-lined backstreets near Sakai-cho— The dry wind set several playhouse banners flapping sharply against their poles, their snapping audible even before they turned the corner into the thickening noise of crowds. Lost in these observations, Kyūsuke—now separated from Ichijūrō’s side before he realized it—

“Ah! I’m sorry!”

He bellowed loudly through the crowd. The infant’s scream pierced the air and struck Ichijūrō’s chest like a physical blow.

Oen was on Kyūsuke’s back. Despite carrying a child on his back, Kyūsuke unsteadily peered after the handsome youth and snatched the inro case from his waist.

However, the handsome youth was not alone. A few steps behind him followed a samurai whose face was similarly wrapped in a black cloth hood. "You bastard—!" No sooner had the words been uttered than Hannojō seized Kyūsuke by the collar with lightning speed and hurled him headlong toward a roadside food stall's reed screen. "What happened? Hannojō." "You don't have the inro at your waist anymore."

“Hoh… It’s gone.” “Stolen, was it?” “It’s this scoundrel, my lord.” The samurai attendant called Hannojō wrenched the inro from Kyūsuke’s hand, “Do take care with this.” and returned it to his master’s hand—the hand of that handsome youth. In an instant, the surrounding area began to form a seething mass of people. They began shouting in unison, calling out “Pickpocket!” and “Thief!” as they clamored. But when they discovered Kyūsuke’s pitiful figure crouching at the hem of the reed screen, sniveling with the child on his back, the eyes of the crowd all faltered, exchanging looks of bewilderment.

At that moment, the handsome youth's bright eyes turned toward Kyūsuke's figure. Within the hood, his eighteen- or nineteen-year-old striking countenance wore a smile. He appeared unable to contain his amusement. Then, regarding the inro now returned to his hand— "This? ...Would a child even want this?" With that remark, he lightly tossed it toward Kyūsuke's knees and—with a swift turn—disappeared into the surging crowd.

The Reviled Aoi

Last night, they slept on the temple porch.

Tonight found father and child at Otakegura’s bamboo storage yard huddled under straw mats against the night frost. Kyūsuke had gone out since evening to sell that inro case. With no prying eyes around, Ichijūrō nuzzled his cheek against Oen’s face where he held her—the touch somehow evoking Osode’s skin. What’s become of Mama? Are you crying for her too? There now. Hungry already? Kyūsuke will bring something soon. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

At times, he would stand and walk about, or sing lullabies in a soft voice……and to his own lullabies, the young father grew sentimental and shed tears alone.

Why had I left the mansion? I could no longer keep from doubting my own dubious feelings now. Had I succumbed to my cousin’s temptations? Was the prospect of spending my future with Onui and her household so distasteful? Was it due to an unbearable sense of falsehood and emptiness inherent in mansion life and the samurai class? Even if I listed them all out—each and every one—not a single one was the reason. After all, the greatest cause lay within myself. The restless fire of youth that would not be quelled until it found some outlet—that very fire was now setting ablaze fate’s fields with its own flames. The initial small transgression gradually gave birth to sin from sin, endlessly accumulating evil deeds. It was akin to that wildfire of youth.

This fire mischief had originally stemmed from my own curiosity, but my fire-starting companion was undoubtedly that cousin of mine. If only my cousin Kamejirō hadn't existed, I feel this fate wouldn't have been mine.

But do I truly regret this situation? If I truly regretted it," his adoptive father had said—"wander all you need to wander. Then come back once you've opened your eyes." ...Even now, it wasn't as though there was no mansion I couldn't return to by apologizing for my past wrongs. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to abandon this child as a foundling. The longer I held her like this, the more her loveliness grew. Instinct or love—call it what you will—this obsession swelling within me defied my own understanding. No—the true object of that obsession lay not with this child, but with Osode. If there'd been no hope of meeting Osode, this young father would surely have abandoned even his own child as a roadside foundling—

All reasons seemed to exist, yet in truth there were none. There was only Osode. If he were to obtain circumstances blessed with mutual love with Osode, he would realize that all other reasons had been as fleeting as bubbles. This is the essence of many youthful dilemmas—and Ichijūrō’s case proved no exception.

“Brrr, it’s freezing!” “All that trouble for nothing!” “There just ain’t no buyers no matter what.” “This is what they mean by a treasure wasted on its owner.”

Before long, Kyūsuke returned. The inro he had peddled around couldn’t be sold no matter where he showed it. The reason was that the maki-e design resembled the Aoi crest. The Aoi crest was equivalent to the Dog Lord himself. Let sleeping gods lie—it was common sense that everyone avoided it. When one compared Kyūsuke’s shabby appearance to the inro, it went without saying there would be no buyers.

“But hey... Ichinoji. I bought a few things here—give ’em to little Oen. This child ain’t done nothin’ wrong... Hey there, little Oen. Oh! You laughed—lookin’ at me!”

Taking out a bag of candy and a package of manju, Kyūsuke had Oen eat them. When Ichijūrō looked, he saw Kyūsuke had lost the coat he’d been wearing and was down to just his underrobe. He must have stripped off that grimy best outfit somewhere to buy these meager treats. Ichijūrō’s eyes burned. Just then, a night-soba vendor passed by with his load. The warm scent of green onions and broth made the two men writhe with hunger. The gnawing in their stomachs churned saliva, driving them toward an unrestrainable base urge.

“Oh! Mr. Soba Man,” Kyūsuke called out as if forgetting himself, “Give us two hot bowls,” he blurted out without thinking.

A Frostbound Night's Tale

Eventually, the two of them, their hands numb, cradled bowls of night-hawker soba, blew on them to cool, and ate together. The blood in their entire bodies surged with vitality as though kindled by life's fire, warming them to their fingertips. They didn't notice the snot dripping from their chopstick tips. Let none call this wretchedness. Supreme great joy is enlightenment itself. Humankind could find complete satisfaction even in such trivial moments. Pain—they felt no itchiness. Honor, utility, conflict, shame—none existed. Love, desire—those came after.

"Ahh, that was delicious…" Kyūsuke returned the chopsticks and bowl to the soba vendor, then heaved a deep sigh toward the heavens. Ichijūrō was feeding the broth left at the bottom of the bowl to Oen’s mouth. “Would you like seconds?” “…” the soba vendor said.

Kyūsuke looked as though he badly wanted to ask for another bowl, but his face showed an inner struggle. Then hesitantly, he produced the inro beneath the soba vendor’s stall lantern. “Mr. Soba Man. “Thing is... we’re broke.” “Let me put this up as collateral for another bowl?” “Huh? What’s this here...?” The soba vendor stared fixedly at it without touching, “Why, this is an inro bearing the crest of the Lord of Kii, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. “It’s not stolen. “I got it from a fine young gentleman sporting a purple hood in the back alleys of Sakaimachi.” “Hmm, I see. So it’s not a lie after all. “That young gentleman is said to be Lord Tokugawa Shinnosuke, the third son of the Lord of Kii, who often slips into town incognito from his Akasaka estate. “…But why’d he give an inro to you lot?” “He tossed it down as a plaything for this child.”

“Is that so? He might indeed go in for such whims. After all, he’s an eccentric young nobleman. Just the other day, there was this incident—that’s when it first became known around those parts that the young gentleman was Lord Shinnosuke, third son of Lord Kii Dainagon, still living in his family quarters.”

With that, the soba vendor took a puff on his pipe, leaned against his carrying pole, and began his tale. As befitting the son of a certain senior councillor from the Yanagisawa faction, he too would visit Sakaimachi in incognito attire, always leading his prized Tosa dog—tethered with a silver chain—through crowded thoroughfares by design. And he delighted in having this fierce, esteemed dog clear paths through the throngs, relishing how people scrambled aside in fear. When attending theater performances, he would entrust it to the playhouse gatekeeper before entering. The gatekeeper had specially prepared a separate area at the entrance for the esteemed dog—spreading scarlet felt upon the ground and tethering it to green bamboo.

Then one day, a youth of no mean standing came to a stop before it. And then he suddenly caressed the esteemed dog with the tip of his foot. The fierce dog of the powerful family, perhaps accustomed to viewing humans as beneath even cats and rats, bared its Tosa-bred fangs at this human’s insolence and savagely sank them into the youth’s exposed ankle.—The watching crowd gasped, their blood running cold. Surely, they thought, pulling back his leg now would be too late. However—whether one should call it boldness or audacity—the youth, in an instant, turned his toe into a sword and, instead of withdrawing it, suddenly thrust it deep into the Tosa dog’s mouth—as if to pierce through to its very stomach.

Even this formidable beast seemed to have no time to bare its fangs against the assault; with a guttural groan as though vomiting its innards, it collapsed. Though not killed outright, it let out a shrill bark and utterly drooped its tail.

More than the dog’s voice, it was the cheers of the watching crowd that shook the front of the playhouse. Before the laws of power and misrule—forced to endure unbearable humiliation and silent endurance—the commoners, witnessing the youth’s resolute act of legitimate self-defense against the violence of this “esteemed dog,” inadvertently vented their pent-up frustration and erupted into a frenzy of joy that bordered on delirium. The senior councillor’s son and his retainers came rushing out from inside the playhouse, their faces drained of color. The youth in question still remained there calmly, showing no sign of leaving. The gatekeeper, out of duty, immediately rushed off and summoned the town officials. Of course, even in such a bustling area, dog inspectors could be found everywhere. For an unruly wretch who showed no fear of the laws—and moreover had dared to kick an esteemed dog under the care of a senior councillor—precedent made it clear that death by execution and public display was inevitable, sparking a great commotion to apprehend him.

Moreover, the youth remained utterly composed. The officials and constables surrounded him. However, after observing his demeanor, the dog inspector questioned him briefly. The next moment, all the officials lost their initial ferocity like dogs; after a furtive consultation with the senior councillor’s son and his entourage, they withdrew without further incident.

Ever since that incident, the youth’s true identity could no longer remain hidden in these parts. He was the grandson of Lord Kii Dainagon Yorinobu and third son of Sadamitsu—still a mere resident in the family quarters but holding a thirty-thousand-koku fief in the land of Echizen Niu. In recent years, he had been granted an audience with Shogun Tsunayoshi, whose favor he won through his unassuming nature. His childhood name Genroku was changed to Shinnosuke; after his coming-of-age ceremony, he was conferred the Junior Fourth Rank, Lower Grade and appointed as Left Gate Guards Lieutenant. Thus it became known that he was quite the troublesome young lord.

The soba vendor, seeming to have ears quick as the wind in the streets, had been chattering away, but suddenly inserted the carrying pole into his load, “A hollyhock-crested inro like this doesn’t even serve as a wind chime for a night-soba stall.” “I’ll pass on this. …But you look like decent young men—carrying a little one on a frosty night like this. What’s your story?” “Did your wife take up with another man and drive you out?” “I’ll treat the kid to the soba.” “Don’t let the kid catch a cold.”

With that, he simply walked away.

Night ended and night came again, yet somehow the humans managed to keep eating. Kyūsuke would scavenge around for food and bring it back. At times they even had some money, and when they did, they slept on thin futons at the cheap lodging.

The hollyhock-patterned inro had become Oen’s favorite toy, but Ichijūrō, deeming it too precious even for the nobleman’s kindness, had since made her fasten it to her obi sash alongside her amulet pouch.

Unsaddled horse

“Ah—thief! Thief! Thief!”

Like a hurled stone, a man came fleeing. The pursuers numbered two or three. One of them was holding a noren pole. The entire town was shrouded in haze-like smoke, just as evening meals were being prepared. If he waited for twilight only to get caught so easily, he would surely end up a petty thief before long.

“He turned! — He went that way! — Someone catch him!” “Thief! Thief!”

The thief desperately fled, circling the bell tower in Ishimachi again and again until cornered, then dashed toward Setomono-chō—but just then, two patrol officers passing by joined forces with three or four constables who were stationed at the guardhouse. The more he ran and they chased, the more the commotion grew as though they were after some major criminal. Near the former residence of Umega at Kyōbashi-jiri, alongside the river lay a vast vacant lot, and beside a grove of uncut oak trees stood two or three cheap lodgings with sagging eaves.

Ichijūrō casually leaned his head out from a broken window there—for he had just heard a clattering of fierce footsteps nearby when, from the direction of the oak grove, a voice that sounded much like Kyūsuke’s seemed to suddenly cry out something.

"Huh?" He saw a man being violently dragged along, surrounded by figures who appeared to be constables. Each time they struck him, a voice half-sobbing and half-screaming could be heard as the group passed between the cheap lodging houses and Funatama Shrine before emerging onto the main thoroughfare.

"It’s Kyūsuke!" Stunned—he abandoned Oen crying behind him and dashed out from the dirt floor of the cheap lodging.

In the thoroughfare where dusk was approaching, a dark crowd had gathered, pointing at the bound prisoner. A small-statured man walked despondently, head hung low by the waist rope—it was indeed Kyūsuke.

……Oh!

"Kyūsuke—" He swallowed the cry rising in his throat. Ichijūrō clutched at the trembling in his chest with both hands, steeped in gloom. Dear Buddha—isn't there any way to save him? Even if he committed the crime, the responsibility lay with me. Hadn't I known all along how he obtained those coins and scraps of food he kept bringing? That innate kindness of his, that guilelessness—that nature which found purest joy simply in seeing another's child happy—how could anyone call such a man a villain?

But clearly, he had committed theft. No matter what crime he was charged with, he was undoubtedly a bound prisoner who could voice no complaints.

Ichijūrō was tormented. He had etched an expression of torment so deeply upon his face that had anyone noticed, it would have aroused suspicion. At that moment, Kyūsuke too seemed to have noticed his figure. He suddenly halted, feet faltering—but at a barked “Move!” was immediately struck with the rope’s end, and with wide, pleading eyes fixed on Ichijūrō, he turned dejectedly around the twilight street corner and disappeared. A minor crime born of momentary impulse. It wouldn’t be a lengthy imprisonment. "When he comes out, I'll apologize profusely—" With this resolution to atone for his self-reproach at a later date, Ichijūrō continued carrying the child on his back from that cheap lodging, wandering aimlessly every day.

But—there had been no word from Osode whatsoever, nor any of those chance encounters he'd half-hoped might let him see her again. That had now become his primary purpose, but even the daily payment for cheap lodging required money. He carried Oen on his back, face buried deep beneath a tattered sedge hat, and stood shamefaced beneath people's eaves while chanting Noh verses—choosing to wander through the less conspicuous artisan districts of Asakusa and Shitaya.

For the path has no certain destination For the path has no certain destination How to cross, where would it lead?

The town had already entered December. The year-end bustle. Through this bustle he flowed the unaccompanied Noh chants of the Konparu school with otherworldly leisure.—Yet none reproached him, and coins from kind souls rarely alighted upon his fan.

—And now, with snow fallen, The firewood from snow-capped peaks where he served a mountain sage Thus it must be 〽I too—as one who renounced this world— 〽The Hachi no Ki for outcasts "Even should I fell them, I shall feel no remorse" When I brush away the snow and look

Ah, how fascinating... What is to be done?

Today as well, while chanting a passage from *Hachi no Ki*, he emerged from Torigoe toward Asakusa Mitsuke when suddenly the town erupted with a flurry of footsteps, and just as a group racing past him barked “Watch it!” he was shoved forward. “What’s going on? What’s going on?” “What’s coming through?” “It’s a public spectacle!” “Criminals!” “They’re parading them through town on bareback horses.” “They caught the ones who vandalized Nakano’s dog kennels this summer.” “After being dragged all over Edo, they’re being hauled off to Kozukappara now.”

“What?” “They’re the ones who vandalized Nakano’s dog kennels.” “We gotta bow down to those bastards—be downright ungrateful not to.” Exchanging words with one another, they scrambled to run—the parched December noon rose in horse-dung-brown dust from their feet, and both sides were already thronged with spectators.

Gray Procession

On this day, the Edo Town Magistrate had resolved a long-pending difficult problem and regained a brightness unseen in over a hundred days. This was because it had even been rumored that the current Edo Town Magistrate, Niwa Tōtōmi-no-kami, would likely commit seppuku by year’s end.

The incident in which over a dozen dogs at Nakano Dog Kennels had perished overnight naturally reached the ears of Shogun Tsunayoshi, his mother Keishō-in, and of course Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu, The situation was deemed gravely serious—decried as “a national scandal”—and figures like Priest Ryūkō of Gohōin even regarded it as an ideological crime: “Without doubt, this must be the work of those who curse the shogunal house’s divine authority and harbor malicious discontent and rebellion against His Lordship’s governance. Unless such individuals are captured by leaving no stone unturned and subjected to the severest punishment as a warning to society, it is possible that one malcontent after another may emerge.)”

and even went so far as to make his customary recommendation. Tsunayoshi, already enraged, had through the senior councillors sternly pressed Town Magistrate Niwa Tōtōmi-no-kami to apprehend the culprits within a set deadline. However, the arrest did not materialize easily. The reason, it was said, was that the incident had stemmed entirely from selfless acts. Because of this, standard investigative methods—such as tracking footprints or tracing trafficking routes for stolen goods—proved entirely ineffective. All that remained was a single fish basket—apparently containing poisoned dumplings—discarded in Nakano’s mixed grove. That was all.

The hundred-day deadline had finally been extended through explanations from the senior councillors, and the deadline for apprehending the culprits was postponed by fifty additional days. Beyond that, it had become so imminent that Magistrate Niwa Tōtōmi-no-kami’s only remaining course was to apologize for his incompetence and commit seppuku. The town's well-informed gossips, making no distinction between fact and fiction, clamorously discussed such matters while waiting with bated breath for the procession of bareback horses bound for the three realms. Eventually, the procession came into view—execution ground laborers bearing rusted spears at the front, followed by those holding aloft placards listing the charges, and the conical hats of guard officials flanking the bareback horses.

Bareback horses—three. To each one were bound prisoners wearing convict uniforms. All were emaciated like grasshoppers, eyes sunken deep, hair and beards grown wild and unkempt. On white banners resembling funeral flags, their crimes stood written in jet-black ink. From the very rear trailed two priests clutching prayer beads, their geta sandals clattering for reasons none could discern. —A chill ran through that gray procession, belonging neither to this world nor the next.

Ichijūrō doubted his eyes—he too was standing among the roadside crowd. —And then, he looked at the back of one of the three bareback horses approaching first. That—though his appearance had changed—was none other than Kyūsuke the soy merchant, arrested on a petty charge about a month prior. “Could it be?” Straining his eyes and steadying his heart, he confirmed the figure passing directly before him—then nearly forgot the child on his back as he almost lunged toward the procession.

“…Kyūsuke! Oh—what can I do?!” His head swirled with some incomprehensible doubt. Anōjū wouldn’t know about this. Ōkame wouldn’t know about this. But Kyūsuke? It was unbelievable. But immediately, the next bareback horse passed by. The person on it was someone he didn’t recognize at all. Furthermore, the third bareback horse passed by. He didn’t recognize the person on this one either.—Only Kyūsuke. Only Kyūsuke continued to pass through his mind, on and on, along the endless road to death. Even if he tried to banish it, that pitiful figure would never vanish from his mind for as long as he lived.

But among the spectators’ voices, none of the abusive curses or angry shouts typically directed at those who commit common crimes like robbery, arson, or murder could be heard. Rather, they were tacitly sympathizing with those bound to the bareback horses. Some people chanted Buddhist prayers. Some were secretly clasping their hands in prayer. Others watched them pass with eyes that seemed to say, "Well done."

Those shadowy figures too, true to the year-end rush, swiftly swarmed together and swiftly dispersed. All that remained were a withered willow by the roadside and Ōoka Ichijūrō.

“Ain’t this a rare sight. Ichijūrō. You’re Oki, ain’t ya?” “Ichijūrō. “You’re Oki, ain’t ya?”

But contrary to expectations, there still stood another figure in the shade of the willow tree—a rōnin who had thrust a long sword into his belt and roughly pulled down over his face a coarsely woven hat called a Kumagai-gasa. “Wh-who... who might you be?” “Ain’t no ‘might’ about it! You can’t go forgettin’ me. As for Osode, who bore that child—I’ll have you know this Anōjūzō here had his eye on her way before you did.”

“Oh—Anōjū.” “Oki. “Have you seen Osode lately?”

Midday darkness

The reed-screen enclosure of the tea-and-rice shop where prostitutes from this area often gathered at night. At Omaya Riverbank such places were numerous. Ichijūrō was brought there, "Sit down."

With that, he sat down on the stool Anōjū had indicated. “A celebration,” “Today even I got somethin’ worth celebratin’.” “Hey proprietor! Heat up some hot sake!” “And bring decent side dishes!” He too perched cross-legged on the camp stool, leaning forward in a hushed voice as he spoke through half-covered lips. “Poor gullible Misohisa’s the pity—but this wraps the whole affair up neat.” “Magistrates—when it’s their own bellies facin’ the blade, who knows what filth they’ll spew.” “You saw them bareback nags earlier.” “Of them three culprits—Kyūsuke’s half-guilty at best—the other two’re magistrate’s stand-ins.” “Grabbed some mute beggar or half-wit convict and framed ’em as dog killers, no doubt.” “Heh heh... Our lucky break.” “Always figured if they’d just laid low proper-like, they’d sweep it clean like this.”

And then, audaciously, he went on to say:

“What’s it matter? Even the senior councillors, even the shogun—this whole world dances to Yanagisawa’s tune. Even magistrates can’t stomach seppuku when it comes down to it—so they just redirect things through Yanagisawa’s inner channels. Grease the right wheels, and anything’s possible.—What do you think? The world must be interesting. Especially if you walk the back streets—”

When the sake arrived, he fell silent for a moment, but soon leaned forward again in a hushed voice and this time began to speak of Osode. “—Were you searching that hard?”

And this was something he had been saying all along the way here. According to Anōjū, "I’ve been meeting Osode now and then." “Around last month, I was seeing her almost every night, y’know.” With that, he insinuated with utmost ease, and—glancing sidelong at Ichijūrō’s sudden change of complexion—"I’ll explain properly later..."—and so matters had reached this point. “I’ll let you see her.” “Anytime.” Anōjū drained his cup in one gulp and had Ichijūrō hold it,

“If you’d come to me sooner, I’d have taken you anytime...”

With that, he still refrained from explicitly stating her whereabouts.

Ichijūrō was tormented with no way to ease his impatience. He had involuntarily flashed eyes of righteous indignation at the corruption in the shogunate’s upper echelons and magistrate’s office that Anōjū had described—but once he caught a whiff of a clue to Osode’s whereabouts, all resolve vanished from his heart. Stripped of every shred of pride, he bowed repeatedly before Anōjū.

“Alright, I’ll definitely let you see her.” “I hate slobs like Ōkame.” “I promise—a solid promise.” “It is exactly as stated.” “I implore you.” “Now, don’t stand on ceremony, Oki.” “I’m from a samurai family too—can’t help but get all formal. ――Now then, instead of that promise, there’s one thing I want you to bring me.” “What is it?” “What is this thing you want me to bring?” “Among your relatives, there was definitely someone called Ōoka Hyōkurō, wasn’t there?” “The mansion is in Ushigome.” “He’s an old-timer in the Minor Repairs Commission.”

"There is." "He arranged for me to be adopted into the Ōoka Tadayemon household and served as the mediator on that occasion."

“Is that so. “Hmm...” “Go to that Hyōkurō’s estate and bring me one of Edo Castle’s treasury vault blueprints, will ya?” “Oh, there’s plenty.” “It’s bound to be in a Minor Repairs Commission house.—What? “Can’t just go ask to borrow it?” “Don’t be stupid!” “No matter how close you are, who’d ever lend something like that?” “You sneak in and quietly ‘borrow’ it.” “You’d know the estate’s layout.” “I ain’t telling you to steal money or nothing.” “Do it. Try it.” “Perfect job to test your guts... And I’ll let you see Osode too.” “What’s to doubt? Not a shred of deceit in it—cross my heart!”

Under the onslaught of Anōjū’s whispered eloquence, Ichijūrō found little chance to respond. This Anōjū possessed a different sort of influence from his cousin Ōkame—an inward yet powerful magnetism. If they were truly fellow denizens of the same darkness, it was an assimilative force that would not rest until it had made them peer into the very abyss of damnation. He was also extraordinarily skilled at temptation. Even as Ichijūrō wavered, he would sprinkle in mentions of Osode, make him take Otsubame off his back, feed her, soothe her, and thereby stoke Ichijūrō’s pity for the mother-yearning child to unbearable heights.

He closed his eyes—

“Then... when?” Ichijūrō finally blurted out. “Would you let me see Osode?” Anōjū answered, “Anytime,” but added that he wanted the blueprint obtained as soon as possible within the year’s end. He proposed meeting again here on the thirteenth night of this month. And at that time, he confirmed that should the blueprint be obtained—he could go immediately to where Osode was.

“I’ll bring it.” “By the evening of the thirteenth.” “Well then, I’ll be waiting here.”

“I’ve agreed… But the problem is this child.” “If I take this child along, I can hardly move freely.” “Got it.” “I’ll take her.” “I will.”

With that, Anōjū had already scooped her into his lap. But Ichijūrō remained filled with unease toward him; when he showed apprehension about how an unaccustomed man’s care might fare, Anōjū—already in slightly drunken good humor—threw his head back and laughed. “We’ll take a palanquin right now and head to where Osode is—it’s not far. Rather than getting battered by cold winds on your back, snuggling up to that rosy mama’s teats would be way better for this kid—wouldn’t you say?” “Ha ha ha ha! ...Speaking of which—even before little Otsubame-chan here, you’re the one who’s really craving those udders, aren’t you?”

Ichijūrō felt he’d been told the truth. By the time he stepped outside the reed-screen awning of the tea-and-rice shop, accompanying him, Ichijūrō had strangely forgotten where his conscience resided. Instead, his heart became occupied solely by the prospect of seeing Osode again—and for the first time in ages, he even felt a faint glimmer of light within. “Here’s something for your expenses in the meantime.”

With that, Anōjū passed two or three silver coins into his hand and immediately hailed a town palanquin himself at the bridge approach— “Hey. To Banchō.” He got into the palanquin with Otsubame in his arms and rode off toward Banchō.

*To Banchō?* …… *Wait—he did say Banchō…*

Ichijūrō continued to watch the receding shadow of the town palanquin for what felt like an eternity. And he envisioned the white breasts that would surely be clung to by the child tonight.—In the midday darkness where the sun still hung high.

“Nephew, let us stop. “I am not in the mood either, and you seem rather out of sorts—”

Hyōkurō swept the Go stones together with a gritty scrape and pushed the board aside. He called a servant, "Bring it," he said dully.

It was the evening meal that had been kept waiting. The sake had been reheated and the candles lit. “Let us partake.” “Well then—after you, Uncle.”

They began [the meal], but the desolate emptiness they had mutually sensed during their Go game lingered still in the meal trays and sake cups.

Midway along the slope leading through Ushigome’s Akagishita. In this area, clinging to the cliffside, there were many modest estates of the Minor Repairs Commission. Ōoka Hyōkurō, at one such house, corralled his nephew who had come for year-end greetings and sought to distract himself from his recent desolation with a game of Go.

“Nephew, do you visit Akasaka from time to time?”

“Yes.” “Yes. I paid a brief visit yesterday as well, but…” “I see.” “Out of pity, I’ve neglected my visits—how fares Lord Tadau’s condition these days?” “Has there been any improvement?” “Well… This time, his condition appears to worsen with each passing day.”

“Lord Tadau was known for his considerable fortitude, but given his age... His worries over Ichijūrō have grown heavier—it seems even his resilience has finally been worn down. …Let us pray Onui does not fall ill alongside him.” “Every time I see Lady Onui, as Ichijūrō’s brother, this humble one feels his guts being torn asunder with remorse—I can only bow in apology within my heart…”

From time to time, the sound of fallen leaves striking the eaves caused the illusion of rain.

Rain. When reminded of rain, both the nephew and Hyōkurō sank into the same memory. Nearly two months had already passed. That night too had been a pitch-dark night of rain. The figure of Ichijūrō—that demon-possessed Ichijūrō who had abandoned his adoptive father Tadayūemon and betrothed Onui to leave the Akasaka estate—still came back to their ears even now, intermingled with the mournful rain and choked-back tears of that time. It pierces their hearts with sorrow.

(Where could he be wandering as this year comes to a close? I hope he hasn’t gotten too deeply involved with bad companions. And if only he would come knocking at this house’s door, even in repentance…) When they uttered phrases like “hateful brother” or “despicable wretch,” their anger would flare instantly—yet deep within, both the Nephew and Hyōkurō remained steadfast in these prayerful sentiments. “Before night grows too late, I should take my leave.”

The cold seemed poised to bring snow. "Uncle, please take care not to catch chill as year's end approaches." "Leaving already? ...Even were I to detain you, we'd find no cheer in it now." "I keep well enough myself, but when your official duties permit, visit Akasaka occasionally on my behalf." "Your kindness overwhelms me. Then..." With Hyōkurō accompanying him, the nephew passed through the entranceway. Feeling his way along shadowed stepping stones toward the gate, he heard an unnatural rattle of shutters behind the fence screen—indeed, a human-shaped form slipped through garden shrubs and scaled the wall's ridge.

“Thief—! Uncle! Someone has sneaked into your room!” After loudly informing those inside the house, the Nephew immediately leapt out into the street. Like a lone leaf caught in a winter gale, the thief’s shadow was already fleeing down the slope. With a curse, the Nephew flew in pursuit. He closed the distance in the blink of an eye. The thief whirled around like a weasel—clearly panicking—and redoubled his flight, but upon rounding the bend at the foot of the slope, the footsteps and voice of his pursuer from behind now reached his ears.

“Wait! Thief!” As if pierced by the shout, the thief seemed to jerk to a halt for an instant—but it was the Nephew who drew near that was struck by a far greater shock. “Ah, Brother! — You’re Ichijūrō, aren’t you?!”

The thief, staggering, looked back and made a gesture as if clasping his hands. Yet the Nephew’s astonishment only fueled his fury—his feet kicked up sand as his hand came within a hair’s breadth of seizing the thief’s collar.

However, in that instant, the Nephew’s body fell with violent force toward the roots of a roadside tree. The reason was this: suddenly, a figure in a coarsely woven straw hat emerged from the shadows and collided with him from the side; with a heavy thud—whether from a weapon or a fist—it knocked him down, then dashed away like the wind—in the direction opposite the thief’s shadow.

Blindly Forward

It was an evening ripe with snow. How numerous the river birds were today.

The promised thirteenth day of the twelfth month. Ichijūrō showed his bleak figure—clad in the same worn-out lined kimono as always, an old woven hat on his head, a gaunt sword at his side—before the tea-and-rice shop at Umaya Riverbank and peered through the bamboo screen. "I wonder if he’s here?" He searched the back benches for Anōjūzō’s figure—the man he had parted from at this very spot days earlier.

“O-Ichi. “You’ve come.” When his back was tapped and he turned around, there stood Anōjū wearing the same coarse-woven straw hat pulled low over his brows as before, grinning vacantly—a characteristic mannerism of this man. “Ah. “You had already arrived ahead of me.”

“Nah, just now. Perfect timing. Well, let’s have a drink and warm up,” he said as they went inside. After ordering their usual stew and hot sake, and once the alcohol had begun to take effect—Anōjū promptly launched into conversation. “By the way, what’re you planning with the promised item?” “I have brought it.” “What? You brought it. Now that’s bold! Let me see it.”

"But... there are prying eyes here." "What's it matter? You think these folks around here know what they're lookin' at?" Anōjū pressed with his eyes. Ichijūrō hesitantly drew the object from his inner pocket, turned his back, and carefully unfolded it. "Right. Got it for sure." It was a single diagram sheet folded several times over. After stowing it deep in his robe, Anōjū broke into that familiar broad grin again.

"Ichinoji. “Your escape last night was pretty slick.” “With that—get yourself a bit more guts and you won’t be no amateur much longer.”"

“Huh? Last night’s…?” “Cut it out, O-Ichi. What if you’d bungled it? Can’t have me failing to recognize my own damn savior who came to rescue you, now can I? At the foot of Akagi. You damn near got yourself caught back there.” “Ah—” He suppressed the surprise that threatened to show on his face. “Then... that time—the figure who suddenly collided with my brother from behind and knocked him down—was that...?” “Oh, that was me. Anticipating something like that might happen, it’s a good thing I patrolled near Kobushin Yashiki every night. But... was that man your brother?”

"I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice at the time—but that voice shouting at my back must’ve been my brother." “Shit! That’s bad.” “What?! ‘Bad’—did something happen then? Did something happen back then?” “Nah.” Anōjū shook his head hurriedly. “Ain’t nothin’ to fret over.” “Could it... did something happen to my brother’s body?”

Without answering, Anōjū clapped his hands. He paid the proprietor of the tea-and-rice shop with coins and was already starting to put on his woven hat.

He went outside. Ichijūrō also followed him out as if clinging to his heels, then pressed intensely toward the man whose demeanor suggested he had forgotten everything.

“We had a deal, Anō.” “Tell me Osode’s whereabouts.” “Wasn’t that our deal?” “I know, O-Ichi.” “Don’t get worked up.”

Anōjū walked with nonchalant strides toward Umayanowatashi and raised his hand to the palanquin bearers’ gathering spot crouched there.

“Two palanquins.—To Banchō.” He handed over the palanquin fare in advance and explained the route or whatever in detail. Then he climbed into the front one himself and assigned the rear palanquin to Ichijūrō, “I’ll keep my promise and let you see Osode—but don’t go flaunting it too much, you hear?” he jeered, then settled into the palanquin.

Inside the palanquin, night fell. "Tomorrow will bring snow," the palanquin bearer said while running. Ichijūrō did not even notice the cold in his knees. He had even forgotten the dread of the crime he had committed the night before. The anxiety he had fleetingly felt for his brother, the Nephew’s safety had also been erased. His heart was fixed solely on meeting Osode. Only those who love can understand this joy that grows keener with each passing moment, this blindly single-minded devotion.

“Ah… Palanquin bearers. Why are you stopping? Why are you stopping? You’ll make us lose sight of the palanquin ahead!” “Sir,” the palanquin bearer said calmly. “My partner’s straw sandal strap snapped. Just wait a moment.” “I can wait, but what about the palanquin ahead?” “We’ve already ascertained the destination, so even if you follow later, there’s no need to worry.” “No, don’t!” “Now now. Why not have a quick smoke? In the meantime…”

“Stop them. The one ahead.” “The one ahead!” “It’s already out of sight, sir.” “Wh-what?”

The moment Ichijūrō leapt out, the palanquin bearers too fled in an instant, leaving nothing visible ahead or behind but the water of the outer moat and the shadow of a withered willow.

Storehouse lattice

“I’ve been tricked—” The moment he realized this, rather than anger toward those who had deceived him, it was the sudden distance that Osode’s figure had taken on—as if she were now as far away as the stars—that made him stamp his feet in frustration. His sideburns whipped through the gale. His feet, having even forgotten their straw sandals, kept running endlessly, feeling neither the frozen ground’s chill nor its bite. Chasing the palanquin lantern ahead—which couldn’t have gotten far yet—he ran on. He caught up. There it flickered ahead—he glimpsed it at last. That was definitely it. But this time, Ichijūrō turned the tables on Anō. After confirming the gate of the derelict mansion where the palanquin’s light had stopped, he hid himself beside its crumbled earthen wall. Then, once he saw Anō enter inside, he too vaulted over the wall.

The interior was vast. It appeared to be a house yielding at least a thousand koku, yet lay in ruins like an abandoned mountain temple. There was no trace of locks or security measures. Ichijūrō had slipped inside with ease. Not a single room held any light, yet from the central hall at the mansion's heart spilled a glaring lamplight. More than that—a peculiar human stench, warm and cloying, seeped outward from within. "Oh... This place—" Peering through the crack in the slightly parted cedar door, Ichijūrō found himself gripped by suspicion. At once he questioned whether Osode could possibly be in such a place.

A ferocious gambling den scene filled his vision. Fallen hatamoto, miscellaneous disgraced samurai, doctor types, master types, monks, women—they formed a circle and clashed with bloodshot eyes in their desperate games. But among those several women, Osode was nowhere to be seen. The only familiar face was that of Anōjū, who had just entered this place.

Anōjū approached the man who appeared most haughtily aloof in this crowd and peered over the game. The man was around fifty. He was likely the master of this derelict mansion. Those gathered would specifically address him as "Lord Banchō" or use the honorific "Lord Gyōbu." Lord Gyōbu was an unparalleled monstrosity of a man, yet his physique—with muscles so swollen they made bending seem laborious—stood as irrefutable proof of both the financial might and physical power needed to subjugate even wayward samurai and fallen hatamoto. And when he shifted his thick boar-like neck and moved those eyes set in a greasy red face—whether from burns or pox scars, one eyelid’s flesh pulled taut, half an eyebrow missing—this too imparted a fiercely savage sense of oppression.

Before long, Anōjū,

“Lord Gyōbu... When you have a moment.” With that whispered remark, he came toward the cedar door where Ichijūrō was peering—together with him. Ichijūrō was perplexed. He panicked.

However, the two men who had emerged immediately began conversing in the darkness. “...How about this?” “This here.”

“Oh. The Ninomaru treasury blueprint? Well done getting this, Anō.” “But it was one hell of a struggle. The reward better be fat enough to make up for this!” “Quit being stingy. The real work’s just beginning... But what’ll we do about Ichijūrō—that pawn you used to swipe this out?” “I promised to let him see Osode, but it got too damn bothersome. Gave the palanquin crew some booze money and dumped him halfway.” “Poor bastard. Should’ve let him see her... No need to hold back on my account, Anō.”

“But if y’could’ve avoided lettin’ ’em meet,” Anōjū countered, “even you, Lord Gyōbu, wouldn’t’ve gone through with it either.” “Nah.” Gyōbu-sama’s drooping eyelid twitched. “Not so sure ’bout that. Half wanted t’see ’em go at each other—told ya t’bring ’im if ya were comin’. ...Eh, whatever.” He slapped the blueprint against his palm. “I’ll hold onto this. We’ll jaw ’bout details later.” “Right, got it.” “Hmm.” The gang leader’s silver teeth glinted as he pocketed the document. “...Hear that? Thing’s whimperin’ again upstairs in the storehouse. That brat ya saddled me with last week? Nothin’ but extra trouble.”

“Well, it’s not like we can just take it to the dog kennel, y’know.” “We’ll just send it off to foster care or something soon enough.” “Why’d it have to go and be born as a human child anyway?” “It should’ve been born as a damn puppy or somethin’……”

The two men were gazing at the storehouse from the corridor window, but they soon retreated back into the main hall.

Ichijūrō crawled out from the shadow of the small room. And then, he clung to the window where the two had stood and looked around at the graveyard-like back garden here. There were two storehouses. From the large lattice at the entrance of one storehouse, a faint lamplight—a dim glow so subtle one might not even register it as lamplight—flickered outward.

The cries of a young child were coming from there. It had to be Otsubame. That cry immediately stirred the blood of kinship. It ceaselessly accused the human conscience of a father. Ichijūrō wandered like a mad shadow, then staggered outside like a drunken cat once more. And then, he pressed his face against the storehouse lattice.

A Woman Transformed

“Who? Who is there?” From the storehouse’s second floor, a woman’s voice challenged. When the heavy zelkova door downstairs began creaking open bit by bit with a *clank, clank*—yet with no one actually ascending despite this ominous sign—Osode gently pulled away from Otsubame’s sleeping face, which she had been nursing against her breast―

“Who’s there?” As she adjusted the white breast exposed by her disheveled kimono, she raised herself up and peered into the dark ladder opening once more, calling out again.

“Oh… Osode…” An echoing voice answered. The next footstep was also unnaturally loud. Osode recoiled as if struck, turning her face away; her entire body shuddered palely for an instant before curling tightly into itself.

Blankly standing there with tears streaming down, Ichijūrō spent some time trying to calm his labored breathing. As he stood there, he saw his lover’s form before him not as a dream but in vivid reality, and in light of all his single-minded determination until now, he could not help but reproach himself. Along with this, the struggle against all hunger, cold, and hardship slackened in his heart, and he felt as if his bones, flesh, and sinews were all coming apart at once—then collapsed into a sitting position with a thud.

“Osode. “It’s me—Ichijūrō. …I’ve been here for days on end. “How I’ve searched for you!”

“……” “Ah... Still, I’m glad we could meet like this.” “You’ve stayed safe all this time.” “I’ll never leave you again—never be parted from you again.” “Osode...” “……”

Osode remained prostrate, not showing her face. She hadn’t responded at all this whole time. Yet with each word from Ichijūrō, her back betrayed violent waves of emotion. Finally, sobs leaked from beneath her unseen face, and each strand of her black hair quivered as though weeping. “……What’s wrong? Osode—aren’t you happy? Come now—you can’t possibly want to stay in this place. I’ll carry Otsubame on my back. You prepare yourself. The two of us—we’ll raise this child—we’ll live happily from now on. No matter what kind of life it may be.”

Sliding closer, wrapping an arm around her back, pressing his cheek to her profile to whisper by her crimson ear—Osode suddenly sat up and violently shoved Ichijūrō’s shoulder. “What now—after all this time—.” “As if there’s any ‘never leaving’ or ‘never parting’ from now on! …N-now—after all this time—…” “Wh-what the hell did you come here for...” “Ah— Osode—what misunderstanding are you—” “Osode—what are you—” “Ichijūrō-san.”

As if steeling herself against tears, Osode gritted her teeth until her jaw creaked. Save for the crimson at her eye corners and ears, she resembled a statue drained of blood from skin surface to fingernail tips. Though her lips alone trembled faintly as if weeping, nowhere in her being remained any capacity to accept Ichijūrō's feelings. To touch her would have been like brushing against needle points—one might have sensed skin of ice. "If you truly felt that way"—her voice cracked—"why wouldn't you meet me that day at autumn's end? When I carried Otsubame all the way to Mr. Toyokawa's hill in Akasaka?" "...The humiliation...the misery of that..." "You couldn't possibly understand." "No—you couldn't!" "What exactly did you tell Kyūsuke back then?" "I'd made up my mind." "Forget about Ichijūrō." "You should wed another man... Didn't those words come from your own lips?"

“Osode. “It was my fault. “My heart was indeed so that day. “I stepped out of that room and didn’t even show my face to you. “……But Ichijūrō’s—” “Oh, shut up! “Stop this. “I’ve staked my whole life as a woman—even had your child—and yet you act like you’re the only man in this world for me… R-ridiculous. “What a fool I am—‘It was my fault—my heart was indeed so that day,’ you say? …Hmph. “How easily those words come to you. “Remember this well. “That heartlessness of yours.”

“I apologize. Osode. ……Forgive me.” “Yes. I don’t want to see that look on your face. ……Even if you apologized a hundred thousand times now, what would it do for our shattered love? I’m no longer the Osode I once was.”

“Huh? Not the Osode I once knew?” “Not thinking you’d be that fickle man changing your mind day by day, I went to meet you at that Akasaka mansion—only to reach some demon’s crossroads or dream’s junction. That night, the mansion servants handled me like a criminal—shoved into a prisoner’s palanquin, hauled all the way near Hanzo Gate, then dumped by the outer moat.” “……Might’ve blacked out altogether.” “When I finally came to—my body wasn’t mine anymore...”

Osode wept quietly once more, her tears soaking through. Pressing her sleeve to her face, she seemed poised to recount to Ichijūrō—in terse, vehement words—the anguish of that time and the emotional journey through countless days and nights until escaping that torment. Yet she could not speak. It all dissolved into tears. Her body had been at the master’s mercy from the very night they dragged her from the prisoner’s palanquin along Outer Moat Boulevard to this ruined mansion. Before she could muster any will or resistance, her fate had been irrevocably altered. This was an era devoid of women’s power to reconcile such violations through intellect and shape their own destinies—a society that forbade it. From love’s graveyard, she had bloomed into another woman entirely.

Umbrella of Snow

This monster mansion was the den of the Silver-Toothed Gang. Gyōbu-sama was—in other words—the master of this place: a hatamoto of the Silver-Toothed Gang and leader of its samurai underlings. Though his origins remained unclear, he undoubtedly possessed fearsome skills for subduing others in this underworld realm. No one had ever been heard to address him by any surname beyond “Gyōbu-sama of the Silver-Toothed Gang.” No matter what she did, Osode would not escape this place unless Gyōbu-sama’s ironclad carnal appetite for her waned. Whenever fury at this fate blazed within her woman’s heart—each time—her resentment circled back to Ichijūrō. To make Ichijūrō her target of hatred could now even be called love for him. Because she yearned for Ichijūrō alone—because of this—she had no choice but to steep her days and nights in bitterness; otherwise she couldn’t endure carrying this weight. At times she would mold effigies of both Ichijūrō and Onui—cursed figures—until her very flesh and spirit burned like flames.

In this damp gloom of the storehouse's second floor, while enduring night after night of being played with by that ugly monster Gyōbu-sama against her will, within Osode's body—entirely separate from her true feelings—a strange transformation had been brewing. Under this inescapable subjugation, she had now become entirely Monster Gyōbu’s. Even after Otsubame was suddenly returned to her arms, awakening the mother within her heart—even then, as she nursed the child through tears, what filled her thoughts was resentment toward Ichijūrō. It was not the world’s heartlessness, but a man’s heartlessness. Her hatred burned not so much for Gyōbu as it did in ever-mounting waves toward Ichijūrō.

“Please change your mind. “Forgive me. “Osode, I was too wrapped up in my own problems. “I was wrong. “……I’ll do anything to make it right.”

Ichijūrō thought that before such a woman, it was only natural to receive any manner of abuse. "What?" "Tch, shut up!"

Osode shook off the man’s hands clinging to her body—insincerely, irritably—as though no amount of berating could ever suffice. “Compensation? …Hmph… What exactly would you do?” “If you can make amends, then try.” “Return this child and me to how we were before!”

She picked up Otsubame and thrust her forward.

Otsubame, who had been sleeping innocently, was startled and began to cry. That voice, too, accused the father. "Oh, have mercy on me!"

Ichijūrō half-rose and reached out his hand at the very moment Osode violently thrust against his chest. “You liar! “How could someone like you have such a gentle heart?” “You bastard, acting all high and mighty!” “Osode—…”

Failing to catch himself with his hands behind, Ichijūrō fell over backward. "That's too cruel. Too cruel. But I am the one admitting fault!" The father's torment, the mother's torment—could this blood bond instantly become the child's anguished cries? Otsubame's wailing at this moment was extraordinary. That voice—scorching like flames—must have drawn suspicion. Then came the heavy footsteps clomping up the storehouse stairs.

It was Anōjū. They were the same rough-faced samurai who had appeared in the gambling hall’s main room and men and women of unknowable quirks.

Six or seven faces formed a screen-like enclosure around Ichijūrō and Osode. Within this circle, the eyes of Monster Gyōbu—their master with an exceptionally broad face—captured Ichijūrō’s figure and stared unblinkingly. “Anō.—So this is the one called Ichijūrō?” “Yes. Why he had come here—” “Enough,” Gyōbu-sama said with a deep, permissive nod— “They’ve gotten their look and satisfied themselves—hells, this settles it clean. ...You.”

He turned to the men behind him, raised his chin, and commanded. “Drag this bastard out. Make sure he never comes near here again.”

The brutality that followed was more than even Osode could stomach watching. Ichijūrō was instantly caught in the gang’s vigilante justice. They dragged him down the storehouse ladder, and even after hauling him outside, pummeled him with sand-filled sacks. Whether through the back gate or front gate he couldn’t tell—regardless, they hurled him out of that crumbling mansion, mind shattered beyond reckoning.

And then.

How much time had passed—he had no clear awareness.

……He suddenly came to.

When he came to his senses, he found himself lying prostrate in pure white snow. The snow buried his hands, sleeves, and chest. When he moved his body, snow sifted down from his hair and shoulders. Everything was pure white.

“Ah, just in time—you’ve come around, huh. “Samurai,” “……If you stay like this, you’ll freeze to death.” At the unexpected woman’s voice, Ichijūrō looked up. Above him, a paper umbrella with concentric rings was spread open.

The world had settled into a quiet, snow-filled night. Peering out from beneath the umbrella, he beheld the beautiful, soft blossoms of winter falling in ceaseless waves. Still devoid of sensation in his limbs, Ichijūrō’s eyes gazed vacantly at that phantom radiance. “Are you awake? …If not, grab my arm.” Adjusting her grip on the umbrella handle, the woman turned her arm toward him. Ichijūrō, for the first time, gazed at the face beneath the Okōsozukin hood, “Ah. Though I know not who you are, thank you. I’m in your debt.”

and bowed his head. “Please walk over there. How far must you return? I’ll find you a palanquin.” Following her instruction, Ichijūrō took hold of the woman’s arm and rose. Then, supported beneath the umbrella, he finally began to walk.

The Wasteland of Self-Destruction

The snow that had begun last night still fell intermittently this morning, alternating between brief lulls and renewed flurries. The year-end had drawn near its fourteenth day, and under this snow, the world lay hushed in the morning—even the sound of a shamisen being practiced somewhere could be heard. In a half-dreaming state, Ichijūrō lay in his bedding, listening to the distant sound of strings. The yuzen-patterned bedding wrapped around him also seemed to belong to some strange world. “Oh. Awake?” The face that peered in with a smile from beside the pillow screen was that of the woman from the previous night. The woman in the Okōsozukin hood—it would later be learned that her name was Oshima; she appeared to be several years older than Ichijūrō; and this house was located on a certain new street in Minami-Hatchōbori, a stylish two-story structure. On the paper-paned door, the shadow of a pine tree laden with snow was cast.

“Last night, I received your unexpected assistance. I have no means to adequately express my gratitude.” Ichijūrō hurriedly emerged from the bedding and pressed both palms squarely against the floor. When surrounded by these well-ordered furnishings and domestic arrangements, the discipline ingrained during his mansion life resurged, instantly transforming him back into someone wholly unlike his present self.

“Hohohoho. My, I’m at a loss for how to respond to such formal greetings.”

And Oshima laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Of course, she was not that kind of woman. When she went to Monster Gyōbu's mansion—even when facing the Silver-Toothed Gang or thugs—she remained determined to emerge victorious from any confrontation. Yesterday as well, she was one of the gambling den comrades in the hall. Moreover, with her sights set and riding a winning streak, she seized upon the incident at the storehouse’s second floor as the perfect pretext to slip away early—that snowy path being her route home.

——Where to? Even if asked, Ichijūrō—with his tone revealing he had nowhere to return, his disheveled hair, torn clothes, and limbs showing traces of blood—was persuaded by Oshima’s offer of shelter at her house; lining up lanterns from a two-man palanquin they procured along the way, they arrived late last night at this residence in Hatchōbori. “Oh please, enough with the gratitude already. Stop with all these stiff formalities.” “In this house, aside from the old maidservant, there’s no one to feel constrained around… And besides, to be honest, I’m just a flighty woman like this.”

Oshima, being true to her temperament and speaking frankly, layered undergarments beneath a stylish men's tanzen robe and draped it over herself from behind,

“Does your body still ache?” “Oh, it’s nothing... This morning doesn’t seem too bad.” “I’ve imposed so much trouble on you.” “Oh, you and your...” she said, lightly tapping his back before reaching over his shoulder to adjust Ichijūrō’s collar with her fingertips, bringing their faces so close they nearly touched, “It’s snowing—still this morning… Why don’t you go take a bath or something.” “I’ll get breakfast ready while you do.”

Her words drifted to his ear like whispering snow. When he exited the bath, she said she had waited without eating herself, already preparing a small pot of scallops from the morning meal—and even poured sake, urging him to drink. Before he knew it, accepting and drinking again, Ichijūrō collapsed drunk through the snowy day. No—what so violently compelled this intoxication was not Oshima’s pale hand, but something within his own heart. He could find not the slightest reason to resent Osode in return—she who resented him. In the end, it was nothing but resentment toward himself. This plunged his psyche at once into the abyss of self-destruction.

In the true essence of humanity, there were originally neither sages nor fools. There existed no distinction between good people and evil people. But needless to say, this held true only when humans were dragged back into the domain of beasts and primitive society. And just as humans still bore traces of their ancestral tails and remnants of fangs from that era, they carried those same vestiges within their hearts. Even if the physical remnants of teeth and tails had degenerated into mere relics, those within the heart—when unleashed by some catalyst—would immediately begin exerting their functions as though cast into primal wilderness.

Self-destruction was that state. Not through external forces, but by one's own doing—the act of driving oneself back toward something closer to primitive humanity. To cast oneself into this became the easiest path for all—a realm of reckless abandon and the ordained fate of the ordinary and foolish.

Ichijūrō drank heavily. Oshima could hold her liquor. However, he drank more than Oshima. And both of them remained lying drunk in the small second-floor room beneath a roof heavy with accumulated snow, not coming down until lamp-lighting time.

Seeing the lamp, they rose, bathed again, and upon exiting found the old servant had already laid out the evening meal. Oshima, using a side comb, moved toward the dressing table. “Mr. Ichi… What do you say? Up for another drink tonight?” “Sake? I can’t drink anymore.” “Can’t drink anymore.”

Their manner of speech differed from how it had been that morning. Under the basket-shaped lantern, with steam rising from a small pot and sake being warmed there as well, the two remained subdued that evening too. Then, it seemed someone with business had come downstairs, and the old servant came up to tell Oshima, "Please show your face—" As Oshima showed no sign of getting up, the old servant came through the ladder passageway multiple times, each time making a clearly troubled face.

"I don’t like this—on a night like this." Oshima clicked her tongue and went downstairs. Before long, her unrestrained manner of speaking and the man’s intimidatingly loud voice began to sound as though a quarrel had broken out. As time passed and the situation grew increasingly violent, Ichijūrō could no longer remain still. Pretending to head to the privy, he quietly peered through a gap in the corridor—only to recognize the man as Akazari Sanpei, a local enforcer from Bathhouse Town who had once threatened him and Ōkame during their reckless carousing at Chōji Bathhouse in Kanda, now identifying himself as a member of the Silver-Toothed Gang.

A Single Current

Like a rabbit that had glimpsed a wolf’s shadow, Ichijūrō stole his footsteps and stealthily fled back upstairs.

The quarrel downstairs showed no signs of abating. "You’ve taken in that brat Monster Gyōbu kicked out, haven’t you? There’s someone who swears they saw it." Through Sanpei’s voice, such words too reached his ears. "Alright—if that’s your attitude, know this: I’ll report your real trade as a female pickpocket to the authorities. You’d better believe it. I’ll make damn sure you can’t stay in this house—no, this whole neighborhood!" Such terrifying threats even echoed up to the second floor.

(Don’t think you can intimidate me. What’s it to you if I’m a female pickpocket? Oshima wasn’t one to be cowed by such threats. “On the day I sit in the shirasu court, Akazari Sanpei here should’ve already made his way to the execution platform. If you’re ready for that—bring it on.”)

This was Oshima’s side of the quarrel.

When he realized this kind of threat wasn’t working, Sanpei now changed his approach,

(He's probably on the second floor. Let me meet him!) (If I let you meet him, what do you plan to do?) (You think I'll stay silent after stealing my woman? I'll settle this man to man.) (Don't talk nonsense.) (No—Akazari Sanpei won't stand for this. It'd disgrace the Silver-Toothed Gang. Hand over the bastard!)

Soon, a thudding noise resounded, and immediately from below the ladder steps, Akazari Sanpei began barking toward the second floor. “Hey, Ichijūrō! You stole my woman! Come out front! If you’re a man, settle this with me!” Ichijūrō’s guts turned cold; from what he could gather, Sanpei must have been Oshima’s lover. Moreover, he hadn’t realized Oshima was a female pickpocket. What should I do? As he did so, he looked around for an escape route.

But Sanpei's ferocious roar ended after just a single bark. It was likely Oshima who had pulled him back. The sounds of sliding doors and shouting voices could still be heard for a brief while, but soon the house fell deathly silent in an eerie hush. Both upstairs and downstairs had become as if devoid of people.

_Has he left…? …_

Ichijūrō began to feel some relief, but there was no sound from the gate’s lattice. No—when he strained his ears properly, he could still occasionally hear the extremely faint voices of a man and woman downstairs. It was a whisper resembling the rustle of bamboo leaves murmuring in snow.

Ichijūrō poured himself sake from the jug there and began drinking alone. One bottle gone, then another, yet he kept drinking on. He felt as if he'd been sitting solitary for an eternity. At last, Sanpei departed. Perceiving this through the sounds from upstairs, Ichijūrō let out an ugly, shapeless sigh. Then, knowing Oshima would soon ascend the ladder steps, he threw himself backward to lie sprawled out. Oshima's face superimposed over his own. "Angry?" she cooed like one soothing a child,

“Or did you suddenly get tired of me once you realized I’m a pickpocket?” She too poured herself two or three cups in quick succession and knocked them back. “What’s it matter? …You think I’d give a damn about that now?”

Ichijūrō blurted out something mimicking what Oshima had said to Akazari Sanpei, “Alright, I’ll drink too!”

And he sat up. The two drank until they were covered in mud. Their subsequent acts were left entirely to instinct. It didn't matter whose heart it was, or what manner of heart it might be. Beast and beast. To harbor things like conscience or scruples would have been absurd. Reckless Ichijūrō didn't even consider whether this might be humanity's truth. They were casting off humanity itself. No—it was a frenzy of clinging to human flesh while expelling every semblance of wisdom or conscience within. —Fortunately, Oshima wasn't the sort to agonize over distinctions between flesh and spirit at this late hour. For she had never possessed even the shadow of a conscience—whether by nature or nurture—that might hinder such moments.

――The mud-covered night dawned.

The morning dawned with a dazzling snowbreak.

Ichijūrō woke with a heavy, dull, and throbbing headache. As the smoke from Oshima’s waking tobacco reached his face, he pressed a hand to his stomach to suppress a nauseating ache, “Oh? “What’s that?” Suddenly, Oshima threw down her tobacco pipe. True to a woman who dwelled in the world of evil, her agile movements were evident even as she went to stand by the window; throwing a short-sleeved kimono over her underrobe and tightening her obi sash, she opened it.

The reflection of the morning sun on the snow flooded into every corner of the room. Ichijūrō also jolted upright. From under the nearby roofs, an unusual commotion of voices was rising. And then, the sound of footsteps swarming toward Hatchōbori’s thoroughfare continued. Amidst the occasional rumbling of snow sliding from the eaves, they continued ceaselessly, one after another.

Right below the second floor, there seemed to be those running off and those standing still—a mix of people—but among them, words were being passed from mouth to mouth in an unusual tone. "Are they here yet? Haven’t they come through?" "What's going on? What in the world is happening?" "The Akō rōnin are supposed to come through here any moment now. Those are Lord Asano Takuminokami's loyal retainers—the ones who sparked that huge incident in the Pine Corridor last spring." "Ah! They did it? Hmm…. So the rumors... they weren't just gossip after all?"

“They say it’s something like forty-some people.” “Yes, it must be Matsusaka-chō—Lord Kira Kōzuke-no-suke’s mansion.” “What a huge commotion this is turning out to be.” “They did it… finally.” “Hmm… There’s just no way to put it into words.” “My heart’s about to burst.” “Come to think of it, I thought it was a dream—but was last night’s drum that battle drum?” “Stop lying.” “You think we’d hear anything from Matsusaka-chō all the way here?” “That’s just the fire over at Konnyaku Island.”

“I see… Haven’t they passed by yet? Which way are they coming?” “Word is today’s some shogunate thanksgiving day or such—can’t use Ryōgoku Bridge. They’ll enter Fukagawa from Honjo Ittsume, cross Eitai Bridge from Ofunakura-mae, then come through Inari Bridge, Minatochō and Nankachōbori. That’s their route.” “Mighty well-informed you are. About a route they haven’t even taken yet. Don’t tell me you’re kin to Ōishi Kuranosuke himself.”

“Nah,” “At dawn, I heard from Rokuobei at the neighborhood watch post about what happened—got the scoop early—so I went with folks like Mr. An the paperhanger and Foreman Kichi to check it out all the way to Ekōin Temple right by Matsusaka-chō.” “Haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“That explains it… If they’re coming through here now, we won’t even have time for a meal.” Oshima and Ichijūrō stood side by side at the second-floor window, listening to the scattered voices from the neighborhood.

――Oshima laughed as if speaking to herself. “It’ll startle you. As for me, after what happened last night, I was sure the constables had come.” And she cast a sidelong glance at Ichijūrō’s profile, but Ichijūrō remained motionless, his gaze fixed on some distant point, his hollow body like stone.

Life in All Its Forms Before long, the thoroughfare turned pitch black. Not only was there a wall of people, but humans could even be seen atop the roofs.

Dozens of Akō rōnin, forming a quiet procession, were now passing through that thoroughfare toward Shibaguchi, it seemed. It was quiet. The first blue sky in a long time, reflecting off the snow, was spilling bright, gentle light over the towns. The earlier commotion, so intense just moments ago, had now fallen completely silent—so quiet that one could hear the drip of melting snow and even sparrows’ chirps—yet the procession of rōnin still seemed to stretch endlessly down the thoroughfare.

"…" Ichijūrō, who had been at the second-floor window, plopped down and sat there.

Oshima was no longer by his side. Relieved they weren't constables and seeing Old Woman Ayama had rushed out, she too appeared to have gone to watch at the thoroughfare. Ichijūrō let his head drop heavily between his shoulders and remained so indefinitely. Through this Genroku present, through the currents of the age—an unseen something flowed quietly with great revelation—this vision began to appear even on Ichijūrō's closed eyelids. Suddenly, his heart began sobbing quietly within another heart. Within a single person, there existed two hearts.

But—to discover that one heart terrified him. It meant death. He could no longer live.

Like a madman, Ichijūrō thundered down the stairs. And he stood abruptly in the kitchen, his eyes shifting with an unsettling intensity. He found a one-shō sake bottle. He grabbed the mouth of the sake bottle and brought it upside down to his face. ……He squeezed his eyes shut, throat bulging as he gulped—gulp, gulp, gulp—without even pausing for breath. “She’s not here? …Oshima.”

With a clatter, someone slid open the waist-high shutter there.

Ichijūrō slowly pulled the now-lightened cheap sake bottle away from his face.

When he looked, it was Akazari Sanpei. Behind him as well, about four others in matching outfits were craning their necks. “Hey! You’re Ichijūrō, huh?” “...Ichi...jū...rō...?” Ichijūrō exhaled a rainbow-tinted cloud of liquor fumes with a whoosh, then planted his weight on his heels as he staggered back—his face twisting in something like pain. “That’s right. Ichijūrō.” “S-so... wh-what’re you gonna do about it?” “Get out here!” “Wh...where to?”

“I’ll settle things with you today—already told Oshima too.” “You heard me, didn’t you?” “Don’t know.” “Enough! I didn’t come here to listen to your excuses.” “Get out to that vacant lot.” “Get out here!” “Fine!” “I’ll die then!” “Wh-what did you say?”

"Die! Die, you wretched thing!" he raged, writhing against his own body as he gnashed his teeth alone—

Whether it exists or not, this life is like garbage. Do you want it that badly?! Tch! If you want it so bad, I'll hand it over. Just you wait!

He ran up to the second floor. Then, over his sleepwear, he layered a tanzen coat, wrapped his obi tightly around himself, grabbed his long and short swords, first inserting the short sword—but as he tried to insert the long sword next, his entire body was already overcome with drunkenness. His hands fumbled unsteadily; the hilts slipped against his obi, and the swords came loose from his belt. But even through his drunken gaze, the gold-inlaid sword guard suddenly glinted as if speaking. Even a life like garbage, even a life unworthy of consciousness—there must be a life inherent to life itself. That sucked his drunken gaze onto the long sword’s guard and wouldn’t let go...

Those red eyes immediately welled up with tears like boiling water.—This sword guard by Gotō Yūjō carried stories of distant ancestors he had often been told as a child, and had been his father’s cherished possession throughout his life. It had been passed down to his elder brother Shuden, and after Shuden had likewise treated it as nonexistent, when he himself was to be adopted into the household of their relative Tadaemon, Shuden earnestly recounted its origins and, adding his warm feelings, bestowed it upon him. Ichijūrō’s mind suddenly called up that memory like a bubble, and he had already forgotten about those he had left waiting downstairs.

Downstairs, at that moment, Oshima’s voice could be heard. Sanpei’s gruff voice and Oshima’s shrill voice clashed once more, even more fiercely than the night before, as their argument erupted anew. Th-that's right... No matter where I end up dying like a dog in some ditch, at least... at least to my lord brother— ...At least... I must meet my lord brother once.

Without going downstairs, he stepped over the window frame and crawled out onto the snow-covered roof.

He grabbed snow and ate it.

From the direction of the main thoroughfare, a shuffling crowd of people could be seen returning in scattered disarray. Those people kept chattering excitedly without pause, each voicing their awe over what they had just witnessed firsthand. Ichijūrō pressed his hands over his ears. Then, seizing another clump of snow to stuff into his mouth, he veered away from the alleyway where human currents flowed and crawled northward across the roof on all fours. He stretched his leg toward the toilet's protruding eave, edged fearfully along the wall's crest like a prowling cat, and plunged down into the narrow passage wedged between houses.

The moment he did, he slipped violently forward with his feet leading. Thick snow buried him up to the waist.

Leaf insect.

The end-of-year market drew the biggest crowd of all year. Centered around Asakusa Kannon Hall—Kaminarimon Gate too—alley after alley swelled with waves upon waves of people. Flattered by teahouse women into playing up his masculine pride—pestered for grand battledores and New Year combs and geta sandals and ornamental sashes until he'd drunk and eaten his way through every last coin at some tavern—the carefree customer now found himself, "Well now! Do come see us again for New Year's," "and mind you don't forget our presents!"

And then, having been deliberately pushed away by the women, he abruptly found himself alone amidst the bustling crowd.

“They’re mocking me.” “Make me spend every last coin and then just cast me aside—”

The man clicked his tongue and sat down beside Kannon Hall. Immediately, pigeons gathered. His foot kicked one of them. Suddenly, countless sand whirlwinds swirled up, and under the great eaves of Kannon Hall, a flurry of pigeons spread out like an umbrella. (What kind of madman...?) The countless vagrants lolling about turned their languid eyes toward his figure, but soon reverted to their original mass of listlessness and slumber, forming a blackened patch of shadow within the sunlit space.

Then, among them was a man wrapped in a straw mat, sleeping like a leaf insect. He suddenly thrust his raised head toward this way— "Ah! Kameji!"

he blurted out. The man who had kicked the pigeon away and sat blankly hugging his knees turned around, met eyes with the leaf insect-like figure in the straw mat, and jolted upright in surprise.

“Ain’t that Oichi? Damn—this guy’s a shock! When the hell did you turn into a bum?!”

As soon as he approached, he took his hand and forcibly led him away to the back of the five-story pagoda where few people lingered.

This was their first meeting since Ōkame had left Ichijūrō behind at Kanda’s Chōji Bathhouse. But Ōkame was not one to feel bashful about such a past act of friendship. Instead, he scornfully mocked his cousin Ichijūrō’s utterly deteriorated shabbiness. “What do you want to do? You’re all skin and bones now—look just like Hōkaibō, ain’t ya? We’re both just rice weevils swarming in this world where everyone’s devouring each other’s grain—ain’t no need for you to go playin’ some fancy beggar on top of it all. Hey there, Ichinoji. Get it together, Ichinoji!”

“Ah... Thank you…”

“What? You’re sayin’ ‘thank you’? You damn fool! Who the hell you thankin’?! Sound like a ghost’s voice—look at that gutless face. Hey, Ichijūrō. After all this time, least you could do is crack a smile.” “I’m ashamed.” Ichijūrō hung his head lower still. Though the year-end sun shone warm as spring, he seemed unable to bear the glare within his heart. “Heard you met Osode t’other day.”

“What? Kameji—how do you know that?” “When I met Anōjū at Monster Gyōbu-sama’s mansion the day before yesterday, he told me about it. That ain’t all. They say Oshima from Hatchōbori took a liking to you, and you nearly got yourself chopped down by her lover Akazari Sanpei—so now you’re running around scared of Sanpei, is that it?”

“No. It’s not that I fear the likes of Sanpei.” “Hoh. Look who’s got some spirit now.” “I only wish to see my lord brother once. The only reason I’m alive is to see my lord brother. Kameji. Do you know the whereabouts of my brother Shuden?” “What’re you plannin’ to do once you meet Shuden?” “To offer my apologies for this life… I intend to settle my affairs.” “This life? ……Ahahaha! When you say ‘this life,’ you presuming there’s an afterlife? Cut it out. There ain’t no afterlife. Even if there was one—you think you could count on it? The human world—the afterlife, the afterlife after that—it’s all like this. So there ain’t nothin’ to do but enjoy this life while you’ve got it. What’s with this rush to go gettin’ yourself all set on dyin’?”

“I simply cannot bring myself to be like you—even if I try to become like you.” “Hahaha! You’re such an amateur. That’s exactly why you’re still clinging to your novice’s innocence—proof you ain’t fully become a villain yet. Becoming a villain requires training. You need guts and smarts. It’s more life-and-death than becoming a monk! Well, hang in there—just hang in there.”

and comforted him, "By the way—you hungry? You haven't even eaten breakfast yet, have you?"

Ichijūrō silently nodded. Ōkame put his hand into his pocket for a moment and thought, but with a "so be it" expression,

“Anyway, let’s get warmed up somewhere,” he said, leading him back into the bustling crowd of the year-end market.

The Scar of a Tail

――The fifteenth day of this month. That morning of heavy snow.

After fleeing Oshima’s house, Ichijūrō wandered aimlessly once more through streets choked with hunger. For days he loitered near his family home, hoping to catch even a glimpse of his brother Shuden—but Shuden never appeared. Not only that—the gate remained shut day and night for reasons he couldn’t fathom. When he crept to his uncle’s mansion at Akagi’s foot, he found its gates likewise sealed despite the midday hour. Suspecting calamity, Ichijūrō intercepted one of the unfamiliar newcomers emerging outside and pressed for answers,

“About half a month ago, when thieves had broken in, one of the shogunate’s castle blueprints had gone missing, so the master wrote a will and committed ritual suicide to take responsibility for it. It’s truly pitiable.” With that, regarding the thieves from that same night,

“That very night, Lord Shuden—who happened to be present—chased after the thieves but was instead ambushed by their accomplices and sustained an injury to his right leg. He remained here receiving treatment until Lord Hyōkurō’s funeral concluded, but then requested about two months’ leave from the authorities, stating he would take your uncle’s remains to be enshrined at Mount Kōya, and departed just two or three days ago.” Hearing of this new calamity, Ichijūrō came to fully realize he could no longer go on living. The thief from that night was none other than myself. It was also I who killed my uncle.

Tormented by unceasing remorse and torment, he wandered seeking a place to die. Yet so long as he contemplated death, he could not yet die.

Even regarding Osode, he still felt lingering attachment. When he saw others' children, he would think of Otsubame. And then he would recall his foster father in Akasaka, feel remorse toward Onui, and press his palms together in his heart.

Worldly desires beget worldly desires, and in those moments alone, death was forgotten. Battered by hunger and cold, he slept among the vagrants at night. Driven by hunger to obtain food, he too engaged in acts no different from the vagrants.

Thus, the present Ichijūrō had transformed into a man who was Ichijūrō yet not Ichijūrō.

People change easily. He, as a single individual, also demonstrated this. The human body still bore traces from the era when it had a tail. Humanity’s distant ancestors were undoubtedly animals. For that animal to become a human who possessed a human-like society, culture, and took pride in morals, religion, literature, art, and music, it had taken thousands of years of time and the collective efforts of all.

However, even thousands of years of progress—in humans who still bear the scar of a tail—carry the considerable possibility that great social decay could cause them to revert in one leap back to their primitive origins. Peer into the depths of a society corrupted by misgovernment, and you will see. The swarming masses there are merely reverting to their primal state—regressing from modern humans back to primitive ones. If ordinary people see that and think it’s someone else’s problem, they’re mistaken. One must consider that they too bear the scar of a tail.

――In that regard, it would not be entirely untrue to call both Ōkame and Ichijūrō honest men. Because both were humans who had fully bared their own tails. However, Ichijūrō anguished over it, while Ōkame rather took pride in it. “O-Ichi.” “Drink.” “Why ain’t ya drinkin’ more?” “Sake… I’ve had enough sake.” “What about food?”

“Food… I’ve had enough food too.”

“No matter how much ya stuff yourself, my purse ain’t gettin’ any lighter.” “You should stuff yourself full while you can.” The two had entered the Umamichi Magochaya. The unfiltered sake was their specialty. Scattering the side dishes and soup about, Ōkame pressed Ichijūrō relentlessly. “Ahh, warmed up good.” “Alright, let’s get going.” Just as the time came to light the lamps, the Yoshiwara-bound guests and palanquin bearers began to crowd in. Ōkame whispered into Ichijūrō’s ear. “You go on ahead and wait in front of the Nitenmon Gate.” “I’ll catch up later.”

Ichijūrō went out first and waited at the Nitenmon Gate. —and soon after, Ōkame’s shadow came clattering up, "Now, run!"

and he shoved Ichijūrō. Not understanding what was happening, Ichijūrō fled together with Ōkame. Eventually, Ōkame glanced back at the dark street, “Enough already.” “O-Ichi, looks like they ain’t chasin’ us no more.” “Dine-and-dash ain’t no picnic either.”

He rubbed his chest.

But Ichijūrō was retching up the contents of his stomach into the roadside ditch. The abrupt shift from hunger and having run too hard seemed to have upset his stomach. "You’re such a troublesome man," Ōkame said. He moved behind Ichijūrō and rubbed his back. "What a waste," he muttered. "How’s that? Calmed down now?" "No...my apologies," Ichijūrō replied weakly. "I’m grateful. I’m...fine now..." "And here we were supposed to go carousing in Yoshiwara tonight," Ōkame scoffed. "What a gloomy face you’re making. Your regular girls’ll weep buckets."

They crossed a dark path through the rice fields and emerged from Negishi to Miwa.

In this area stood many residences of Edo's merchant houses and Yoshiwara brothel-owners' lodgings. This too must be one of them - a ship-plank fence and crossbeam gate. Ōkame whispered hoarsely and pointed.

“Alright, time to get the money sorted. Night robberies are rough work by nature.” “You keep watch outside for a while.” He took out a black cloth from his breast pocket, handed it to Ichijūrō, and they wrapped their faces like bandits. And they jumped over that wall—but no sooner had they done so than he opened a hidden door from inside and peered out again.

“Hey...” “Don’t slack off on watch.” “When ya come in, shut it tight after ya.”

Demonic Figure

Ichijūrō stood guard outside for a while, as instructed. Since it was evening, passersby occasionally came through. Each time, he grew agitated, his beast-like eyes glinting. Those eyes bore no resemblance to his own from a month prior. Ichijūrō was clearly unhinged. One reason was this—the moment Ōkame slipped inside, strange noises and a woman’s scream erupted before abruptly ceasing, plunging everything into an eerie silence. Ichijūrō, left waiting outside, must have been driven to madness.

As the saying went—"Night robberies are rough work"—Ōkame forced his way in knowing full well the household members were still awake. They must have had their eyes on this house as a women's dormitory for some time. It seemed night robbers would brandish weapons, first tie up the residents, then make them reveal where the money was kept. The lamplight in the back rooms had gone out, all sounds ceased, and a graveyard-like darkness settled over the house. ...Meanwhile, Ichijūrō fidgeted restlessly—peering through the hidden door, scanning outside—until he could bear it no longer,

“K-Kameji…” He too groped his way forward, crawling on all fours into the house. A tremor ran from the soles of his feet through his entire body. “N-Not yet, Kameji?” At the end of the corridor, the inner tatami room came into view, lamplight flickering from within. Thinking it must be Ōkame, he cautiously rose to his feet—only for something slick to make his foot slip.

"Oh...?" He instinctively braced his hands against the floor, every hair on his body standing erect. It was a human corpse. Needless to say, it was a pool of blood. Behind the pillar, another household member was tied up. Ōkame had cut down one who resisted, tied another here, and was now ransacking the house.

But it seemed the cash wasn’t coming out easily. Ōkame’s shadow appeared from between the shoji screens. “O-Ichi…” Ichijūrō could not produce a reply. Then again,

“What are you doing? Search those rooms around here for money! Money—” he snapped impatiently.

But Ichijūrō found himself unable to move even when he tried. Paralyzed with terror, his legs refused to budge as though their joints had come unhinged. But in reality, the mortally wounded man he had mistaken for a corpse had, in his death throes, clutched Ichijūrō’s hem. Impatient, Ōkame raised his voice and barked again. “Hey! What’re you lollygagging for? “Ransack those rooms and find the money! “Money—” “And don’t grab anything that’ll weigh us down!”

In his trance, Ichijūrō tore free from the wounded man’s grasp. A guttural groan escaped from beneath his feet. He had no ability to discern anything. He entered the room as if swimming and then moved along to the next chamber.

There was a dim light there. Over the andon lamp lay draped a woman’s haori. The still-young mother clutched an infant to her pale breast as she trembled atop the futon.

“……” Her pale face had lost consciousness. But the light in her eyes burned fiercely with a mother’s primal instinct. With a gasp—Ichijūrō froze in place, a strange shudder rattling his bones. The woman had stretched out her hand. When he looked, several gold coins lay on her hand. And her bloodless lips,

("I'll give you this, so please help...") she seemed to say soundlessly. In Ichijūrō's mind, the figures of Osode and his child appeared hazily, as if in a dream, exactly as they were. The fact that he suddenly recalled Osode and his child—it was also the moment he himself, with a start, reclaimed a part of his own being. He found himself—Huh? ……he wondered suspiciously. ——Where had he come to now? ——he wondered. And then—in that instant—he even thought about what act he was about to commit.

He felt like a specter that had plunged into pitch-black underworld depths, writhing and wailing in torment. He covered his face with both hands. Whether he did this because he couldn't bear to look at the woman and suckling infant before him, or to suppress the sob rising in his throat—even he himself didn't know. "Money!" "That's money!" "Hey idiot! Why ain't ya snatchin' that gold over here yet?" Having come up behind and spotted the koban coins, Ōkame suddenly shoved Ichijūrō aside and pounced like a beast upon its prey.

The woman instinctively threw out the gold coins and clutched her child, “He-e-elp!” she cried, prostrating herself. Ichijūrō stumbled and collapsed on top of her, while Ōkame began frantically gathering the scattered gold coins. Beneath the woman’s body, the infant let out a loud wail—all at once. Oh, how that innocent cry so perfectly resembled Otsubame’s wailing. At the sound of the child blaming his father, Ichijūrō covered his ears. His true self—whipped by the young one’s screams, driven out, staggering—tumbled from that room.

“Oh! O-Ichi!” “Did something come?” “Wait—just wait!” Ōkame panicked too. Which of them had tripped? The oil lamp was kicked over, scattering oil from its dish and sparks of flame. Amid the clattering footsteps of their escape, Ōkame’s shouts continued ringing out, but Ichijūrō ran as if in a dream. He fled wildly, pursued by self-reproach.

“Fire!” “The Miwa side—” “Fire!” “Fire!” “Looks like a dormitory!” People came swarming in. From the direction opposite to where he was running, they came charging. Nevertheless, to Ichijūrō, that gust of countless silhouettes all seemed to be chasing after him alone.

Great Bonfire

It was a year of heavy snow. The new year dawned, and the second day was also snowy.

Ichijūrō, who had no memory of where he had slept or where he had walked. Even on such snowy nights, he would walk staggering from one eaves to another, wearing a sake straw mat he had picked up on the road over his head. Since it was New Year's Eve, every household had closed their doors early and were beneath warm lamplight playing karuta, laughing boisterously, drinking sake, and grilling rice cakes—but for Ichijūrō, such a life was now beyond even his imagination. Whether it was due to being near the pleasure district or because it drifted from a snow-viewing boat on the moat, the plaintive melody of a shamisen could be heard somewhere—but to his ears, it was no sound at all.

On the pure white night road, his shadow walked like a stray dog. But before long, in the distance, a mass of fire came into view, glowing crimson, and drew his eyes. As he drew near, he saw that it was the grounds of a large temple compound, where firewood was piled like a mountain and fierce steam billowed from a massive cauldron.

Beside it, on an old cotton banner, written in ink— Compassionate Eyes Gaze Upon All Living Beings　　　　　Annual New Year’s Grand Gruel Distribution Dōkubō —was written. Needless to say, this was the Great Bonfire of the Gruel Distribution. Like something out of a *Gaki Zōshi* painting, countless vagrants surrounded the Great Bonfire, bustling like a New Year’s celebration in hell. The vagrants here—unlike the dark masses that had clustered behind Asakusa Kannon Hall and throughout the city districts at year’s end—all bore flushed faces, chatted joyfully, laughed with mouths agape, resembling nothing so much as one large family gathered in reunion.

And then, even when Ichijūrō quietly blended into their midst, no one gave him hostile looks—the person beside him even shifted their knees to make space. “Hey there, Reverend. Everyone’s stomachs are growling and grumbling something fierce. Ah, I can’t wait any longer!” one of them said.

One of them said. The one whom the vagrants called "Reverend" was none other than the monk Dōkubō, whose name was written on the banner. For over ten years now, Dōkubō had conducted the Grand Gruel Distribution each New Year, beginning at the grounds of Fukagawa Hachiman Shrine and at various locations throughout the city. When this was done, he would vanish from Edo, only to reappear during Obon to distribute gruel and medicine to vagrants across the entire city—then disappear again without a trace.

For over ten years this had continued, so the vagrants had come to regard him with the affection of a benevolent father and made seeing his figure their joy during Obon and New Year.

But Dōkubō, contrarily, grieved to see again those he had seen the previous year. Even after five or seven years had passed, he would especially lament the faces he saw at the Great Bonfire gatherings, offering advice, encouragement, and pondering paths to revival together with them. “Tatsu, you’re bein’ an idiot. That growlin’ ain’t your stomach worms. That’s the sound of the gruel in the big pot comin’ to a boil. Hey there, Reverend.” “Such a thing—I already know that. But those lookin’ forward to the gruel ain’t just here at Fukagawa Hachiman, I tell ya. In all of Edo, who knows how many tens of thousands there are. If tens of thousands of folks’ stomach worms were to growl, there’d be a louder racket than this big pot boilin’!”

“What a sore loser’s excuse!” “But if ya start the New Year by losin’ right off, that’s bad luck!” “What’s good or bad luck matter to us at rock bottom? Ain’t nothin’ lower than this.” “Nah—still got sickness and dyin’ left, I tell ya.” “Ahahaha! Guess you got a point there.”

Everyone erupted in uproarious laughter, but when the word "death" was uttered, Ichijūrō—who had been sitting with his knees drawn up in his dazed state—jerked his head upward abruptly. And then again, he dazedly slumped forward.

Then, one of the women holding a child shrieked shrilly. “Oh, how awful! Mr. Yasu! You’re pickin’ off lice and throwin’ ’em into the fire! Don’t go tossin’ ’em my way!”

Then, the old man sitting next to Yasu said: “Yasu. “It’s New Year’s. “Stop the killin’. “Once you’ve eaten your fill of warm gruel, let the lice have their New Year too—let ’em feast plenty on the skin of us gruel-eaters. It won’t shorten your lifespan none to feed ’em lice.”

Seated on a bundle of firewood, Dōkubō listened to the idle banter of the crowd with a smirk. To the words someone had just spoken—"Even lice deserve New Year’s"—he pressed his hands together in prayer.

Dōkubō was around forty, but he had never told anyone the name of his temple or his origins. If someone pressed him about it, (A temple? My temple—well, it’s always been a society temple where everyone gathers. Another name for it is Ukiyo Mountain Rock-Bottom Temple, and its principal deity isn’t something we provide here, but something you all carry there. In other words, everyone here is a temple parishioner—each of you carries it within yourselves. After all, Amitābha Buddha should dwell right here within everyone’s heart.) He pointed to his chest as he spoke.

However, at some point, they had come to know that this eccentric monk was formerly a lacquerware craftsman called Hansen—who had indulged in every pleasure imaginable, even attempting double suicide with a Yoshiwara courtesan and being put on public display at the foot of Nihonbashi Bridge—before renouncing worldly life.

The catalyst for Hansen taking vows and becoming a monk—it is said—occurred one year when he met a priest named Tetsugen Zenji of Uji Ōbaku. Tetsugen, as is well known, was a monk who had made it his sacred vow during his lifetime to complete the woodblocks of the Dai-zōkyō and pass them down to future generations. He was the man who achieved the great undertaking of publishing the Dai-zōkyō—a feat that neither the shogunate's might nor the imperial court's wealth could accomplish—by rallying the populace and dedicating himself to a life of blood-drenched perseverance until its completion.

Hansen became a disciple of Tetsugen and shared many years of hardship with his teacher. When they stood by the roadside, they were ridiculed as charlatans; when they stood at gates, they were doused with water. Together they endured every trial—ridicule, persecution, hunger and cold. Moreover, in years of famine, Tetsugen would divert the pious funds he had painstakingly gathered for the Dai-zōkyō—purchasing as much rice as possible—to save the starving masses in the three cities of Osaka, Kyoto, and Edo.

Even after Tetsugen had achieved a peaceful death, Hansen did not remove his straw sandals of salvation. Though had he settled into a temple, he naturally could have become its head priest, Hansen had continued his ascetic life under trees and upon rocks for over a decade now. In this Dog Shogunate era—a hellish world where humans had grown weary of one another, prisons overflowed with criminals, and roads teemed with crowds of vagrants—Hansen declared this very reality to be his temple. Undeterred by heat or cold, he continued his teacher Tetsugen’s blood-soaked alms-soliciting, storing up offerings to appear in Edo during each Bon festival and New Year. There, he would warm the impoverished masses before departing again for the provinces.

Even if he did not speak of it himself, the vagrants had come to know these things in time, passing the stories among themselves until there was scarcely a soul among them who did not know. And so tonight as well— Gathered around the Great Bonfire in this manner, they waited for the gruel to cook—at times listening intently to Buddhist sermons, at others laughing over tales of women, and even asking Dōkubō about his past—satisfying to the fullest their New Year’s night diversions. Depending on one’s perspective, this could be seen as a vision of the Pure Land, the form of Bodhi, or even a mandala of humanity as Buddhas.

…………

Ichijūrō had drenched the knees he was hugging with tears.

"Ah..." As if groaning, he unconsciously released a heavy breath before burying his face in his knees once more. The flame of compassion warmed his frozen limbs like a mother's bosom. His ice-bound heart met spring, rousing his human sensibilities. The faces surrounding him glowed crimson in the firelight—each one beautiful and kind. Amidst them all, he alone felt his visage bore the likeness of a rakshasa or hungry ghost.

“Oh… The east is brightening up.” “The dawn crow’s cried out. Clear skies today!” “Clear skies today!” “Gruel’s ready.” As people began stirring, the Hachiman Bell tolled dawn’s arrival. The great drum thundered, signaling the gruel distribution’s start. Those who’d volunteered as stewards herded the crowd into lines—some ladling out gruel, others rinsing rice for the next pot, still more lending bowls to the empty-handed—until the scene turned battlefield-frenzied.

By the time the morning sun rose gently, destitute crowds of old and young—the poor and sick who had learned of this—came gathering, forming a winding line that overflowed all the way to Hachimannomae Town, vividly etching upon the earth the horrors of this present world. Ichijūrō too, mingling with the crowd, blew on the white warm gruel and sucked it down. At its deliciousness, tears once more spilled. It was not a matter of taste on the tongue. It felt as though he was pouring the very essence of life itself into his empty flesh. The vitality rapidly filling him from within became vividly clear before he could even set down the bowl.

*That’s right.* When he returned the chopsticks and bowl—without being ordered by anyone—he suddenly resolved himself and picked up the rope from an empty rice sack lying there. Following Dōkubō and the other volunteers’ example, he tied the rope across his shoulders and began helping distribute gruel. No one reproached him, but neither did anyone offer thanks. Ichijūrō worked until sweat drenched him.

Hunger Line

The Great Gruel Distribution ended by noon, having emptied all the planned number of rice bales.

When it ended, the people from last night all dispersed to who knows where.

Only Ichijūrō remained alone, assisting alongside Dōkubō. “……?” Dōkubō seemed to glance briefly yet attentively at his face, but he neither asked anything nor offered even a word of thanks. Dōkubō loaded the large cauldrons onto a rented cart borrowed from somewhere. Ichijūrō also lent a hand. “Now… Tomorrow it’s Kuramae’s Fudō Hall.” Muttering to himself, Dōkubō pulled the cart out.

Muttering to himself, Dōkubō pulled out the cart. Ichijūrō pushed from behind and followed. They arrived at Kuramae’s Fudō Hall toward evening. When they placed the large cauldron there, Dōkubō immediately set off again to fetch several bales of rice from the wholesaler in Saga-chō, Fukagawa. He had been sending nearly all the donations collected through his year-round alms to this rice wholesaler, save for the minimal expenses needed to sustain his ascetic life among tree roots and stones.

Because this had continued for over ten years, the master here called Saga Tada had become one of his devotees and was providing logistical support, charitable donations, and all manner of assistance for the Great Gruel Distribution events. "I haven't seen you before—have you become his disciple now?" Ichijūrō was questioned by Saga Tada.

Ichijūrō shook his head. After they finished loading the cart with rice, while Saga Tada and Dōkubō were chatting over tea, an old clerk who had approached the cart assumed him to be Dōkubō’s new disciple. “After all, there are no priests like that in this day and age—keeping hidden prostitutes at their temples, taking over brothel operations, using their clever connections to ensnare even ladies-in-waiting from the Ōoku and try to get them promoted. That’s the sort of lecherous priests you’ll find everywhere these days. If there were even ten sages like Dōkubō-sama in this world, how much brighter things might become.”

Then, the old clerk proceeded to tell him all he knew—stories of Dōkubō and his teacher Tetsugen’s karmic connections, anecdotes, and various accounts rich in human compassion.

Ichijūrō simply listened as if being whipped.

“Well then, shall we go? They must be waiting impatiently again…”

Before long, Dōkubō came out. Seeing him, Ichijūrō now took hold of the cart’s handle. Dōkubō silently pushed from behind. It was his first time pulling a cart, and the rice bales were heavy. Ichijūrō kept staggering unsteadily. However, Dōkubō did not even offer to take over.

They finally made it back to Kuramae— Even more than the previous night, vagrants had gathered densely nearby like a shadowy swarm. They had piled firewood, built the cauldron base, and now waited with only the flames left to kindle. “The Reverend’s come!” “The Reverend’s arrived!” Like children spotting their kind father, the vagrants welcomed him and stared at the mountain of unloaded rice bales,

“Reverend, how do you get so much rice? Where does it all come from?” The mingled joy and suspicion of the crowd, being so numerous, sounded almost like cheers.

“I have fields,” “Fields of compassion that all people possess—fields of good-heartedness.” “I’m a great landowner spanning all Japan, so I gather an ear here and there from those fields across every province. Now you lot—someday, even years from now—grow ears from your own fields and give me my share.” “Understand?”

A great convivial gathering like the previous night’s began. The next day was Shiba Shinmei. The next day was somewhere in Honjo, and so it continued each day. Ichijūrō did not leave Dōkubō’s side—no, it was more that he clung to the large cauldron and cart, feeling that if he were to let go, he would immediately plunge back down from the cliff’s edge into the abyss once more. It was the seventh day of the New Year—the final day of what they called the Nanakusa period. The location that day was in front of Kōtokuji Temple in Shitaya. Though this was close to the backside of Yoshiwara, the pleasure district, for some reason, the throng of destitute here was more severe than elsewhere.

The time had finally come when even that endless line of the hungry had dwindled to its last few.

Leaning on a staff and dragging his lame leg, a young monk—his face veiled by a woven sedge hat—had joined the gruel distribution line. When his turn finally came, he produced an iron alms bowl and bowed with priestly decorum.

Ichijūrō was scooping gruel from the large cauldron with a ladle when— “Ah, that iron bowl would be hard to eat from. Please don’t stand on ceremony—use this vessel here.” Seeing the monk’s decorous bow, he unwittingly slipped into samurai speech, poured gruel into a separate bowl, and held it out. Then—the young monk did not reach for it. He stood frozen, a faint tremor coursing through his body before suddenly crying out from beneath his woven sedge hat.

“Brother! It’s you—Ichijūrō!” “Wha—?!”

“I am your brother Shuden.” “I won’t let you escape today!”

"Ah—" Ichijūrō dropped the bowl of gruel to the ground. And he desperately tried to wrench free from the hand that had seized his wrist. Far from intending to flee, it was Ichijūrō himself who had wandered near his brother's residence and actively sought him out of longing to meet—yet the psychology of the moment made him unconsciously push away his brother's hand and assume a stance to bolt. “Y-you...!” Shuden staggered. His leg injury had not healed.

Had things continued as they were, Ichijūrō would have vanished against his will, and Shuden—with his injured leg—could never have caught him. But in that instant, Dōkubō’s arm shot out and grabbed Ichijūrō by the collar, yanking him back. “Reverend—are you this man’s elder brother?” “Indeed I am.” “You there—Ichijūrō, is it? “Is that person there your brother?”

“Y-yes… Ah…”

Even as he was grabbed by his bristling collar, Ichijūrō kept both hands over his face, weeping copiously in shame. “Though you are flesh-and-blood brothers,” came the admonishment, “why do you flee like mortal enemies the moment you meet? Unfortunate souls you may be—but regardless, we stand mid-task in gruel distribution.” The monk’s tone shifted to pragmatic persuasion. “Ichijūrō—would you truly abandon your service to this virtuous magistrate now, after coming so far? See it through to the end.”

Dōkubō released his grip and addressed Shuden. “Please don’t worry—he won’t run away. I have come to understand your younger brother’s true feelings over these past few days. Well, why don’t you sit down over there and rest?”

The Warbler Palanquin

Ichijūrō continued ladling gruel.

As he did so, his heart gradually regained its equilibrium. Over those past few days, he had even occasionally conversed with Dōkubō and given voice to fragments of his torment. Each time, Dōkubō's terse words had pierced deep into his true heart, summoning back into his core the self he had lost.

That evening.—After all the gruel distribution tasks had been completed.

The brothers, trusting Dōkubō, laid bare everything before him. Ichijūrō, too, spoke without hesitation—about everything from when he had run away from home up to this day: the difficult-to-tell story of Osode, Oshima, and his subsequent self-destructive behavior—now as an apology to his brother. Yet despite his sincere confession, the story he told over those few days at year's end contained many inconsistencies. According to him, it wasn’t that he was concealing anything—perhaps he simply hadn’t yet been acting as his true self—but in any case, he insisted there were parts of his conduct he couldn’t fully recall, even to himself.

And finally, he said. “At present, I have regained some composure.” “I am by no means speaking in a state of agitation.” “By your mercy—Brother, Reverend—please abandon me here.” “When I left Oshima’s house earlier—after mustering the courage to speak of my shame—my resolve was to meet you, Brother, apologize for my sins, then proceed directly to the Ōoka family’s ancestral temple, Jōkenji in Sagamitsutsumi Village, and end my life by seppuku before our ancestors’ graves. […] I shall depart for Jōkenji at once.” “Please forgive this parting.”

Shuden averted his hot eyes, seeing his brother behave like a proper brother for the first time in years. For this younger brother, Uncle Hyōkurō had committed seppuku. His adoptive father lay bedridden, while his cherished betrothed daughter had been condemned to lifelong misfortune as a woman. As for his other sins—they defied enumeration. Upon finding him, he would have to behead him and first apologize to his adoptive father Tadaemon-dono—he needed to ease the hearts of the Ōoka clan members.

That’s right—he had been utterly resolved to do just that. But seeing his brother returned to his former self, even that resolute determination had been overturned. He wanted to bring him back somehow. I want to offer apologies to his original adoptive family. And I want us to call each other “Brother” and “Brother” again, as we once did.

However, that path was fraught with too many complications. The child born from his relationship with Osode. Whether Uncle Hyōkurō’s blood relatives would consent to this or not. Moreover, even a younger brother who had fallen so far into depravity and debauchery—would Lady Onui still wait for him as her husband? “Wh-what.” “You intend to go to the ancestral gravesite and commit seppuku.” “No—such a thing cannot be permitted by my judgment alone.—” Amidst his hesitation, Shuden hurriedly interrupted: “...In any case, I will take you back to my residence. "And... Lord Tadaemon of Akasaka. "I must also hear the opinions of the rest of the clan. “…Do you think I took on this monk’s appearance, deceived the authorities to obtain arduous leave under the pretense of enshrining Uncle Hyōkurō-sama’s remains at Mount Kōya, and walked through Edo day after day for nothing? …In any case, come to my residence.”

“......”

Ichijūrō did not answer. The more my true self awakens, how could I possibly have the face to meet anyone? How could I return alive to my family home without shame? He could only be tormented thus. “Let him die.” “Let him have his wish.”

Dōkubō said. He preached that this was rather an act of mercy. Shuden’s resolve crumbled easily when told this.—Even if he were to bring him back, it was highly doubtful whether Tadaemon and Hyōkurō’s blood relatives would agree to his proposal. Moreover, if they were to make him a prisoner of the clan and he were to rise in rebellion again, following in his cousin Kamejirō’s footsteps once more, there would be no turning back.

“...That’s right.” Shuden had steeled his resolve alone. “I should offer this crippled body in my brother’s place...” he suddenly thought. To that end, they would go to the Ōoka family’s ancestral temple, just as Ichijūrō had said. Before their ancestors—he would discard this body—and with his final words—reshape his brother’s heart from its very foundations.

Having resolved thus, Shuden obeyed Dōkubō’s words. Dōkubō declared that this too must be karmic destiny, and that he would accompany them to Jōkenji Temple to offer a memorial service.

That evening, they stayed overnight at Kōtokuji Temple, and the next morning, the three set out for Jōkenji Temple in Tsutsumi Village, Kōza District, Sagami Province. Jōkenji Temple stood in the countryside beyond Fujisawa's post town. "We come from Edo to visit the graves—"

Having informed the temple’s head priest of this, the three then proceeded to the Ōoka family’s ancestral gravesite. Having completely settled his mind and steeled his resolve, Ichijūrō now looked remarkably transformed—his complexion had improved, and both his eyebrows and eyes radiated clarity.

Wild plum trees were in bloom. A bush warbler sang somewhere.

Ichijūrō sat there.

Facing the ancestral stones, composed and dignified.

“……”

Dōkubō, who stood behind, glanced back at Shuden beside him and communicated something with his eyes. Shuden’s eyes nodded in response.

Thus, between the two of them, during their journey, a new unspoken pact had formed—one different from what they had agreed upon at Kōtokuji Temple. But Ichijūrō had no way of knowing.

He had already prostrated himself on the earth, offering a lengthy apology from the depths of his heart to the stones. Quietly, he bared his upper body and drew the short sword from its scabbard. And then, in that very moment, his right hand—leaving the ice-like blade tip wrapped in his sleeve protruding from the edge of his fist—attempted to press it against his own abdomen. Dōkubō, who had been watching from behind, suddenly seized Shuden’s cane and, with a swish, swung it overhead— “Go and die!”

Dōkubō bellowed and struck Ichijūrō's body. The blow must have carried terrifyingly genuine force. Ichijūrō fell unconscious from that single strike.

"Ah…" Shuden immediately approached to check where the blow had landed, but Dōkubō laughed and,

"There’s no need to worry. I too once had this done to me by Priest Tetsugen." With that, he returned the cane as if nothing had happened. "In accordance with your instructions, we shall depart for Edo at once."

“Ah, take care.” “There are so many things I should properly thank you for, but now is not the time…” “Not at all. “There’s no time for that! “Hurry along now.”

Shuden immediately hurried his cane-dependent leg with brisk urgency toward the gate. He hired a kago and returned to Edo. —Then first visiting Ōoka Tadayuemon in Akasaka and having the clan’s principal members assemble, he opened a family council.

Shuden's sincerity moved everyone's hearts. With no objections and through unanimous agreement to entrust him, he immediately returned by kago to Fujisawa-zai. However, this time, he traveled with two kago in tow.

In one of them rode Onui.

Death and Rebirth

Ichijūrō was laid down in a room at Jōkenji Temple. The mark from being struck by the cane ached. Moreover, he had developed a fever overnight and still retained some residual heat.

Yet his spirits felt invigorated. I distinctly remember having died once. My memory is abruptly cut off. And with the early spring of his twenty-seventh year, he now felt reborn. To this newborn self, Dōkubō sat at the bedside for half a day and earnestly spoke about what life truly is. “Those who cannot love others’ lives have no reason to be able to love their own.” “How could someone who treats even their own life so carelessly ever hope to have that life blessed or loved by others?” “...Misfortune is inevitable.” “It’s neither others’ fault nor society’s.”

He said such things as well.

His brother Shuden arrived. Onui also quietly accompanied him from behind and proceeded to the bright sickroom here.

But Dōkubō was no longer there. That very morning, he had already departed on his journey. When Ichijūrō saw Onui’s figure, he couldn’t help showing shame and anguish on his brow. The dead self—something Dōkubō had told him about many times—began to throb again.

Onui showed only tears filling her eyes and could not say anything. But from that moment onward, her figure was always present at Ichijūrō’s bedside.

A few days later, Ichijūrō left his sickbed.

Onui had brought new clothes and personal belongings from her adoptive family. Ichijūrō washed his hair in the bathhouse, trimmed his overgrown beard, and transformed his entire appearance.

Around April of that year.

The adopted son Ōoka Ichijūrō formally submitted his marriage registration to the shogunate for his union with Onui, who came with a dowry. —At the same time, his adoptive father Tadayuemon retired, and Ichijūrō received an official appointment. First, he became a member of the Council of Retainers, and soon after, he was transferred to the Shogunal Guard.

On each regular day off, he dutifully returned to his home in Akasaka.

Onui made for a fine new bride.

The year was drawing to a close. Winter arrived, and they spent their first New Year in their new household. The days of his official duties also passed without incident, and nearly another year went by.

Then, in the eleventh month of the following year, on the twenty-second day, at midnight, a great earthquake struck.

It was the Genroku Great Earthquake, notable even in the annals of natural disasters. A fire broke out in Yotsuya Shiomachi, turning the lower city into a sea of flames; the uplands too burned through Aoyama, Akasaka, and Azabu, reaching all the way to Shibaura. The collapse of houses was beyond count; there was also a tsunami, with deaths from fire, drowning, and crushing—the casualties at this time were said to number over thirty-seven thousand people. Ichijūrō had been off duty that day and stayed at home.

Immediately disregarding his own home, he had horses readied and rushed to the castle. There were no fires in Honmaru or Ninomaru, but they worked desperately to contain embers from the Hanzo district. When dawn broke and temporary relief came with confirmation of the shogunate headquarters' safety, the Senior Councilor issued an order: "Survey beyond the castle grounds and compile your findings."

And so came the order from the Senior Councilor. Only young hatamoto were chosen—he among them—riding out into streets still billowing with embers. Wherever they went, devastation reigned so horrific they could not bear to look. "Ah... This place too." He abruptly reined his horse at a corner of Banchō, heart pierced by what he'd sworn not to recall yet could not resist.

Where was Osode? What about my child Otsubame? …… The mansion of that monster Gyōbu-sama had vanished without a trace. What might have been storehouses lay completely collapsed, the entire area burned away to nothing but a desolate plain of ash.

Yet beneath the large trees standing amidst mansion ruins here and there, he could see survivors laying out straw mats and gathering storm shutters, making pitiful temporary shelters scattered near and far. —Could she possibly be among them? And, forgetting himself, he spurred his horse. “Osode...” “Osode!” He faced the endless burned wasteland before him and tried calling out at the top of his voice just this once—apologizing in his heart for permitting himself even this—to see if she would answer.

No one answered.

With black streaks of ash-covered tears painting his cheeks, he whipped his horse into a headlong gallop. From then on, he resolved never to utter Osode's name again, even in secret. Yet even afterward, Otsubame's crying voice would still come to mind. On his way to and from the castle too, whenever he saw a young child or heard an infant's wail—his heart would seize unconsciously. His child's cry wasn't something summoned from within his heart—it was called forth from the depths of his chest. It must have been the blood's doing. The sinful father remained unforgiven.

Even if his consciousness believed itself to have died and been reborn anew, blood could not be remade by consciousness. But the passage of time gradually eased even that burden of blood. Especially since a child had been born with Onui, he himself was approaching the realm of adulthood. In Hōei 1 [1704], he advanced to the position of foot soldier commander, and in the fifth year of the same era [1708], he was promoted to inspector. His promotions were remarkable. He always poured sincerity and passion into his duties. This seemed rooted rather in his experiences from before his rebirth. For him, no feeling of hardship arose from any difficulty. When it came to endurance and perseverance, he seemed to become invincible.

Even after receiving his appointment to serve at the Hyōjōsho, he was awarded a diligence prize to such an extent for his dedication. And the very next year, he became Yamada Magistrate and proceeded to Ise.

He was appointed as Noto no Kami and, in his post, achieved outstanding results as a regional magistrate. In upholding the law and loving the people under his jurisdiction, there were even instances where he did not yield to the Kishū family, whose domain bordered his own.

His reputation as Yamada Magistrate resounded with unyielding resolve, strict fairness, and decisive action. “He is an exceptional magistrate of rare caliber.” Yet even within the defeated Kishū family—bested in their legal suit—there were those who offered praise. His service here lasted barely five years.

Before long, upon this man would soon fall— He was appointed as Edo Town Magistrate. A weighty duty awaited him. He received the official appointment and, much to the regret of the people of Yamada region, returned to Edo.

It was the twelfth year since he had begun serving as a shogunal guard at Edo Castle. At the same time, he became Echizen-no-kami. When humanity had lost its humanity and was steeped in apocalyptic evil and corruption, the immense challenges confronting a magistrate charged with serving the people went without saying. It could be said that the inherent contradiction of humanity judging humanity itself already guaranteed the difficulties of this weighty responsibility. But at that time, it was indeed fate that this man should emerge. Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke obediently took his seat in the office fate had ordained.

Chapter Three

Midnight Watchman

The late-night hours of Great Edo were the very embodiment of what its citizens often called "crow-black jewel darkness"—an immense, all-encompassing dark.

Only at key points along the main streets were there guard post barrier gates, and under the eaves of the watch houses, the light of tall lanterns flickered with the swaying of willow branches.

“Otsu, isn’t it ready yet? “Once midnight passes, I just can’t stop shivering if I don’t put something in my belly. “Hurry it up, will you?”

Shōshichi the watchman was warming himself by the fire in the guard post’s earthen floor while calling out to the kitchen for the udon. Otsu turned around as she took down the earthenware pot from the charcoal stove.

"Oh, the alarm clapper's ringing! You—the tall lanterns outside are out, aren't they? Don't go getting another earful from the town magistrates now." "Right. Didn't notice."

Shōshichi added more candles to it, returned immediately, took chopsticks to the hot udon pot, and began blowing on them.

At that moment, with a clatter, the oil-paper door slid open, “Shōshichi, gate alert!” Then, Yasu the informant showed his face. “Huh? A gate alert? Did something happen again?” Shōshichi threw down his chopsticks, immediately went outside, and closed and secured the small gate of the barrier adjacent to the guard post.

In Edo’s security system, in addition to what were commonly called the Thirty-Six Gates—comprising checkpoints and castle gates—there were also such barriers at key points throughout the city. From the sixth hour of dusk until the sixth hour of dawn, the main gates were closed, and nighttime passage was restricted to the narrow small gates. And whenever an incident occurred in the city, the alarm clappers would sound, the order to close the barriers would circulate, and immediately, this place would become a security cordon. “You ask if something happened? You idiot! In Edo at midnight, do you think there’s ever a single night without some incident? They’ve gone and pulled another fast one on us—the Five-Person Gang broke into the textile wholesaler at Horidome Kawashi.”

“Huh. “The Five-Person Gang?” “Seems like wickedness itself has become fashionable these days.” “But were there any injured?” “Nah, since the coroner’s not come yet, can’t say for certain—but looks like tonight’s bastards went and did something downright vicious.”

Yasu dismissed the words and ran off to another guard post. Immediately after that, “Otsu, go wake Yozō too. “Doesn’t seem like some minor commotion.” Shōshichi hurriedly slurped down his leftover udon, but suddenly recalled the punning lanterns from the Hatsuuma Festival, In Edo's spring, not a night passes without a head rolling. He recalled the eerie picture and verse that had satirized these turbulent times, shuddered, a shiver running down his spine. “Yeah, the udon’s getting cold, and somehow it’s gotten even colder. “Hey, Yoshi! “Secure it tight!” “Hurry up and get to the gate!”

He also went outside, holding a six-foot staff.

Yamada's Scarecrow Before long, another group of constables and arresting officers, “Have you seen any suspicious individuals?” came patrolling around and left. The full picture of the incident gradually came to light. The textile wholesaler Yamazen, with its eighteen-ken-wide frontage and dozens of employees, was a large establishment. However, the thieves had broken into the residence from the back bank of the Horidome River along the stone wall, inflicting serious injuries on the owner Zenbei and his wife and brutally killing several of their servants.

Because it was the last day of the month, from the shop’s accounting department, the monthly ledger and over four hundred ryō in cash had been delivered to the rear quarters by evening. That too—the entire hand chest along with the document chest and other available funds—amounting to over seven hundred ryō in total had been stolen.

Apart from gold, not a single item had been taken. Their attack was swift as a gale, and their retreat just as rapid. It became clear that their methods involved neither the time-consuming task of restraining family members with ropes or gags nor any intent to employ deadly blades unnecessarily to swiftly achieve their objectives. And so—they left behind not a single piece of evidence that could be called a clue. According to the surviving servants’ accounts, all five members of the Five-Person Gang had uniformly donned black attire and masks; perhaps to prevent their swords’ ornaments from being recognized, they had even wrapped the hilts of their long and short swords in black cloth.

“Hey, Yoshi. What in the world is going on?”

Shōshichi and Yoshi. The two watchmen stood at the gate, and in the tedium of the late-night hours with no passersby, they began talking—neither having been the one to start first. “The Shogun changed, and those ‘Edicts on Compassion for Living Things’ that lasted over a decade got repealed—just when we thought humans weren’t treated as lower than dogs anymore, now there’s these gruesome break-in robberies and villains running wild even in broad daylight. The magistrate’s office can’t seem to handle it anymore.”

“Absolutely… It must be that humans’ve developed a habit.” “What habit?” “After over a decade of venerating Lord Dogs, we’ve gotten so used to thinkin’ of ourselves as humans bein’ lower than beasts—it’s seeped right into our bones. That’s the habit.”

“Maybe so. After all, we humans have become so twisted. Even considering myself, I can no longer take things as straightforwardly as I used to.” “If you walk straight ahead, you’ll bump into people—see. There were many who called Asano Takumi-no-kami a great fool.” “I just remembered—after those forty-seven retainers were ordered to commit seppuku, there was an interesting incident.” “Oh? What kind?” “Have you forgotten? No, the Akō Incident was already over ten years ago. After those forty-seven samurai committed seppuku, the official proclamations that had been posted in key locations across Edo—starting with Nihonbashi—were smeared with mud and ink or hurled into rivers. No matter how many times they were re-erected, none remained standing safely for even three days.”

“Hmm, those official proclamations sure got torn up bad back then.” “But when all’s said and done—did they ever catch who did it?”

“Not a single one of them was ever caught!” “Now that I mention it—and I’m only saying this now—even we on the arresting side joined in doing it.” “Ahahahaha!” “And then what happened? In the end—” “In the end...” “In the end, even the authorities were at their wits’ end and revised the proclamations’ wording. Up until then, the first article of those official proclamations had read: ‘One must strive for loyalty, filial piety, and mastery of letters and arms.’ But now they rewrote it to say: ‘Parents, children, and siblings shall live harmoniously; all shall devote themselves to their duties…’ Turning those proclamations into a hollow gesture.”

“Huh… So they’ve tucked away loyalty and filial piety somewhere? Though of course, those humans who paraded Lord Dogs around in palanquins have no right to complain—”

“The Genroku era gave way to Hōei and Shōtoku, and now we’re in Kyōhō 3—but human wickedness hasn’t changed one whit. [...] When you see how things turned out, maybe being valued below Lord Dogs was humanity’s true worth after all.” As their legs grew numb, the two men squatted on the ground and quietly pulled out their nata bean pipes to begin smoking. Though tobacco use during guard duty carried strict penalties if discovered, such discipline had now decayed—they’d mastered what they called “hidden tobacco,” smoking without showing even a glimmer of flame.

“I can’t say this too loud, but some folks claim if these dangerous times and hard living keep up, we’ll see another Yui Shōsetsu-type pop up before long.” “He’ll show his face alright.” “Makes perfect fodder for a schemer like Yui Shōsetsu.”

“Oi—you think this’s a joke? Cut it out!” “Hahaha! Spare me. If I don’t crack wise once in a blue moon, how’d I keep at this fool’s errand? […] What d’you make of that South Magistrate—the one transferred last year from Yamada in Ise?” “First off—never seen his like among all Edo Town Magistrates past.” “Ain’t that right? Rare to find a magistrate so downright useless.” “They’ve posted lampoons calling him ‘Yamada’s Scarecrow,’ yet Sukiyabashi Gate stays peaceful as spring.”

"In stark contrast, Lord Nakayama Izumo-no-kami of the North Magistrate’s Office was wielding his formidable skills, making Edo’s villains shrink in fear." “The difference between North and South is too vast for it to even be a contest.” “What in the world possessed them to bring some country magistrate all the way here to serve as South Magistrate of great Edo?” “Isn’t it said to be by the discerning eye of the new shogun, Lord Yoshimune?” “There’s a rumor that even back when he was a minor retainer in Kii Province, he was secretly an ardent admirer of the current Lord Ōoka Echizen.”

“Ah! Shōshichi! They’re here.” The two men picked up their six-foot staffs and stood as rigidly as the staffs themselves. As hoofbeats mingled with approaching footsteps struck the late-night earth, they opened the large gate from both sides. Waving a lantern marked “North Magistrate’s Office,” a coroner, two mounted officers, and a group of constables swiftly passed through.

The large gate closed again. Through a break in the clouds, the slanting hazy moon briefly showed its face. But dawn in spring was still a while yet. From town to town, ink-black night air hung heavy, and dogs barked incessantly—perhaps startled by the recent hoofbeats.

“—Who’s there?!” “Hey! You can’t pass through the gate!” The two suddenly struck the earth with their six-foot staffs. And with eyes half-filled with terror, they fixed their gaze on the side of the guard post. Half of the guard post’s storefront had become a candy shop run by Shōshichi’s wife as a side job, its wooden shutters about two panels closed.—What they now saw was a figure that had approached from that darkness into the shade of a willow tree and stood perfectly still.

A man who had emerged from a red ukiyo-e print “Hey! Why are you standing there?” “It’s curfew.” “You can’t pass through here until dawn.” “Go back! Go back!”

It was when Shōshichi shouted this for the second time.

The figure left the willow tree and timidly approached the oil-paper doors of the guard post.

A slight-built youth of seventeen or eighteen stood there like a shadow puppet—pale face tilted downward beneath a purple hood, wearing page’s hakama and carrying slender swords in maki-e-decorated scabbards, his posture dejected. “Yes.” “I understand, sir.” “Um… I’m terribly sorry.”

His appearance was striking enough, but his voice was exactly like a woman’s. Although he repeatedly bowed his head, he showed no sign of turning back.

Yoshi and Shōshichi exchanged glances. As if thinking *Could it be?*, the strength drained from their tightly gripped six-foot staffs, and the sudden lifting of terror and tension welled up into an opposite sense of absurdity. “Hey—you’re one of them kagemajaya male courtesans, ain’t ya?” “Your outfit gives you away—you’re a kagema, ain’t ya?”

“Yes, that is correct.” “Your attire is fine, and the pale silk is exquisite.” “You ain’t some streetwalker working the open air—what’re you doin’ prowlin’ round town this late?” “Well, I had intended to return much earlier in the evening, but the gentleman I escorted to Hamachō detained me again at his residence and had me drink sake and such...” “So you escorted the customer back?” “You could’ve just gotten a palanquin to go home in.”

“It’s not as if I could possibly return to the kagema teahouse in the mansion’s palanquin.”

“Is he a high-ranking lord?” “I cannot disclose his name, but he maintains a splendid lower residence with numerous retainers—a gentleman of distinguished lineage...” “Hmm... Who could it possibly be?” “Please... I beg you not to inquire... For mercy’s sake.” He pressed his pale hands together in supplication. “Nah, ain’t gonna force it outta ya. These days, it’s no rarity at all—lords and hatamoto growing bored with proper mistresses and concubines, wearing themselves ragged chasing brothels and buying kagema boys. But you—which house’s courtesan are ya?”

“I am called Anezaki Kichiya of Manjiya in Yoshichō.” “Guard post sirs... I implore you—if only I might pass through this gate, I could return home to Yoshichō. Won’t you quietly let me through?” “What—what outrageous nonsense!” Shōshichi and Yoshi both widened their eyes, abruptly reviving their guard-post mentality.

“If word got out about this, our heads’d roll faster’n you can blink,” Shōshichi growled. “Even while I’m alive I can barely feed my wife an’ kids—what d’you think’d happen to ’em then?” “Then might I beg your mercy,” Kichiya pleaded, hands clasped white-knuckled, “to let me shelter in some corner of your home till dawn breaks?” “Hah! Got the airs of a proper trained kagema now, ain’t ya?” Shōshichi snorted. “All fancy with your pretty words. Listen—guard post’s got dirt floors ’cept one six-mat room. Letting some pretty-boy courtesan bed down next to my woman? That ain’t funny. Worse—might put queer notions in her head ’bout her own husband...” He crossed burly arms. “No deal.”

“Please don’t say such things, old man.” “Quit clinging to my hand like that... Hey, Yoshi—what do you think we should do?” “Brother, please ask him too.” “It’s almost dawn already, isn’t it?” “Shōshichi.” “This one’s got me stumped too.” “Since you’re the one being sweet on, you should handle this however you like.” Yoshi laughed and walked back and forth from one end of the gate to the other, poking the ground with his six-foot staff.

“This is trouble,” muttered Shōshichi, sliding open the oil-paper door and peering inside. And then, “Hey, Kichiya. If that spot’s okay, go ahead and sleep there.” he pointed to the corner of the earthen floor where the hearth was dug. In the hearth hung a large iron kettle from an adjustable hook, while on an empty box in the corner lay spread straw rice-bale matting.

“Oh, how warm this looks…” With that, Kichiya happily sat down there, leaned against the wooden floor’s frame, and settled into a position as if ready to doze off right away. Shōshichi peered into the six-tatami room and was saying something, but his wife Otsu, holding their nursing child, was already completely out, collapsed in sleep. “It’s coldest before dawn—here, use this…” said Shōshichi, removing a raincoat from the wall and gently draping it over Kichiya’s body.—At that moment, he suddenly noticed a high-relief lacquered medicine case glinting at Kichiya’s waist, its surface scattered with hollyhock crests.

“Huh…?” he blurted out, unable to contain his surprise. For commoners conditioned under Tokugawa rule to grovel in prostration, this instinctive reaction—a muddled impulse between reverence and dread toward the hollyhock crest, which none but the Three Houses or Shogun’s family dared imitate—was an inborn reflex. Shōshichi went outside, whispered this into Yoshi’s ear, and suggested Kichiya’s client might unexpectedly be a noble of high standing. Hearing this, Yoshi’s curiosity reignited as he stealthily peered through a hole in the oil-paper door. Kichiya leaned against the wall, already dozing comfortably. He appeared like a man who had slipped straight out of one of Okumura Masanobu’s crimson-tinged beni-e prints.

A veneer of severity

Nakayama Izumo-no-kami, the North Town Magistrate, was renowned for his severity and competence. A leader of his caliber naturally commanded such subordinates. Among his most trusted retainers were Satō Gōzō, known as the Demon Yoriki, while his dōshin included master swordsmen like Hayakawa Ippei, Kawakoe Gonbee, and Kurahashi Kensuke—renowned respectively as the Three Crows of the North and Nakayama’s Thirty Hands. Since assuming office in Shōtoku 4 [1714], Izumo-no-kami had achieved remarkable results in both administration and law enforcement. However, on Kyōhō 2, February 3rd [1717], Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke was newly transferred and promoted from Ise Yamada to serve as South Town Magistrate, thereby forming the twin pillars of Edo’s security apparatus alongside him.

Historically, the North and South Magistrates were meant to share an interdependent relationship like lips and teeth, but in practice, they inevitably became adversaries. In one capital city sat two Town Magistrates. Moreover, being in the midst of Great Edo’s teeming populace, they could not help but be driven by competitive spirit. To this was added further impetus through the petty townspeople’s particular delight in wielding sarcasm, criticism, and satire with keen observation. Yet while Edo’s people might hurl abuse and irony freely, they rarely offered praise. More fundamentally still, they remained ever opposed to authority, their sentiments rooted in resentment toward the samurai class.

When Ōoka Echizen-no-kami Tadasuke took his seat in the South, immediately— ("The current South Town Magistrate’s an eminent man promoted from Yamada through the new shogun’s favor," they said.) "A fine match for Nakayama Izumo-no-kami of the North—they’ll stir up something soon." The townspeople’s voices seized this expectation hungrily. The North Magistrate’s group, stung by these murmurs, ("What’s this country magistrate upstart?") —needless to say—fanned their rivalry as ever. Whether because of this or not, since last summer the North’s Demon Yoriki and Thirty Hands had thrown themselves into anti-crime campaigns with renewed vigor, their arrest numbers reaching heights unseen in recent years.

And so—

Tonight’s sudden outbreak of the Five-Person Gang robbery in Isechō as well. The Demon Yoriki of the North, Satō Gōzō, had immediately rushed to the scene, while Kurahashi Kensuke—one of the Thirty Hands—had swiftly hunted down a suspicious figure who appeared to be one of the fleeing bandits near the site, directing his arrest officers to corner the shadowy figure all the way to the gate at Edobashi’s approach. Then, from a dead-end alley somewhere, the voices of the arrest officers erupted. It must have been the commotion of capturing their prey.—Before long, one could see a bound prisoner surrounded by a cluster of shadowy figures being hauled toward the guard post.

“A woman… She was a woman!” The arrest officers whispered among themselves in shock at this unexpected revelation. When they dragged one of the black-clad, black-masked thieves under the guard post’s light, they discovered her to be—against all expectations—a woman of about thirty-two or thirty-three, with skin so pale it seemed to glow, eyes sharp with intensity, and a devastating beauty that defied her middle years. “Hmm… A woman,” Kurahashi Kensuke grunted. “But these savage methods tonight—no woman’s work. So she got separated from the other four. Right.”

With that, Kurahashi Kensuke gave a firm nod and called for Yoshi and Shōshichi, the night watchmen. "I'm leaving this bound prisoner at the guard post," he said. "Keep a close watch on her." Kensuke then whispered something to two or three arrest officers. The woman had to be either a wife or mistress of their accomplices. He was certain male gang members still lurked nearby trying to rescue her.

The arrest officers divided into three groups and scattered to hunt them down, even heading toward the Arahabashi Bridge area, Anjōchō, and Odawarachō. Then Kensuke led the remaining seven or eight men and, “I’ll make another round from Horidome through Setomono-chō and Ise-chō before returning here immediately. Until then, you must not let your guard down for even a moment.”

With that, he left instructions at the guard post and strode away with long steps. Shōshichi and Yoshi took the entrusted bound prisoner to the base of the large willow tree in front of the guard post and bound them with excessive thoroughness, coiling the ropes far beyond what was necessary. But even so, feeling uneasy, the two of them stood guard without sitting down, their six-foot staves planted firmly and the oil-paper door at their backs.

“Man, that’s something, Yoshi. This here’s one of the robbers!” “That’s right. There’ve been plenty of gangs before now, but this is the first time there’s been a woman among ’em”—as lower-ranking officials were wont to do, they started talking as soon as they grew slightly bored. “But even if the North Magistrates work their asses off like this, with the South being so damn useless, there ain’t no way they’ll ever hunt down all of Edo’s villains.” “Even female villains are looking down on the South [Magistrate] enough to pull stunts like this, I tell ya.”

“Now don’t go badmouthin’ just the South like that. They do say he’s got some decent reputation—little bits here ’n there.” “What’s he actually done then? The South side?” “Nah, not arrests or nothin’. But there was this time Tarohei the caterer from Daikumachi started a fire by accident. Got fifty days in irons for it.” “Irons’re for petty crimes, see? But if you bust ’em yourself, that’s a heavy offense... And that Tarohei dumbass went ’n broke ’em somehow.” “Damn, that’s trouble!” “Even though it was minor, exile was comin’ for sure. So when the headman ’n Five-Person Gang dragged him to the sanded court to beg mercy, Magistrate Ōoka wouldn’t even listen to their grovelin’.”

“Huh, and then?” “You careless fool—if you fell down, why didn’t you report it properly? If you injure your knee again, shouldn’t you submit a doctor’s certificate with your report?” “Magistrate Ōoka scolded him—‘Tarohei, you must have fallen down without a doubt!’—so they all suddenly realized their mistake. ‘Yes, sir! Just as you say!’ they replied, genuinely grateful for his lordship’s mercy, and went home without further trouble.” “Huh, is that all?”

“There's another one I've heard about recently. The fishmonger in Shitaya had debts pile up from eight different temples, and no matter how much he pressed them, they wouldn’t pay. So he took the ledger showing nearly two hundred ryō owed by all eight temples as evidence and appealed to Magistrate Ōoka.” “Then Magistrate Ōoka sent summons to the eight temple priests, lined them up in the sanded court, and left them waiting from morning till evening without even conducting an investigation.” “Huh.” “That’s one patient fellow.” “Now, listen up. The monks were bored; they were hungry. They took turns going to the restroom—then on the wall of the petitioner’s restroom, there were detailed account statements pasted up showing which temple had been sold how much on which date from the Shitaya fishmonger’s ledger.” “The monks started whispering among themselves in shock—and when dusk fell, a retainer came out saying Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami had a stomachache and couldn’t hold court that day.” “‘You may withdraw for today,’ he told them, ‘as there’ll be an investigation first thing tomorrow.’” “So the monks went home relieved—but not wanting to go through that again, every temple paid back what they owed the very next day.”

“Well now, with that leisurely sanded court of yours, you’re no different from a godsend magistrate for Edo’s villains.” Yoshi scoffed mockingly—as if he were about to go relieve himself—and started to turn toward the side of the guard post.

Then, Shōshichi behind him suddenly let out a strange groan and bent forward.—What?! Startled, Yoshi ran back and, with the hand that had thrown his six-foot staff, lifted Shōshichi’s body. “Whoa!” Startled, Yoshi sat down while still holding Shōshichi. The guard post’s oil-paper door was open about two shaku. And then, from inside the dirt-floored area, the attendant from the earlier wakashu teahouse—Anezaki Kichiya—came thrusting a bloodied sword toward Yoshi’s face.

Yoshi could not utter a sound. Kichiya moved toward the willow's roots and cleanly severed the black-clad woman's bonds, "Come on, Mom—now's our chance..." then helped her up and broke into a run. Mortally wounded and gasping his last breaths, Shōshichi dragged Yoshi's body along with a scraping rasp,

“Damn you!”

and clung to Kichiya’s hem. Kichiya’s sword swept backward in a one-handed strike. It twisted Shōshichi’s body and swiftly slashed Yoshi’s shoulder. Yoshi choked out a shrill, whistling cry and thudded face-first to the ground.

Led by Kurahashi Kensuke, the constables who had scoured every town like tightening a net finally returned here half a koku later.

Spring dawn.

—By then, the red of dawn had just begun to faintly tinge the railings of Edo Bridge and Nihonbashi.

And apart from the mist, not a single large gate on the main street had yet been opened, but the small side gate of last night's wooden door alone—as if it were a demon's gaping maw—stood open by someone's hand.

Again.

On the roadside about one and a half chō from this guard post lay abandoned items that someone had discarded—a black kosode robe of extremely thin fabric, a black hood, black hakama trousers, and other garments—all bundled together and left behind. Medicine Case Secretly Sealed The tide was coming in. From the river mouth toward the city’s waterways, under dawn-clouded skies, a briny current carrying countless debris fragments began lapping against embankments and stone walls.

Descending Horidome River along Kaede Riverbank and Hakozaki Riverbank, two shadows ran as one along the waterway through a path where mist still clung thick to the river surface and dawn's darkness lingered. “Hey! Ain’t that Otsubame-chan?! Here! Over here!—”

From the shore where countless reed-covered boats were moored, slightly downstream toward Ōkawa-suji, another small boat lay anchored, covered with a reed mat.

When they spotted the face of someone raising a hand and calling out toward the shore from under the reed mat, “Ah, thank goodness. Mom, Anō and the others were over there.” With that, Anezaki Kichiya from last night—together with the black-clad woman he had rescued by breaking through Edobashi’s gate—grinned and nodded toward the reed-covered boat. The man who emerged from under the reed covering immediately stood in the boat and thrust his pole.

The small boat slowly approached... In the meantime, with Kichiya’s help, the woman on land had stripped away her guise of black robes—hooded cloak and hakama trousers included.

When she cast them off, she appeared as nothing more than a woman who could be taken for either the wife of a prosperous merchant or a samurai’s spouse. Her hair was simply arranged, and she wore a hail-patterned kimono. As the boat drew near, she crisply adjusted her obi, smoothed back stray strands of her hair, and—though not so much a woman surpassing men as resembling a flower battling harsh storms—surveyed the spring dawn with unyielding eyes and lips, vigilant without letting her guard down.

Ah, those dozen-odd years had transformed Osode—once as fragile as a moonflower, innocent and a young mother working at the roadside tea stall—to such an extent. Given that this Osode was being called “Mother,” the youth who had identified himself to Shōshichi at the guard post as Anezaki Kichiya—a male courtesan from the Manjiya—was not actually a wakashu attendant but undoubtedly Osode’s true daughter, Otsubame. If one were to count, it was precisely around that time that Otsubame—the suckling infant who used to cry so often at her mother’s breast—should have grown into a young woman of sixteen or seventeen in the full bloom of youth.

“What’ll it be, Otsubame-chan? Your mother was worried sick about you.—Thanks to that, even though our job went off without a hitch, we ended up in a real mess with those bandits afterward—couldn’t escape if we tried…… Come on, get in. Can you make the jump from there?” The one chattering from the small boat while thrusting its bow against the shore was none other than Anōjū—now Anōjūzō—who, having reached the prudent age of forty yet still, if anything even more so, had forged himself into a full-fledged rogue.

“Oh no, that won’t do! You’ve got to keep it steadier than that!” “You need to hold it steadier so the boat doesn’t rock!”

Otsubame peered down from the bank and hesitated. —Then, the other two rōnin who had still been hiding under the reed covering guffawed, “When you wear that black attire, you’re Otsubame-chan who makes us rogues keep our distance—but when you return to being a woman, well, you’re still a woman, so it’s odd.” “Otsubame-chan, if you jump clumsily, we’ll get a peek at the water goddess under those page-boy hakama!” “No way!” Otsubame let out a gallant voice, grabbed her mother’s shoulder, and together they collapsed in laughter.

However, moment by moment, the sky grew pale, and the morning began to stir with life.

The small boat soon concealed them beneath the reed covering and shot out like an arrow from Mitsumata no Su into Ōkawa. Besides Anōjū handling the oar, there were still two men beneath the reed covering. They were Ōkame and Akazari Sanpei. Needless to say, the five-person gang that had entered Yamazen in Horidome consisted of these members. The mob of street delinquents, low-ranking samurai, and mere libertines—having accumulated inevitable numbness and self-abandonment—had now become pure and simple bandits. Each face had changed in countenance—not so much aged as if a mask of heinousness had been pasted over it.

However, the more heinous crimes evildoers committed together, the tighter their bonds became within the group—as inseparable as flesh and blood. They were as heedless as family. “Otsubame-chan. Did you just not get the plan we all agreed on? You made us worry like hell, didn’t you?”

The boat was ascending Ōkawa.

Once they had calmed down and deemed it safe, both Sanpei and Ōkame began questioning Otsubame intently. The reason was that last night, after achieving their objective and preparing to withdraw, when they all fled down into this small boat they had moored in Horidome River, Otsubame alone was nowhere to be seen. When she realized _(That girl isn’t here?)_, Osode—who had once fled all the way to the boat—turned back again and wandered through the town where alarm clappers rang and emergency drums could be heard, forgetting even her own peril as she searched.

Discovered by the Northern Constables and their men—Osode, while searching for her child, was driven into a corner. And at Edobashi’s end, she had been bound with rope. "There’s no way I could have ever imagined—even in my wildest dreams—that you’d be inside a guard post!" "So I just kept running here in a panic, without even knowing what was happening..." “Otsubame—why on earth were you in a place like that?”

Osode, too, could not cease voicing the same doubt.

“……” Otsubame simply kept laughing. For some reason, she refused to answer. But Sanpei and Ōkame, determined not to let it go unasked, continued to grill her thoroughly, digging into every detail. "Otsubame-chan, didn’t you understand the plan we’d agreed on before heading out?" “No.” “Then why didn’t you come straight to this boat we’d moored at Yamazen’s back canal when we gave the signal to withdraw? “…That’s what I just can’t figure out.”

“But…”

"But what happened?" "I... I dropped something important somewhere." "Huh? What did you drop?" Osode's eyes widened as she stared intently at Otsubame's face.

Otsubame was still reluctant to speak but finally confessed under their relentless questioning. "I'd kept this medicine case close since infancy—something more precious than life itself—but dropped it during our escape from Yamazen." Her voice wavered slightly before strengthening. "While searching...I got separated." "Huh." The gang member’s grunt carried through the boat’s reed covering. "You lost that fancy box?" "When I finally found it," she continued hurriedly, "alarm drums already echoed through neighboring streets." "People came swarming..." "I bolted into town proper." "At Edobashi’s approach," she finished with defiant pride lifting her chin slightly higher than necessary for mere explanation."

“Hmm…” Both Ōkame and Sanpei stared intently at Otsubame’s face as if seeing it anew. “You’ve got some real guts. Damn, that’s shocking! This brat’s a fiendish girl who outdoes even her own mother—no doubt about it!” they exclaimed in astonishment. But Osode showed a displeased expression. “Oh, you’re such a foolish girl,” she said. “What’s the big deal over one measly medicine case like that?” “But to me, it’s something as precious as my own life,” Otsubame fired back.

Otsubame suddenly shifted her tone and fired back a sharp retort. In the words exchanged between mother and daughter lay a subtle nuance that outsiders like Sanpei and Ōkame couldn’t quite grasp. “Hand over that medicine case. I’ll just throw it into the Ōkawa River instead!” “No way! If you do that, even if you’re my mom… I won’t let you get away with it!” “Then what about you?” Osode snatched the medicine case from Otsubame’s waist even as she spoke.

“No—!” Otsubame clung to her hand. Between their hands, as though fighting over a precious jewel, the medicine case was wrestled over.

With a snap, the double lid opened. And from within it, a small folded piece of paper—like a protective charm—fell between their knees. Osode released the medicine case and lunged for it. But Otsubame’s hand moved faster—snatching it up like a gambling tile—and vanished into her sleeve’s shadow.

The agony of existence. “Come on, knock it off. You’re rockin’ the boat! Save your mother-daughter squabble for after we get back. Take your sweet time with it then.”

Ōkame and Sanpei forcibly pulled the two apart.

Otsubame cried. Osode’s eyes also welled up with tears. “What on earth are you two crying about?” The strangers who couldn’t understand exchanged glances and said those words.

Otsubame was still gripping the small piece of paper in the shadow of her sleeve. Suspecting that the reason lay not in the medicine case itself but perhaps in the scrap of paper, Ōkame cautiously reached out to touch Otsubame’s hand… and her fingers did not resist. He released his fingers, “What is it?” “That…”

Akazari Sanpei also leaned in closer. The small paper folded multiple times was opened by Ōkame's hands. Upon it, faint kana characters written in ink read as follows: To the deities of heaven and earth, to all Buddhas, I humbly pray.

Even if you deign to inflict upon this body the retribution of all its evil deeds and sins until it perishes, do not deign to punish this child. The sins of this child all lie with the father. Deign to protect the well-being of this child. Genroku, Year of Cold and Famine

Pheasant on a Burnt Moor “What’s this?” “Ōkame, you figure it out?” “Dunno. What kinda charm is this anyway?”

Then Anōjū, who had stopped working the sculling oar, peeked through the mat covering from above and called down to those inside. "You know damn well—that’s it! This was written by Ichinoji—Osode-san’s first love... and Otsubame-chan’s real father." "Ah," said Ōkame. "The old Ichinoji. So this was written by that bastard who’s now masquerading as Ōoka Echizen, the Edo Town Magistrate?" As Akazari Sanpei burned with curiosity in his eyes, Anōjū kept talking from above.

“Once, Otsubame-chan secretly showed it just to me and sobbed, ‘What kind of cursed fate is this—to have a father I can’t even meet?’” “Oi, Anō. Quit yappin’ that useless crap from up there. Look—Osode-san’s eyes went full demon faster than you can blink.” “Hey. My bad, my bad?” “Damn right it’s bad! Even mutterin’ the ‘Ichi’ from Ichinoji’s name makes her face go pale. You know she’s always swearin’—‘I’ll make that bastard taste my hell for ruinin’ my whole damn life—long as I draw breath!’”

“Nah, my bad, my bad. Let’s just keep rowing quiet-like.—Ahem! Honored passengers, our vessel has now passed beneath Ryōgoku Bridge and approaches Shubi no Matsu. Best prepare yourselves for disembarkation shortly.” Amid the creak of the sculling oar, Anōjū muttered these words half to himself, clowning around alone.

Perhaps because the boat had neared its landing place, the space beneath the matting grew quiet. Otsubame, paying no heed to her mother’s countenance, once again carefully folded the handwritten note she kept as a memento of her father’s being alive and secretly tucked it away at the bottom of the medicine case.

Osode’s profile sharpened as if declaring, “I have nothing more to say—” But just as Ōkame had observed, even the mere recollection of Ichijūrō’s “Ichi” made her face instantly shift color—though the turbulent waves in her heart showed no sign of calming. She could never bring herself to lay bare her profound sorrow before that rabble—Anō, Ōkame, Sanpei and their kind—yet she perpetually turned inward. The truth of a woman betrayed—the life of one who sought authenticity only to have it ruthlessly trampled—how vast must be this world’s torments she endured, each agony breeding the next, writhing through eternal ill-fate. And blazing with curses, she vowed to make that man comprehend this retribution.

A Woman’s Verdict

After she was forced to spend her days weeping on the second floor of Monster Gyōbu’s storehouse. After experiencing the great earthquake of the sixteenth year of Genroku in the eleventh month, even during the thirteen years that followed, she never once thought she had walked her own path of destiny. No matter how many times her circumstances changed, her heart harboring resentment toward her first love, Ōoka Ichijūrō, never wavered.

And if Otsubame were to inadvertently let slip a word like "father," the smoldering embers of her mother’s resentment would instantly burst into flames, scorching her entire being. For a long time now, her love had been directed solely at Otsubame. Precisely because Otsubame had been born, she knew that there was such a thing as love among humans. Even in their mother-daughter quarrels, there was never an instance where they fought over anything other than matters related to "father". Even among their fellow villains, the depth and tenderness of Osode’s love for Otsubame moved all who witnessed it—

“Ah, I did have a mother once.”

It was enough to make one involuntarily sigh in lament. Yet because Otsubame so often secretly harbored a longing for a “father” beyond her mother, she only deepened her hatred for that father with each passing year.

As Otsubame grew into adulthood, her longing for her father took root in her consciousness, and as Osode aged, she carved that father into her heart with the chisel of resentment. Yet while she had only heard that this man who was her child’s father served as a rural magistrate in some distant province, the fire in her chest had remained smothered in ash. But when she learned last year that he had assumed the post of Edo South Town Magistrate as Ōoka Echizen no Kami Tadasuke and now oversaw the city’s police administration, her curses—fueled by the man’s falsehoods and years of pent-up resentment—blazed without respite from dawn till dusk, leaving no moment to forget.

(Hmph. No matter how many ceremonial robes he dons or how grandly he postures—playing the virtuous official—I know his true nature.) That man is a bundle of lies. A beast skilled in deception—the scoundrels around us are far more honest than he’ll ever be. Let him try arresting us as villains while wearing that magistrate’s mask. I’ll spend every breath left doing evil—I’ll make sure he chokes on his own medicine.)

In any case, the woman living in this den of evil felt as though she had been challenged by the Ichijūrō of old. (I’ll keep fighting until Ōoka Echizen’s name is dragged through the mud as a laughingstock. And when they finally catch me and haul me before the South Magistrate’s Sanded Court—that’s when I’ll spew out every last drop of my lifelong resentment. I’ll tear off that hypocrite’s virtuous mask. Let’s see how he likes having his crimes turned against him and judged instead.)

She had found here her one sole reason to live, and— (If that came to pass—how refreshing my heart would feel.) (After that, I wouldn't mind dying.) she thought resolutely. While there were certainly other reasons she had joined last night’s Five-Person Gang and stepped onto perilous thin ice, there was no doubt it had also been one of her responses to the man.

“Ah yes, please come in.” “My, my—to have the young mistress accompanying you as well.” “As we had received your notification yesterday, I took the liberty of reserving a private room.” “Now then, please follow me.”

The boat entered the narrow Sanya-bori.

At the tea-and-rice shop along the canal where morning customers returning from Yoshiwara often stopped, the proprietress promptly appeared at the pier to welcome them. After taking a morning bath, eating a light breakfast, leaving the boat there, and hiring a town palanquin, Osode and Otsubame returned ahead of the others. The palanquin went from Shitaya to Negishi Village. At a small residence behind Kan’ei-ji Temple in the desolate outskirts of Negishi—first, they were let off before a gate that seemed fit for Ueno’s temple samurai. Nearby stood many estates belonging to other temple samurai. Osode was the lady of this household. Though addressed as “young lady,” Otsubame would occasionally go out dressed as a man—a sight none of the neighbors found suspicious. Not only in Ueno but at monasteries too, it was nothing strange—indeed natural for those times—that figures of ambiguous gender came and went.

Here, it was deathly quiet and icy cold.

Every room surrounding the dimly lit courtyard was filled with nothing but peeling gold-painted sliding doors and faded ink paintings. In the back, a wheezing cough that sounded like asthma could be heard. “Osode.” “Back already?” uttered the phlegm-ridden man between fits of phlegm.

The "south" wind

Osode peeked into the room but did not sit down.

“We’ve returned.” “Well? Did it go smoothly?”

The figure that lurched up from the futon was a monstrous giant nearing sixty. His salt-and-pepper hair hung wild over a half-shaven pate - testament to chronic illness - yet the eyes glaring through phlegm-clogged coughs remained those of the legendary Monster Gyōbu. "Osode." "Osode. Sit your ass down already." "So? How much'd Yamazen's crew lift?"

“About seven hundred ryō, they say.”

“Is that all?!” “With the wisdom I’ve bestowed upon them time and again—that many men went out on the raid, and yet they couldn’t even bring back a thousand ryō! Bunch of weaklings, every last one of them!” “What’s this? Not even a word of acknowledgment…” “For a sick man, you sure do love to lecture.” “No, you did well enough—but if I were in good health and went out myself, I wouldn’t settle for less than two chests of a thousand ryō. ……Even from Edo’s treasury, this Gyōbu once hauled out four chests. Ah, but this damn illness has got me beat.”

And then he immediately collapsed onto his back. Despite feeling not a shred of affection, Osode had lived by Gyōbu's side for over a decade. Even then, she remained utterly disgusted—and yet she herself did not understand why she stayed. She wanted to raise Otsubame. That was part of it. But more than anything, betraying Gyōbu meant immediate danger to her life. Though asthmatic and bedridden like this, he still had many cohorts and underlings throughout Edo.

Having obtained the blueprint of Edo Castle’s gold vault, patiently waited for an opportunity, and finally stolen an enormous sum of gold from within the castle grounds—this being why he commanded awe among his peers—Gyōbu used that gold to provide for his comrades as well, but...

(With this, I can live off this for the rest of my life.) With that, he purchased a temple samurai position and abruptly holed himself up, avoiding public gossip ever since—but the capital that had allowed him to live idly had dried up around last year, and at the same time, he had grown prone to illness.

When the money ran out, he remembered the taste he had once savored. Gyōbu, lying in bed, concocted wicked schemes and set his sights on Yamazen of Horidome. First, he dressed Osode and Otsubame as ladies of high-ranking households and sent them to Yamazen twice for shopping and placing orders. They conducted reconnaissance and then carried out the job based on that intelligence.

Anōjū, Ōkame, Sanpei, and the others returned after night had fallen. They had long been Gyōbu's trusted retainers. In terms of evil, they were outclassed; as long as they remained in that world, they could never hold their heads high. Gyōbu distributed their shares of the gold to them and lay there gazing at the vast sum. And then he called Osode again, "Take as much as you want." He said this, but Osode did not so much as lay a hand on it.

The next day.

Of the three who had gone out with plenty of pocket money to enjoy themselves, only Ōkame suddenly returned around noon. “Hey, be careful, Otsubame. “This morning too, on my way out, there was a damn constable walking around with a police informant next to Kan’ei-ji.” “This gave me the creeps, so I changed my route and headed back to Uguisudani—only to find more of those bastards with jitte tucked under their haori sleeves prowling around there too.” “They’re all the South’s underlings.” “The world may fear the North, but damn if I don’t hate the south wind.”

Otsubame remained silent, but upon hearing “south,” Osode’s eyes immediately blazed with defiance. “What’s this? No spine at all?” she scolded. “Ōkame’s turned into a complete dim-witted turtle these days. Ōoka Echizen is your cousin, isn’t he? If you’re gonna take this body, then take it—why not show some real guts? You keep pissing yourself every time you spot a jitte, you won’t even dare walk past a junk shop.” “Got me there,” Ōkame conceded. “Touché. Keep thinking of you as the old Osode-san, someday you’ll be running the whole damn show yourself—hell, I’ll never match a woman’s nerve.”

Laughed at by Osode for his timidity, Ōkame shook his head and went off somewhere to air out his shell.

Leisure Pavilion Dialogue

Yoshimune was thirty-two years old this year. Even after assuming the role of eighth shogun, he still retained much of the wildness and youth from his days as Tokugawa Shinnosuke, third son of the Kishū family.

He had often wandered through Sakaimachi’s bustling streets during his days as a dependent son. Resembling his grandfather Dainagon Yorinobu in resoluteness and decisiveness, he was nevertheless expected to end his days leading Nibu domain’s impoverished thirty-thousand-koku retainers. Even he—favored since youth by the fifth shogun Tsunayoshi—had never imagined succeeding to the eighth shogunate and ascending the seat of power. He styled himself the restorer and innovator of a revival. This was an unorthodox Tokugawa shogunate. He ruthlessly ordered the abolition of longstanding abusive policies. Without mercy, he dismissed eunuch-like Chamberlains, utterly corrupt incompetent officials, meddlesome sycophantic Confucian scholars, and castle-rat conspirators trafficking through hidden tunnels between inner palace and outer court.

His kimono was of tsumuji striped silk, his hakama of coarse tōzan cotton—even after coming to the inner quarters of Chiyoda Castle, he persisted in using these rugged rural Kishū preferences.

“Yabuhachi. “Hey, Yabu, Yabu!” Yoshimune called out to someone outside from within the Fukiage Garden Teahouse. Among the retainers brought from Kishū was one called Yabuta Sukehachi. Shortening the name, Yoshimune called him Yabuhachi and used him as a gardener.

The chief gardener was a secret position. It was also known as that of a covert inspector. Even when the shogun secretly summoned someone to the garden teahouse to conduct confidential talks, only the chief gardener remained nearby to keep watch.

“Did you summon me?” “Ah, fetch me some water.”

Earlier, thrusting the pale tea bowl that the monk had prepared and offered toward Sukehachi,

“The water that monk gives ain’t any good.” “Go to some stream and bring me a cupful of water that’s still got life in it.” “I’m thirsty.” Before long, Sukehachi returned, having filled a vessel with clear water flowing down from Momijiyama and presented it,

“Is Echizen not here yet? He’s late, isn’t he?” he said as he drank it with apparent relish. “No. He has just arrived.” “Oh. He’s here?” Sticking his head out from inside the pavilion, Yoshimune caught a glimpse of the kamishimo-clad figure crouching beneath the sukiya-style eaves at the entrance,

“Summon him.”

and had Sukehachi convey the instruction.

Before long, Sukehachi stood at the entrance, and Echizen no Kami Tadasuke prostrated himself before Yoshimune. "In official settings we meet," he said, "but I've never shared casual intimacy with you." "That's all for today." "I'll summon you here occasionally from now on." "Whenever Your Lordship deigns to call." "I hear in Yamada my Kishū retainers got twisted up by your righteous judgments." "Those border disputes 'tween Kishū domain and Yamada...and that driftwood case with Kishū timber - all official business."

“Had you heard of this, my lord?” “Of course I had. In those days, Yoshimune too had returned to Kishū and done nothing but fish and hunt birds. And now to meet you here within Edo Castle of all places... Echizen—we share quite the bond.” “I am humbled beyond measure. By what discerning judgment Your Lordship could have seen fit to grant this unworthy one such exceptional appointment—and by what means I might repay this honor—I, Echizen, tremble at my own inadequacy.”

“No, no. This wasn’t my doing. You didn’t yield to the authority of the Kishū house or others—admirably maintained the purity of the law and broke the arrogant noses of those Kishū retainers. That integrity of yours made the common folk recommend you to me for Edo Town Magistrate through no one in particular. I’ll be counting on you from here on out.” “I shall cast aside my very life and body—”

"But Echizen." "In Edo I hear nothing but complaints about you." "I too find this criticism most justified and am profoundly ashamed." "No matter." "A town magistrate isn't some popularity-seeking peddler." "Do as you judge right." "I shall consider Your Lordship's words equal to a million men's strength."

That was the extent of their conversation. Yoshimune did not touch upon Echizen’s official duties any further; he asked if he would take some tea, and when the man replied that he would, he ordered Sukehachi to summon the tea master and had pale tea served.

“Now then, Echizen. What’s the bustle like in Sakai-cho these days? You don’t know?” “Yes,” answered Echizen, suddenly feeling as though something had struck him down across his back— “As I am still quite unaccustomed to the duties of Town Magistrate, I have not observed Sakai-cho in recent days.”

Yoshimune laughed and, “When you get the chance, take a look around,” he said lightly.

*The Wall Within*

Echizen left the garden and, even while descending from the castle grounds, found himself compelled to contemplate the true intent behind Yoshimune's words: "When occasion arises, take a good look around." Merely recalling it made him feel as though his very bodily tissues might transform at any moment. He summoned back both the visceral reality of that time and his former self into his present existence.

He recalled wandering through a starving town pelted by hail—the clamor of Sakai’s back alleys. He pictured in his mind the days when he had Misohisa carry Oen on his back, emerging from the cheap lodgings to scavenge the streets for food.

The palanquin passed through Sukiyabashi Gate, and until it was set down at the official residence’s entrance, he found his thoughts momentarily adrift. Dusk had already fallen, and every room in the official residence stood emptied. Yet two men alone—Ichikawa Giheita, the judicial investigator who perpetually aided him, and Kobayashi Kanzō, the magistrate’s clerk—had lit candles and waited in Echizen’s office. Echizen went straight to his desk and began examining documents spanning that day’s affairs: public duties, municipal governance, prison administration, fire prevention measures, road maintenance, and sundry town incidents.

Suddenly, the Yamazen case documents caught his eye. The appearances and approximate ages of the Five-Person Gang that had broken in that night—through the testimonies of Yamazen’s servants and the severely injured couple—had emerged with considerable clarity in those documents.

In addition, the testimonies of Shōshichi and Yoshizō from the Edo Bridge guard post had also been meticulously documented.

……?

Echizen trimmed the candle wick several times. He had forgotten dinner—no, under normal circumstances he would have long since returned home to his wife O-Nui and their child, to that time when he dissolved into being simply himself among them. But he had even forgotten that. "A maki-e medicine case imitating the hollyhock crest...?" "Hmm... an imitation of the hollyhock crest...?"

Echizen, startled, reread that section repeatedly. "It states that a youth of sixteen or seventeen, who had been passing the night at the guard post under the guise of being a kabuki actor from Manjiya, was in possession of it." ......Sixteen or seventeen?" He closed his eyes, counting on his fingers atop his knees. The child born from his union with Osode drifted hazily into his mind's eye. If he counted back from that time—how old had they been then? How many years had passed?—the ages aligned.

"But the deposition states it was a youth... For Oen, that detail doesn't quite fit."

He wavered, read other sections, then touched upon points that struck him— Could it be...? ......

A blow struck his chest. The sound of Oen's childhood weeping came surging back after so long, battering fiercely against that mental wall, gnawing at this father's gut as if teeth were tearing into his entrails.

Guilty Father

Onui was now happy.

Looking back now to those days before marriage when she had done nothing but weep from dawn till dusk, her husband seemed like a completely transformed person—gentle to his wife, warm to their children. When the lamps were lit, he would return home in his official palanquin bearing the fatigue of the day, (He’s home now—)

He would present his form, freed from official duties, at the entrance, and upon entering the room, still took genuine pleasure in the warmth of family life.

The eldest son Mototarō born after their marriage was already nine years old; their eldest daughter Yukiko was twelve. Their second daughter Sonoko was three. They had children following what people envied as "the ideal order—first a daughter then sons." I want to show this to Father. If only Father were alive... And every time Onui gave thanks for this happiness, there was never a day she did not think of her late father Tadaemon.

Her husband was uncharacteristically late tonight. What could have kept him? In the inner bedroom, Onui nursed Sonoko while worrying.

Though Sonoko, who was still nursing, had a wet nurse assigned to her, she had shown signs of a cold since the previous day—her fever ran high, and clinging to her mother’s warmth, she refused to be parted. “It’s not even your month for night watch…” She fretted. Even within their home, whenever she sensed some crisis arising from the heavy responsibilities of her husband’s position as town magistrate, it would immediately disrupt her milk. “My lord has returned. —Madam.” Beyond the corridor came the maid’s customary announcement.

Onui felt relieved.

Entrusting Sonoko to the wet nurse, she hurriedly stopped by the mirror stand before going out to greet him. Lord Echizen, having alighted from the palanquin, was just then stepping onto the entrance platform.

"Welcome home, my lord." "I'm a bit late today." His usual demeanor remained unchanged. He removed his official robes, bathed, then settled at the evening meal with Onui attending him—

“Have the children gone to bed yet?” “Yes – until nightfall, both Mototarō and Yukiko kept waiting eagerly for you, Father.” “Sonoko sounds like she’s crying in the nursery.” “Today she’s been coughing and fussing nonstop.” “What did Physician Rakuō say?” “He said he’d come examine her even if it grew late, but he hasn’t arrived yet.” “Hmm – they must’ve been pestering him relentlessly.” “Go tend to her.”

She hurried off to the sick child’s room. Lord Echizen entered his study as usual. Reading was both his nightly routine and his hobby, but that night, Sonoko’s crying lingered in his ears, and no matter what he did, his mind remained unsettled. Something undeniable—he berated himself. His father’s sin had not yet disappeared. The cries of Otsubame in her infancy and—those of Sonoko in the inner room were far too alike.

No—that could by no means be different. “...But the mother is different.” The sinful father, unable to bear the torment, finally closed his book and cradled his deeply aching heart in both arms. When at the magistrate’s office, he was the judge who daily sentenced the countless people dragged before the sanded court—but in the stillness of night, sitting alone, he could not help but pass judgment on himself. ——A young samurai came to the edge of the sliding door and softly inquired.

“Dr. Rakuō says that on his way back, he would like to have a brief word with you before leaving—may I show him in?” “That won’t be a problem. You may show him in.”

Lord Echizen waited for him.

The town physician of Kōjimachi, Ichikawa Rakuō, was the biological father of Ichikawa Giheita, a yoriki serving at the magistrate’s office.

Rakuō was a man of refined tastes who put others at ease. When admitted inside, he first gave a proper medical explanation that there was no need to worry about your daughter’s cold, then steered the conversation toward casual matters—how his son Giheita always benefited from your patronage—and... “By the way, I hear a Five-Person Gang with women among them recently forced their way into a kimono wholesaler called Yamazen at Horidome-gashi... The town’s abuzz with it... It must be quite trying for Your Honor as well.”

And so, over tea, he began to recount scraps of information he’d picked up here and there.

Town Voices / Department Voices

The public’s perception was a frightening thing. No matter how deep the political machinations or how secretive the inner sanctum of the Ōoku, the public inevitably uncovered them all. What could not be deceived were the public’s keen senses and their judgment. The public was a vast repository of wisdom. Was it not the public that served as the true arbiter of worldly affairs? Lord Echizen had always been acutely aware of this. Therefore, even when it came to Rakuō’s worldly anecdotes, he did not listen carelessly.

“Of the Five-Person Gang, I hear the two women are apparently mother and child. Moreover, the daughter is said to be a beauty at that bashful bloom of youth, and she’s become quite the sensation.”

If Rakuō's words were taken as the voice of the town, then the commoners already knew even such things.

Lord Echizen asked himself inwardly— (Ah—who stands condemned here?)— and kept circling this self-interrogation.

Rakuō had no way of knowing what lay within his heart, “Moreover, the townspeople seem to take their usual interest in whether it will be the North or South that apprehends the culprits of this incident. …And since my son Giheita serves in the South, whenever I hear disparagements of it, I—despite my years—cannot help but burn with indignation.” “...I pray that Your Honor will prioritize your health above all and, this time, splendidly put Lord Nakayama Izumo-no-kami of the North and his underlings to shame.”

What the old man had wanted to say seemed to be this very point. More than the townspeople, Rakuō himself was passionately invested in this "North or South" rivalry. With that—as if concluding his own exhortations—he left behind a bag of prescribed kidney-tonic medicine as a token of concern and departed.

The next day.

——And so began the days that followed. Lord Echizen spent an uneventful, ordinary busy day as usual—attending the magistrate’s office, hearing cases at the sanded court, and adjudicating all manner of municipal affairs. Since his appointment, as public opinion held, this South Town Magistrate’s Office had performed poorly in hunting down criminals—Sukiyabashi’s holding cells and prisons remained eerily quiet—but in municipal governance, it had steadily achieved administrative results. He was determined to somehow eliminate fires in Edo.

"Fires are Edo’s flower"—or so the saying went, but in the Great Meireki Fire, half the entire city burned, resulting in a disaster that caused 100,000 casualties. In the third year of Manji alone, from the second day of New Year’s to the end of the third month—a mere span of time—a new record was set with one hundred and five fires.

Even if Lord Echizen were to try recalling all the great fires he had witnessed from his childhood until now, there would be dozens beyond count. *(I cannot turn away from this)* And so, he came to believe that eradicating this calamitous demon was an urgent priority surpassing even the street villains. Thereupon he established penalties for those who caused fires, and in cases where a fire became a major conflagration, he enacted laws that held even town headmen, landlords, and landowners jointly responsible.

However, rather than that, he placed greater emphasis on preventive measures before fires could even start. He established numerous firebreak zones throughout the city. He abolished the previously imposed restrictions on building structures—such as how only daimyo and samurai households could have tiled roofs—and reformed municipal administration to allow anyone to freely construct fire-resistant houses. He also organized new fire brigades. Throughout every ward of the city, he stationed permanent rapid-response fire brigades of thirty men each. When the bell clanged, they would compete to brandish their fire hooks and standards, cooperating to extinguish the flames. In fact, he had them compete and recognized the groups that performed well.

The creation of the Edo "Iroha" Forty-Eight Brigades—it was said to date from this time. But plain administrative tasks like civil engineering, transportation, public morals, and fire prevention scarcely captured the citizens' attention. (The South was incompetent.) In contrast to such censure, the North Magistrate Lord Nakayama Izumo-no-kami's subordinates— (a gathering of skilled men) —this was precisely why they enjoyed such high repute.

Thus, while the general ill repute was directed at the South Town Magistrate’s Office, Lord Echizen paid it no mind whatsoever. However, each time, it was his subordinates—the inspectors and constables under him—who were aggrieved.

Today as well, in the constables’ room after lunch, they were joined by two or three informants who had returned from making inquiries around town,

“This time, no matter what, we of the South must apprehend the culprits ourselves—otherwise, we can’t even walk around in broad daylight with our jitte at our hips without feeling ashamed. Tatsuzō, haven’t you got any leads?” asked one of them. Tatsuzō the informant, Matsu, and Kanjū all shook their heads in unison. “There’s not a single damn thing that sounds even halfway useful. Every day, we’re just relying on dumb luck, and even the North Group hasn’t turned up anything beyond the initial reports either.”

“Aren’t we being careless? There’s no telling if those Northern bastards aren’t quietly scheming right now to catch us Southerners off guard again.” “No, this time—absolutely—we won’t make a blunder that lets the North outdo us. But no matter how many times we investigate the scene, interrogate the two guards at Edo Bridge, or dig around the Horidome area, we ain’t got a single damn lead. Even the North Group’s doing the same thing. Right now, both sides are just groping in the dark—sometimes North and South clash or end up trying to feel each other out.”

Their words were no exaggeration. Originally, each of the North and South Town Magistrate’s Offices had fifty yoriki and two hundred forty dōshin assigned to them, with the majority of these officials engaged in general municipal administration or internal office duties; only a small portion of the yoriki and dōshin were actually involved in criminal apprehension. Nevertheless, when a major incident occurred, the magistrate’s offices would concentrate their highest functions upon it. Despite this, even after twenty days had passed since the incident—and even with the combined investigative might of both North and South—not a single trace of the criminals had been found. How could a mere handful of informants possibly pick up a lead just like that?

To be honest, this seemed to be the lower-ranking officials' argument; yet there was also a stubborn pride in not wanting to appear petty toward Nakayama Izumo-no-kami's North Group by voicing complaints—so they suppressed their expressions. "Is Yamamoto not here? Yamamoto Sōta—"

At that moment, Interrogation Officer Ichikawa Giheita came searching for Yoriki Yamamoto Sōta. "If it's Lord Sōta you're after," said a subordinate, "he was just now taking his meal at the teahouse." "I've already checked both the yoriki's office and the teahouse," replied Giheita. "Is there urgent business from His Honor?"

“The magistrate has summoned you.” “Then we’ll look for him.” With that, they all left the constables’ room and scattered to search individually through the vast official residence, interrogation office, various guard posts, temporary holding cells, makeshift prison, and even the vacant lot behind the prison toilet gate.

Sōta’s Dismissal

In front of the west gate of the magistrate’s office stood what was commonly known as the “Stone-Grilled Tofu”—the “Litigants’ Rest Teahouse.” People handling legal procedures for public lawsuits or relatives sending care packages to acquaintances in prison would come here to have documents drafted or wait for appointed times, so the place was always bustling.

Yamamoto Sōta was among the younger yoriki, still around thirty years old. His sternly handsome features were not unappealing, and there had been all sorts of rumors linking him to Otsugu, the renowned daughter of the stone-grilled tofu establishment.

Tatsuzō the informant had a vague inkling about this situation. Surely not…? he thought, but just to confirm, he peered into the residential room beside the shop—and there sat Yamamoto Sōta drinking sake since noon with Otsugu at his side. This was outrageous.

Tatsuzō hesitated, but given the office’s urgent matter—with him nowhere to be seen and his colleagues growing concerned—he stood outside the window and cautiously called out: “Lord Sōta. Everyone’s been looking for you, I tell ya.” “What, me?”

Sōta showed no sign of standing up,

“Just took a quick nap during my meal break,” “It’s not like it’s anything urgent.” “I don’t know the specifics, but they mentioned something about the magistrate calling for you.” “Don’t lie to me! I finished three days’ worth of reports before noon—already cleared my official duties. Need to catch my breath or I won’t last.”

Just then, Giheita too tracked him down and arrived, and upon hearing from Tatsuzō what had happened— “Outrageous behavior.”

and in unison raised his voice harshly and shouted through the window. “Sōta! What are you doing?! The magistrate summons you—come at once!” At this, Yamamoto Sōta too could no longer remain skeptical. “Is that true? Giheita?” “Who would come all this way just to lie? What time do you think it is?” “Then I’ll go right away.” Yamamoto Sōta circled around to the shopfront and stepped out through its dirt-floored entrance before the other two. They watched his figure stride briskly into the back gate of the official residence without so much as a word of thanks,

“He wasn’t that kind of man before, but lately he’s been acting strange.”

And Ichikawa Giheita glanced back at Tatsuzō. Tatsuzō also tilted his head slightly,

“Strange, isn’t it?” he muttered—

“Even if love is a fever, drinking sake at an hour when he shouldn’t have left the magistrate’s office yet… That’s hardly proper behavior.” “He does seem to have a self-destructive air about him, though.”

“Admittedly, he’s been frequently using the town’s criticisms as a pretext to implicitly slander the magistrate lately.” “He must have built up some resentment.” “Then, hasn’t such backbiting reached Lord Echizen’s ears?”

When the two returned to the original yoriki room, their other colleagues were also whispering about something related to Sōta.

Then, before long, Yamamoto Sōta himself appeared here—his complexion had changed. The people intuitively sensed that he had been summoned to Lord Echizen’s chambers and told something significant. Well then, the moment Yamamoto Sōta arrived here, he immediately spat out his words as though chewing them up and spitting them out. “To all of you—though I’ve long received your kindness—Yamamoto Sōta has today been dismissed by the Lord Magistrate. …However regretful this parting may be, there is no alternative.”

“What? You’ve been dismissed?” “Hmph. I’ll be kicking around for now.” “What happened? Did you seriously defy the magistrate’s will?” “Because I couldn’t help but defy him.” “But... why?” “Haven’t you heard how the South Magistrate’s Office is scorned? No—I’ll say no more. I thoroughly insulted Lord Echizen to his face. As they say—good counsel stings the ear. When unheeded, withdrawal’s been the way since ancient times... You lot best keep your advice to yourselves. Well then—until we meet again.”

Sōta bid farewell to his colleagues with words laced with resentment, and soon departed alone through the service gate.

“With those legs of his, isn’t he heading straight to Ishiyaki Tōfu again?”

When one of the constables said this, everyone seemed to have thought the same, and they all laughed. Through Meyasu official Kobayashi Kanzō, Yamamoto Sōta’s dismissal was publicly announced by Lord Echizen to all duty rooms. The reason given was conduct—due to violent and unruly—

No one who had seen him lately could consider the dismissal unjust.

However, among those closest to Sōta who shared his room— “Why’s he suddenly turned into such a self-destructive lout lately?” —even this was whispered with suspicion.

Amidst such circumstances, Lord Echizen—since it was his regular attendance day at Tatsu-no-Kuchi Hyōjōsho—took to a palanquin past noon and left the magistrate’s office gate earlier than usual.

Kindred Spirits

As twilight fell, the official residence was vacated; beyond the lights of the night duty room and prison barracks, everything plunged into ink-black darkness, and the main gate, west gate, and service entrance all closed. Kobayashi Kanzō and Ichikawa Giheita were the last to emerge from there. The two came to a halt. “Well then, Giheita. Will you go alone?” “That way we’ll avoid attracting attention. I think that’s best.” “Then I’ll leave it to you.” “We’ll discreetly get in touch again at the magistrate’s office when the time comes.”

Kanzō returned home, and Giheita alone remained behind.

That Giheita made his way around to the side of the Ishiyaki Tōfu residence—its reed screens rolled up and door removed as dusk fell. “Otsugi-san. Are you there?” “Oh… Mr. Ichikawa.” “A little while ago, Sōta came by, didn’t he?” “Yes, he did come by. And he instructed me to pass this on when your lordship arrived.”

Otsugi took out the scrap of paper serving as a letter from her obi and handed it over. Giheita read the brief message at a glance and, with a casual “Thank you,” immediately started to leave—but when Otsugi called him back, he suddenly halted his steps. “What is it, Otsugi-san?”

“Has something happened to Mr. Sōta? Is it due to official duties or something?” “Did you hear?” “Yes—this evening, police informants were whispering such rumors on stools at the shop.” “Then I’ll tell you: Sōta’s been dismissed. He won’t return to the magistrate’s office.” “...Was it my fault?” Otsugi bit her sleeve’s edge and turned away tear-filled eyes. “Ha! What connection could there be between you and official dismissals? Sōta’s discharge seems born from clashing views with Lord Echizen. No matter—he’ll regain his post soon enough.”

Lightly masking it with a laugh, Giheita quickened his steps and headed off somewhere.

Around that time, Yamamoto Sōta stood at the base of Kaede-gashi Bridge, wearing the look of someone awaiting another. “Sōta…?” called a voice from the evening gloom. “Oh, Giheita. You came after all.” The two faced the river and sat down on stones in the storage area. “Sōta. It must’ve been hard today.” “You get it, don’t you? Only you, Kobayashi Kanzō, and me—just us three know the truth. […] When I left through the gate, all my colleagues and subordinates seeing me off with scorn and cold eyes—that didn’t feel good.”

"But if we consider that all of this too is part of confronting Lord Echizen's great trial—the man we three regard as both parent and liege, and to whom we've pledged our aid—" "Well, Sōta... It's nothing beyond our capacity." "Hmm." "It's nothing."

The two sat in silence for a time, their gazes fixed on the night-darkened river surface.

Giheita was the son of the town physician Ichikawa Rakuō. Sōta had originally been the son of a farming family in Kazusa Province but was unexpectedly recognized by Lord Echizen and promoted from a low-ranking clerk at the magistrate's office. The only other colleague who had long been fully qualified as a yoriki was Kobayashi Kanzō. Kanzō had been a subordinate of the former Edo Town Magistrate Matsuno Ikinokami. When Ōoka Echizen-no-kami assumed his post, he earnestly petitioned Ikinokami to transfer Kanzō into his own contingent of yoriki.

There were also many other yoriki and dōshin, but regardless, centered on Lord Echizen, they faced the storm of public criticism, (To devote oneself to this man was, in essence, to serve society.)

these three men were firmly bound together by this conviction. Needless to say, Sōta's dismissal that day had been prearranged through prior consultation between Lord Echizen and his three confidants out of necessity—their mutual commitment remained entirely unchanged. "Now, Sōta," he said. "Lord Echizen recognized us three as reliable men and confessed his youthful mistakes so plainly—without a shred of pretense. Regarding that matter you took on, have you actually managed to find any promising leads?"

“That goes without saying,” Sōta replied. “Now that I’ve deliberately taken dismissal and walked out the magistrate’s gates, I’ll crack that case soon enough—mark my words.” “Let’s just pray the North Town Magistrate’s Office doesn’t beat us to it,” Giheita countered. “If the North Office gets there first…” “This is a fight for our lives.” Sōta’s voice hardened. “Rather than directing constables and informants from headquarters, one man moving freely—me—stands a damn sight better chance of winning.”

“Have you secured a temporary residence?” “The second floor—” Sōta turned and pointed toward the light of a boat-shaped teahouse called Funegami. “Remember this place—Funegami at Kaedebashi.” “But it’d be trouble if magistrate’s office lackeys came sniffing around every time we needed contact.” “What about using Otsugi?” “Still too risky?”

“You mustn’t mock me either. I’ve deliberately been hanging around there these past few days to make it look convincing, but that doesn’t mean I’ve let my guard down with the stone-grilled tofu girl.” “Hmm?” At that moment, Giheita looked around at the river willows and said, “I thought I heard someone crying—or was it just my ears playing tricks?”

He strained his ears, then suddenly stood and moved toward the tree shade behind him.

“Ah—Ms. Otsugi… Sōta, Ms. Otsugi was here eavesdropping on your words just now.” “Since when?” Sōta made a perplexed face. But considering he had asked her to note this location on a scrap of paper, it was hardly surprising that Otsugi—having read it—had followed Giheita here quietly. Such was the nature of a young woman’s heart.

No—rather, Giheita rejoiced that this was convenient both for his friend and for a certain upcoming strategy. “I understand Ms. Otsugi’s temperament.” “I could lay everything bare to her.” Giheita pressed, but Sōta only went, “Hmm?” He fell into thought,

“Women are loose-lipped.” Sōta showed reluctance. Otsugi wept as if ashamed of the self she couldn’t believe. What until yesterday had been mere gossip—so-called scandalous rumors—now, from today’s events, her heart had at once revealed the blazing visage of love.

“It’s all right, don’t cry. I’ve got it all figured out. And besides, there’s no one I trust more than you, Ms. Otsugi—no one else who can smoothly liaise between us at the magistrate’s office and Sōta. If you can’t tell Sōta yourself, I’ll do it……Ms. Otsugi, come over here for a moment.”

Giheita led her to a spot slightly apart and revealed a certain secret.

Morning chazuke The secret in question was a transgression from the youth of the current town magistrate, Lord Echizen. Within the Five-Person Gang of the Horidome Incident lurked a man fated to Lord Echizen since his youth—a figure hidden behind their crimes.

Lord Echizen had realized it. Needless to say, Echizen the man had spent many nights tormented by this knowledge. But beyond all else, his position remained that of town magistrate. He was a judge charged with passing judgment on men's crimes. To Kanzō, Sōta, and Giheita he had laid bare this truth. They had asked how His Honor intended to handle the matter. They vowed to become his hands and feet. They pledged to serve as trusted confidants executing his will in secret. They entreated him—only give the orders. They would obey his every command.

This was the unanimous answer of the three men at that time. Today’s events marked the first step in unraveling the great crisis that had befallen Echizen-no-kami as a man. The real work was just beginning. “Ms. Otsugi, will you help me? No—now that I’ve laid it all out, I won’t take no for an answer.” “I’m so happy to… I’ll do anything at all.”

“Sōta.” “You heard her from behind didn’t you?” “Just cooperate and lend assistance.”

The three of them continued conferring about certain matters for roughly an hour before parting ways.

Sōta had rented the second floor of Funegen and, as if boasting of having messed up at the magistrate’s office, begun living as a rōnin.

The couple who ran Funegen were fellow natives of Kazusa, just like him. They had discussed this matter to the extent that it wouldn’t cause any complications.

“Master, I’ve finally figured it out—about that boat from that night.”

The seventh day since he had come to this second floor. Funagen’s husband rushed back from his associates’ gambling den and informed him.

“As I thought, Master’s hunch was right on the mark. The one who lent the boat to the Five-Person Gang was a Kisarazu-bune boat boss named Iwagorō.” “How did you find out?” “One of Iwagorō’s underlings let slip something strange at the gambling den, so I invited him on his way back, took him to a clam hotpot place, set a trap, and questioned him. He said Iwagorō’s thatch-covered boat was lent to a customer at Hori no Chazuke-ya—and when I counted back the days, would you believe it? It was exactly the night before that big commotion broke out at Horidome.”

“Did he charge a fortune?” “The rental fee—”

“Apparently, the mistress of the chazuke shop mediated the negotiation.”

“How many times does the Kisarazu-bune enter the Ōkawa?” “Well, the parent ship probably comes into the Ōkawa about once a month, I’d say.” “You know where Iwagorō’s house in Kisarazu is, right?” “He’s a fishing operator too—no secret about him being a boat owner.” “Well, we’ve got our first lead.”

“Congratulations.” “Don’t be daft—this is only the beginning. But keep this quiet.” “You needn’t tell me twice.” “As your reward, I’ll take you to Yoshiwara.” “You’re joking. My wife’ll throw us both out if we go there.” “No—tonight you’re on loan. I’ll handle your wife.” “You mean it?” “But it’s a boat.—Get some sake, a brazier, zabuton cushions—the works.”

Yamamoto Sōta went downstairs and negotiated something with Genkichi’s wife, laughter in their voices. An understanding seemed to have been reached, “Genkichi, permission’s been granted!”

Laughing, he stepped out from under the eaves.

And then—right as he stepped out,

“Master Sōta. Where are you headed?”

Otsugi, who occasionally visited this second floor carrying what appeared to be food packed in a tiered box, happened to arrive there just then. Genkichi turned around, exaggeratedly clapped his hands, and laughed. “Master. This time it’s your turn, Master. So? Think you’ll get permission?”

Parasols and parasols

The late cherry blossoms had already faded, summer drawing near. It was the season when fishing boats, skiffs, and roofed pleasure boats would soon swarm forth onto the river.

Funagen's skiff carried Otsugi along with two passengers and a boatman. With a brazier in its center, the vessel was of just the right size for facing one another.

“Hey, Genkichi, wait! Wait!”

“What is it? Did you forget something?” “No, it’s still early evening. Don’t head straight out to Ōkawa yet—instead, try rowing toward Horidome first.” “Huh? To Horidome?” “It doesn’t matter—just turn the boat around.” “Got it. I won’t say a thing.” Genkichi twisted the oar with a creak and rowed upstream.

The river gradually narrowed, the banks grew higher, and on both sides only earthen storehouses and loading docks came into view. “……This is the place—the back of Yamazen—”

Recognizing the storehouse mark, Yamamoto Sōta had the boat stopped and gazed up at Yamazen’s residence and alleyways from the river for some time. He had long suspected the thieves’ path of attack had come through this river course. “All right, Genkichi, go ahead.” “Which way?” “To Yoshiwara.” Otsugi pretended not to hear. Genkichi deliberately—

“Is this acceptable, Ms. Otsugi?” “It’s not that crude. Hey, Ms. Otsugi.”

Sōta answered instead. Buffeted by the early summer night’s river wind, the skiff arrived late at Sanya-bori Canal. The three of them made a round of the red-light district and went up to the Hikite Teahouse Tomoe-ya. “Well. What a rare sight.”

The teahouse mistress recognized Sōta. Otsugi sat as though she had nowhere to place herself. “The cherry blossoms have already scattered, huh.” “It’s been far too long since we last saw you. Soon Naka no Machi will be blooming with irises. Please do remember us when that time comes.” “Tonight I brought along a relative’s daughter from Kazusa to see the sights. But it’d be awkward to return sober—I’d like something to drink.”

After drinking lightly and keeping track of the time, as they were leaving,

“Mistress. Is there any place by the moat where we can get Otsu some breakfast?”

“How about a chazuke shop? They seem to be quite popular these days.” “Even pretend customers are acceptable? ...Could I get you to write a quick note from Tomoe-ya?”

“Easy enough,” said the mistress, writing a customer referral note and entrusting it to Genkichi. The skiff returned to the mooring channel before dawn, and even for customers returning home at daybreak, it seemed rather too early.

But the light from the chazuke shop's room cast its reflection on the mooring channel's water, truly living up to its reputation as an all-night establishment. The three took their seats and gazed at the still-unlit water and sky of the Sumida Embankment.

“That was a lesser cuckoo’s call just now, wasn’t it?” “You’re around Komagata these days...?”

“Genkichi. You’ve got a taste for the subtle, don’t you?” Just then, the maid came to draw the bath.

Yamamoto Sōta entered first, and around the time Genkichi came up afterward, the sky began to glow beautifully. “Otsugi-san, you should freshen up too.” After having her stand up, he called the maid and asked to have the mistress come see him briefly. Since they were customers with a referral from Tomoe-ya, the mistress came to greet them immediately. “Hey, you. Step outside for a bit.” After sending Genkichi away as well— “Mistress, shut the back.”

“Huh. “Why would that be…?” “Shut the sliding doors too. And the paper screens. “We don’t mind, but you seem to have many servants. “It’s for your sake.”

Yamamoto Sōta placed the jitte he had been carrying wrapped in a cloth before the mistress.

The mistress lost all color in her face. She managed to stand and close the back door, but just barely.

“Sorry to startle you,” said Yamamoto Sōta. “But I haven’t come to arrest you. This jitte is just proof I’m from the magistrate’s office. If you tell me what you know—exactly as you know it—we can settle this with minimal consequences.” “What... what are you asking about?” stammered the mistress. “It’s simple,” he replied. Yamamoto Sōta began his quiet interrogation. On the eve of the Horidome incident, someone here had borrowed a tomabune from Iwagorō of the Kisarazu ship. He needed details about that person and related matters.

The mistress spoke without hesitation—but when it came to where the five men and women from that tomabune had gone after coming up to this house the following morning, eating breakfast, and departing, she was reluctant to say. “Then I won’t ask. After all, you already know the truth... But don’t fall into complicity.”

Of course, this was Sōta’s bluff.

The mistress trembled uncontrollably and confessed everything. She recounted the events of that morning in detail. However, in this situation, her mind was consumed by an overwhelming fear of future retaliation from Monster Gyōbu—the archvillain they called "Oni Gyōbu."

“Did Gyōbu also get off the tomabune with them?” “No—they say that Monster Gyōbu lies bedridden with asthma. Yet even now, his fearsome glare holds such power that not one villain among his associates dares defy him.” “Then guide me.” “To Gyōbu’s house.”

“I beg you, please forgive me just this once.” More than the magistrate’s office, it was Gyōbu whom they feared.

Yamamoto Sōta laughed. "There, there. In exchange, you'll let me use this house from time to time. Don't breathe a word of what just happened." After eating breakfast, Yamamoto Sōta and Genkichi borrowed pillows and took a short nap. He requested the palanquin service that regularly operated between this house and Gyōbu's residence, then said to Genkichi and Otsugi: "Go on ahead by boat. I'll wander as I think things through and eventually return to the second floor at Kaedegashi."

With that, he made his preparations.

He would return in a few days— Otsugi’s heart grew faint. "Is there any message you’d like me to pass along to the magistrate’s office?"

From the shadows, whispering softly, Yamamoto Sōta entrusted the sealed document he had prepared at some point into Otsugi’s hands, “To Ichikawa Giheita or Kobayashi Kanzō—make sure to hand it to either of the two gentlemen.” With that request, he parted ways. The palanquin was hurrying toward the back of Ueno Hill.

He arrived near Gointen in Uguisudani. “Palanquin bearer. “Is it still far?”

“No. It’s just ahead here, midway up Daradara Slope.” “Then let me out.” “Is that all right, sir?” “As long as I know the gate of that house, that’s all I need.” The palanquin bearer led him up Daradara Slope a short way. There were nothing but old houses belonging to temple samurai retainers. The palanquin bearer pointed at one particular house’s especially weather-beaten crown-beam gate. Then, from behind the gate—so utterly mismatched with its austere appearance and surroundings—a gaudy decorative parasol snapped open like a peony blooming.

“...Hm?” Then leaping into the shadows and narrowing his eyes to focus, he saw that after the peony-patterned parasol, another modest one—navy with swallow motifs—snapped open.

The two parasols, keeping each other company, climbed the slope, appeared at Uguisudani Bridge, and crossed over toward the back of Ueno’s Kan’ei-ji Temple. "...Osode and O-Tsubame—mother and child." Ah, how could anyone’s eyes perceive those beautiful figures as demons cursing the world and plunging the Edo Town Magistrate into the depths of torment? Yamamoto Sōta doubted his own actions countless times—even with his own eyes before him—wondering if he might have mistaken the person.

"Where were they headed?" Using all his caution while pretending not to notice, he reached the midpoint of Uguisudani Bridge. The beautiful parasols of the mother and child had already begun ascending the slope on the far side of Ueno's back.

Then—the parasols spun around, and two pale faces turned clearly toward him, laughing mockingly. "Oh no."

Had they noticed him?—he wondered, leaning against the railing and beginning to turn his face away when— Someone suddenly seized Sōta from behind—no, not with such tentative force—and as he felt his breath constrict violently like being choked, the five fingers of the person behind him were already digging into Sōta’s windpipe with crushing pressure. Under the bridge lay a deep ravine. For an instant, the roots of Sōta’s hair burned hot—but by the time that sensation faded, he must have already been teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Chapter Four

Urban Weeds The adjudication of lawsuits was determined to be handled monthly on a rotating basis at the official residence of the monthly-duty magistrate. This month, South was on monthly duty.

Kobayashi Kanzō of the petition office, Ichikawa Giheita the investigator, and their subordinates alike found their official duties increasing dramatically because of this; in the boiler room they could rarely catch their colleagues’ casual conversations. “Oh! You’re starting work rather early.” “Ah—Giheita?”

"I came in this morning quite confident I’d be the earliest one here, only to find you already at your desk in the magistrate’s office—what a surprise."

“No, I’ve been tasked with a bit of research. —With so many Sanded Court sessions during the day, I can’t get it done, so I’ve been coming in at daybreak these past two or three days.”

“What’s this investigation about?” “No—once I started working on it, it’s actually quite interesting. It’s the allure aspect of it, you know.” “Hmm... I see...”

Even among colleagues who shared a bond closer than brothers, Ichikawa Giheita leaned over Kobayashi Kanzō’s desk and picked up some documents to examine. They contained statistics on unlicensed prostitutes throughout Edo—classifications of their backgrounds, investigations into their lodgings, and similar matters. Among them lay one document: a population table of Edo compiled during Kyōhō’s early years.

According to this document/table/statistic (depending on context), Edo’s total population at that time was— 501,404 people— established as such; when divided by gender,

(Male) 323,285 (Female) 178,119 were classified as such.

“Kobayashi. Is this table accurate? The number of men seems disproportionately large compared to women.” “No, this table only counts ordinary townspeople. If you include daimyo retainers, employed townspeople, Noh actors, and those from the various domain residences under sankin-kōtai, there’s absolutely no way these numbers would hold.”

“So you’re saying the number of men would actually be even higher?” “Of course—the great households of daimyo stationed in Edo consist almost entirely of men.” “Hmm… I never imagined Edo’s ratio of men to women would be so skewed.” “Indeed—with such a dearth of women, it’s inevitable that all manner of crimes would constantly arise.”

“It’s difficult to investigate daimyo households properly, but under sankin-kōtai, we can be certain at least two hundred thousand men are constantly present in Edo. Since their wives and children remain in home provinces—once you calculate that in, Edo’s men would outnumber women roughly three to one.”

“Hmm.” “Moreover, the most desirable among the scarce women are monopolized by the Ōoku, daimyō, and wealthy…” “Ahaha.” “We’ve ended up with some strange talk first thing in the morning.” “But what does His Honor intend to accomplish by having such things investigated?” “It seems he’s been contemplating for some time now how to address the citizens’ disorderly public morals.”

“It won’t make any difference. This alone...”

“Hmm. As I mentioned earlier, the balance between men and women is entirely skewed, so it’s built upon that contradiction… However, His Honor says the breeding ground for crime lies here, and he seems to believe we cannot abandon addressing the spread of syphilis and various other sources of misfortune.” “But it would be difficult.”

“Hmm, this too is an exceedingly difficult objective for His Honor.” “It truly seems that His Honor the Magistrate seeks out only the most difficult tasks to toil over.” “A natural worrier, perhaps?” It was still early dawn, and no one had yet come to work at the desks in the magistrate’s office. When the two met, they were genuinely concerned for Magistrate Echizen-no-kami’s well-being. Even though Magistrate Echizen-no-kami himself already had a mountain of other difficult problems piled upon him, if he were to now take on organizing unlicensed prostitutes as well—the two furrowed their brows, immediately imagining the hardship, and even worried about Magistrate Echizen-no-kami’s health.

Hitherto, among successive magistrates, there were certainly those who attempted to address issues such as organizing unlicensed prostitutes and rectifying public morals.

However, not a single magistrate had ever succeeded in accomplishing it. In truth—much like the darkness of Edo’s nights, the disorder of public morals in those days was something that, from today’s perspective, is nearly impossible to imagine. Funamanjū boat girls, kekoro streetwalkers, yotaka night hawks, bikuni so-called nuns, yamaneko mountain cats, yobidashi call girls, odoriko dancing girls, hakujin pale ones, ashizume leg-grabbers, jigoku hellhouses, kagema boy-lovers—all these names were synonyms for those flowers of darkness. When they cracked down on this, the shadow vanished. But immediately, koto and folk song lesson studios, tenement second floors, temples, temple residences—even hatamoto mansions—became markets of human flesh; the harmful effects only grew worse, and diseases and crimes took on an increasingly insidious nature.

Particularly in temples and hatamoto samurai residences, the practice of secretly harboring unlicensed prostitutes to covertly reap effortless profits had since become an ineradicable custom; this had unwittingly created clandestine tunnels of carnal desire even connecting to the shogunate’s inner palace, rendering it now so deeply entrenched that even the magistrate’s office could scarcely intervene. To lay hands on it would be to endanger oneself. However, if he did not take decisive action, as town magistrate he would merely be performing his duties in a futile cycle—pulling weeds while leaving their roots intact.

“Oh… We’ve gotten sidetracked, but has Tatsu sent any report since then?” “No, nothing.” “Then—no word at all from Yamamoto Sōta either?” “I’ve been eagerly awaiting some word, but…”

Kanzō’s eager anticipation was equally Giheita’s own. For these two, Magistrate Echizen-no-kami had spent over a month now in behind-the-scenes struggles so consuming they seemed to waste his very body—not on municipal reforms like establishing Edo’s fire brigades, improving bridge traffic, or addressing public morals, but on a fatal obligation that weighed far more heavily upon the magistrate himself. Regarding that breakthrough—with Magistrate Echizen-no-kami’s approval—it was precisely news from Yamamoto Sōta, their other sworn comrade who had resigned from office to operate outside the magistrate’s jurisdiction while investigating the Five-Person Gang robbers’ den in Horidome, that these two awaited day and night in silent anticipation.

Two Urgent Reports Otsugu from the delivery teahouse had gone to the moat’s chazuke shop last night with Sōta and the boatman Genkichi and had returned a little before noon today, but— "If I rely on others, I worry something might go wrong," she thought, "and I can’t exactly go into the magistrate’s office myself…"

She was in such a state of agitation, clutching the usual letter entrusted to her by Sōta within her obi. The shop’s stone-grilled tofu occasionally made deliveries even to the yoriki and dōshin quarters, so she had been thinking that if an order came in, she herself would carry the lunchbox—but perhaps because noon had already passed, though customers filled the shop, no requests had come from the magistrate’s offices.

Then, as twilight approached— “Otsugu-san. Are you there?”

Coincidentally, Kobayashi Kanzō appeared to pay the tailoring fee for the lined garment he had requested through her four or five days prior.

“Oh, there’s really no need for such things.” “No—if you don’t accept this payment, I won’t be able to make any more presumptuous requests of you.” “I see. Then I’ll gratefully accept it. But since our shop thrives thanks to customers conducting business with the magistrate’s office, please do not hesitate to ask me for any favor, no matter how trivial.”

Because there were people there, Otsugu carried tea to the small tatami room facing the garden and,

“Please, take a moment to rest here,” she said and offered a floor cushion. Kanzō—who had in truth come wanting to learn of Sōta’s movements directly from Otsugu in private—sat down as urged. “Look—the wisteria’s burst into bloom,” he remarked, gazing at the garden. “White and purple… Every time the breeze stirs them, their sweet scent drifts by.” While he muttered these words to himself, Otsugu glanced around and stealthily placed a small, folded letter from her obi near Kanzō’s hand.

Kanzō remained silently seated facing the garden, his eyes rapidly scanning through [the letter], when suddenly his complexion changed and his voice dropped.

“Otsugu-san… Did you go too? To the moat.” “Yes. From the tea shop landlady’s account, Master Sōta had come to understand everything completely and was trembling violently, but… Did it say anything about there being a good clue in that letter?”

“Hmm. It seems they’ve found a lead, but I’m worried about Sōta going alone all the way to Lord Onkage’s residence.” “Why is that?” “That place is a den of villains. If he makes one wrong move, his life will be in danger.” “What... Master Sōta’s life—?”

Otsugu’s lips turned white. He thought it heartless to casually declare Sōta’s life in danger before her—to disturb their tender romance with such words—yet Kanzō’s intuition remained unerringly, (Sōta’s in danger.)

And this thought spurred his heart with uncommon urgency. “Will you come along too, Otsugu-san?” “Where to?” “The house of Ichikawa Rakuō in Ushigome… It’s Giheita’s father’s residence. Today, since both of us had been on duty at the magistrate’s office since dawn, we left together intending to return a bit early, but he said he had some overwhelming matter to discuss and parted ways to go to his father’s residence.” “If you don’t mind…” “No, Otsugu-san—if you aren’t tired after last night continuing into tonight, I’d like you to come along.”

“I’ll accompany you. I slept quite a bit on the boat both last night and this morning, so I’m not that tired.”

Otsugu exited from the back of the shop.

In the meantime, Kobayashi Kanzō hurried back once more to the dōshin room at the magistrate’s office, left instructions with the night watch, and arrived at the foot of Sukiyabashi Bridge. “We’re drawing attention.” “Let’s hail a palanquin.”

He had Otsugu board as well and hastened to Ushigome’s Yanagichō. The gate had the appearance befitting a town physician. When they announced their arrival, Rakuō himself came out to the entrance hall, “Ah. “Well now, this is a rare visit. Come…” and began leading them to the inner rooms.

Since he was the father of a friend, Kobayashi Kanzō had long been on familiar terms with him. He introduced Otsugu and promptly broached the matter: "Lord Giheita was supposed to have come here as well, but..."

“No, my son won’t be coming for some time.” “Then he hasn’t arrived this evening?” “He was meant to come, but hasn’t appeared yet.” “…Has that case of yours made progress?” “We cannot wait even until tomorrow.” “Ah, that’s most auspicious!”

The old man had already rejoiced as though he had seen the resolution of the case through the South’s methods.

At that moment, as they were being treated to dinner, Ichikawa Giheita entered hurriedly, breathing hard with sweat forming on his forehead. "Oh, there you are," he said. "I was actually thinking of coming to see you myself. Oh, Otsugu-san's here too!" Though they both sat down to the meal, Giheita uncharacteristically refrained from drinking and quickly finished eating. "To be honest," he began, "I'd just stopped by yesterday too, so I thought it pointless—but on a whim I checked Tatsuzō the informant's house. There was a message from him."

“Huh? Did Tatsuzō’s end have some clue too?”

“Tatsuzō’s got a man named Hanji working under him who came bursting in right when I was there—said it was an emergency.” “What kind of emergency?” “A report that Sōta might not see out the night. …But since we were strictly ordered not to contact the magistrate’s office openly about this case, Tatsuzō’s at his wits’ end—doesn’t know where to send this urgent message.” “No wonder.” “But I just got word from Otsugu-san myself, and now this from Tatsuzō’s side.” “There’s no time to plan or act.”

“It’s what you’d call a sudden turn of events.” “After all, Sōta is young.” “As soon as he grasped a clue, he apparently couldn’t wait or prepare—immediately venturing alone into enemy territory.” First, Giheita related the news brought by Hanji. Tatsuzō the informant, with his long experience and seasoned yet honest nature, had been recognized by the two, and not only the current incident but also all secret behind-the-scenes matters had been fully disclosed to him.

The role Tatsuzō had been entrusted with was to constantly keep watch over Sōta’s comings and goings to ensure no harm befell him. When one challenges a major incident or an evil faction, terrifying plots, persecution, and every manner of sinister machination will inevitably reach out to that person. The friendship between the two had feared that danger for Sōta’s sake more than anything else.

Therefore, even last night, as Sōta’s boat sailed, another small boat carrying Tatsuzō and Hanji had been rowing behind constantly to guard him.

Tatsuzō had simultaneously come to know everything that Sōta had discovered. Sōta had them hasten from the moat’s tea shop to Lord Oinkaden’s residence in Negishi. And then Tatsuzō had witnessed even the moment when Sōta—who had followed the two painted parasols exiting the gate of that temple compound—was suddenly grappled from behind by three assailants on Uguisubashi Bridge in the blink of an eye, dragged away as if his life had been snuffed out… and then hidden away into one of the temple buildings as though swallowed whole.

――Why hadn't he helped? Even if Tatsuzō had tried pressing Hanji, the messenger, it would have been futile. The assailants were said to be three physically formidable rōnin, and besides, he hadn't been close by―the whole affair had ended in the blink of an eye.

Let those who judge also be judged.

The crisis of Sōta’s life hanging in peril through the night left no moment for the two to remain settled there. Already, the full scope of evil had been laid bare. Giheita and Kanzō swiftly coordinated their preparations and executed them. Though night had fallen, Hanji received his orders and dashed to the magistrate’s office. The two readied their attire and gripped their *jitte*, “You must be too worried about Sōta’s safety to even think of returning home.” “There may come a moment where I’ll need your help once we arrive.” “I’ll see no harm comes to you—come with us.”

Kanzō also addressed Rakuō:

“I apologize for the disturbance, but this confirms we’ll resolve the Horidome incident through South Magistrate methods.” “Until next time.” With that brief farewell, he started toward the entrance with Otsugu.

Ichikawa Rakuō, who always burned with competitive spirit against the North Town Magistrate and was zealously pro-South, for some reason wore a sullen face even at the two’s departure,

“Son. “Wait.”

and called Giheita back. "Do you require something of me?" "I've an uneasy premonition. My apologies to Mr. Kanzō for the delay—but you alone shall accompany me to another chamber." "As you command." Giheita entered the room and sat down, immediately confronted by his father's fearsome countenance. "You there, boy. ......Do nothing rash." "What do you mean? What constitutes rashness?" "Nay—I warn you both against letting glory-clouded haste breed recklessness."

“I still can’t grasp your meaning, Father.” “Then I’ll ask plainly—are you all prepared to sacrifice Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami himself if it means capturing the Five-Person Gang?” “You speak of incomprehensible things.” “Yamamoto Sōta, Kobayashi Kanzō, and I—we three comrades who’ve shed blood together—are wholly resolved to protect Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami’s person by any means necessary.” “Your words cut deeply, Father.” Giheita’s voice rose sharply, tears glistening in his eyes.

The elderly father, too, was prone to tears; when he saw his child’s eyes, his own eyelids immediately reddened.

However, he stubbornly shook his head, “Then does your sincerity not contradict your actions? …From what I’ve heard earlier, aren’t the two women among the Five-Person Gang—a mother and child bound by an ill-fated bond to a mistake Lord Echizen-no-kami made in his youth?” “Until today, I had kept this even from you, Father—but in truth, that mother and child are Lord Echizen-no-kami’s own flesh and blood, born from a woman he briefly became involved with during his dissolute days.”

“M-m-m… Outrageous!” Rakuō shuddered even at hearing such words from his own child’s mouth, dreading society’s ears.

And, with an earth-like complexion, holding back a sigh—

"My son! This is a terrifying matter! Were it any other official duty, we might still conceal it—but for Lord Ōoka, who passes judgment upon others, to be revealed as possessing such a past himself... Imagine the people’s fury. The shogunate’s censure goes without saying, but what I fear is the wrath of those he has condemned.—Cease this—cease this! You must absolutely refrain from involving yourself in this case." "Then shall we entrust it to the North Town Magistrate’s men?"

“Wh-what foolish nonsense are you spouting?!” “I am no such despicable man!” “Even this Rakuō knows better than any that Lord Ōoka is an irreplaceable town magistrate.” “Administrative reforms and abolishing outdated practices that past magistrates couldn’t touch—that man is resolved to see them through.” “...That’s precisely why we can’t afford to lose him.” Rakuō listened as intently as his son, his words searing with fervor.

“To force a rare, exemplary magistrate—one who emerged precisely when needed—to resign in disgrace over a single youthful misstep, reducing him to a pitiful defeated man, then stand idly by as societal evils flourish… this is the lamentable grief of good citizens! For over a dozen years since Fifth Shogun Tsunayoshi-sama’s reign—years spent oppressed beneath even dogs—we finally glimpsed hope with Lord Yoshimune-sama’s ascension… like seeing a break in endless storm clouds. Yet now, at this very moment when relief seemed within reach—no matter what—we must keep a man of Lord Ōoka’s caliber alive within bureaucratic affairs as stagnant as a rotten old pond.” “We must let him work unrestrained!”

“Th-that’s exactly why!” “Father—!” Giheita leaned forward and firmly grasped his father’s hand, “We young city officials—who had long yearned for such a magistrate—saw in Lord Echizen-no-kami this very man.” “...That’s why we must have Lord Echizen-no-kami accomplish what our young strength alone cannot achieve.” “From that same resolve, Sōta, Kanzō, and Giheita—the three of us—formed a firm pact and became sworn brothers in our shared cause.” “Father, please rest assured.”

“But if you lot capture the gang members yourselves, Lord Echizen-no-kami’s past will inevitably be exposed to broad daylight. …What’s the point of such idiocy?” “Then what do you propose, Father?” “It’s plain as day.” “You—all of you—become rōnin and slaughter those five criminals! They’re scum already marked for the execution grounds anyway—what difference does it make if they face the Sanded Court first?” “Impossible. That plan—” “Why?” “We young men considered that very idea from the start. But Lord Echizen-no-kami absolutely forbids it.”

“What? Lord Ōoka won’t permit it.” “Then—is Lord Ōoka truly prepared to exchange his own precious life for those of condemned thieves?”

“It is not so simple a notion. —Lord Echizen-no-kami’s resolve lies in this: he himself desires to be judged. However distant the past mistake may be, he intends to suffer fully for his own sins and deliberately awaits divine punishment upon himself.”

“Then—doesn’t he have to resign from that hard-earned magistrate’s position after all? I understand Lord Ōoka’s humility, but he fails to recognize the greatness of his own mission. What a pity. I shall offer my counsel and have such small-minded thinking overturned.” “That will not do. Once His Lordship has firmly resolved upon a course of action, it will never waver.”

When it was pointed out, even Rakuō lacked confidence.

“Then you all—how exactly do you intend to resolve this thorny matter without bringing harm to Lord Echizen-no-kami’s person?” “We have no plan whatsoever.” “No plan at all?!” “We shall simply act with utmost sincerity according to Lord Echizen-no-kami’s will.—‘Never be blinded by personal motives’—this was strictly commanded to us not only in ordinary times but particularly regarding this affair.” “…Therefore, should it come to pass that Lord Echizen-no-kami must perform seppuku to preserve his honor—though it compounds my filial impiety—I, along with Kobayashi Kanzō and Yamamoto Sōta, intend to sit in formation and take our own lives.”

“Very well!” Rakuō no longer opposed. With his enormous eyes and the voice that had escaped him unbidden, he proclaimed resolutely: “If you insist to such an extent on impartial justice—both judging yourself and accepting divine punishment—then proceed with full force.” “I won’t stop you... Nor will I stop you. Go quickly.” “Then I shall make haste.”

Giheita stood up and stepped out through the sliding door into the corridor. There he came face to face with his friend Kobayashi Kanzō, who had been standing motionless in profound emotion. They saw each other's hot tears clinging to their eyelashes and clasped each other's damp hands tightly.

Saw.

—Suddenly becoming aware, he found himself bound with coarse rope like a ball. Filled with a damp, oppressive stench, the surroundings were pitch dark.

It must be beneath some floor.

Before he could even process a thought, Sōta instinctively tried to rise. But of course, he thudded his head against the underside of floorboards or something and ended up sitting back down. “Ah…” Feeling dizzy, Sōta nearly lost consciousness again. But just then, voices could be heard directly above his head. “Oh? “There was a weird noise.” “Thud—” “Nah, ain’t nothin’ but the bastard comin’ to and thrashin’ around.”

“Right.” “Careless of me to forget, but he ain’t goin’ nowhere.” “Don’t worry—he’s trussed up tight and tied to the foundation pillar.”

The voices in the room sounded like three or four people—to Sōta, they were all unfamiliar voices. Where am I? …This place—

Finally, Yamamoto Sōta began piecing together his memories of events before and after. He had been trailing Osode and Otsubame as they departed together through the temple gate—but when they reached Uguisudani Bridge—his memory from that very instant had snapped clean off.

"That's right. At that moment, someone suddenly grappled me from behind and throttled my windpipe. I recalled there being about three assailants, but unwittingly, it seemed I had fallen unconscious right then."

―And then, where had he been taken? He could not recall the route taken during that time at all.

However, Yamamoto Sōta neither panicked nor showed any signs of despair—unexpectedly composed given his predicament. He clung to the conviction that even should his life end here now, he had already accomplished most of his mission—this assurance anchored him. At Hori no Chazuke-ya when parting with Genkichi the boatman and Otsugi, he had pressed into her hand— (to have this delivered to Ichikawa Giheita or Kobayashi Kanzō at the magistrate's office) The hastily scribbled note he'd entrusted now revealed itself as divine intervention. It had become the sole conduit to the outside world—a slender thread of hope.

In that letter, he had written down the hidden figures behind the incident and their routes—information he had gathered at Hori no Chazuke-ya—as well as his intention to now go alone to Monster Gyōbu’s lair.

"They're coming! Before long, Giheita or Kanzō will surely set things in motion and come." He closed his eyes with resolve. Now the pain throughout his entire body began seeping into awareness. Night or day—he couldn't discern the hour. Yet he found it impossible to believe much time had passed since Uguisudani Bridge.

A bell tolled not far off—the bell of Kan’ei-ji. If that was the case, then this must indeed be near Ueno’s Goinden area. Was this Monster Gyōbu’s temple residence? Yes, that must be it... He had heard the temple bell toll several times. Before long, the sixth bell of dusk tolled. “Master….” “Master Yamamoto.”

A low voice called out from somewhere. Having steeled himself and been dozing, Yamamoto Sōta looked around as if doubting whether it was a dream.

“Master….” “It’s Tatsu—Tatsuzō. Do you understand?” A whisper so faint it was nearly inaudible—yet unmistakably not coming from above the floor. Sōta directed his darkness-acclimated eyes toward one side.

Like a toad, a figure lay prone, crouched under another foundation pillar. Even when passing through from the South Town Magistrate’s Office’s constable room to the police informant’s room, the informant known as Tatsu—reputed to be the most seasoned—was undoubtedly that Tatsuzō.

“Oh. Tatsu?” “Shh…” Tatsuzō waved his hand, then began gesturing insistently. Though part of the same continuous underground space beneath the floor, upon closer inspection, the area where Sōta was confined had thick timbers arranged horizontally, forming a square enclosure that made escape from within or approach from outside impossible. Creak... creak... creak... A slow, low, eerie sound began right away. At Tatsu’s hands, the saw’s teeth writhed.

Even if there was the slightest sound from the room above the floor, Tatsuzō would immediately stop sawing. He strained his ears, cast his eyes around—and then, stealthily, began sawing again with a creak, creak.

Ailing Soul, Virtuous Nature

It was one of over a dozen residences in the temple samurai estate town—and even this single house was remarkably spacious.

All were affiliated with Rinnō-ji no Miya of Kan’ei-ji, operating under the aegis of the imperial prince’s household and holding special privileges. When night fell, at one gate men and women meeting in secret would hide, while at the other gate gamblers and corrupt hatamoto would enter openly. Among them were those that harbored unlicensed prostitutes, employed chefs, and from deep within the hedges leaked suspicious-sounding folk songs and the plaintive strains of shamisen.

Therefore, the hereditary shares of Rinnō-ji’s temple samurai commanded far higher prices than those of ordinary gokenin. Moreover, they rarely came up for sale. Monster Gyōbu and his ilk had dwelled here for many long years, but thanks to having invested capital in hereditary shares, they had never once felt unease in this den of evil—until today.

However, this morning— When Osode and Otsubame set out for the kabuki viewing in Sakaimachi, and Ōkame, Anōjū, Akazari Sanpei, and others were seeing them off, from the shadows emerged a figure that pursued the two decorative parasols with uncanny agility.

The three noticed immediately. It was a criminal’s intuition.—On Uguisubashi Bridge, they apprehended that man. And then, with tremendous speed, they hauled him into the temple residence, (No doubt about it—this bastard’s no different from a North or South constable or assistant magistrate.) Having confirmed this, they mercilessly kicked and struck him with broken sticks, lifted the tatami mats in the room, and threw him into the underground pit—what they called the *masu*—beneath the floor. “Boss. Why can’t we just kill the bastard in one go?”

Akazari Sanpei was dissatisfied. Compared to Anōjū and Ōkame, he was more cruel by nature and had a penchant for murder. “Shut your mouth!”

Gyōbu-sama sat cross-legged on his perpetual bed, propping his elbow on a monk’s pillow in place of an armrest. “If we keep him alive, he’ll serve as a bargaining chip for something. If we want to kill him, we can do it even now.” Ōkame had been restless since morning. His face showed he could no longer bear the anxiety of staying here. “Ever since Horidome, I can’t feel safe in this old nest anymore. Boss…” “What is it, Kame?” “We’ve given up on Edo more than enough already. Why don’t we finally make our escape to that island in western Japan you’re always saying we’ll go to when the time comes?”

“Hmm… We’ll go this year.” “But unless this damn chronic asthma of mine eases up a bit more, I can’t move my body.” “So where *is* this ‘island’ you keep talking about?”

“That’s a pact among comrades—can’t disclose it to anyone.” “Until we get there, I ain’t lettin’ up.” “You always say that, so I’ve held back from asking—but when you talk about this ‘comrades’ code,’ does that mean the three of us here ain’t counted as part of the inner circle?” “When we say ‘island comrades,’ we mean those bound solely through smuggling.” “Don’t take it the wrong way.” “The leader of those comrades isn’t some small-timer working petty haunts like Edo or Naniwa—he’s a big shot in a whole different league.”

“I see. So that makes us about the level of sub-vassals’ twice-removed subordinates, huh?” “Well, that’s probably how it is.” “But if the shogunate hadn’t changed rulers—if Dog Shogun Tsunayoshi’s era of human disqualification and that auspiciously self-destructive zeitgeist had lasted just a bit longer—I could’ve let you lot play a role and shown you far more… *interesting* times. Damn shame that fool shogun died and it’s all Eighth Yoshimune now. That path’s got no prospects left.”

“You mean… him?” Anōjū, who had long seemed to harbor considerable interest in this matter, seized the moment to press Gyōbu-sama with his question.

“Now that it’s come to this, I’ll say it…” Gyōbu-sama said, wrapping his habitual cough—along with phlegm—into a tissue before continuing. From around mid-Genroku era, smuggling associates in western Japan had rapidly grown in number and power. They amassed enormous profits and vast fortunes while secretly stockpiling foreign-made weapons and gunpowder across various islands. When sated with profit, humans crave fame and status. “With state-prohibited smuggling, you can’t openly spend money even in daylight. Any lavish revelry in Gion or Shimabara would immediately be traced.”

Under the Dog Shogun’s misrule, the realm seethed with voices of discontent. Society was rotting; moral principles were in chaos. "Now’s the time—we can do it!" So thought the like-minded rōnin and retainers of ambitious western daimyō who had connected through shared intent; here, at last, a plausible pact to overthrow the shogunate had been drafted. Gyōbu-sama was a single conspiratorial operative in Edo proper. His mission was to rot and fester society into unease and decadence as much as possible until the time came.

His family had been hatamoto, though they were soon ordered to disband; having squandered their fortune, for him—the very model of hatamoto villainy—this made the perfect grand endeavor to throw himself into. “...That’s how it is,” “There was a time I secretly dreamed of ruling castles and provinces—but thanks to my dissolute ways, before society could rot completely, this body of mine wound up chained to a perpetual sickbed, wheezing with asthma.” “A life of evil—see it through to the end, and it’s fleeting as foam on water.” “Had I known it’d come to this, I should’ve swapped souls while still hale—made myself a good man. Would’ve made dying easier.” “When you’re sick through and through, money and charm ain’t worth spit.” “Reckon my ticket to the next world’s ’bout punched too.”

Perhaps because he had divulged a secret from his past that he had never so much as breathed a word about before, Gyōbu-sama—uncharacteristically—suddenly let slip a pitifully human lament. “Yeah, that’s some awful jinx.” “Crane, turtle, crane, turtle.” “Trivial matters… For a villain of my stature.” The three exchanged gestures, but those more deeply entrenched in villainy were in fact haunted by ceaseless thoughts of impending death, and when the opportunity arose, wished to have others hear the pitifully human truths they had originally harbored.

“Damn, today’s turned out all damp and gloomy. Let’s have a drink to liven things up.” One of them went out to order food from a diner. When the lamps were lit, they drank together at Lord Gyōbu’s bedside. Alcohol would immediately make him cough, so Lord Gyōbu didn’t even touch his cup. For what purpose had he spent his life in obscurity, tormented by his own demonic dreams, only to end up lord of this perpetual sickbed?—Once again, Lord Gyōbu began to grumble. “The boss is getting worked up. What’s gotten into you?”

“Unfortunately, Osode-san isn’t here by your side.” “Oh come on, you’ll just get scolded again for your mischief.” “Unlike the Osode-san of before—the one who spent her days crying around age twenty—now it’s like our sick boss here is getting her vengeance bit by bit.” “Still, Oen-san’s awful late, ain’t she?” “Well, she’s gone to see the plays in Sakai-cho—it’s still only around the second act. Even if she takes a palanquin back, it’ll be nearly midnight by the time she reaches Negishi.”

“There must be some souvenirs.” “Shall we keep drinking until then?” “Boss... how about...” “A cup?” “I... can’t.” Gyōbu weakly waved his hand, suppressing another cough before completing the gesture. At that instant—whatever Ōkame sensed— “Ah! Something’s wrong!”

He dropped his cup and suddenly stood up. Arrest.

With deliberate slowness, Tatsuzō took a full half-hour to saw through two places on the horizontal square timber with a handsaw.

As soon as he crawled in, he used a short sword to cut through Yamamoto Sōta’s rope bindings and put the sword in his hand.

“Now… Quickly, quietly.” “Quickly, quietly.”

Clutching Sōta’s body to himself, he tried to emerge together from the breached underfloor space they had cut through. Then, at that moment, in the bright starlight outside, the shadow of someone’s two legs appeared. With a start, he whirled around—his shoulder struck a foundation pillar, and a sound so loud it startled even himself erupted.

“Damn it!” Tatsuzō cried out toward the light above. Suddenly, a floorboard spanning one tatami mat’s width was torn away from above. Anōjū, Sanpei, and Ōkame—three faces peered down in unison. “Bastard!” Three swords came crashing down, battering the square maw of darkness with wild strikes. Yet Sōta and Tatsuzō narrowly dodged the rain of pale blade tips, their minds racing through split-second options. To them, this instant felt utterly hopeless—for those shadowy leg-figures they’d glimpsed earlier had multiplied from five to ten, then more still, crawling forward in encircling formation through the underfloor space.

But Tatsuzō knew that each of those black shadows crawling forward carried short white blades in their hands. "Oh, Hanji?" he called out to one of them. There was no answer, but upon recognizing his voice, countless shadows broke through the foundation timbers all at once, gathered beneath the light, and fiercely began shouting, "In the name of the law! In the name of the law!" Inside the room, an even greater commotion erupted. "Sanpei! Sanpei! Press down those floorboards—the tatami mats! Close the floor hatch after you!" "Press down on the floorboards—those tatami mats! Quickly!" "Close the floor hatch after you've done that!"

There was no mistaking it—this was Lord Gyōbu’s roar. He kicked away his bedding and violently drew his long sword. But before Akazari Sanpei could return to seal the floor hatch, constables and arresting officers—three, five, then ten—had already surged upward and flooded every corner of the room.

The sliding door collapsed with a crash. The house groaned under the strain of struggle. Thud thud thud—Lord Gyōbu charged onto the veranda,

“You bastards!” He cast a fearsome glare at the pursuing arresting officers. The face of he who bore the epithet “the Monster,” now raging with the knowledge of his end, was something none could approach. “Don’t let the ringleader escape!” One of the constables brandished his jitte with a body charge. With Lord Gyōbu’s teeth-gnashing roar came the first bloodshed there—the constable’s body soared upward, heels lifting skyward before tumbling down into the front garden. The splintering crash came from Ōkame—whose swift escape attempt had him bursting through the bamboo window of the kitchen room in reckless flight.

“You bastard!”

Two arresting officers who had jumped at him pulled both his legs. Ōkame tumbled onto the tatami mats, lay flat on his back, then sprang up with a powerful kick of his legs and desperately smashed through the kitchen shutters with his entire body. “Oh! Anō!” “Kame?” “No good here either!” “What about the crawl-through door?!” “Outside’s swarming with arresting officers and official lanterns too.”

“Then—the back gate? To the neighbor’s place—over the wall.”

“There are arresting officers there too. Ōkame, however regrettable, it seems your time to settle accounts has come.” “No way! I don’t wanna die.—Oh! Those official lanterns—aren’t they from the South Town Magistrate’s Office? If it’s the South Office, I can be saved! I’m Ōoka Ichijūrō’s—no, Lord Echizen’s cousin! That’s right! I’m Lord Echizen’s cousin—Kamejirō! Go ahead and arrest me! I’ll spill every last one of Lord Echizen’s dirty secrets in the sanded court!”

He ran about like one delirious, hurling curses as he fled— “Kamejirō! You’re under arrest!” Just as he tried to scale the wall to the neighboring house, Kobayashi Kanzō seized him.

He howled again. “Let me see Lord Echizen! —I’ve got words for Lord Echizen!” “Go on then—drag me wherever you want!” Meanwhile, Akazari Sanpei had been surrounded at the back well and was finally caught.

Anōjū was nowhere to be found. "The shed?" "Under the floor?" "...The roof—check the roof!" As the arresting officers scrambled in disarray, crimson firelight suddenly flared from a room within. "The ringleader!" "Gyōbu-sama!" Ichikawa Giheita—who had been hunting precisely this—ran forward and approached the shoji screen now engulfed in flames. "Stay back, you fool!" True to his nature as the consummate villain, he had set himself ablaze and begun slicing open his abdomen. For an instant, his face resembled Aka-Fudō's wrathful visage—unbearable to behold—yet Giheita plunged through the inferno and seized the burning figure.

But when they bound him, Gyōbu had bitten his tongue.

“Palanquin bearers—isn’t that a fire? The sky’s all red!” “Looks like a real fire.” “Where?” “Who knows?” “Let me out of the palanquin.”

At the foot of Uguisubashi Bridge's cliff slope, at that very moment, two palanquins were letting down two female passengers.

They were Osode and Otsubame. Holding souvenirs of Kabuki candy from Sakai-chō, they gazed up at the night sky where stars and fire scattered and mingled, lost in thought for some time. “Palanquin bearers.” “Thank you for your trouble. This is fine here…”

When she descended the slope with Otsubame and reached the bridge approach at Uguisudani, her sixth sense seemed to have already detected something—

“Otsubame, you mustn’t!” Suddenly, they started running back toward the hills behind Ueno.

“Stop!”

A sharp voice gave chase. However, the surrounding mountain trees swiftly concealed their two shadows somewhere, as though nothing were amiss.

Cornered Bird

It was the forest of Kan'ei-ji Temple. In the darkness and the thick undergrowth, the two kept stumbling through the night dew. Was the night wind shaping the arresting officers' voices, or had their cries become one with the wind itself? Buffeted by terror, harried by dread—no matter how far they fled, something always loomed at their backs.

“Otsubame!” “What’s wrong?” “This way!” “Otsubame—” “Mom! Wait! ...Something’s caught on my sleeve.” “Wait!” “...Something’s tangled in my sleeve—” In human nature, there was neither good nor evil. In this situation, all these two had were the instincts of mother and child.

Osode ran back and fiercely pulled at Otsubame’s sleeve, which had become entangled in the thorns. The eight openings of the sleeve tore. Probably, the skin of Osode’s hands tore and was stained with blood. However, she felt no pain at all. “Hold on tight. Y’all right ’ya?” “Mom, what on earth is going on with tonight’s commotion?” “Don’t you get it yet ’ya? They’ve already moved against Lord Gyōbu—there’s no doubt about it. We’ve got to brace ourselves now too, ’ya hear?”

“And where are we supposed to escape to now?”

“Who knows?” “……”

Osode bit her lip, trying to keep her bewildered expression from showing to Otsubame. “Don’t you worry. Lord Ōuchi Fuden is a retainer of Rinnō-ji no Miya—if we ask him to hide us in one of the branch temples, neither the town magistrate nor the temple and shrine magistrate can interfere. He’s always liked you—has even privately brought it up to me… He’ll surely agree. Right—you wait around here somewhere.” “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Ueno was known as Tōeizan’s thirty-six subtemples. Amidst dense trees and night mist，the faint lights of Central Hall’s corridors and Manjusri Hall’s railings were barely visible. “Listen up，Otsubame.” “Don’t move from there till I come back，’ya hear?” “Press yourself deeper into them tree shadows so them arrestin’ officers don’t catch on—”

Osode kept glancing back as she ran toward the rear gate of the Central Hall. This was a shogunate prayer site granted special status due to being under the Prince-Abbot of Rinnō-ji's authority. As Osode had anticipated, once inside these temple grounds, neither the Town Magistrate's police batons nor the Temple Magistrate's oversight could touch them. "Will he really agree...? "...Mom went off so certain." Left alone, Otsubame could only agonize—a desperate urge to pray for divine mercy rose within her, momentarily washing away awareness of her own crimes.

But somewhere in Otsubame’s heart,

"If I were to be saved by Mr. Fuden…?" Yet she felt she didn’t want to be saved. The next hardship, the next worry rose immediately in her mind—things that seemed far more painful than being chased by police batons now. Among the monks and temple samurai of Kan'ei-ji Temple, there were not only Fuden but several others who knew them. They too harbored an underside no less decadent than today’s temple samurai, so in Lord Gyōbu’s enclave of temple warrior neighborhoods, Osode and her child had often met other companions at places of amusement.

Ōuchi Fuden was the vice-chief steward of the branch temple—a man of influence even within the entire temple complex—and while he had always shown kindness to her mother Osode, Otsubame couldn't shake her unease. What would become of her if she were to be saved by Fuden? It was something that didn't require thinking. Ahh, I want to die!

Truly, she thought so. The arresting officers were terrifying, and being rescued was dreadful. What cursed fate had she been born into? At that moment, she suddenly became an ordinary sentimental maiden, standing alone with her face drenched in tears.

Stealthily, with meticulous care. A black figure had been tailing them since earlier and was gradually creeping closer from behind. Osode had not noticed, and Otsubame still remained unaware.

Suddenly, when Otsubame let out a startled cry resembling a scream, the man’s dark figure—

“Got you!”

Leaping at her while pinning down the beautiful bird that struggled and fought, “No way—absolutely no way I’m letting you escape! You’re under arrest! You’re under arrest, Otsubame!”

He panted frantically. Yet strangely, his voice held an uncharacteristically low whisper for an arresting officer, and there was something brittle in the physical strength with which he grappled her. In contrast, when pressed to the brink, Otsubame was no ordinary maiden. She bore the agility and fearlessness of one nurtured since birth in wickedness and wilderness. "Tch! You think I'll let myself be caught by the likes of you?" Her hands—desperate and lethal—shook off the fragile officer's grip. She thrust away another attempt to seize her. But though he fell, fell, and fell again, the black-clad man kept clutching at some part of her—her hem, sleeve, obi—refusing to release his hold.

Town Doctor Rakuō "Agh! Mom—!" After all, a maiden remained a maiden. She finally screamed. The moment she stumbled over something and fell.

But that cry had inadvertently summoned their enemies. With a clattering rush, those who came running into view were unmistakably magistrates' yoriki. In their hands, they held lanterns marked "South" aloft. "Ah! And you are?" "Oh! You. Hurry—help me!" The black-clad old man, who had been struggling to pin down Otsubame from above, urged breathlessly.

Ichikawa Giheita quickly subdued Otsubame.

The black-clad old man who had gotten to his feet spoke in a commanding tone.

“Boy. “Since she’s noisy, go ahead and put a monkey gag on her while you’re at it.”

Giheita then bound half of Otsubame’s face with cloth. And for the first time, he expressed his surprise as genuine surprise. “This is unexpected... Father taking part in the operation is truly unexpected. Good grief—this is something I never could have imagined—”

“That’s only natural.”

And even Rakuō himself seemed to doubt his own capabilities—both as a physician and as one who had managed to survive into old age— “Well.

“I’ll explain my thoughts and tonight’s details later.” “…More importantly—how went the arrest operation you all undertook toward Lord Gion’s residence?” “Did it succeed?”

“The leader—that monster Gyōbu—set himself on fire and killed himself.” “A shame,” he said. “And the other bandits?” “We’ve captured Akazari Sanpei and Ōkame. Anōjū fled the scene and jumped into the valley below Uguisubashi Bridge, but we’ll hunt him down soon enough. After dispatching the others one by one, only the two female thieves and those loyal to our cause remained to watch the area—yet here I find my elderly Father has beaten me to capturing her.”

“No, I’m neither yoriki nor dōshin,” he said. “Those I’ve captured won’t be handed over to the magistrate’s office.” “That’s problematic,” Giheita objected. “Father, this is illegal!” “I don’t care if it’s illegal.” The old man’s voice hardened. “If you’re staking your life on this affair as a magistrate’s yoriki, then I too—as Lord Echizen’s personal acquaintance—have staked my entire being on tonight’s endeavor. I won’t hand over Otsubame.” Rakuō—whether driven by some profound conviction—not only stubbornly refused but suddenly broke into a run. From the darkness came a distant “Hey!”, answered by another “Hey—” echoing through the trees.

Before long, two town palanquins were brought to the shade of the forest trees. Looking over, they saw the master of Kago Tora from Ushigome Yanagichō and a young man. They lived right near Rakuō’s house, always addressing him reverently as “Doctor” and relying on him, while Rakuō himself would drop everything and rush to treat any patient without fail—such was their relationship. “Hey, Kago Tora,” he said. “Take this young woman first—put her in the palanquin and make haste to the place I instructed.” “Yes, sir. Understood,” replied Kago Tora. “Oh—Lord Giheita is here too... You’ve had quite a successful night tonight.”

“Now, now, Tora. No need for idle talk. Hurry up—quickly! And make sure to strictly enforce secrecy not just on him but also the young men… Understood? I’m counting on you.” “You needn’t worry, Doctor. Since this is a request you’ve dedicated your life to, even the young lads are eager to lend a hand without any thought of personal gain.”

In the meantime, Otsubame was transferred into the palanquin, and Kago Tora followed along, hurrying ahead. “Giheita.” “Ah…” “What are you standing there staring after her for?” “Father. Where exactly have you sent Otsubame?” “Well, enough of that. Leave it to me—I won’t do you wrong.” “But I too am someone who carries a police baton. I can’t let this stand...” “Who has dishonored your police baton? I am acting based on considerations of the larger picture. You’re merely voicing immediate grievances due to your official duties. But in time to come, you’ll see that both your sincerity and my struggles were one and the same.”

Even as he spoke, Rakuō too quickly concealed himself inside the palanquin. And from inside the palanquin, Giheita heard a voice that seemed to say, "To Akasaka."

Uragiku Gate

“To Akasaka?” Giheita tilted his head slightly. “Now what…?” he murmured, his puzzlement deepening. If Father had hurried to Lord Echizen’s residence, it became even more inexplicable.

But Giheita trusted his father. He believed in Rakuō not merely as a son but as a righteous man. For Lord Echizen—with whom they shared mutual trust—how deeply they had grieved and agonized since the incident. That might hold something far deeper—something far beyond what someone like me, clinging solely to my role as a yoriki, could ever comprehend. As he stood frozen with arms crossed, lost in thought, the night dew from the great tree pattered coldly onto his shoulders. Startled back to his senses, he stroked his collar as—

Right. His colleagues must have also been wondering what he was up to. At any rate tonight he should return to the magistrate’s office.

As he turned back and started down one of the paths— The darkness rustled and shuddered. Through the murk between trees, a pale face glided away like something swimming through water. Ah—a woman? It was Osode. It had to be Osode.

Giheita’s body convulsed violently. The duty of a yoriki. One who bears a jitte. "In the name of justice!"—the cry had erupted from his throat unbidden. He lunged after the fleeing shadow—only to become mired in confusion—Should he have restrained her? Let her escape? Which course was righteous, which condemnable? Osode and Lord Echizen. Were their relationship to become public knowledge—could Lord Echizen’s position possibly remain unshaken? How might he answer the world’s censure? Moreover—would this not once more bring calamity upon Lord Echizen’s personal life?

(No matter what you face, do not yield to self-interest.) You are public servants. (You are not retainers of Lord Echizen alone; you are public servants.)

Since this incident occurred, Lord Echizen had made a clear declaration to us as town magistrate. Even just witnessing his tone when uttering those words and seeing his brow had made Lord Echizen’s resolve abundantly clear. But now—when that woman’s shadow appeared before his eyes—when his hand touched the arrest rope—even Giheita could not remain unshaken. Yet still he chased that fleeing shadow—chased and chased—even through his wavering torment.

A white light—undoubtedly a police baton—leapt toward Osode’s back like a fish.

When it seemed certain he had apprehended her, he himself must have believed he'd seized her. Yet near where their shadows overlapped, a figure suddenly darted from the darkness beside him and shoved him aside. Giheita lurched forward from the impact but whirled around to face his assailant. "Don't misunderstand! I'm from the magistrate's office—the magistrate's office!" "We know what you are," the temple samurai retorted. "What business has a magistrate's officer here?"

“Got you! You think I’d interfere knowing that? Ah—letting her escape—”

As Giheita lunged toward Osode once more— “Do you know where you stand? “This is Kan’ei-ji Temple’s sacred grounds! "For lowly constables bearing jitte to trespass near His Highness of Rinnō-ji Temple—utterly unconscionable. “Did you march here knowing even your magistrate would lose his post?” The man—clearly a temple samurai—arrogantly blocked their path like a stone wall.

Giheita’s eyes blazed with fury,

“Wh-what? You called us ‘filthy officials,’ didn’t you?” “Magistrate, town yoriki, dōshin, okappiki. The world lumps them all together as filthy officials. It can’t be wrong for me alone to say it.”

“Let’s set aside other matters. This isn’t the time for that!” “Oh? And what sort of ‘case’ would this be?” “Though this area is colloquially called Kan’ei-ji’s forest, it hasn’t yet reached the inner gate precincts of the mountain compound. This is normally an open thoroughfare—our entering it shouldn’t pose any hindrance.” “That’s precisely why I’ve permitted you this far. You shall not proceed beyond here. Open your eyes and look properly. Right there marks the inner gate boundary—”

Seeing where the man pointed behind him, Giheita involuntarily ground his teeth and cursed under his breath. Osode's figure grazed past the side wall of Kan'ei-ji Temple's rear gate—where a large lantern bearing a sixteen-petaled reverse chrysanthemum crest cast its faint light—and disappeared into the small hidden gate as though being swallowed whole. “Sh-she’s...! Osode—” “Osode!”

“What—or who—do you mean by 'Osode'?” “This is an improper act of protection you commit. “That woman belongs to a criminal gang—the very one we’ve pursued with arrest ropes tonight. “To shelter such a violent offender within grounds containing the Imperial Prayer Hall defies all comprehension!” “Now, now, town official,” he said coldly— “Has your blood gone astray? “The woman just now is a relative of this Ōuchi Fuden.”

“No—that can’t be possible.” “I’m certain of it.” “Shut your trap!” Ōuchi Fuden barked with menace— “You think I’d mistake my own flesh and blood? The world’s full of strangers who look alike by chance. Push this any further, and not even your magistrate will escape with just a groveling apology.” “Hmm... How regrettable.” “But there’s no helping it.”

“Get out, get out. If you’re still suspicious, come back properly another time.” Ōuchi Fuden barked, his massive shoulders blocking the moonlight. “I am Ōuchi Fuden of the branch temple. While I’m at it—your name?” “I am the South Magistrate’s yoriki, Ichikawa Giheita.” “I see.” Fuden’s laughter rumbled like distant thunder. “The South doesn’t have a very good reputation. Ha ha ha! Been acting rather impatient lately, haven’t you?” He turned with deliberate slowness, the arrogant span of his back swallowing the path as he lumbered toward the hidden rear gate. Pausing mid-stride, he glanced over his shoulder at Giheita’s frozen silhouette—white teeth flashing in a sly grin—before the gate boomed shut like a judge’s gavel.

Self-Interrogation

For the past ten-odd days, an unusual tension had enveloped the South Town Magistrate’s Office. Though no official announcement had yet been made, word spread throughout Edo—no one knew from whom—that the Horidome Five-Person Gang had been apprehended by the South Magistrate’s forces. Citizens who had taken interest in the rivalry with the North Town Magistrate now... “The South did it, eh?” “They did! Lord Ōoka too!” With fresh excitement akin to scoring a single point amidst a losing streak of black marks, rumors swirled in every direction.

However, within the South Town Magistrate’s Office itself, there was none of that frivolous excitement, nor any songs of triumph. Rather, if anything, a cold severity—as though a stroke of ink had been brushed across it—had settled over every surface of the ancient, massive structure since that day. From the interrogation chambers and clerks’ offices to the yoriki waiting rooms and even the magistrate’s private quarters, wherever one peered within, there was only a suffocating, strained silence. Today as well, Lord Echizen had shut himself away in a room. Surrounded by towering stacks of documents, he kept the two yoriki—Kobayashi Kanzō from the petitions division and Ichikawa Giheita from investigations—close at hand. Each man leaned over his small desk, wholly absorbed in organizing records or delving into inquiries.

In this capacity, here stood a crime investigation laboratory. One of the three yoriki, Yamamoto Sōta, remained active outside, employing informants like Tatsuzō and Hanji as his hands and feet to ceaselessly gather materials for multifaceted inquiries and pursue leads as ordered from this office ever since that incident.

"Summer is near."

Lord Echizen, his eyes weary from the documents, suddenly looked up,

“Kanzō. Would you open the rear shoji a bit?” he said. Even this magistrate’s office with its prison and sanded court had a central garden; beyond the damp veranda, the fresh sunlight of approaching summer filtered through the dewy young leaves of maple branches. From the stone well, a wooden water trough ran down into a small stream. At the edge of those small splashes, small birds descended and frolicked. “How quiet it is... Giheita—why don’t you take a breather too? There was a line in the Tang Poetry Anthology—or perhaps someone’s poem—‘Near woods and springs yet close to the city, the secluded becomes all the more secluded.’”

“Magistrate. What does that mean?” “Secluded... To put it plainly, they say true stillness isn’t found in deserted mountains, but rather in unexpected moments amidst the clamor of the city—where genuine solitude resides.” “Ah... A poet’s paradox then?” “To call it a paradox misses the mark. This isn’t abstract philosophy. When examined through pure logic, it seems inverted—but contemplate deeply, and you’ll find a truth beyond mere reasoning.” “Then even matters analyzed through logic alone cannot attain absolute truth?”

“Perhaps one could say so.” “Laws and ordinances are founded on reason, I presume?”

"There is no law without reason. However, what of this notion that reason constitutes law? There are many cunning sophists in the streets who use irrationality to manipulate righteous reason." "Then, are edicts morality?" "The law—the law itself—is the compass of morality. To love the law is to love morality. In the words of Miyamoto Musashi, the swordsman, the first tenet of his Dokkōdō states: 'I have never strayed from the path through successive generations.' Even in the way of the sword, one cannot achieve anything by discarding the law. However, there are also many pseudo-patriots and hypocrites in this world who pay lip service to morality to intimidate good citizens, flaunt it as their banner while running rampant, and peddle evil. The law cannot even be called morality or such."

“Then, is it compassion?” “Are you asking whether the law should judge primarily through human compassion? If you adopt such a perspective as magistrate, you could never render proper judgment. Compassion must be studied but never consciously wielded—not in the sanded court, nor anywhere else. Because we who judge are ourselves vessels of compassion—foolish, afflicted humans.” “Then what should we consider to be the true essence of law?” “Humans performing what is difficult for humans. A demonstration...perhaps I should call it that.”

“What do you mean by ‘demonstration’?” “It is divine will. What should lie beyond judgment unless one were God—humans substitute themselves to manifest this. When I consider it... how arduous it becomes. We remain too human.” “Yet when judging humans, might it be precisely our humanity that allows us to judge well at times?” “Indeed.”

As Lord Echizen was being questioned alternately by the two men, he instead made a face that seemed relieved—even saved—by their inquiries.

“Ultimately, divine judgment cannot be achieved—humans can only render human judgment. It would be safest to offer apologies to the gods and buddhas from the outset.” “What is the ideal of the law?” “A world without laws. A prison without prisoners.” “In that case, magistrates like the North Town Magistrate—who fill their prisons to bursting with criminals and boast of their achievements—would be rather ridiculous, wouldn’t they?”

“No, you can’t put it that way. Not in times like these—when society stands as it does.” “But if they keep mercilessly cracking down on every speck of dust and tossing even petty offenders into prison cells, soon we won’t be able to tell whether society has become a prison or prisons have become society.”

“Don’t say that.” “That’s someone else’s affair.”

Lord Echizen, seizing that moment, took a sip of tea and once again immersed himself in his paperwork.

He never appeared overburdened, no matter how many petty cases of pickpocketing, theft, fraud, or civil lawsuits required examination. When presiding over the sanded court, he handled matters with decisions that flowed like swift water. Particularly in civil suits, his judgments more often took the form of mediation than formal verdicts. In disputes resolved by his single pronouncement, he always gave both quarreling parties full understanding of the settlement, leaving neither feeling unfairly treated and both thoroughly satisfied.

In that regard, around that time among Edo's town chiefs and the neighborhood elders of the five-family groups, (Harmonious Ōoka. Demon Izumo) secret jargon like this came to be used.

Such coded epithets as "Harmonious Ōoka" and "Demon Izumo" had come into use. When disputes reached the sanded court of Lord Izumo no Kami Nakayama in the North Quarter, they invariably escalated into major confrontations where one party would be conclusively branded a hardened criminal. —Yet Lord Echizen's true purpose lay not in such achievements; his ideal remained fixed on realizing a world without need for laws and prison cells without inmates. Of course, though this amounted to mere idealism, he considered it a magistrate's duty to strive toward such a society.

To achieve this, he believed it was absolutely necessary—rather than hunting down perpetrators of major and minor crimes from the seat of vice—to first eliminate the root causes at the breeding grounds of crime itself. This required focused attention to municipal governance, particularly social policies.

However. The path he aspired to was long, and now instead, complex dilemmas—as if he himself had to sit in judgment of himself—surrounded him and lay upon his desk.

He did not yield. Summoning indomitable courage, he confronted his own judgments day after day.

“Magistrate.”

Just then, a voice came from the next room.

“Who is it?”

“It is Sōta. May I have your permission to enter?” “Ah, Sōta? Enter. I’ve been awaiting you.” Yamamoto Sōta—one of three assistant magistrates who had been formally dismissed and lived obscurely on Funagen’s second floor—had been permitted access to the magistrate’s office again, though not fully reinstated, due to his merits during Lord Gyōbu’s compound raid. Under municipal service duties, he now appeared here periodically.

The Howling Prison

When they saw his figure, both Giheita and Kanzō, "Oh, Sōta." "What terrible sweat you're in!" "You're covered in grime!"

They both raised their faces from their desks and turned eyes filled with concern.

Sōta wiped his forehead with a hand towel while, “No, walking through the streets now—the sun burns fierce. Hearing those seedling sellers and blind sellers call out... I feel lashed by how swiftly time passes.” With that, he took out a memorandum from his breast pocket and adjusted his posture before Lord Echizen. “Truly, it has taken many days, but Osode’s upbringing from childhood through her time at the water teahouse have finally been fully investigated.”

“I see,” said Lord Echizen, his expression remaining impassive even at the mention of Osode’s name. “Kanzō. There should be a bundle of documents concerning Osode. Write down in detail what Sōta is now recounting and add it to those.” “Understood.”

With that, Kanzō took up his brush. This, too, was the coldly efficient attitude of a clerk. "Most of the information was gathered by examining the mortuary records at Yūsenji Temple in Nippori Village—where Osode's ancestors up to her father are buried—consulting the head priest, and searching out distant relatives to compile accounts." "Combining these, I shall first present only the general outline."

Yamamoto Sōta spoke while reading from his memorandum. “Osode’s father, Imamura Kaneto, served in Lord Akita Awa-no-kami’s retinue with a stipend of fifty koku as a foot soldier.” “His nature was gentle and sincere.” “He was reputed to be a man of good standing throughout the domain.” “…………” Ōoka Echizen listened in silence, his half-closed eyes reflecting the verdant hue of young leaves on the veranda. Kanzō’s brush traced Sōta’s account without sound. “When Imamura Kaneto’s daughter Osode fell gravely ill at five years of age—abandoned even by physicians—an acquaintance informed them that only swallow’s charred remains could cure her.” “Driven by paternal devotion, Kaneto used a blowgun to shoot swallows nesting in the estate’s tenement house, secretly prepared the medicine, and administered it to his child.” “Someone must have informed on them… This occurred when accusers of animal killings—not limited to dogs—received official rewards under the Edicts on Compassion for Living Creatures.”

“Hmm,” Lord Echizen nodded deeply. “Unfortunately, that day also coincided with the shogun’s mother’s visit to Gokoku-ji Temple for Buddhist prayers. The act of making swallows into charred remains and administering them to their child was deemed a capital crime. The couple was sentenced to death, their family name abolished, and their relatives scattered.” “Osode was then raised by others—working as a nursemaid, selling fortunes at crossroads—until finally being sold into service as a tea-drawing girl at a water teahouse.” “……”

“By the spring of her sixteenth year—when taking nighttime customers became customary in the water teahouse trade—Ōkame Kamejirō and his cousin Ichijūrō of the same family began visiting occasionally as patrons. During this time, Osode fell into a romantic entanglement with Ichijūrō and eventually conceived his child.—Thus from their union came Otsubame.” Even as they strove to speak impassively and transcribe mechanically, their brushes wavered; their voices frayed with a sorrowful tremor—an unmistakable strain of anguish—

Alone, Lord Echizen received this as if it were someone else’s affair. “Hmm. The name Otsubame—rare in this world—appears to have been derived from Osode’s origins, taking its roots from such circumstances.” “That alone I learned for the first time.—No, I had heard Osode came from a samurai family, but hadn’t known such circumstances in her past.” “…And what of events from then until today?” Lord Echizen pressed further for the rest.

Naturally, Lord Echizen’s dissipation during that period, his bad company, and his family circumstances came under scrutiny. Furthermore, the reason why he ultimately could not remain with Osode would also come to light. It was from that time onward that Osode began to curse—that the single step which had shattered her life as a woman had been taken for a man’s sake, for Ichijūrō’s sake—and even now, the fire of that curse still smoldered in her breast, unextinguished. While Yamamoto Sōta methodically narrated and compiled in writing the findings he had gathered from various sources, Ichikawa Giheita strove to outline the full scope of the conspiracy—using materials collected from all quarters on both the background of Monster Gyōbu, who had never released Osode from his demonic claws until her death, and his faction’s plot to overthrow the shogunate.

The fact that Lord Gyōbu had, over many years, collaborated with smuggling associates in the western provinces and vagrants from various regions to hatch a grand conspiracy—this had now come to light through Anōjūzō, who had been confined in the prison cells.

Additionally, Anōjūzō's original social standing and the motives behind his descent into criminal company had been made clear. Whether it be Ōkame Kamejirō, Anōjū, the deceased miso seller Kyūsuke, or Osode—the motives that led these individuals astray at the crossroads of their youth, their circumstances, and the social conditions all traced back to a single source. If Tokugawa Tsunayoshi—the Dog Shogun of that time—had not heeded his mother and corrupt monks by enacting evil laws like the Edicts on Compassion for Living Creatures, which placed humans below dogs and cats, these people would never have endured such dark half-lives. At the very least, they should not have committed the crimes that became their motives.

Just as with Ōkame and Anō, even Monster Gyōbu could be said to share this fate. Had society been brighter, with no voices of discontent among the common people, even they would never have sought to overturn the world—(Even we could have governed slightly better than this)—nor been driven to instigate such reckless rebellion. A fragile woman’s life—the upbringing of young Osode under that wretched governance and corrupt societal currents—lacked even the significance to be deemed a sacrifice. Moreover, how could one possibly sever that evil destiny when even Otsubame—born later under its curse—was ensnared? Not even a mother’s love could cut it; no wonder mother and child had drifted through evil deeds together.

――Whether he was listening or not, Lord Echizen's countenance showed no readable expression to observers, and thus this room had become a grand interrogation chamber where every aspect of the incident would be thoroughly examined—both its individual components and external framework, down to its very foundations.

For a long time, Yamamoto Sōta’s report continued; furthermore, another report was presented, adding various new materials to the documents on the desk. Before long, the western sun in the courtyard faded, and with the arrival of a chilly evening breeze, the clerks of the magistrate’s office and other officials began to withdraw one after another.

Then, somewhere in the distance—

“You bastard! “Hey, prison guards! “Why won’t you come closer? “Scared? “You scared of me? Or of the magistrate? “Bwahaha! “What’s so terrifying about that idiot magistrate?”

It was a howling, thunderous voice. It carried over the roof of the prison barracks as dusk approached, crossed the fence, and passed over several magistrate's office buildings before reaching them.

He must have been screaming at the top of his lungs.

Heartfire Frenzy

Lord Echizen suddenly pricked up his ears. He muttered to the three: "Kamejirō's yelling again. In that state, his body won't last. Has he been given his medicine?" "We've been making sure the prison doctor stays attentive." Kanzō answered. Kanzō and the others wore expressions as if their chests were being gouged out. "A prison doctor might have limitations. Giheita." "Yes." "You should ask your father - Dr. Ichikawa Rakuō - to come examine him. Have him give a proper diagnosis."

“I will relay that.”

――Then, once again, it reached them. As night fell, with the surroundings growing quiet and the dusk deepening, an eerie aura—even more than before—threatened this room. “Echizen! “Hey! You fraud! Damn magistrate! “Why won’t you show yourself to me? “Why aren’t you interrogating Ōkame Kamejirō? “You! Get over here!” The voice from afar was broken and intermittent, as if tearing through the throat, but even the ears of those listening here could no longer bear to ignore it.

“Magistrate, I’ll just go check on him.”

As Kanzō and Giheita began to rise, "Enough. Leave him be."

Echizen wore the look of one long accustomed to this. "But the prison guards are always at their wits' end. If we don't calm him down some, he might stay up all night and lose his mind again." "True enough—it must be wearing on his body... But even if he collapses, don't restrain him." "Never. We'll manage that part."

The two stood up and left.

After they left, Yamamoto Sōta resolutely edged forward on his knees.

“There remains one matter I have yet to report among those from earlier.”

“This concerns Osode and Otsubame’s whereabouts, I presume?” “Precisely as Your Honor has discerned.” “You hesitated to speak plainly before your two colleagues.” “I questioned whether it was right… or wrong…” “Have I not repeatedly emphasized Echizen’s impartiality? Do you still fail to grasp it fully?” “No—I understand your true sentiments completely… But I beg your understanding.”

“We are human. I am grateful for your consideration. But unless we rise above that, we cannot fulfill our duty as magistrate officials. Sōta, tell me anything.” “To tell the truth… Otsubame is currently being sheltered in the neighboring house of Dr. Ichikawa Rakuō-sama, the town physician in Ushigome Yanagichō.”

“Did Giheita hide it?” “No, it appears Dr. Rakuō-sama himself was keeping watch near Kan’ei-ji Temple that night, persuaded a local man called Kago Tora, and after arguing with your son Giheita, forcibly took him away.” “And what of Osode?” “As for this matter, it seems Dr. Rakuō could not manage to apprehend her either and let her escape. Afterward, when my subordinates Tatsuzō and Hanji desperately searched, she appears to be hidden within the mountain compound by Vice-Abbot Ōuchi Fuden of Kan’ei-ji Temple’s branch.”

“So she’s at the branch temple of the princely abbot… That’s somewhat troublesome.” “That’s my greatest concern.” “Do not worry. As long as Echizen’s resolve remains firmly as it was initially, no matter what may come, there is no need to panic.” “Did I inform Giheita that I had already brought this matter to Your Honor’s attention? Also, would it be acceptable that I kept it concealed?” “Do not conceal it. Yet I take heart from Giheita’s anguish. It can be perceived. My apologies… To have made each of you feel this way.”

With a clatter, from the direction of the inner courtyard, the two men came running back.

“Magistrate. Something’s off.” “What happened?” “Perhaps because Kamejirō had been thrashing about too wildly in his madness, he suddenly collapsed inside the prison cell.” “What? Has he died?” “No, no. It appears to be a temporary seizure, but he’s in agony—foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back, face deathly pale—thrashing about and struggling desperately. It does not appear to be his usual condition.”

“Did you summon the prison physician?” “The prison physician Nakane An’an is unfortunately not at his residence today either. He apparently went far away to examine some patient or another.” “There must be no mishaps—” Echizen immediately stood up, put on his courtyard sandals, “Giheita! Giheita!” “Yes!” “Go quickly and bring Rakuō-sama here. Take a palanquin and make it fly!” “Yes. Understood.”

Giheita immediately ran off. Echizen returned once more to his private quarters, retrieved the inro from the bookcase, descended immediately, exited through the courtyard gate, navigated the alley behind the officials' quarters, circled around several times, and passed through the barred gate into the prison area.

Aya Prison, Hyakunichi Prison, Jūzai Prison—the beast cage-like structures were divided into several wings, with wide alleys between them; here and there between the facing tenement blocks stood guard booths.

“Ah! The Lord Magistrate!” “Lord Magistrate!” At this, the prison guards here made terrified faces and panicked at the sight of someone they seldom saw. “Kamejirō’s cell—” Behind him, Kanzō and Sōta followed. The head prison guard, “This way.”

With that, he anxiously took the lead.

Because he barked, it was located in a corner completely separated from the other prison blocks.

Behind was a thicket. In front were five or six scrub trees. The area was parched, with nothing but dirt visible. “This is the place…” “That is correct, my lord.”

“It’s quiet. Has he settled down?” Lord Echizen approached the prison bars. Outside, twilight still lingered faintly, but within the cell lay pitch darkness. Something heaved and squirmed in the blackness.

Under the Lamp's Light

“W-who’s there? Who’s peeking in here?” Ōkame raised his upper body from the floorboards, his eyes alone gleaming intently. Then, with a slow scraping sound—zu, zu…—he began inching closer, or so it seemed, “Gah! D-damn you!” he suddenly pressed his mouth against the prison bars with a clang, as if biting into them. “That’s Echizen! —No, wrong! You’re Ōoka Ichijūrō. Oichi…” “Kamejirō. How are you faring? How is your health?”

“W-what... what’re you saying? Don’t make me laugh, you damn fake!” “I heard you were suffering, so I brought medicine. Will you take it?”

“I’ll take your damn medicine. Go on, make me take it! I’ve been burning up like fire through my whole body since yesterday. Mark my words. This is all your cursed doing!” “—Jailer. Try administering this to him. It’s Jingūmaru. Effective against fevers.” When Echizen passed over the medicine case, Kamejirō erupted like a rākṣasa demon. “Don’t fuck with me! Think you can poison me? I ain’t swallowing that bait! Hey! Ichijūrō! Get your ass in this cell! We need to talk!”

“I will hear your case in the sanded court in due time. Speak your fill there.” “So you refuse? Hey! You think you can interrogate me in the sanded court?! What a damn joke! Wahahaha… If I’ve got past sins, then you’ve got ’em too! Should I say it? Hell no—you think I’d keep quiet?! Come on—drag me to the sanded court right now! Jailer! Open this cell!” “There can be no interrogation while you remain agitated. If you wish to appear in the sanded court, you’d best calm yourself quickly.”

“You’re planning to treat me like a madman, huh? Hmph, I get it. You’re planning to dismiss all my words as a madman’s ravings, falsify the records, and make everything look neat for the public’s sake, aren’t you? Eat shit! If I’m bound for the gallows, I’ll drag you there with me! If I’m crucified, I’ll drag you to the stake with me.—You and I were bound by an unbreakable bond from the very start. And here you are trying to play the good little boy all by yourself—damn you, don’t fuck with me!”

In his frenzy, he apparently struck his forehead against the prison bars. With a drip—a thread of blood passed through one eye and trailed down to his chin. Then Kamejirō groaned “Ugh…” and collapsed once more.

“Now!” The prison guard immediately entered the cell, gave him water, and administered medicine. When he came to, Kamejirō began to roar again. Again, he snapped at the prison bars.

At that moment, Ichikawa Rakuō, who had gone to fetch Giheita, arrived carrying a medicine case. He immediately examined Kamejirō’s condition. Whether it was because this doctor differed from the usual prison physician or perhaps due to some lingering attachment to life itself, Kamejirō suddenly became as docile as a child, allowing his pulse to be taken and submitting to examinations of his chest, back, and even the soles of his feet. “He’s remarkably robust.” “Given his current condition, there’s no need for concern.” “It’s merely a slight cold.” “The fever is high.”

Laughing, Rakuō emerged. Then, after instructing them to come retrieve the medicine, he returned to a room in the administrative building accompanied by the head prison guard.

He handed over the prepared medicine and washed his hands,

“And the magistrate…?” he asked Giheita.

"He is waiting in the inner quarters." “I had been meaning to request an audience with him in the coming days. Might I humbly ask if he could spare me a brief moment at his earliest convenience?” Before long, permission was granted, and this time Kobayashi Kanzō came to guide him.

Following along, they arrived at Lord Echizen’s private chamber. That was the secluded small room where he would occasionally retreat alone, stealing moments of leisure from his busy schedule to immerse himself in silent contemplation.

“If there is need, I will call.” “All of you, rest and withdraw to the yoriki room. Stay there.”

Lord Echizen, too, tonight seemed to have a particular matter he wished to discuss, sitting face-to-face with him alone.

“Well.” “Master Rakuō.” “Make yourself comfortable.” “All day long.” “You must be exhausted from your long day.” “I will take you up on your kind offer to relax.” Taking a floor mat, he plopped his knees down upon it, and Rakuō directed his gaze toward the small tokonoma. With compassionate eyes behold all living beings　　　　 Words of Monk Dōkubō And there hung a narrow scroll bearing a single line of calligraphy.

“Oh.” “Whose calligraphy is this?” “How embarrassing.” “It’s my own handiwork.” “And Monk Dōkubō—” “He is the benefactor to whom Lord Echizen owes his rebirth.” “Where he might be now... Out of longing, I’ve written down the reverend’s usual words myself and gaze upon them.” “—Longing.” “Truly, in the human world, it is only such things as the warmth of human affection and the tension of rivalries that serve as our salvation—and that even slightly improve humanity, I should think.” “And... there is something I wish to show you.”

Rakuō took out a small purple cloth bundle and placed it before the other’s knees.

“You seem rather formal about this. What is this?” “What is this?” “Well. “Please take it in your hands and look at it, if you would.” Rakuō reached out and pulled the distant candle closer. Lord Echizen unfolded the cloth wrapping. On the quiet purple cloth lay a single maki-e inro. The golden sheen of the polished maki-e, scattered with hollyhock crests, pierced the viewer’s eyes.

“Lord Magistrate…” “Do you remember?” “I do.” His eyes still fixed on the inro, Lord Echizen answered in a low voice. If I had no memory of it—what then? This maki-e inro with scattered hollyhock crests had been the possession of the current shogun Yoshimune from his days as Tokugawa Shinnosuke, when he was still a lord-in-waiting in Kii Province. No—how could he ever forget? This inro obtained by the roadside; the days spent wandering famine-stricken streets with young Otsubame strapped to his back—through winter winds and sleet-filled days—reduced to begging for a single bowl of food; the pitiful figure of that father adrift in despair; the child’s wailing cries—how could any of this be forgotten? Even if Magistrate Echizen no Kami had rigorously hardened his heart for public duty, beneath the official robes—as he too possessed human skin and flesh—he could not remain unmoved when viewing this under lamplight today, nearly twenty years after those events.

Chapter Five

Michibushin The tears held back by his eyelashes teetered on the brink of spilling over, threatening to dampen Lord Echizen’s cheek.

Rakuō indeed saw it in Lord Echizen’s eyes as well.

At the moment he thought this—he himself noticed something trailing down his own cheek and hurriedly turned his face away.

Lord Echizen also turned his face aside and gently dabbed with a kaishi paper but quickly regained his composure, “Master Rakuō—” he asked quietly, still keeping his eyes lowered on the inro in the lamplight. “Pray tell—how has this inro come into your possession?” “Now that you have pressed this inquiry—what course does Your Honor intend to take? First allow me to hear your intentions before proceeding.”

“Therefore, the owner of this inro is one of the female thieves that Echizen is currently investigating. Since it was the possession of a young woman who had joined the notorious Five-Person Gang robberies you are aware of... That is why I am inquiring.”

“Then… Lord Echizen,” Rakuō began, looking directly at him as if about to say something—but his lips merely trembled, and no words escaped. In response to his direct gaze, Lord Echizen likewise did not avert his eyes and looked at his lips. The eyes of the two, mutually overcoming their tears, burned with will and conviction.

“Then, Lord Magistrate—should the whereabouts of this inro’s owner become known—is it your intention to have them apprehended?”

“Of course!” He said resolutely to himself, as if issuing a command. “As my duty demands, I shall of course dispatch arresting officers immediately.” “However, Lord Magistrate. Ah, Lord Echizen. If for that reason… suppose we say… Even if Ōoka Tadasuke as a man were to have both his current post as town magistrate and his entire life utterly destroyed due to some long-past connection with a single criminal—would you still insist on resolving this matter solely through legal statutes?”

“That is an irrelevant inquiry.” “Echizen—unworthy though I may be—currently serves as Edo Town Magistrate.” “No, Lord Echizen—I do not inquire about your feelings as a man. …As one parent to another.” “This is an impertinent question. “The only place where Echizen exists freely as parent, husband, and private individual is within my Akasaka residence. “—This is the South Town Magistrate’s official residence.” “I understand the distinction between public and private matters.” “Yet what this foolish old man means is—‘For great public causes, heaven condemns not nor do men begrudge trivial private affairs.’” “For instance—even were there minor faults or sins in some current magistrate’s past—such as all men might commit—”

“Please wait.” “…What you say may serve as my own defense.” “But from society’s perspective, they would call it covering up ugliness.” “The public will not find this satisfactory.”

“No, in your case—” “I do not possess such great public trust or moral authority.” “Even if none exist now—who else but you could emerge in the future as someone to better this world? The self-destructive behavior and indolence that have festered among the public since the Dog Protection Decrees—the anxiety and moral decay born from them—will not recover through half-hearted measures. Even if the shogunate changes hands, unless there are good magistrates and virtuous officials who actually immerse themselves among the common people to govern—”

“Though I make no claim to being the ideal candidate, Echizen is resolved to exert his utmost efforts.” “Then why would you vex yourself over such trifling matters—nay, choose this reckless course that would ruin both your office and your very person?”

“Let us cease this…” Lord Echizen abruptly shifted his bearing, as if to mollify Master Rakuō’s obstinacy—

“Old Master. “Now, please rest assured.” “No. “Not in the least.” “This old fool finds no rest.” “Ha ha ha!” “Someone like Tadasuke—there are plenty in this world who could replace a minor official. However, as I now find myself fortunately positioned to lead the way, I intend to repair these long-neglected muddy roads.” “If only the roads are properly maintained, there are certainly wise men and capable talents in this world—and capable individuals will emerge in abundance afterward.”

“I shall take my leave.”

Rakuō began to rise as if resolved to something. And then, wrapping the inro that had been placed between them in a fukusa and beginning to put it away,

“Nay. Don’t leave this behind.”

Lord Echizen extended his hand and restrained Rakuō's hand that held the inro.

The Son’s Police Baton

“No, this is evidence held in custody. Unless I hear the principal’s own testimony from their heart, I cannot release it.” Rakuō brushed aside Lord Echizen’s restraining hand and briskly tucked the medicine case into his robe. Then— “This foolish elder has convictions he must honor too—pray do not judge me harshly.”

And then—he performed another bow and attempted to exit the room.

Then Lord Echizen bellowed— “Old man. “Wait!” he said from behind. Rakuō turned around, “Magistrate. “What business do you have?” “If you leave here carrying that inro, misfortune will befall you as well.” “—It is crucial evidence required for investigating criminals.” “Cast off that calamity and go!” “Nay. “Even you, who hold the office of magistrate, do not seek to avoid the calamity that befalls you for the sake of your duties.” “They say the practice of medicine is an art of benevolence.” “This foolish old man, too, will not shun calamity upon himself if it serves benevolence.”

Through the dark corridor, Rakuō's footsteps faded into the distance.

Lord Echizen, before the lone remaining lamp, had been bowing his face downward—then sharply raised it. “Is there no one here?” “Kanzō! Sōta!” “Hurry up and get here!”

From the yoriki room came a sharp "Hah!" of response. Yet it seemed the three of them were locked in some heated debate. Despite the ongoing voices, no one appeared for quite some time. Lord Echizen called again, his voice rising slightly in pitch. "Is there no one in the yoriki room?…Even Giheita will do!" "Come here at once!"

“Hah! At once!” With a clatter, footsteps halted outside the window. From there, he knelt down— “What is your command?”

“Ah. “Giheita?”

“It is Giheita.” “…………” Lord Echizen’s words did not easily leave his mouth. But with a tone that forced the words out,

“Hmm. You’ll do. Did you see Doctor Ichikawa Rakuō leaving just now?” “Hah. Understood.” “Chase him down and retrieve the inro I showed Lord Echizen earlier. If he refuses to hand it over... we must conclude he’s knowingly harboring a suspect under our investigation and take him into custody.” “Ah... Then—” “If he resists... Giheita—if you doubt your own ability—you may enlist Sōta or Kanzō’s help.”

“Wh-what…? I too carry a police baton at my hip! Forgive me!”

And so, Ichikawa Giheita came running frantically to the back entrance of the magistrate’s office—his face contorted by bitter tears that stung his lips—through a long, dark corridor that twisted and turned endlessly.

Because it was night, no one was visible in the dōshin room or the servants’ quarters nearby. He stepped onto sandals of unknown ownership. —and right behind him came his colleagues Kobayashi Kanzō and Yamamoto Sōta, who had been chasing close on his heels,

“Hey—hey! Wait!”

And grabbed him—

“You need not go.—For you, his own son, to confront your flesh-and-blood father for arrest...”

“No, let go! Let me go!” “Hey, Giheita! What do you think you’re doing, acting as stubborn as the magistrate himself? Leave it to us. H-hey... Giheita. We’ll handle it somehow.” “Don’t meddle! It is the duty assigned to me by the magistrate.” “You fool! Ichikawa Rakuō is your father! Is he not your father?” “In official matters, there is no distinction between father and child.” “We understand the magistrate’s position, but what will become of us if even we—his right-hand men who must aid him in hardship—become single-mindedly obsessed with such rigid principles? Now, calm down.”

“I’m calm. I’m not out of my mind. When I think of how the magistrate upholds the law’s righteousness—letting even himself be judged, showing no mercy to his own child—” “Enough! Get back!” “I won’t yield! I’ll fulfill my duty!” Shaking them off, Giheita ran through the back gate after Rakuō’s palanquin that had just departed. Few walked the night streets within Sukiyabashi-mon Gate. Beyond the familiar glow of the stone-grilled tofu stall stretched a summer meadow reaching to the moat’s edge, new grass already rising through the dark.

“Wait—!” “Wait, I beg you!”

Giheita circled around to the front of the palanquin he had caught up to and spread both arms. "I am a yoriki of the South Magistrate’s Office with an inquiry for the person within this palanquin," he declared. "Kindly step down." Yet a tremor crept into his voice. Scolding away that trembling—as if expelling personal motives—Giheita hardened his tone and pressed on: "...Come out, Lord Rakuō. Surrender the inro you carry and all will be well. Refuse, and I must arrest you with this baton."

—Then, from inside the palanquin, “What? You’d use your police baton? ……Now hold on—you’ve got the wrong man.” “Who exactly are you demanding this from? What do you want handed over?” When he flipped up the palanquin’s curtain, the figure emerging wasn’t his father Rakuō as expected, but a samurai cloaked in a black hooded mantle over formal black silk garments, hakama trousers impeccably fastened—a stern man of forty-five or six whose piercing eyes betrayed sharpness beneath his rigid bearing. “Ah! Wh-what—?” “What is this?”

Realizing his mistake, Giheita was flustered at his own carelessness.

Yabuhachi

Just moments ago, he had proclaimed to his two colleagues that he was calm—that he was absolutely not agitated—but perhaps his mind had indeed been in chaos after all.

—And. He reexamined the lantern hanging from the front pole of the palanquin—it bore the Ichikawa family crest of three scales—and when he looked at the faces of the palanquin bearers, they too were undoubtedly the young men from Kago Tora, the nearby palanquin shop his father always used.

"Hmm. Something’s wrong."

There was indeed a case of mistaken identity, but it was certainly not a case of the wrong palanquin. Why was an unfamiliar samurai riding in Father Rakuō’s palanquin? Giheita, enveloped in suspicion as deep as the night fog, still did not retreat from before the palanquin. “You there—Yoriki of the South! What are you staring at so intently? Must you inspect me without even apologizing for your rudeness?” “Truly—” he said with a flustered bow, “I apologize for the mistaken identity, but where did you board this palanquin?”

“I had a drink at the stone-grilled tofu place by the care package teahouse and am now returning in the palanquin I had waiting. What exactly is suspicious about that?” “Did you just pick it up around here and get in?” “No. It’s a hired palanquin I boarded from my house.” “This grows ever more suspicious. These appear to be the young men from Kago Tora in Ushigome Yanagichō—” “My residence is also in the vicinity of that Yanagichō. There’s nothing particularly unusual about that.” “Even so, this lantern’s crest belongs to Ichikawa Rakuō, the town doctor of Yanagichō.”

“What are you saying?!”

At that, the samurai laughed it off. "My family crest is also Mitsuwata. In all of Edo, the Mitsuwata crest doesn't belong solely to that one doctor's household."

Giheita pressed forward, seizing his chance. “I won’t accept that. Your kosode bears hawk feathers.” “What? Hawk feathers? This is the main crest. For secular use, we employ the secondary crest. There’s nothing strange about a family having two crests. No—more importantly! To keep blocking people’s passage like this, even after realizing your mistake? However dutiful you may be, this rudeness cannot stand.”

“Urgh...” “I must apologize for my abruptness. However, while we’re at it, I would like to inquire about your honorable surname and given name.” “Now that your suspicions are cleared, you should state your name first.” “My apologies for the belated introduction. I am Ichikawa Giheita of the South Town Magistrate’s Office. And you are...?” “I am Yabuhachi.” “Your surname?” “Yabu.” “Your given name?” “Hachi.” “Stop this nonsense.” “Who’s joking here? Surname Yabu, given name Hachi—no discrepancy whatsoever!”

There was a commanding authority in his tone. As if pierced by something sharp in that voice, Giheita fell silent—and the samurai barked, "Hurry up! ...Damn nuisance." He snapped at the palanquin bearers, who vanished into grassy shadows as their lantern light dwindled into the moat's darkness.

A choked laugh.

“—Giheita.” “How long can you keep staring blankly? There’s no point in that.” “Come on, let’s head back once and for all.” Approaching him as he stood there dazed, the two colleagues took Giheita by both arms and made him walk along.

“Hey, Giheita. “Actually, we were listening from the shadows too—but there sure are strange folks in this world.” “What do you think Sōta makes of that man from earlier?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea either.” “It’s as if that bastard came out just to mock people.” “A fox spirit, perhaps?” “No way.” “In any case, the Magistrate must be waiting for you.” “With Master Rakuō’s whereabouts unknown and that palanquin carrying an impostor, this becomes another matter to ponder.” “If you intend to answer truthfully, you’d best make your report properly.” “No, I—” As Giheita struggled to break free from his friend’s grip, the two men firmly restrained him,

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” “What are you trying to do?”

“I’ll try pursuing that palanquin once more.”

“Stop it! It’s useless!” “If not that—Ushigome Yanagichō’s” “Are you planning to raid your own house yourself?” “Enough already—stop making your friends clean up your messes.” At those words, Giheita too suddenly had his entire face covered in tears. “Don’t cry. “You look disgraceful.” When Sōta patted his back, Giheita sobbed even harder and began crying like a child. Sōta averted his face, and Kanzō also pressed his elbows against his eyes. The three walked arm in arm, crying as they went.

The rear gate of the black magistrate's office loomed close before the three who did not look at the ground. Everyone snapped back to their senses. No—they had returned to being magistrate’s yoriki who held an official oath toward society from this gate.

“Ha ha ha….” “Hey, wipe your face.” “Ahahaha.”

“Things haven’t been right lately with the South—” “You’ve all turned into crybabies.” “Let’s pull ourselves together. …Hey, Sōta, if you’ve got a tissue, hand it over.” “...Hey, Sōta, if you’ve got a tissue, hand it over.” “A tissue?”

The three of them there, for no particular reason and without meaning to, ended up laughing together. And Kobayashi Kanzō, who had received a tissue from Sōta, shot a brief, meaningful glance. Sōta nodded and turned toward the stone-grilled tofu. Kanzō shared some paper with Giheita as well, had him wipe his face, and led him inside the gate.

Lord Echizen still sat alone in stillness before the same candle in the same room. As if a portrait, his formal kamishimo robe and hakama pleats remained exactly as they had been earlier, not a single fold out of place. He sat with eyes closed. His brow and complexion had returned completely to their serene composure. He had always been his own physician, tending to his spirit's equilibrium. While physicians for the body could be summoned from outside, for matters of the heart one had no choice but to become one's own master healer.

“Kanzō and Giheita reporting. We have returned.”

“Oh… Your service is acknowledged.” “Did you recover the inro?” “No. It was not recovered.” “Then have you taken Rakuō into custody?” “We made haste, but utterly lost sight of his trail.” “What’s this… You mean to say he eluded you…” “Though I feared reprimand for returning without fulfilling your command, we encountered such an extraordinary circumstance that I deemed it wise to seek your judgment before proceeding further.” Kanzō—speaking for Giheita who stood mute—truthfully recounted their misidentification of a suspicious figure and how the palanquin had indisputably been Rakuō’s.

But this appeared beyond even Lord Echizen’s judgment, and he too could only furrow his brows and listen. “I can’t make sense of this…” He muttered repeatedly, “Tell me again.” With that, he grew even more cautious and inclined his ear.

“Ah. That’s right. I forgot to mention earlier—when Giheita inquired after the samurai’s name, he gave his family name as Yabu and personal name as Hachi. He declared himself as Yabuhachi by combining his family and given names—uttering words that seemed to mock us—and then left. Though I knew there could be no such ridiculous name in this world, that man nevertheless carried himself with an air of honesty, and as we had no grounds to press suspicion further, we found ourselves with no choice but to part ways under such circumstances.”

When the name Yabuhachi was mentioned, a visible ripple of shock—a fleeting wave of emotion—passed across Lord Echizen’s face. But the two men did not even see it. "Hmm... I see," said Lord Echizen, bowing his head so deeply that the two men could see the nape of his neck. After a period of deep contemplation, he declared: “...Well, in any case, Ichikawa Rakuō is not one to flee or hide.” “Tomorrow morning, both of you shall go again to his residence in Yanagichō and carry out exactly as I instructed Giheita earlier.” “—whether you compel presentation of the inro or proceed with formal arrest—”

“Understood.” For the first time, Giheita answered together with Kanzō.

For some time now, Lord Echizen had been released from his official duties late each night, but tonight too had already grown late. He apologized to his two subordinates for their nightly toil, finally entered the palanquin, and soon departed for his private residence in Akasaka.

The usual place.

“Otsugi-san. ...Otsugi-san.” The provisioner’s tea house had the custom that come evening, as soon as the magistrate’s office closed its gates, here too they would roll up the reed screens, stack the camp stools, and shut the front door. However, light leaked from the back entrance of the famous stone-grilled tofu shop. —The one knocking lightly on that door was Yamamoto Sōta, who had just parted ways with Giheita and Kanzō near the back gate of the magistrate’s office.

“Otsu-san... “Hey, show me your face for a moment.” “Apologies for coming so late.” The nature of Sōta and Otsugi’s relationship was known even to their hired maidservant. He appeared anxious about being noticed by the household members.

Finally, there was a response from within the house. From the gap in the door, Otsugi’s pale face. A lover’s face is like an open book—immediately legible. Sōta immediately noticed that her eyebrows looked unusually dull. "Something suddenly came up that I need to ask you about..." “Is it all right if I come in?” “Um... Lord Sōta. Tonight...” “Tonight is…” “Is there someone in the back—a guest or something?” "No. ...It’s not exactly a guest, though."

“If it’s inconvenient inside, we can talk outside. Can’t you slip out?” “Would you wait for me?” “Yeah. Where should I be?” “The usual boat shed.” “Then I’ll be there then.”

Sōta had gone ahead to a small shack by the riverside—not far off, with the embankment at its back—and waited there. Before long, Otsugi followed after him. With the embankment's shadow behind them and the river ahead, they were able to settle in quietly. "What is it? This sudden matter?" "This may seem abrupt—a strange question—but after closing up shop tonight, you had a visitor, didn't you?" "Huh... When the palanquin bearers brought Lord Rakuō in the evening, we'd already closed. But we couldn't refuse them—ended up serving them anyway."

"They've already left then—those palanquin bearers." "Yes... They left." "Just now?" "That's right." "...Who were they carrying?" "After finishing their duties at the magistrate's office—they took Lord Rakuō." "Hmm... Where did they pick him up from?" "From in front of our shop." "Don't lie! Ah... Miss Otsugi—you've been silenced." Under his piercing gaze，Otsugi suddenly burst into tears. "Lord Sōta... Why would I lie to you?... Do you... Do you still think me that sort of woman?"

“Ah. What’s wrong? You’re crying over something so small? ...I take back my words. My bad for doubting you. Looks like my guess was off.”

“Why are you asking such a thing? You should tell the truth too!” “You’re absolutely right. Since you trust Sōta, there’s no reason for me to withhold the truth. In fact, tonight there was such an incident.”

Outside of the magistrate's office, those with even faint knowledge of recent events were limited to Ichikawa Rakuō and that woman alone. His two colleagues had also been made aware of these circumstances. Believing he could speak freely—or so he thought—Sōta meticulously explained Rakuō and Giheita's heartrending situation as father and son, deliberately avoiding any reference to mutual affection. While women in love often grow sentimental, tonight's Otsugi proved exceptionally fragile. Yet despite her relentless weeping, she persistently avoided addressing the critical matter at hand.

“Huh... “Otsu-san… That strange samurai Yabuhachi himself claimed he’d been drinking with stone-grilled tofu since evening. For a spur-of-the-moment lie, there’s too much connection to the palanquin he rode in… Can’t you think of anything?” “That samurai was indeed at our place.”

“What? So he really had been here since evening?” “The person arrived by palanquin a bit later than the bearers who brought Lord Rakuō—again escorted by young men from Kago-Tora.” “Hmm… Then?” “They’d arranged to meet Lord Rakuō here late at night, so they said, ‘Apologies—lend us your room,’ and…” “Meaning they were waiting for Lord Rakuō.” “—But when Lord Rakuō’s voice came from outside, they left without another word. One lantern went toward the moat’s edge…” “The other group returned separately toward Sukiyabashi Gate’s outer perimeter.”

“Ah! Got it. …Now I see—that’s how it is.”

Sōta involuntarily clapped his hands. The two of them swapped palanquins and rode off, deliberately taking separate paths north and south to return.

However, who was Yabuhachi? Why had he taken such actions? This was still unclear even to him.

Her sister

Even Otsugi could not possibly comprehend anything beyond that, yet the following fact plunged Sōta’s judgment into an even deeper enigma.

According to Otsugi. —Ever since Lord Onkidenka’s recent arrest—the samurai Ichikawa Rakuō and Yabuhachi had met countless times,

“Hey, lend me the back room.” They would say this upon arriving at the stone-grilled tofu shop, claim they couldn’t talk in the storefront, and each time withdraw to a cramped room in the main house to whisper before leaving—this happened frequently, it was said. There were also times when Yabuhachi came alone. On such visits, he would summon Otsugi, gossip about the three yoriki serving as assistants to the South Magistrate, and subtly try to extract every detail about the magistrate office’s inner workings—behavior that unmistakably marked him as someone deeply invested in Lord Echizen’s personal affairs and the current case.

“Things have grown even more unclear… but thanks to you, Otsu-san, tonight’s mysterious palanquin at least made plain Rakuō and Yabuhachi’s collusion.—Now then, one more thing I’d ask.” “What is it, Lord Sōta?… Staring so hard at my face.” “You don’t seem your usual self at all, Otsu-san.—Did some family trouble occur?… Hmm? Or perhaps you’re feeling unwell somewhere?”

Sōta gently embraced her shoulders. Her shoulders and stray hairs trembled with tears immediately—it was clear they had touched upon one of the two matters he had asked about. “I… I…” “I can’t… with you anymore—” “What?! With you…?” “What’s wrong…?” “Lord Sōta,” she suddenly clung to his chest, pressing her tear-streaked face against him. “Please… let the promise we made be washed away.” “Otsugi can no longer become your wife, Lord Sōta.”

“Wh-what are you saying?” At this, Sōta too showed his anger, gripping both of Otsugi’s shoulders tightly in his talon-like grasp and shaking her tear-streaked face.

“Explain yourself.” “Crying isn’t an excuse.” “Depending on your reasons, you can go marry wherever you damn well please!” “It’s not that I’m crying about marrying someone else.” “Then—” “…What’s this about?” “Well… my sister…” “The sister who ran away suddenly came back home… you see.”

Sōta burst out laughing. He deliberately put on a look that said, "What’s all this about?" But the more he laughed, the more Otsugi grieved, sobbing uncontrollably.

The reason she had become so desperate was not unreasonable when heard. Sōta immediately regretted having laughed. That woman had a sister named Oshima. Oshima was fickle; even before she had outgrown the need for her kimono sleeves to be taken up, she roamed around with men in town, and even after abandoning her parents and running away from home, for over a dozen years she had cut off all contact. That had been the previous month. —The day after that raid on Lord Onkidenka’s residence. She sauntered,

(So this is the house where I was born, huh?) she had returned home as if surveying some curious novelty.

When Oshima had run away from home, they hadn’t yet been making stone-grilled tofu. It was just an ordinary tofu shop in the backstreets of Nihonbashi. It was their deceased father who had transformed the shop in this way. Mother was always lying down due to a stroke. Even after Father died, the shop continued to prosper because Otsugi, as its attraction, was well-regarded by everyone. (You probably don’t remember me, huh? I am your sister. Don't treat me too much like an intruder, okay?)

From the very evening of her return, she had been distressing Otsugi with these words. This Oshima was already around forty years old, yet still retained a youthful freshness. She promptly washed her hair, pulled Otsugi’s kimonos from the chest without permission to dress herself, applied makeup far more thickly than the much younger Otsugi, and occasionally peered at the male customers in the shop from the back rooms, *Edo really does have so many handsome men.* She would nonchalantly say such things.

However, Otsugi was not grieving to Lord Sōta about such things. For it had come to light that her sister Oshima—who had long ago been exiled to Kamigata after being convicted as a female pickpocket and sentenced to exile—had deceived the island’s headman and escaped before completing her prison term, a truth Oshima herself eventually confessed. (But Otsugi. I’m beyond saving anyway. I won’t be your burden forever. ……I just thought—rather than spend my whole life on that remote island and die there, I’d escape to see Edo one last time, do what I want to do, then make a quick exit. Just let me stay until then. —Just because the magistrate’s office is right under your nose—if you dare inform on me, I won’t let you off easy.)

When a sister like this appeared as her blood relative, Otsugi had resolved within herself that, no matter how she looked at it, she no longer possessed the qualifications to become the wife of a police captain.

A nestless bird She had agonized over when to confess this to Sōta these past few days, but her sister Oshima—being a fugitive with a criminal record of escaping exile—viewed everything with suspicion; whether she whispered briefly with someone else or suddenly stepped out on an errand, Oshima would immediately grow wary and interrogate her. Thus she had been left to nurse her wounded heart alone—or so she would have explained.

“Ah, here we face yet another trial.”

Sōta had believed their love alone could be preserved in his heart as a small flower field untouched by the ugly world—but now even this place had become a meadow stained by human sin and wretchedness—he thought bitterly. But within his heart,

(This was fundamentally different from the magistrate's official position or Giheita's suffering.) With that conviction, he decisively resolved himself. Even if he rejected his lover Otsugi in this manner, he believed it would neither betray his duty nor delude his own conscience.

“Alright, I understand. It’s only natural for you to grieve, but don’t let narrow thoughts take hold—don’t wash away our promise. You’ve done nothing wrong.” “But…your reputation as a magistrate’s assistant…” “Let them interfere if they will. I myself have nothing shady to hide. If our love brings calamity, it’s because our hearts falter. Love rests with us alone… Stay strong, Otsugi. Understand?”

“Lord Sōta… I’m glad. Do you truly mean that?” “The trouble is that Yoriki Sōta has discovered the female pickpocket who escaped exile hiding right under the magistrate’s nose—this cannot be ignored. If I were to turn a blind eye for love’s sake, I would betray the noble spirit that the magistrate now stakes his very life upon and deceive two friends as well. I simply cannot let this go.”

“Then what should we do? … What do you intend to do?”

“It’s simply a matter of arresting Oshima.” “Wh-what…?” Otsugi, as if she had never anticipated such an outcome, suddenly lost all color from her lips and trembled.

Then, from beside the boat shed, the sound of someone’s footsteps moved toward the top of the embankment. Sōta, who had suddenly pricked up his ears, pushed Otsugi away with an “Oh!” and straightened up to look. There stood a woman with unkempt hair tied back carelessly without oil, a side comb inserted, casting a sidelong glance downward as she laughed softly like an evening glory. “Ah...! Sis.” “What? Oshima?”

When Yamamoto Sōta tried to run up the embankment, Otsugi, forgetting herself, clung to his arm. Though she had just been made to understand—with right and wrong clearly distinguished—the stark difference between love and duty and how one must steel oneself, Otsugi could not bear to witness her sister being bound before her eyes. Even putting herself in their bedridden mother's place, she desperately wanted her sister to escape, if only from this moment.

“Otsugi… You’re such a fortunate one. ……You must walk your woman’s path with care.”

What boldness. Without even breaking into a run, Oshima said that to the two below and vanished in an instant.

That night, Oshima did not return. Where she went, she vanished without a trace. The next day, Otsugi appeared at the stone-grilled tofu shop as usual, dispensing flattery to many customers—but in her smile, the lonely shadow of anguish now loomed darker than the previous night.

The Fiction of Sincerity

Morning—it was early. To the gate of Ichikawa Rakuō, the town doctor of Ushigome Yanagichō,

“Pardon us—” came the voices of two visiting yoriki. One was Ichikawa Giheita—this household’s son—though today he served as a yoriki of the South Magistrate’s Office. As for the other man, Kobayashi Kanzō—though from a family on intimate terms—for that very reason, his brow bore stern resolve. “Please, this way.”

Rakuō himself immediately came out to the inner guest room. The discussion required no lengthy explanation. “Ah... So you’ve come regarding the inro matter under Lord Magistrate’s orders. That is most humbling.” With that, Rakuō stated bluntly. “As for that inro—last night, while hurrying back in a palanquin, I dropped it somewhere. No, I realized it was too late—but between the darkness of the night road and the palanquin’s speed… Where I could have dropped it... Goodness, I just don’t know.”

The two men stood dumbfounded, unable to utter another word. They had come here with a mindset akin to taking a seat of death, having resolved to face what lay before them. Even so addressed, the two men’s rigidity showed no signs of easing. “Very well.”

Kobayashi Kanzō declared firmly and drew his knees together.

“In that case, I shall not unreasonably demand the inro.” “In return—” Without letting him finish, Rakuō—prepared in his resolve—spoke first. “Please take me with you.—I shall gratefully receive the honorable rope and accompany you.” “No—before taking Old Master away, we shall bind with rope the female thief you’ve been hiding in the neighboring vacant house. I trust you are prepared.” “A female thief…?” “A member of the Five-Person Gang—a woman named Otsubame.”

“I don’t know... Such a person—” “I won’t accept ‘I don’t know.’ There is a witness.”

“Where could such a witness exist?” “Your son here—” Kanzō began, then hastily amended his words. “—A colleague present here indeed witnessed how you helped Otsubame escape via palanquin in Kan’ei-ji Temple’s forest at Ueno the other night...” “Furthermore, through investigations by the South Magistrate’s Office, we have fully ascertained your subsequent concealment of said Otsubame in the neighboring residence.” “Ah-ha! So that delicate young maiden from that night was called Otsubame?” “Though I knew not her identity, on my return from Kan’ei-ji Temple, I encountered a woman crying for salvation. Moved by compassion, I rescued and brought her back with me, but...”

“Well said.” “That woman is one of the important criminals currently under investigation.” “Handing her over would also be troublesome.” “The two of us will go to the neighboring house, apprehend her, and return. We ask for your understanding.” “In that case, naturally, there will be no need for Old Master to trouble himself with coming to the magistrate’s office.”

“Ah—wait. If you rise to go, where might you be heading?” “I will now bind the aforementioned individual with rope.” “That’s useless.”

“Why?” “That girl has thrown herself in.” “What? She threw herself in?”

“Into the back well.” “Ah... To the well...”

The two men who had risen to their feet found Rakuō’s intentions laid bare before them—as clear as a mirror’s reflection—and suddenly tears welled up with such force that they had no time to restrain them with reason; they simply wept. Lord Echizen had staked his entire being and severed all self-interest, but this old man too had clearly discarded his aged life to sustain him. From the story about the inro to how he hid Otsubame—these were desperate measures, transparent excuses. Yet even if you pursued them relentlessly in the sanded court, there was nothing to be done against someone who had staked his very life on his claims.

(Thank you for letting Otsubame escape) Both Kanzō and Giheita felt like prostrating themselves in reverence within their hearts.

In truth, they had secretly anticipated that things might unfold this way, and so pressed the matter of Otsubame.

On Giheita's face, a complex tangle of joy and apprehension for his father's future was writ clear. "That she threw herself into the well—it doesn't add up." "When did this occur?" "You're quite right to find it unconvincing." "That girl had gone mad." "She claimed that Lord Ōoka Echizen-no-kami was her father and kept calling out, 'I want to see my father! I want to see him!' over and over." "As I was thinking this, she threw herself into the well a few nights ago." "The neighboring house's garden is large, and since even the locals had the old well... no one noticed for days."

It was a monologue. No—it must have been a fabricated tale.

But for the two men who listened, it felt all too real. It was, at the very least, a lie that brought unstoppable tears.

The Face at the Second-Floor Window

“...The single inro that had been entrusted to my hands became a memento.” The death of that pitiful madwoman. “Though they were merely the baseless ramblings of a madwoman—to have her die crying out for Lord Echizen as her father, even in pretense...” “To tell truth—last night, I meant it as a jest. When I casually showed him the inro, his reaction defied all expectation.” “‘The woman under investigation shall be bound with rope,’ he declared. There was not the slightest hint of settling this outside the law.” “This foolish old man erred, but I spat some spiteful words and returned home.” “Hahaa... Such trifling details.” “As precaution, I would ask you to inspect that well and kindly submit your report.”

Rakuō took the lead and guided them to the neighboring house’s garden.

There was no well. On top of the fresh mound of earth that was said to have existed, "Madwoman Otsubame Memorial Stone"

Bearing the vermilion inscription, a single small stone had been placed there.

“This? …This is the well?” “We buried it as it was and made it into a grave right there. …An eerie old well—not like anyone could drink from it anyway. Hahaha.” “In any case, I shall report this matter to Lord Echizen-no-kami as stated, but should he find it unsatisfactory, he may order it dug up again.” “Anytime at all. …Should any further doubts remain, you may bind this Rakuō and interrogate me in the sanded court—nay, even subject me to torture without hesitation… Pray convey this message.”

With unbearable feelings that could no longer be endured, the two men burst out from the garden gate into the street. And then, involuntarily, they exchanged glances.

“Giheita. It’s good, isn’t it?” “It’s good, isn’t it?” “It’s good…” “It really was a relief.”

“But you’re the one to be pitied. He’s not the sort of magistrate who would blindly accept Lord Rakuō’s testimony as truth just to escape his own predicament.” “Father may intend to shoulder everything and die. Somehow, his demeanor this morning was far too carefree—he didn’t seem troubled by anything at all.” “Ah…! Hey, Giheita. Look at that!” “Wh-what is it?” Suddenly addressed by Kanzō, Giheita casually looked up in the direction indicated. On the second floor adjacent to where Rakuō had emerged, a man leaned his cheek on his hand, gazing down at the street from the window.

“Don’t you recognize that man…?” “Hmm—the samurai from last night—the one called Yabahachi.”

“That’s right—that’s Yabahachi.” “Hmm… Why would he be at this house…?” Perhaps noticing their intense scrutiny, Yabahachi across the way snapped the window shut and withdrew his head.

Kobayashi Kanzō whispered something to Giheita and returned alone to the magistrate’s office.

Giheita kept persistent watch over the house's comings and goings from the precincts of a nearby temple. Just before noon, as anticipated, Yabahachi from the previous night emerged through the garden gate. Moving between cover, Giheita trailed him. The man ahead appeared unaware.

But eventually, as he followed with the determination to pursue to the ends of the earth, to his astonishment, this mysterious figure boldly passed through one of Edo Castle's gates and disappeared deep into the castle grounds.

Dumbfounded, Giheita was left behind outside the moat. Beyond that point was not a place where even a single step could be taken.

Then, approximately half an hour later.

At the usual place—the teahouse deep within Fukiage in Edo Castle’s main enclosure—Shogun Yoshimune was meeting today with Yabata Sukehachi, his hidden inspector. Since his days in the Kishū domain residence, Yoshimune had kept Sukehachi as a trusted retainer under the official title of garden keeper, summoning him to this spot alone at times, always ensuring their meetings were direct and private. “Yabahachi. Have you completed your investigation?” “Yes… To some extent.” “How fares Lord Echizen’s situation? …Is there any way to save him?”

“It seems to be quite a difficult matter.”

“Hmm. A most difficult task, then…” Yoshimune frowned and, as if compelled by some habitual gesture when his will stirred, lightly tapped his right knee. “Is it indeed because those from the North Magistrate’s Office are spreading exaggerated rumors to bring down Echizen?” “No, no—it is not entirely as Your Highness suggests. It is because Lord Echizen himself makes no attempt to conceal his own past and persists in thoroughly investigating the truth of the incident.” “In that case, not only will he himself be ousted—he shall never again find place in society.”

"To uphold the manifest righteousness of the law, he was resolved to confront not merely the loss of his position but likely even his very life itself—or so it seemed." "What a terrifying fellow..." he muttered with a bitter smile, though his brows bore an inner agitation,

“Yabahachi.” “This isn’t good.” “What do you mean?” “Those who subtly convey exaggerated accounts of Echizen’s past misconduct to Yoshimune’s ears—through rumors from senior councilors and temple magistrates—are invariably thought to be the North Magistrate’s faction, who regard Echizen as a rival in their scramble for merit.” “It seems to be as Your wise discernment suggests.” "But those matters are truly delicate." “If we do this… letting them triumph under such circumstances would only serve to encourage their bureaucratic mentality.” “...and the detrimental effects will be significant in the long term.”

“I too have been racking my brains over this, but after all, there are clear facts at hand.” “Wasn’t Yabahachi supposed to be a wise man?... He’s quite an unreliable fellow.” “My deepest apologies... But if you would please take a somewhat longer view, my lord.”

Yabata Sukehachi alternated between scratching his head and prostrating himself. Yet he did not seem truly fearful to the core. He knew better than anyone that Yoshimune too had been called Shinnosuke in his days as a lord without an official post—a delinquent youth in the town.

They called her Uneme.

About ten days later.

—Yabata Sukehachi had returned once more to his temporary residence.

Lately, the temporary residence where he occasionally appeared was none other than the neighboring house of the aforementioned Ichikawa Rakuō in Ushigome Yanagichō. Since the landlord was none other than Rakuō next door, all matters during his absence—locking up and meal preparations—were entirely managed by the neighbor; for him, there could be no more carefree rental arrangement than this.

In return, whenever he so much as cleared his throat or made a sound, Rakuō would immediately come over through the garden without needing to be summoned. When not called by a sick household or when no patients came, this doctor would immerse himself in the neighboring house, playing Go, discussing worldly matters, and at times whispering about something in hushed, knee-to-knee secret talks. “Lord Rakuō. Have the South Magistrate’s retainers ceased their activities since then?”

And so today too, the two men were deep in conversation in a second-floor room. “In that case—” “They haven’t come back since.” “We insisted that Otsubame threw herself into the well—this grave marker proves it—so they couldn’t very well dig up the site of that deep well. It seems they had no choice but to withdraw.”

“But we can’t let our guard down—there’s no telling whether informants might still be watching this house’s comings and goings.” “I’ve taken every precaution. Leaving aside the South, it appears the North Magistrate’s Office has been quite active as well.” “Exactly!” Yabahachi slapped his knee. “That’s precisely why we must resolve this case with our own hands as swiftly as possible—sparing no effort! The North Magistrate’s machinations are what we should truly fear.”

"By the way, with your assistance, I've managed to bury Otsubame away from society's eyes for now." "...Furthermore, we must urgently dispose of that girl's mother—the woman called Osode." "For that purpose, this Yabahachi has devised a plan.—Lord Rakuō, today I wish to borrow her for a brief excursion." "Where to?" "To that branch temple of Kan'ei-ji we discussed previously." "Ah, I understand."

Rakuō immediately nodded. As for that matter too, it seemed the two had already concluded certain arrangements.

No—not only in dealing with Osode and Otsubame, but Rakuō and Yabahachi were involved in every aspect of the current issues surrounding Lord Echizen.

This involvement had indeed sprung from Shogun Yoshimune’s will and been directed toward secret inspector Yabata Sukehachi— (“Kōsei. Act thus.”) That he had given him this directive and kept him rushing about incessantly since some time prior was now beyond all doubt.

Moreover, once Yabahachi—that is, Yabata Sukehachi—began to work actively in his unique position as a secret inspector directly appointed by the shogun himself, the investigative networks and functions he could mobilize surpassed anything even the town magistrate or temple and shrine magistrate could achieve. In essence, his official title was merely that of a garden guard, but the Iga and Kōka groups of Surugadai were all extensions of his will. At times, he could even establish confidential communications with senior councilors and junior elders. For instance, even in the Ōoku—reputed to be an absolutely inviolable domain—or in the private affairs of Rinnō-ji Temple’s princely abbots, none could refuse when he approached with inquiries through official missives. To reject him would be to reject the direct will of the shogunate itself.

“Well then, shall we be departing soon?” “Hmm. I’ll have my boy Uneme prepare as well. At any rate, we’ll head to Ueno or thereabouts.”

Yabahachi revealed his implicit meaning through a smile as he peered down from the second-floor window at the garden's detached room. “Uneme. —Uneme.” He clapped his hands lightly and called toward the roof.

The detached room connected via the veranda extending from the main house below. “Yes!” came a gentle voice in reply, and no sooner had the small window opened than— “Were you calling for me?”

The young man with a forelock-adorned guise raised his pale face. Oh, that face! Though Yabahachi addressed him as Uneme and though he now appeared in the page's forelock hairstyle—was this not the very likeness of that male-attired enchantress who had suddenly appeared at the Edobashi guard post on the night of Yamazen's brutal robbery incident, falsely naming herself Anezaki Kichiya of Manjiya to rescue his captive mother Osode and flee?

If that were so, then Otsubame must have been one of the mother and child driven into Kan’ei-ji’s forest that night during the raid on the Cloistered Highness’s residence. That night, after Doctor Rakuō had taken Otsubame away in a palanquin to hide her somewhere, it now appeared that her whereabouts had indeed been concealed here by Rakuō’s hand all along. From the second floor, Yabahachi gave a nod with his eyes toward the face in the detached room, “Hmm, I called you.” “Today—well—the weather’s fine. I thought I’d take a stroll around Ueno with you.” “Hurry and get ready.”

"Huh? To Ueno... you mean?" "Are you happy? Uneme." "I am most delighted. I shall prepare immediately and attend." The window closed.

Yabahachi and Rakuō exchanged glances. "When I think of it... what a pitiable soul..."

he muttered. But Rakuō shook his head afterward,

“No. If we speak of pity, is it not Lord Echizen himself—far more than her—who stands as the most pitiable soul in this world? ...Ah yes, if you’re heading out, I too shall make a house call to the Akasaka estate to attend to the little one.”

“You mean the patient in Akasaka?” “Lord Echizen-sama’s youngest child—the one who turned three this spring—contracted a severe cold in spring, then came down with dysentery after the rainy season, and still shows no signs of improvement.” “Well, well. For Lord Echizen, this is truly a case of internal troubles and external threats. His present anguish is not difficult to fathom. Yet despite this, he attends the magistrate’s office daily with perfect composure, striving to overcome both the adversities surrounding him and his own self—a truly valiant figure indeed.” “…One can only bow in recognition of Lord Yoshimune’s discernment—having marked him for notice even during his lordship in Kii Province, then summoning him through the Yamada Magistrate immediately upon assuming the shogunate.”

At that moment came the quiet sound of footsteps ascending the ladder steps. It was Otsubame. No—let us call her Uneme.

Uneme was dressed in the refined attire of a samurai’s son, his forelock hairstyle modest, and there he placed both hands on the floor. “Um… I’ve finished preparing…”

Ah, this wouldn't do. Even if they fashioned her attire as a man's and named her Uneme, her voice and bearing remained unmistakably feminine. Yearning for her father, longing for her mother.

Riding in Kago Tora’s palanquin, Yabahachi and Uneme set out from Ushigome Yanagichō toward Ueno.

“This should be a good spot here.” After alighting at the foot of the mountain, Yabahachi gave them a gratuity and sternly instructed them not to utter a word if questioned by strangers. The young palanquin bearer from Kago Tora, through his ties to Rakuō, fully grasped these protocols. “Please do not trouble yourself,” he said. “Our Master has given us strict orders regarding this matter.” “Your service is noted,” Yabahachi replied. “You may return.”

It was still too early for lotus viewing at Shinobazu Pond, but with summer approaching, men and women wandered aimlessly between the temple grounds and lakeshore. Yet near the woods of Kan'ei-ji Slope, beyond the occasional figure heading toward Negishi, scarcely any travelers passed through. "Uneme." "Are you tired?" "No... Not particularly." "Ah. "There's an empty teahouse from cherry blossom season." "No vendor about now—shall we rest in its shade?"

“There is also a bench here.” Uneme brushed off the dust and offered it to Yabahachi.

“You should take a seat as well.” “Yes…” “By the way—you must have some inkling about the purpose of today’s visit by now.” “Yes…” Uneme bowed her head, “You are going to visit my mother—the one being hidden in this branch temple of Kan'ei-ji—I presume?”

“That’s correct. Even if it’s known that Ōuchi Fuden—a temple samurai serving Prince Rinnōji—is hiding Osode, not even the town magistrate can intervene there.—But when it comes to this proposal from Yabata Sukehachi, not even His Highness the Prince himself can outright refuse.”

“Lord Yabata… Please let me meet Mother.” “You want to see her?” “I want to—I want to see her so badly. I dream of seeing her every night.” “Very well, I’ll arrange it… But Otsubame—no, Uneme.” His voice sharpened slightly. “Is it only your mother you wish to see?” “No.” Uneme’s shoulders trembled as she reverted completely to her true self, quiet sobs shaking her frame.

“—You must want to meet the father you’ve never met at least a little, but—”

“Please… by your mercy… arrange for me to meet my father as well.” “And if my father and mother were to hold hands before my eyes even just once… and let me call them ‘Father’ and ‘Mother’ with my own lips… I would be willing to die right then and there.” “Ah, to think that I too am a child with parents… I can only imagine how happy I would be.” “Your wish—I’ll grant it without hesitation. “However, as I’ve told you many times at the Yanagichō hideout, for that to happen, you yourself must first wait for that moment with an unshakable resolve—just as you swore to Master Rakuō.” “No—unless you confront it with the resolve to seize that happiness yourself, it will prove impossible.”

“Yes…” Uneme wiped her tear-streaked eyelids and firmly affirmed the resolve in her eyes. “Through earnestly listening to profound discussions from Master Rakuō and yourself, I have come to fully understand Father’s position.” “Mother’s resentment may be justified, but Father’s standing is even more crucial.” “And as long as Mother continues cursing Father, I—her child—cannot find salvation.” “With my true heart, I will surely correct Mother’s misguided thoughts.” “I must rescue Mother from that terrifying realm of vengeful spirits where she curses people and damns the world.”

“Ah, well said. Only then can you truly be called one connected by Lord Ōoka’s bloodline.”

“After shutting myself away in that hideout and contemplating my fate day after day—amidst the sorrow—a glimmer of hope somehow dawned within my heart.” “Looking back from your upbringing until today, you seem to feel an involuntary dread.” “But… when I think how Mother managed to raise me all these years…” “Even after mingling with villains through long years, Mother must still be pure-hearted.” “…I earnestly wish to rescue her from that mire of evil as soon as possible.”

“Hmm.” “Since today is precisely why we’ve come for that purpose, even when you meet your mother, you must not be swayed by momentary emotions.”

“I will be all right.” “Mother is indeed a person of strong passions, but I too possess a child’s love that yearns for her.”

“Then, shall we go?” “Please wait a moment.”

Uneme stood in the shadow of an object, took out a pocket mirror, and fixed her tear-stained eyes.

To transform through love into love.—This was Yabata Sukehachi’s conception.

Chronicle of the Outlaw’s Path

No matter how fiercely Osode burned with curses and sought to resent Lord Echizen, he believed that success would come if she could be persuaded through the love of the child born from her relationship with that Echizen—.

Even so. What truly proved unexpected was Otsubame's change of heart. This was a girl who had been raised in a den of iniquity almost from birth. Contrary to all expectations about how much trouble she might cause, she had transformed completely into an obedient, pure-hearted maiden who took joy in virtue—all from the very day they granted her that single hope of meeting her father, Lord Echizen. Though no one lectured or threatened her, the change came with such startling suddenness it seemed scarcely believable.

Upon reflection, the fact that she had lived with her mother committing various misdeeds must have been rather a continuation of painful effort. No—Mother Osode too, bound by her oath to curse men through and through and by extension her habit of viewing the world as utterly evil, may in truth be one who suppresses her own true goodness, tormenting herself by expressing a malice that does not come from her heart.

(No—that’s probably the case. If that’s the case—then she is but one pitiable, pure-hearted woman.)

Yabahachi had discerned this in his heart. From the very beginning, there was no greater hedonist than Yabata Sukehachi. Despite being a samurai, he had engaged in all manner of outlawry, been disowned, and come to know the life of a rōnin. —It was due to this peculiar qualification that he had been appointed as tutor to Tokugawa Shinnosuke (the childhood name of Shogun Yoshimune) by his father, Mitsusada, the Major Counselor of Kii. Yabata Sukehachi, without dishonoring his charge, faithfully accompanied Shinnosuke and aimlessly roamed all around Edo. They frequented every pleasure quarter imaginable—from the unlicensed districts to Yoshiwara itself—and admirably molded Tokugawa Shinnosuke, then still a room-dwelling heir, into a full-fledged delinquent.

In this world, there may be such things as bad companions, but a bond as wicked as this between master and servant was likely without equal. However, for Yabata Sukehachi, this had been a matter of unshakable conviction.

“If you mingle with vermilion, you’ll turn red”—such proverbs speak without regard for innate qualities, but true innate nature is by no means so fragile a thing. But later—and indeed, before long—he had never even dreamed that the delinquent room-dwelling heir he had molded would ascend to become the shogun of all Japan. However, in the conclusion he reached after his charge had become shogun, (After all, it was good that you undertook such training among the lower classes.)

He himself was convinced of this, and Yoshimune likewise showed not the slightest sign of regret. Maintaining a countenance as if he had never glimpsed the vulgar affairs of the common world, Yoshimune presided with a rigor and resolute vigor surpassing any previous shogun—yet on occasion, when just the two of them stood in that familiar Fukiage garden, fragments of reminiscence would surface—

(…Yabahachi. (I’d like to go there again.)

they would sometimes banter about such things. Yabahachi, half in jest, waved his hand with exaggerated flair,

(No, no. Unless Your Excellency is reborn, it’s absolutely impossible.) (Unless Your Excellency is reborn, it’s absolutely impossible.) They were a master and servant pair who spoke with utmost seriousness yet secretly exchanged laughter. Given this fated bond between master and servant, there could be no doubt that he was indeed the right man to serve as Yoshimune’s hidden inspector. And in dealing with this particular incident, Yoshimune must have keenly felt how the wonders of their delinquent ways—those they had practiced in unison as lord and retainer during their youth—now greatly served practical governance. As for him, he privately took such pride in this outcome that he nearly convinced himself their past had not been wasted.

—Setting that aside. Yabata Sukehachi led Uneme (Otsubame) behind him and passed straight through the main gate of Kan'ei-ji Temple.

And visited the annex of the prince of Rinnō-ji Temple, “I would like to meet Ōuchi Fuden-dono.” He silently presented his name card to the temple official. “Sashi” refers to a name card. “He is not present. He is at present out.”

was the reply. Where to?

Without voicing the question, Yabahachi said, “In that case—though it is presumptuous—there exists a matter I wish to discuss directly with the princely house. I humbly request your mediation.”

he said.

The temple official read his name card once more with surprised eyes. Edo Castle garden guard attached to the Fukiage tea house—Yabata Sukehachi. The steward came out. Then courteously—as the princely house was unfortunately ill—he indeed apologized for being unable to arrange an audience, “May I inquire as to the nature of your business? If you have no objection to me, your humble steward, I would be honored to mediate.”

The steward himself then led him to the guest hall. Yabata Sukehachi had Uneme wait in a separate room and conferred at length with the steward. Finally, the steward withdrew to a secluded area to obtain the princely house's approval, and shortly returned to his seat with a definitive response. "Regarding Ōuchi Fuden-dono's conduct, unfavorable rumors have long circulated during ordinary times. Moreover, should facts align with what you have stated, you are hereby instructed to conduct your investigation without reservation—there will be no objections whatsoever."

“Then for thoroughness’ sake, I shall have the inside of the annex investigated.” “Please proceed.” “Proceed as you see fit.”

Yabahachi left that place and requested to be guided to Fuden’s quarters within the annex.

Of course, Fuden was absent. Apart from Japanese bookshelves, a desk, sutra scrolls and such being coldly arranged, it was no different from an ordinary resident monk's quarters. Hmm. Shall I wait here until he returns?

Deliberately uttering a soliloquy, Yabata Sukehachi settled himself there temporarily. The whispers of the shogunate's hidden inspector arriving here instantly spread through all the temple's monks and warrior monks, sparking unrest that could not be contained. The secret dealings of monks and corrupt practices among temple samurai were laid bare even more than those exposed in the city. This place too was by no means an exception to those depraved temples. No—precisely because this was a domain possessing absolute authority where even temple magistrates and town officials could not set foot, the reality might have been worse than imagined.

The temple monks and warrior monks—who had been huddling in corners, the great kitchen, the lecture hall, and other places, anxiously whispering and discussing something—eventually selected a representative from among themselves and timidly approached Yabata. *Mad Butterfly Register* "Might there be some official inquiry?" said the representative. "In that case—" said Yabata, smirking at the man who had walked right into his trap, "I have come because I heard that Ōuchi Fuden is hiding a woman within this annex and have business with her."

“If it’s that woman you mean, she’s no longer here. To be frank, we thought it’d cause us trouble if suspicion fell on us too—so we’ve just gathered everyone in the annex and questioned them ourselves.” “That’s considerate of you.” “Not long ago, someone bought shares in the Hasumi Teahouse at Shinobazu Pond. There’s talk Lord Fuden’s had the woman stay there.”

“Hasumi Teahouse, eh? …I see.” “So, is she working as the landlady there?” “No.” “We do not know whether she serves as the landlady or not.” “And the location?”

“By Benten Hall on Nakajima. There’s said to be only one establishment there.”

“No, I’m much obliged. Then I shall go there and see. Uneme, come here.”

He hurriedly exited the gate of Kan'ei-ji Temple. On the way, he glanced back at his companion Uneme, “Even if you meet your mother, hold back until I say something. And even if you see Fuden, do the same.”

And with that, he finished instructing him.

The swaying lantern lights from Ike no Hata to Benten Island were part of the summer evening scenery, but the sun still hung high, and it remained too early for lotus blossoms to open.

“This must be the place.” He peered into the likely-looking gate,

“Do you have a room?” “Right. This way, please.” The woman of Hasumi Teahouse, with a knowing look, led the two to the innermost small room facing the pond.

Having arranged sake, small dishes, and four or five other items, "If you require anything, please ring the bell."

With that, she withdrew, her tone suggesting considerate discretion. She must have mistaken Uneme for an attendant at a kabuki teahouse. Those kabuki teahouses stood numerous along the pond's edge, colloquially called "Iroha Teahouses." Most patrons were monks from Ueno. Temple samurai even held shares in them, and when night fell, red lanterns swelled with music and lewd laughter that garishly tinted the pond's waters. (Are they here or not.) (I'll confirm Fuden and Osode's presence first.)

Yabata maintained this pretense of calculation, casually holding his sake cup while making small talk with Uneme. Then from a room two doors down along the pondside corridor came: "What's that?! You're saying even when I give my name, your mistress claims not to know me? And now you're demanding payment? Don't play dumb with me! Didn't I come here precisely because I'm broke? In fact, I came to see my old friend Osode-san and borrow ten ryō before leaving. Say that again! 'Long ago in Banchō we occasionally met - I'm Oshima,' got it?"

It was a woman’s voice, but she was so drunk it showed even in her tone.

When Yabata was shown through earlier, a woman in her forties—looking bored and all alone—had been briefly glimpsed drinking by herself while gazing at the pond, pouring her own sake. The maid had immediately closed the sliding door between the rooms, so he couldn't get a proper look, but it must have been that middle-aged woman.