Pathway to Japanese Literature

Young Lord and the Female Slave

From primal wilderness, gradually transforming into a land where humans dwell. The Bando Plain was now shifting profoundly. For even nature—ancient as time itself—had at last become scarred everywhere, writhing through an unavoidable metamorphosis while the mountains encircling this vast plain from afar—Fuji, Asama, Nasu—perpetually spewed sulfurous smoke.

For instance, even a single human child here—Sōma no Kojirō—was such a boy, born as a lump of flesh harboring both "Earth’s Visage" and "Heaven’s Spirit."

He was about fourteen years old this year.

He had a stocky, pork-fed build with eyes like wild grapes, cheeks ruddy and glossy, and hair perpetually left undone like corn silk. His entire body exuded a peculiar vitality—something redolent of sunbaked earth, something primal and fertile. But since the start of this year, that boyishness and those black eyes had grown somehow blurred, their vigor dimmed. They had blurred to the point where even senility seemed visible.

After his father's death. After suddenly growing close to Ezo Hagi—a female slave kept in the household—they had recently hidden themselves alone in the fenced horse feed storage during daylight hours, only to be discovered by his malicious uncle’s retainer,

“The Young Lord was carrying on with that Ainu girl in the horse feed storage since midday—behaving like lovers at a poetry gathering! And of all people, a female slave!”

This incident was trumpeted as a major scandal. For reasons unknown, his guardian uncles said nothing to Kojirō, but the female slave Ezo Hagi suffered harsh punishment—beaten thirty or forty times with a whip before a crowd. After that day, the female slave Ezo Hagi never again appeared before Kojirō. Kojirō too grew even more distant from the great uncles and younger uncles in the household afterward, avoiding their presence. He likely nursed an inarticulate shame under the gaze of the many household members and slaves. During this period, he scarcely remained within the mansion's walled compounds. Whenever free, he would come to this "Great Enclosed Pasture"—a full ri and a half from his dwelling—to play with horses or sit atop a hill vacantly watching clouds drift by.

This pasture could be said to be the largest and most extensive grazing ground even within the Bando Plain. Our household had four such pastures within its domain. Horses were property second only to land. If you took them to the Capital, people would clamor to acquire them; even in the provinces, a fine steed could always be exchanged for gold dust. Those horses—our household had so many of them. Surveying Shimōsa, Kazusa, Hitachi, Shimotsuke, and Musashi—there were scarcely any warlords who possessed such vast numbers of horses, such fertile cultivated fields, and furthermore, such expansive virgin lands still awaiting limitless development.

“Listen well—you are the heir who will succeed to the headship.”

And the words his deceased father Yoshimochi had often spoken during his lifetime—these were what Sōma no Kojirō would remember whenever he came here. Sitting upon the pasture hill, vacantly recalling his father’s voice from days past—this was something of a solace for him.

At such times. From eyes that gazed absently at the drifting clouds, tears would suddenly stream down, snot would dangle, until finally crumpling his face, he would burst into solitary sobs.

Here, no matter how much he cried, there was no one to console him, nor anyone to question his tears. He let himself cry until his tears subsided naturally, and when the sobs finally ceased, as if having forgotten everything, he dried his face in the sun with a carefree air. “Young Lord…” “Young L—” Someone called out to him from afar.

A stablehand was beckoning from the base of the hill. He was announcing mealtime. Kojirō shook his head. “I ain’t eatin’.” “Don’t want none. I’ll eat come night.” When the man persisted stubbornly and repeated his urging, he suddenly picked up a stone and hurled it. “You idiot!” “If ya wanna feed me that bad, go toss it to the crows!”

The stone missed the man and struck an innocent foal. The man dashed off toward the stables, and the foal bolted down into the marsh. Within the pasture were several such hills. And there were horses drinking from the marsh, horses lying down to sleep, herds of foals moving through the grass—wherever one looked, the forms of horses were visible. But after his father Yoshimochi's death last winter, the number of horses had suddenly dwindled.

A retainer of his father’s household—Mikuriya no Urabito, who still managed the pastures—had on one occasion spoken to him about this matter,

“Young Lord.” “—It isn’t just the horses.” “The main storehouse’s granary stores, the armory’s contents, and all those numerous earthen storehouses—how much do you suppose remains within them?” “…Though I dare not speak plainly, your guardian uncles have stealthily had everything transported to their own domains.” “…Yes, even the horses.” “This is no work of horse thieves.” “Urabito has witnessed this with his own eyes.” “But against those three uncles’ authority, even I couldn’t let it show in my countenance.” “Were I to reveal it, I couldn’t remain in this pasture a single day longer.”

There were times when Mikuriya would whisper gravely into Kojirō’s ear. But to Kojirō, it was neither grave nor anything of the sort. The visibly dwindling number of horses in the pasture undoubtedly evoked a melancholy akin to close friends departing, but whether the storehouse contents remained or vanished was a matter that never crossed his mind. However, even in his child’s mind, what remained deeply etched were the uncles who had descended upon his household from their respective residences in Hitachi, Shimōsa, Kazusa, and other provinces simultaneously with his father’s death.

The term "great uncle" referred to his father Yoshimochi’s elder brother—the Hitachi Provincial Governor Kunikiyo—who was the most domineering of them all.

In addition to these, Yoshimochi’s younger brothers—Yoshikane and Yoshimasa—had also been coming constantly as guardians. The vast dominion over land that Kojirō’s father Yoshimochi had held now came entirely under these three uncles’ direction. The many family members and slaves alike all revered those three as their new masters, fearing even a single word of backbiting.

No one saw this as an unjust arrangement. For there existed the fact that Kojirō’s father Yoshimochi, on the brink of his last breath, had gathered a multitude of relatives, retainers, and others at his bedside and personally made this will to the three men—Kunikiyo, Yoshikane, and Yoshimasa—before passing away. “I have seven children, but even the heir Kojirō is still young. “The landed estates I developed in this region and our ancestral manors (government-granted lands) scattered about—you shall manage them, and when Kojirō comes of age, return everything intact along with the pasture horses and slaves. “That alone weighs on my mind... I entrust it to you.”

Since it was an undisputed fact, Sōma no Kojirō knew it well without needing Mikuriya no Urabito to repeatedly tell him. And regarding that matter, he had no complaints. What had suddenly eroded his childlike vitality—so characteristic of him—was neither such material concerns nor his love for Ezo Hagi. Somehow, without any particular reason, the home he was born into had turned cold, and he loathed being anywhere within the manor's grounds—it seemed sitting on this hill was simply the best option.

Earth and the Slave Class

While it may seem strange that Yoshimochi counted even slaves among his inherited assets—alongside territorial lands and horses—in his will, there is no doubt that for people of that era, slaves and servants too were important personal property.

The era when Sōma no Kojirō—later known as Taira no Masakado—was around fourteen years old is estimated by historians to be Engi 16.

In the Western calendar, the year 916. Counting on one’s fingers, it would be 1,034 years ago from today.

A thousand years is but an instant in the cosmos. But for human society, the concepts differed so greatly. Whether called female slaves or male servants—labeling women as such and men as such—they were all merely the same class of slave. The slave system still existed at that time. In this land still existed people bound by absolute lack of freedom—over two-thirds of the entire population—who could claim no will of their own regarding harsh labor, chastity, provision of food and clothing, or bodily movement.

As for the price of one among those countless lives until its death—whether hundreds of sheaves of rice or thousands of strings of coins—it was a sum insufficient even to cover the dyeing cost for a single bolt of white silk in safflower crimson, as worn by women dwelling in the capital’s splendor. No, compared to pasture horses, humans were valued at a far lower price—if they had any value at all. Slave traders would gather untamed labor from the Tohoku region to sell in Kinki and the capital, and when they returned after purchasing beautiful girls from the capital’s impoverished alleys, these would fetch exorbitant prices.

They could be put on the market and exchanged for goods, or pawned.

Therefore, masters who possessed multitudes of those called slaves, servants, or underlings naturally regarded them as assets, and their sale certificates must have been seen as substantial inheritances even on their deathbeds. Kojirō’s father Yoshimochi, among others, was one of the most prominent masters of such in all of Bando Hasshū.

Five generations had passed since his family took root in this untamed corner of Bando.

― Emperor Kanmu ― Prince Kazurawara ― Prince Takami ― Taira no Takamochi ― Taira no Yoshimochi ― and now Sōma no Kojirō.

The genealogy properly drew from imperial lineage, but it goes without saying that during its course, Ainu women's blood had also become thickly intermingled. Moreover, when the imperial blood of the capital and the wild blood of the Ainu tribe continued interbreeding through successive generations, it became a natural law of heredity that offspring would emerge with temperament and bone structure resembling what might be called a hybrid race—where maternal wildness strikingly reawakened ancestral traits of what was perceived as a degenerate lineage.

Therefore, even in features like his cheekbones, the stubborn set of his jaw, beard, and the very texture of his hair, Taira no Yoshimochi—Sōma no Kojirō’s father—already differed from the people of the capital. Their dispositions differed, and their approach to life too began to change in Yoshimochi’s generation. Yoshimochi abandoned the official posts in government service inherited from his ancestors and devoted himself to the land. He had existing manors sufficient to sustain and pay taxes with surplus, yet he employed many slaves, servants, and field laborers, placed family supervisors over them, cleared endless tracts of virgin forest, expanded slash-and-burn fields, filled marshes, leveled hills, and swiftly became the undisputed king of the wilderness.

While manors were unavoidably subjected to taxation, undeveloped fields absent from both the imperial court’s land reclamation register and the provincial governors’ tax ledgers could be falsified however one pleased—even if tax overseers complained loudly. Thus, the landed estates he had created in his lifetime and the grand residence he constructed on a divinely selected hill in Toyota District—complete with palisades, main buildings, storehouses, and outer fortifications—became the envy of all his relatives. “My elder brother in Hitachi and those younger brothers in Kazusa may envy me, but look at this life’s work I’ve accomplished!” “Even as a commoner—if a great landowner—this suffices as achievement.” “Not even provincial governors or district governors could match my ways.” “Whether governors, assistants, secretaries, or clerks—don’t they all come fawning over me?”

In this age when it was said that in the capital, unless one was connected by even the faintest tie to the Fujiwara clan or its offshoots, they could not be considered fully human—there, in one corner of the earth, Yoshimochi lived on harboring such boastful declarations, and ere long, met his end. But to Kojirō, now fourteen, not a single thing his deceased father had left behind seemed like much of anything. If one were to name anything among these that proved useful to him, it would be the Ainu girl Ezo Hagi, who, evading his uncles’ watchful eyes, devoted warm affection to his clothing, food, and such.

“Poor Young Lord… …Young Lord… you were born into such a pitiful fate.”

Without even considering her own pitiful fate as a slave, she ultimately offered even her lips and skin without reservation—there was nothing, nothing but her.

Nature’s Play

The shadow of the long mountain range stretching from Kitamusashi through Chichibu to Ueno, tinged with purple at sunset, faded into dusk.

Kojirō was still on the hill. The wilderness was in the third month of spring. The earth was rough, the wind was rough, the water’s quality was rough, and equally so were the people—wild and untamed—in the land of Bando; yet even so, this spring evening was so utterly tranquil that one might call it too peaceful. There was not a single movement. The sun sank so gradually as to be imperceptible, and the hues of the clouds merely shifted.

“Young Lord!” “What are you doing in such a place?” “Come quickly now and join us.”

Again, someone came to summon him.

Thinking it was probably either a groom from the stables or a servant from the village, Kojirō, “I ain’t goin’." “Don’t want no dinner either.” “I’ll sleep with the horses tonight.” he said without even turning around. Then the shadow below came running up the hill—a scolding remark about “a troublesome brat” was heard, and at the same moment Kojirō’s arm was yanked with such force it nearly came out of its socket. “Young Lord! What are you saying?!” “It’s precisely because you keep uttering such wicked words that even your honorable uncles have come to detest you.” “How could there be any answer but compliance when Lord Ōryō summons you?”

“Shut up!” Kojirō snapped. “If you make me say that, then I ain’t walkin’ either!”

With a huff, he puffed out his cheeks and strode off ahead. Yet, seemingly overwhelmed by loathing, tears streamed from his eyes. That night, he was ordered by a retainer who appeared to be his great uncle’s confidant to handle an urgent matter—while Great Uncle Kunikiyo and the younger uncles were likely holding a drinking party in the inner rooms. “Tomorrow, take the chestnut horse from the stables at the enclosure and go to Yokoyama Pasture. For our chestnut mare here, obtain the seed from Yokoyama’s famed stallion and bring it back. The breeding fee has already been paid in silk and rice, and through intermediaries, the matter was settled long ago this month. As we’re busy raising spring silkworms and short-handed at present, please go alone to handle this, Young Lord. There should be no reason you cannot go, I trust.”

Kojirō was rather pleased. As if granted a few days of liberation, he hurriedly prepared and slept all alone in a hut far from the main house.

Then, in the dead of night, Ezo Hagi sneaked in and shook him awake. The slave quarters were in a distant corner of the compound; at night, to prevent escape, they removed the bridge over the dry moat. With such a high fence as well—how did you get here?—Kojirō’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re going to Yokoyama Pasture tomorrow, aren’t you? “Then, on the way through Musashino, you will be killed.” “I had been listening under the floorboards when the Honorable Uncles were conspiring…”

She was thinking of Kojirō with all her heart. Kojirō was overcome not by the terror she had spoken of, but by something else entirely. He was seized by an impulse to immediately seize and devour her, and in his mind he vividly pictured the Ainu girl’s distinctive pear-blossom-like skin. “You see... “So even if you leave here, you mustn’t go far. “You mustn’t pass through Musashino.” Ezo Hagi, having said only that, began to back out of the dark straw-mat room.

—And suddenly, the scent of boar oil she habitually applied to her hair brushed against Kojirō’s nostrils. His shadow—or perhaps his very being—caught the fragrance and lunged forward with animal urgency, grinding his face against the source of the aroma. Ezo Hagi released a low, moan-like breath through her nose, rolled onto her back, and surrendered with delight to whatever the fourteen-year-old boy chose to do.

For it was still an era when even human self-awareness remained scarce among people, and though rudimentary social contracts existed—such as the institution of marriage or the recognition of concubines, rooted in instinct, love-and-hate, and possessiveness—no thought whatsoever was given to the multifaceted realities of relations between men and women. Even if they loved, they had no awareness of love. To act in accordance with primitive customs and the will of the flesh amounted to nothing more than one of those insignificant acts humans could perform.

The marriage customs of the capital’s inhabitants were, across all social strata, ones of early matrimony. By the time men were twelve or thirteen to fifteen or sixteen, and women nine to twelve or thirteen, they were already married. For even if left to their own devices, these young boys and girls would graduate from physical intimacy as though it were mere child’s play. That was also an imitation of adults. Adult men and women did not conduct such matters so secretly, restrictively, or apprehensively. Young girls and boys could witness such things freely. When they saw, they imitated; when they imitated, they found joy; and as this became habitual, both their bodies and temperaments aligned with their natural state.

Since even the general populace of the capital—starting with court nobles—lacked such awareness, regions like Bando remained far removed from self-aware relationships between men and women, still mired in primitive-era dynamics. Bride kidnappings occurred periodically, and it was not uncommon for love rivalries to escalate into armed conflicts where household members and servants would empty their quivers of arrows and stain their spears with blood. Like the Utagaki poetry gatherings of Tsukuba—where through moonless nights before shrine deities, without even kindling torches, men’s wives and women’s husbands would fumble through fragrant darkness—similar customs flourished throughout Toyota and Soma Counties.

Ezo Hagi was sixteen, so among her fellow slaves, she could not have been left untouched; and even Kojirō, two years her junior, was by no means experiencing his first intimate encounter with her.

The third son of Lord Sugawara In addition to those in the pastures, small stables were scattered in various places centered around the main enclosure’s compound. Equipped with saddles to be ready for battle at any time, they were located near the arrow and spear storehouses and were called the Enclosure Stables. “This chestnut mare is swift—she’s never flinched at arrow winds or spear glints. She bears the mark of a famed steed—don’t let her lineage die out,” Father Yoshimochi had declared. Upon the back of this mare he had loved and ridden for over a decade, Kojirō now mounted without a trace of sentimentality.

To the saddle he fastened provisions for the journey, rain gear, the household register certificate to present if questioned by district officials' clerks, and even a bundle of bow and arrows. Then spiritedly he descended the slope immediately after leaving Toyota Manor. Somewhere he felt Ezo Hagi's face might be watching him depart, but no matter how he turned around, looked up, or gazed at the mulberry fields spread before his path, she was nowhere to be seen.

"You'll be killed," came the whisper. "When passing through Musashino." Yet though this warning had been breathed so urgently into his ear, no thought of his own mortality took shape in his mind. Only sensory fragments imprinted themselves behind his eyelids—the dewy fruit-skin nape, black hair curled with boar oil, lips that had ground against his teeth with desperate tension. Swamps. Rivers. More swamps. Reed-choked wetlands. What made wilderness roads unbearable was water. From Sarushima in Shimōsa to Musashi's Katsushika, Saitama and Adachi districts, rivers great and small crisscrossed the land like maddened veins. Centered on Otonoe—revered as Bando Taro—these waters less resembled a circulatory system than some primal force ravaging the continent, their true nature laid bare.

“Hey! Toyota lad—where’re you bound?”

The second day of the journey.

Kojirō was called to a halt by someone.

When he caught sight of the person behind him, uncharacteristically for him, he hurriedly dismounted from his horse. He also bowed. “Was it Lord Tadayuki?” “Wako. Where are you going all alone?” “Under Great Uncle’s orders, I’m taking this chestnut mare for breeding.” “To which pasture?” “To Yokoyama Pasture.” “Huh, to Yokoyama. Alone, Wako?” “Yes.”

Tadayuki was also on horseback. Behind him were seven or eight attendants. "...how pitiable," he seemed to think as he gazed intently down at Kojirō from horseback, “Yokoyama is too far.” “It’s already approaching Sasagoyama near Kai.” “Since I’m heading to the Hiki District Governor’s office, you should have your horse bred with a good stallion at the Sugō Pasture near there.” "I’ll be scolded." “By my Honorable Uncles.” “I’ll have a messenger sent from the district office to properly coordinate with those at Yokoyama Pasture.” “I’ll ensure Provincial Governor Kunikiyo doesn’t find out, so join my retinue.”

“Yes. Then I’ll do as you say.”

Sugawara no Tadayuki was someone he respected. To him, there had been no particular impression to speak of—it was simply because his deceased father Yoshimochi had praised the man. According to his father’s account, this man—though now reduced to serving as a provincial official of lower status than even Taira no Kunikiyo, the Provincial Governor of Hitachi, in this rural backwater—had once risen to become Minister of the Right at court, while in scholarly matters none among even the most erudite doctors could rival him. He was said to be the third trueborn son of Lord Sugawara no Michizane.

Lord Michizane’s name was known even in such remote regions—there was no one who did not know it. Thirteen years ago now, since his death in exile in Chikushi, he had been deified—not merely revered but rather resounded as something fearsome for reasons unknown. At the foot of Mount Tsukuba, there were a few manors of the Sugawara family. It was said that Tadayuki had enshrined his father’s remains at the foot of Mount Tsukuba, settled there, and spent his remaining years as a local official. The rumors of the village that had once been widely discussed were also dimly remembered by Kojirō. Those vague impressions had shaped his respectful bows and even made his manner of speech polite.

Tadayuki had immediately grown suspicious of Kojirō’s journey—something was amiss here. After Yoshimochi’s death, it was not difficult to discern what the three uncles who had taken over Toyota Manor as guardians were scheming. Though Kunikiyo was his own superior, Tadayuki well understood the man’s character from their administrative dealings.

“By meeting me, you’re saving your own life.”

Tadayuki subtly instructed Kojirō, took him to Sugō Pasture, and there too, “I shall now go to Hiki District Office on official business and return home, but you—as Lord Yoshimochi’s heir and especially as Young Lord of imperial lineage—must take care of yourself. Do you understand?” he earnestly admonished.

“Yes… uh-huh. “…uh-huh.”

Kojirō nodded repeatedly. However, how much of it he had truly comprehended was questionable.

The day after parting with him, when the steward of the imperial kitchen here bred the chestnut mare he had brought with the prized stallion, Kojirō gazed in rapt attention, not uttering a single word until it was over, his entire body burning hot as he stared intently, as though he were a blood sac.

Mount Fuji still youthful.

After spending several days at the pasture and deliberately allowing as many days as if he had gone to Yokoyama, he returned to the main house of Toyota Manor with an innocent face. “...You did go to Yokoyama Pasture, did you not?” Great Uncle and little uncle alike pulled strange faces. They did not offer even a word of thanks. A fast horse arrived bearing news that the stockade people—composed solely of Emishi who had long resisted the plain’s warlords in the northern mountains of Hitachi Kasama—had risen in uprisings, and for about ninety days thereafter, Kunikiyo, Yoshimasa, and the others were not seen.

In the spring and autumn of the following year as well, there were many such uprisings.

With his uncles preoccupied by their duties, Kojirō spread his wings. He found himself frequently blessed with opportunities to meet Ezo Hagi. Though the household members scorned her lineage, he drew no such distinctions. Naturally, her mature body too remained blind to that truth. Ezo Hagi would crawl through the perilous dry moat from the slave quarters, leap over the high fence, and steal into his chambers at midnight. Even Kojirō's dull senses understood she was risking her life. Seared by her touch, he could not remain oblivious.

But on one winter night of that year—no, the night dawned into a morning of frozen ground, pure white with frost.

At the bottom of the empty moat lay a girl who had fallen and died like a crow's corpse. It was Ezo Hagi.

“Kojirō. Go look.”

Pushed down by his little uncle, Kojirō had no choice but to go look. From the cliff's edge, beneath a curtain of icicles resembling inverted spears planted upside-down, something like a ragged cloth scrap could be seen. He broke out in goosebumps up to his face, biting back trembling lips, and fled toward the Great Enclosed Pasture with those same feet like a runaway horse. Even through New Year's, he slept on stable straw alongside the pasture horses. To him, the horses' companionship felt warmer than any human dwelling.

It was February.

Taira no Kunikiyo, the Provincial Governor, settled himself upon a fur pelt in the inner quarters of the manor, positioning both uncles—Yoshikane and Yoshimasa—to his left and right as he addressed Kojirō. “Go to the Capital and study. Learn to become a proper human being.”

Kojirō sullenly kept his mouth shut. Perhaps taking this as defiance, even the little uncle raised his voice harshly, "What's with you?" "You disgrace the blood of Emperor Kanmu by consorting with an Ainu slave—what an utter fool! You bring shame even upon your late father…" "For the family’s sake—for your own sake—go to the Capital and study." "Until you’ve splendidly grown into adulthood and become a proper man—even if you return, you won’t be allowed back into this house."

Immediately, travel funds in gold dust—a small amount—along with a full set of traveling attire and a letter were placed before Kojirō’s eyes. There was no refusing.

Kojirō took them and began to retreat.

“Wait, wait!” called Kunikiyo. “Don’t you dare lose that letter on the way. It’s a letter of request from me—to be delivered especially to the current Minister of the Right, Lord Fujiwara no Tadahira.” “Listen well—endure for however many years it takes, and return as a man of stature so that we may face your late father Yoshimochi with pride.”

By now, even Kojirō could somewhat read the intentions of these three uncles. He wanted to hurl spiteful retorts, but being dispatched to Kyoto brought such unexpected joy that he found himself with no breath left to voice them.

A wild child of the plains thus embarked on his first journey to Kyoto—which felt a thousand ri from his homeland—eagerly setting out westward.

Engi 18.

It was the spring of Kojirō's sixteenth year. The uncles did not give him even a single horse from all those they had. But he walked without a single complaint. It took him three or four days to walk from one end of Musashino to the other. If he simply followed the traces of people’s passage, he had no trouble finding lodging in grass huts each night. On the day he gazed up close at Mount Fuji, he burned with fervor. When he reached the Capital, he felt as if Mount Fuji’s volcanic smoke were telling him: Study hard. Become great.

Mount Fuji had recently begun rumbling again, vigorously sending up plumes of smoke. And depending on the wind direction, it rained down ash enough to turn Musashino's grass white. Kojirō scraped the ash accumulated at his hair roots with his fingernails and gazed at it as if beholding something wondrous. When he reached Tokai's shores, even the salt-burning huts and fishermen's lives already felt culturally distinct from those around Shimousa. Along Suruga Road lay towns he'd never seen before and temples. And when night fell, Mount Fuji's smoke appeared like flame blossoms while the sea's beauty seemed almost aflame.

The Heian capital must be even more beautiful than this. People passing by on the streets—how noble they must be. His wildness—still clad in a boy’s form—pounded with anticipation even at the shame of one day mingling there, envisioning the Fujiwara-dominated court and streets known to him only through others’ tales. My Ephemeral Heaven

A day in late spring of Engi 18.

Sōma no Kojirō finally arrived at Mount Ōsaka, right before the Heian capital, after spending over fifty days traveling from his homeland of Shimousa.

“If you cross that low mountain over there, the Heian capital will already be spread out below you.” At the foot of Shiga Temple, having been told this, he climbed the long ascent to the top, his chest swelled with anticipation and his sweat-beaded face held rigidly forward until the western vista unfolded before him. ...Ah. Then he stood transfixed as if his spirit had been cast beyond the heavens, his face frozen in blank astonishment tinged with rapt wonder. His fierce longing for the unknown world found reward in an earthly spectacle surpassing imagination. To his eyes, every object across the broad basin encircled by purplish mountains’ gentle curves seemed cloaked in unearthly radiance. Even the Kamo River cutting through the urban sprawl appeared no ordinary waterway bearing common currents. He wondered whether a realm mirroring the “Pure Land Mandala scroll” he’d once venerated in temple depths truly existed in this mortal world.

“Ah. ...I’ve come to the Capital. ...The Capital.” The tear-prone boy’s innocence moistened his cheeks at some point. It was a trembling of emotion at the realization that he too, from this day forth, would mingle among the capital’s people and live within that solemn society. And he gazed ceaselessly at the wondrous vista before him.

The Heian capital of that era—said to measure approximately three miles east-west and four miles north-south—spread out beneath a midday haze like pearl powder sifted across the sky. In the central district, government offices and halls—clearly identifiable even from afar as part of the Twelve Gates of the Imperial Palace—radiated splendor through peacock-hued roof tiles and vermilion-lacquered gate corridors, forming a grand complex. The avenues from Ichijō to Kujō, including Suzaku and Ōmiya, along with thirty-two crisscrossing roads, divided the urban wards into an orderly grid resembling a go board. Moreover, in places likely along those intersections and canals—where willows and cherry blossoms tinted the scenery—the roofs sheltering those who inherited the poetic lexicon of the Manyoshu and now composed verses rivaling the Kokinshu seemed destined to exist here alone; every traveler standing in this spot must have shared this conviction uniformly.

All the more so for Sōma no Kojirō—born to the untamed soil of the Bando Plain, who each morning beheld the eruptive smoke of Nasu and Asama, who spent his days befriending wild horses in the pastures, who had grown into a sixteen-year-old mass of flesh amidst rough earth, rough winds, and rough people devoid of even the faintest whiff of culture—it was only natural he would be struck by this trance-like wonder: Could this truly be the same earth where humans dwell?

“And where might this Wako be from?” “Where might you be from, and where are you headed?”

Suddenly addressed thus by someone, he finally came back to his senses.

It was a middle-aged woman in nun’s attire. Having apparently climbed the same long slope, she had straightened her posture and was resting right beside him. The lonely boy quickly grew accustomed to the nun’s friendly demeanor. And so he chattered on and on—about having come all the way from Shimousa in eastern Japan, about how he now carried a letter of introduction from his great uncle to visit Lord Tadahira’s residence where he would stay until his coming-of-age day to devote himself to scholarly pursuits before returning home as a man of accomplishment—until, walking alongside her as a companion, he found himself walking through the streets of Kyoto.

One bonfire “Not yet? “Lord Tadahira’s residence...” “Auntie... you really do know where it is, right?” Kojirō, growing somewhat anxious, asked the nun. “Ah. “No need to worry.” “I’ll take you as far as the gate there.” The nun nodded calmly as promised.

The nun nodded calmly, exactly as she had initially promised. Yet even for a country bumpkin like Kojirō, walking the same path twice or repeatedly returning to a crossroads they had already turned at made suspicion unavoidable.

The nun chattered away. “The Minister of the Right’s household you’re going to visit has its main residence at Koichijō—though there’s also a villa at Kujō and another residence at Ishimizu-tei by the riverbank. Among them all, I wanted to choose the very best place for you—you see, I’ve got this nature where I can’t rest unless I pour out every last drop of kindness when helping others—so I ended up wandering around in circles instead.” She kept talking. “Wako. Let’s rest here for a bit. Though we’re nearly at the gate now, first off—if you go visiting the Minister’s household with that mop of tangled hair… they’ll laugh you out of court…”

Truly believing the nun to be kind, Kojirō did as she said, sat down, and gazed around. He did not know what temple this was, but there stood a mountain gate with halls and pavilions nearby, and a single cluster of cherry blossoms enveloping the waist of a five-story pagoda had dyed the entire ground in mottled fallen petals. What made his heart falter was how the evening shadows were beginning to deepen even upon his own form. “Hey, Wako…” the nun spoke up as they sat side by side resting their legs. “That travel bundle on your back looks bulging—I bet there’s still an uneaten lunchbox inside, isn’t there? If that’s the case, then give me that lunchbox as my fee. To tell the truth, I’m so hungry I can’t take another step.”

She stretched out her hand most pitifully and begged. It made sense now—Kojirō finally realized—that this nun had been fixated on his travel bundle from the very beginning. He had wanted to unpack and eat it—his hunger was no less—but he had rather been enduring it out of consideration for the nun accompanying him. So he promptly took it out from his travel bundle and handed it to her.

The nun began eating without even a word of thanks. To begin with, there had only been a few meager oak-leaf-wrapped rice rolls prepared with cheap provisions that morning, but she hugged the bamboo-leaf bundle to her lap, bared her yellow teeth, and devoured them ravenously. Even the single grain stuck between her long-nailed, filthy fingers she licked off with relish before immediately attacking the next morsel—until finally, without giving Kojirō a single bite, she devoured everything.

“I’ll go beg the temple folks for some hot water and have a sip before coming back.” “Wako, you wait right here for me, all right?”

The nun left.

After that, the nun’s figure vanished from sight, and the surroundings grew dark. He grew weary of waiting, his body growing restless. Then, from behind the hall where the bonfire’s light had been flickering crimson all this time, a large man came shuffling over. Then, right before Kojirō, he sniffed noisily and thrust his bearded face forward.

“Hey, you wandering brat. Your body—I bought it off that beggar nun for ya. You’re one lucky bastard. If I hadn’t bought ya, you’d have ended up sold off to some backwater slave traders for sure. But me, I got fleeced real good by that Greedy Nun—look at this, left with barely a stitch to my name now. Come on, kid, get over here!”

Behind the hall’s bonfire remained about seven men. With crude voices they guffawed about something, all bearing fierce eyes along with spears, greatswords, and other deadly weapons, their faces uniformly resembling red demons as they sprawled slovenly around the flames. “So what d’ya think, everyone? This kid’s a real steal, ain’t he?”

The man who had grabbed Kojirō's wrist and dragged him there looked down on the men who appeared to be his comrades and boastfully declared: "What can I say? Deal'n with Kurodani's Greedy Nun—ain't no hagglin' when she's set on a price." "She tried to shake me down for a bag of brown rice and my one undergarment, but I saw its worth and bought it fair an' square." "...So what d'ya think? This kid's a real steal, ain't he?" Heaving up, they all rose, looked at Kojirō's face, looked at his attire, and with leering eyes scrutinized his entire figure,

“Cheap.” “Now this here’s a damn steal!” one said, and once he did, the rest began jeering “Cheap! Cheap!” while hurling insults left and right. “What? So that just now, when you were whisperin’ with Kurodani’s nun in the shadows—that was your deal?” “Even just the kid’s huntin’ robe and long sword alone are worth more’n what ya paid.” “Cheeky bastard.” “Profiteerin’ alone ain’t right.” “You’re breakin’ our Yasaka Gang’s code.” “Buy us some booze!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Hey, Immortal One. Buy us booze and treat everyone! If not, the Yasaka Gang’s comrade code might as well not exist!” They called themselves comrades. They claimed to be a gang. What manner of mob could this be? Naturally, Kojirō possessed no capacity for comprehension. He wore a dreamlike expression, blankly situating himself amidst the strange flames’ glow and the strange men’s conversations. Though he showed some bewilderment, he did not seem to feel the slightest personal anxiety.

The Prophesied End Times

The Heian capital that Sōma no Kojirō first beheld from the heights of Mount Ōsaka in broad daylight was by no means a figment of his imagination. It was the manifestation of a human paradise through dynastic planning and undeniably existed as the proud reality of Fujiwara culture celebrated throughout the land.

But once one stepped into the city proper, the contrast between its facade and underlying reality proved so extreme that even travelers of that age must have been astonished. Indeed, having passed through eras like Asuka and Nara, when they first established this capital, its scale and planning had been so hastily modeled after Tang China's continental styles that they became skewed toward grandiose ideals utterly mismatched with the nation's actual strength. Or rather, it would be truer to say the nobles had conceived their designs solely around aristocratic living standards and aspirations for prosperity, never once considering either the existence of petty commoners or the workings of greater forces.

Therefore, with the passage of years, what was known as the Heian capital traced a truly bizarre path of development.

For example, the buildings and districts housing palace gates, the Grand Council of State, and Eight Ministries appeared splendid and magnificent enough to belong in a Sui or Tang dynasty painting. Yet just beyond the grid-patterned streets radiating from this center lay a muddy quagmire that defied description—when dry, cow dung would crumble into dust clouds. Over one-fourth of the Left Capital and still more than a third of the entire Right Capital consisted of rice fields, farmland, wetlands, meandering streams, weed-choked vacant lots, ancient ponds, forests, and pitiful slums where paupers dwelled in sagging plank-roofed tenements and ramshackle huts. No, even among them, there were still many paupers—some who maintained the custom of cave-dwelling—living in great numbers.

On such ground, towering here and there, one could sporadically see grand Buddhist temples boasting the splendor of the Pure Land with their pagodas and monastery complexes. There, monks who had taken roots as unyielding as prison bars within the imperial court and temple halls since Buddhism’s arrival still maintained vast domains of existence, having willfully indulged in privileges spanning centuries. “You fools! What are you worshipping?” said the indignant one, mimicking a monk’s tone as he addressed them.

“Shakyamuni Buddha has prophesied: ‘The Buddha’s teachings—even their light of spiritual power—can endure for no more than five hundred years each. After the True Dharma’s thousand years and the Semblance Dharma’s thousand years pass, they will perish in roughly two millennia.’ ‘After that, we enter the Age of Dharma Decline—marked by conflict and corruption—hasn’t He clearly revealed this?’ ‘If we count back, the current year of Engi—whatever it may be—has already entered the Age of Dharma Decline.’ ‘The world has been in its Age of Decline since the Kanpyō era, so the disorder of today’s age and humanity’s corruption hold no mystery whatsoever.’”

Such voices had gradually begun circulating through the streets. Though both upper classes and commoners had grown far more skeptical of their own faith compared to former times, in this land still grounded in simple intellectual understanding, there remained nothing else as captivating—like the tolling of Buddha’s bell—that could so unconditionally compel the masses to kneel in prostration.

The Realm of White and Black

Through successive reigns including Emperors Tenji, Temmu, Jitō, and Shōmu, the number of temples constructed nationwide since Buddhism's flourishing had grown extraordinary. It would be no exaggeration to say wealth, labor, and vigor—all components of national strength drawn from lower-class sweat and taxes—had been poured into them without limit. But the court nobles, those central adherents of this faith, within their own political and private lives had pursued only paths that rapidly corrupted and degraded this Buddhism. The Fujiwara clan's century-spanning splendor and tyranny stood as its very history.

Even so, during the brief period after the Taika Reforms when powerful ministers like Fujiwara no Momokawa and Yoritsugu rose in court—vigorously implementing land reforms, assessing institutional propriety, and weighing the merits of benevolent governance—a dawn-like freshness had seemed to tinge even the common folk’s lives. Yet as their tyranny persisted, with the imperial family and inner palace all infused with Fujiwara blood moving at private whims, and with central ministries down to provincial governorships becoming inaccessible to those outside their lineage—a state enduring for a full decade—the result was this: society now naturally bore a dual-faced strangeness. On one earth coexisted both realities Sōma no Kojirō had chanced upon—a cultured capital woven with willows and cherry blossoms, and a night realm of prowling demons—each asserting its stark existence.

And these two groups—each subsisting on one side or the other—possessed ecological distinctions as stark as black and white. It was nothing but two hues: the upper noble class and the vagrant poor stratum.

At that time, a stratum called the middle class was still nowhere to be found in Japan. Even if there existed a scant few intellectuals and propertyless cultural figures who might resemble such a class, they all wore tattered court robes to make nominal appearances at the Eight Ministries under Fujiwara control or served regent households and ministerial families for meager stipends—society possessed neither the mechanisms nor space to sustain them adequately. In the social structure, there was not even a middle class substantial enough to form its own stratum.

Therefore, it should go without saying that every person Sōma no Kojirō encountered on his first day in the capital belonged to that black stratum. Even so, when it came to the question of what these men—gathered around will-o’-the-wisp-like flames within the temple grounds on this dark night, heedless of the deepening hour as they tossed self-indulgent ravings at one another—sought in life or what occupation they pursued, Kojirō would need to spend many more years actually living in this capital before he could reach an understanding—let alone a simple comprehension—of such matters.

Feast of Vilification

Pestered by his comrades to “Treat us! Buy drinks!”, the large man called the Immortal One counted coins from his leather waist pouch and tossed them over. Then one of them immediately ran off somewhere and soon returned carrying an unglazed sake bottle, “Come, let us commence the grand banquet of Burakuden!” Then they formed a circle and grew even more intimate. “Wait, wait—the fire’s looking a bit gloomy.” “Ain’t there any firewood?” “What? Firewood? There’s plenty right there!”

The bandit who had pointed at the temple complex immediately climbed onto its corridor, tore off part of the already broken railing, then hauled out items from the inner sanctum—a sutra desk and a wooden Buddha’s head—indiscriminately hurling them into the bonfires. “Here.” “Still got more though.” “Enough! Enough already!” As they passed around the thick brew from an unglazed bottle, the alcohol finally reached their fire-warmed extremities. Their talk—having exhausted its lewdness—now turned to venting pent-up frustrations from their chests.

Kojirō was forced to stay pressed against Fujinin's side, positioned so he could neither stand nor flee, and simply gaped at this spectacle. What truly shocked him was how these men ceaselessly berated everyone from current ministers to imperial princes and regent-family nobles—labeling them all as grain-wasting incompetents and treating them like fools inferior to even the lowliest commoners.

If their insults had been limited to court nobles alone, that might have been tolerable—but they went further, extending to the Emperor’s incompetence, decrying how successive sovereigns like Kanmu, Saga, Junna, and Yōzei had brought Fujiwara women into the imperial bedchambers to let that clan fulfill its undue ambitions. “To begin with, calling that clan who made this world what it is mere villains falls short—and those who let them run rampant are no better. Just because they’re Emperors doesn’t mean there’s some law saying we have to accept it!” “Long ago, the emperors passed down through our ancestors’ tales—even without invoking Emperor Nintoku-sama—weren’t supposed to be like this!”

The resentful edge in his voice wasn't born of sake alone.

By ancestral custom, they considered both the Emperor and their parents as synonymous with what was theirs. Thus, just as children might harshly criticize their parents, they did not hesitate to hurl vile insults at the very names of Emperors and Retired Emperors. But within Kojirō’s frame of reference, this struck him like lightning—a thunderclap of astonishment. The warped affection between Emperor and commoners that must underlie such language—there was no time to parse this paradox. In his native Bando Plain, one dared not whisper the Emperor’s sacred name—let alone speak irreverently toward provincial governors or district magistrates. Even envoys bearing decrees from regent houses or the Great Council of State demanded such absolute deference that officials had to prostrate themselves when receiving documents—literally pressing foreheads to earth before written orders.

What was this? Who were these people?

On his first night in the capital, he encountered his first doubt. But he had no idea at all. Even when he finally steadied his gaze to scrutinize their appearances in detail—youths whose refined attire suggested they might be court nobles' sons; men who seemed like hunters or cattle masters; those unmistakably fallen monks; bearded figures in vagabond garb—there was no tribal consistency among them anywhere. As for the names they called each other—starting with Yasaka no Fujinin—they were merely Bald Eagle, Caterpillar Boy, Hokone, Anahiko, and Kumota; even these bore no trace of occupational reference. Yet within their rants lay occasional intellectual critiques one wouldn't expect from common ruffians, and particularly to the words of Yasaka no Fujinin—who seemed a fallen courtier—Kojirō found himself listening intently.

Yakaze The Immortal One rebuked the group’s idle talk and declared: “To claim most Emperors are foolish misses the mark.” “Emperor Nintoku’s reign was one of such virtue that even speaking of it feels sacrilegious.” “Emperor Kanmu was precisely the kind of illustrious sovereign we need appearing right now in our current world.” “In essence, it also depended on the court nobles of that time.” “That Fujiwara supremacy is the very cause that began to throw the realm into disorder.” “The Taika Reforms that were painstakingly implemented degenerated into half-baked systems, and you bastards trampled the nation’s fundamental law—the prohibition on private fields and soldiers—into chaos just to carve up glory for yourselves!”

With eyes blazing, he continued his vehement denunciations while guzzling murky sake. “Well…” “And then came the chaos in the provinces and the capital’s rot.” “Starting with the Ministers and Regents themselves—they ignore nationalized land policies, hoard private fields across the provinces, and wring taxes into their own pockets!” “Of course, district magistrates and provincial governors take it as a golden opportunity and follow suit.” “Even temples, even shrines—of course they’d feel they’re missing out if they don’t get in on it.” “Hell, even officials dispatched from the capital—court nobles, imperial princes, or their ilk of local magistrates—they’d all rather stay in the sticks, amass private fields, raise private troops, act with impunity, and live out their days that way. Look at ’em! Envoys, provisional governors—anyone appointed to some post out in the provinces—most of ’em cook up excuses not to return to the capital even when summoned!” “So what’s come of it? Companions of self-destruction and resentment; peasants who’ve lost their land, been driven from their homes, and now wander aimlessly; vagrants who’ve said ‘To hell with it all!’ and roam as ruffians doing as they please; prostitutes; mobs of peasants caught in the net of harsh taxes they couldn’t slip through—and folks like us Yasaka Gang comrades, knowing full well it’s wrong but standing against the world, resolving to live thick and fast through robbery or thievery, fixing our wickedness as the core deity in our bellies—they’ve all ended up swarming out everywhere!”

The Immortal One’s eloquence suddenly snapped off, his mouth closing shut. “Wh-what is it?” He laughed at his comrades, who had immediately grown suspicious and half-risen to their feet, then placed his large palm atop Kojirō’s head beside him, gripping and shaking it as if to seize him.

“Kid.” “You just stared wide-eyed at my face.” “Must’ve shocked you to learn our trade.” “…Listen well. I’ll train you too.” “From tomorrow, be my underling and learn the ropes.” “Ministers? Regents? If the Fujiwara flaunt their splendor like they own this world, we’ll form an Uglyhara clan in the shadows—make those bastards froth at the mouth.” “Which sounds better: reveling in golden palaces, or nesting in dirt with demons running wild? Let’s see whose fun outlasts whose.” “That’s why we need one brat like you—handy for the work.” “You won’t fear it.” “They might look rough, but everyone here’s just harmless old coots. No need to gawk at faces like that.”

He had not yet finished speaking. Bald Eagle, who had been sitting directly across, jolted and stood up alone as if jerked upright,

“Something’s wrong.” “Just as I thought… something’s off?” At his muttering, everyone looked up,

“Bald Eagle. What’s suspicious?” “My instincts are swift as the wind... There’s definitely the sound of official horses’ hooves approaching from afar.”

“Quit it, man!” “Don’t spook us like that，Bald Eagle!”

“No! Close now. Here they come!” “Whoa. For real?” “Ah—Kebiishi!” As they all leapt up with a roar, Kojirō was knocked down and landed on the smoldering remnants of the campfire.

“Don’t panic! To the usual mountain cave!” shouted the Immortal One, rebuking his comrades as they scrambled to flee in disarray. Dragging Kojirō’s body under one arm, he broke into a run toward the mountainous terrain flanking the temple gate—when from a shadow even he had not foreseen, a host of figures advanced in formation. With a flurry, arrows rained down: feathers whirring through the void above, shafts hissing across the earth below.

“Oh. Damn it!”

As he twisted around and changed direction, Kojirō’s body was wrenched from his grip and lay sprawled on the ground. Two arrows had lodged in his leg, with another near his shoulder. After that, Kojirō knew nothing. When he came to his senses, he found himself in a reeking, cramped, pitch-dark prison cell—like a boar trap.

From gate to gate

There could be no doubt—this was within the gates of Keibushō, one of the Eight Ministries of the imperial bureaucracy. Within Keibushō's precincts lay its departments—the Zōshoku-shi Bureau of Confiscations, Shūgoku-shi Prison Administration, Goeifu Five Guards, Kyōshiki Capital Office, and Shokokushi Provincial Governors—each occupying separate compounds with their own office buildings as robed officials moved leisurely through the long vermilion-and-blue-painted Tang Dynasty-style corridors connecting them, arms laden with documents.

Once there had been the Danjōdai (Censorate), but now it had been abolished, replaced by the establishment of the Kebiishi-chō (Office of Judicial Police), which in recent times had become the most active institution within the Keibushō’s administration. Needless to say, this jurisdiction spanned all penal and prosecutorial administration—patrols, investigations, interrogations, petition hearings, pursuits, imprisonment, sentencing, and prisoner releases. It oversaw judicial affairs not only within the capital beyond the Forbidden Gates but throughout the Kinai region and across the nation, with local Kebiishi appointed to each province.

“I ain’t no criminal! I haven’t done anything bad!” Since last night, each time he regained awareness, Kojirō had been trying to convince himself of his innocence. That this was a prison became clear to him at a glance. Besides him in the cell’s corners lay several prisoners sprawled like stinking animals, drained of all vigor. “Kid,” one of them called out. “Did ya start a fire? Or were ya stealin’ stuff?” He found himself being questioned like this repeatedly.

Kojirō would sometimes let tears spill down. It was a certain kind of bitter resentment. The purity of his childlike heart trembled at the injustice. I am the sixth-generation descendant of Emperor Kanmu. I am the child of Taira no Yoshimochi—a Bando warrior and warlord. To rouse his own purity, within his chest surged whispers of blood—blood whose presence he had never before been conscious of now boiling forth. When I appear before the officials, I must say that and act arrogantly.

Biting his lip, he waited in the prison cell.

Then, last night’s low-ranking constable—the one who had made him drink the “wake-up water”—appeared at the peephole and showed his eyes,

“Hey, you’re lively, kid. You’ll be out soon,” he informed him. Before long, a robed prison official stood outside with subordinates—Ryōshi clerks, Fushō administrators, and Gokutei jailers—in tow, “Let him out.”

he ordered with a jerk of his chin. Then, after seating Kojirō in the courtyard of the Petition Hearing Gate, interrogating him about why he had been among the Yasaka bandits, and ascertaining his reasons, they refrained from pressing him further and returned his belongings before his eyes. And, “You may return now,” he declared. Among his belongings was an important document from his great uncle Kunikiyo, Provincial Governor of Hitachi, addressed to Fujiwara no Tadahira. He untied it, confirmed its presence with relief, then placed it in his pocket and departed the white sand courtyard.

Then, the prison official escorted him to the gate, intently observing Kojirō’s demeanor, but—

“Hey now, young lord of the Eastern Provinces. Are you truly going to Lord Tadahira’s mansion?” he asked.

“Yes, I am going. Which way should I go?” “So that document mentions Provincial Governor Lord Kunikiyo. Is that your connection? Is that truly the case?” “Yes. Kunikiyo is my great uncle. I am Sōma no Kojirō, son of Taira no Yoshimochi, a warlord of the Eastern Provinces.” By saying this, Kojirō secretly flushed with buoyant blood rising to his cheeks, thinking that even the prison official would understand he was a scion of imperial lineage without needing to be told.

Just as anticipated, the prison official altered his demeanor. And were this his first time treading the capital’s soil, even locating the Minister’s mansion would leave him directionless. He demonstrated kindness by proposing to assign a Hōmen (a low-ranking investigator; later called meakashi informants) as guide— “Now then, Lord Kojirō. When you personally deliver that letter to Lord Tadahira, should His Lordship inquire about any matters along your journey—well, you might mention how Inukai no Yoshitsugu of the Ministry of Justice’s prison bureau provided exceptionally warm hospitality throughout the night… Ensure that part comes across favorably when you relay it.” “Ah...” “Do this for me.” “Do not forget my name.”

And with a perfectly calm face, he made this blatant request for self-promotion.

The White Powder Ritual Begins The Hōmen was a carefree man. “When you say ‘Eastern Provinces,’ that must be quite a journey,” he said. “You managed to come all alone? Didn’t you run into trouble like last night’s ordeal multiple times on the road?” “Nuh-uh,” Kojirō shook his head. “That was the first time I’ve ever been through anything like that. I’ve heard there are plenty of thieves in Suzuka Mountain and along the highways too, but I just tagged along behind adults the whole way here.”

“You’re clever.” “Now that you’ve come to the capital, what do you intend to become?”

“I’ll study scholarly matters, learn all sorts of things about the path of becoming a full-fledged man, and then return home.”

“What nonsense! If you want to become a decent person, you’d do better to leave the capital and apprentice yourself in the countryside.”

An ox-drawn carriage approached from ahead. Jolting over the rough road, its bamboo curtain clattered rhythmically. While sidestepping mud puddles to let it pass, Kojirō glimpsed through a gap in the swaying screen—a noblewoman’s alabaster face framed by raven hair—and felt his pulse quicken. Then came an elusive fragrance from her layered robes—pale plum over indigo-dyed undergarments—that seemed to cling about him long after they parted, as though tracing his path through the capital’s morning haze.

“Hey. Mr. Hōmen.” “What is it, young lord?” “This might sound strange to ask... but why are people in the Capital—women and even some men—so pale?”

“Ha ha ha ha.” “You’ve never heard of white powder makeup, have you?” “What’s white powder?” “It’s for makeup—something you apply to your face.” “There’s lead powder, and some made from glutinous rice flour.” “Oh, so that’s it.” “They just stick it on their faces?” “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” “Women started using white powder over two hundred years ago, back in Empress Jitō’s time, and yet it still hasn’t reached the Eastern Provinces, has it?” “I’ve never seen it before.” “At first, I really thought they were people born with pale skin.”

“Then you must not know about rouge either. I’ve heard it was invented by the monk Donchō during Empress Suiko’s reign, but curiously enough, white powder too is said to have begun when the monk Kanshō presented it to the emperor of those days. Isn’t it amusing that both essential items for women’s makeup were invented by monks?” “That’s a lie! The Kentōshi envoys brought that by ship from China.”

“Hah.” “Well now, you know quite a bit.” “But the ones who imported it must’ve been monks after all.” “Why do you suppose monks—of all people—turn out to be so resourceful despite their vows?” “If they’d only brought things like the Great Prajnaparamita Sutra and Chinese texts, those lacked any charm—they must’ve realized such dry stuff made poor bait for spreading Buddhist teachings.”

“Mr. Hōmen, are we not there yet?” “Koichijō is—”

“Ah.” “It’s already visible.” “Ah… That’s it—those long earthen walls you see there, the gates, the many great roofs, the trees on the artificial hills… The entire enclosed area you see before you is none other than Lord Koichijō’s estate.” Kojirō had already forgotten to respond to his companion. As they drew closer, his eyes were struck by the grandeur and elegance of the shinden-style mansion’s beauty, leaving his body to tense with nothing but awe and a certain dread. “Ah… It seems they’ve invited guests again today for a grand banquet.” “Look… there.” “You can probably hear that music from the dance performance drifting out from there.”

At a spot somewhat removed from the gate, the two of them came to an abrupt halt. Indeed, just as his companion Hōmen had said, through the trees beyond the earthen walls came music from the dance performances—reed pipes, zithers, hand drums, and flutes—descending like heavenly strains filtering through clouds until they flowed stealthily into Kojirō’s travel-grimed ears alongside the spring breeze. Scattering Coins Do the grand courtiers of the hundred-pillared palace find leisure?

Adorning with cherry blossoms, today too they pass their days. Having gathered those who proudly composed poems about their own lives in this manner once again, the area from Koichijō’s guest hall to the spring pavilion now overflowed—after the music ceased—with boisterous laughter from their host Tadahira and the guests’ coquettish chatter, spilling audibly from the Great Gate all the way to the fence-lined outbuildings.

“Young lord. I’ll go ahead and arrange for an introduction first—wait here.” Hōmen entered through the carriage gate, his eyes darting across the white-sanded courtyard before peering into another plain gate to the right—where from a corner shed suddenly sprang a young servant clad in an unlined hunting robe, “You there! Stop!—Out! Out!” and dragged him back. While Hōmen—acting as Kojirō’s proxy after his long journey—was still meticulously recounting every detail from the previous night’s events, stewards, samurai and even menial servants came flooding out from deeper within as if confronting some ruffian. They formed an ostentatious circle around him, exchanging doubtful glances and cross-examining him repeatedly until finally permitting him to summon Kojirō inside.

Hōmen, as if regretting his excessive helpfulness,

“Well then, I’ll take my leave…” he said, leaving behind a single bow before hurriedly departing. Yet even afterward, they still surrounded Kojirō, showering him with blatant curious gazes and suspicion as though observing an Ainu child who merely existed to be heard of in tales, all while continuing their boisterous deliberations.

And ultimately: "In the midst of the grand banquet. To bring some sudden introduction before our esteemed guests would only earn us reproach for spoiling the mood. First, keep that boy stationed there and ensure he remains unseen." With this directive from the house steward—a senior official—Kojirō was compelled to walk further into the outer garden,

“Wait here.” He was ushered into the spot the servant indicated.

This was the retainer waiting hut known as the "carriage shed" at the mansion’s corner.

Many ox-drawn carriages had been hauled in, with cow dung forming mounds here and there. Between the dung, drool, and cows' tails, even if one could speak of color, there was no place left to exist. Though late spring, metallic flies already swarmed in. Exhausted from standing, Kojirō peered into the building beside the carriage shed where more than ten ox drivers and attendants serving their masters had gathered, huddled around a single mat with bloodshot eyes.

They were gambling.

“Tōsen,” as this gambling practice was commonly called, was something the commoners of that era were feverishly engaged in. The banker placed several holed coins into both palms, shook them to produce a clinking sound, then scattered them across the mat with a clatter. They bet on whether the coins would land with their inscribed side or patterned side facing upward. Kojirō peered in as well. Gambling thrived even in the Bando region. However, it involved more primitive games where people never wagered coins so carelessly like this. The stakes were limited to items such as rice, furs, and cloth.

Here too, he found himself dizzied. The fact that coins were being treated like mere pebbles was one thing, but what truly exhilarated him were the raw expressions of human greed etched on their faces as they faced each other, the fiery back-and-forth of their clashing voices, and the murderously charged spectacle of their struggle.

Minister of the Right Tadahira

Merely by watching what the adults were doing, Kojirō found his blood stirred enough to forget his boredom. But eventually, when the hands handling coins became shrouded in evening darkness and began to crave light... “Ox drivers. “All the esteemed guests appear to be preparing to depart.” “Now then, line up at the carriage area.” The order was relayed by someone from the inner quarters. Seizing the moment, both the winners and losers all streamed out at once, each hauling out their own ox-drawn carriages. In the shrieking groans of hurried wheels, after the dappled forms of oxen had crossed through the evening darkness, neither dung nor flies could be seen anymore. From where they had strayed, scattered late cherry blossoms merely sketched faint imprints of late spring, while perhaps near the spring pavilion, the voices of frogs could be heard in the distance.

Kojirō was munching on something in the darkness. It seemed he had picked up leftovers from the meal provided by the estate to the attendants. Even the Ministry of Justice prison officials—who had made such self-serving requests—gave prisoners nothing but gruel as food. Here too, not knowing when food would be provided, he hurriedly filled his belly.

But there was no need to worry. Neither the house steward nor the servants had forgotten about him. The shadow of a paper torch swayed closer, and once again he was taken to the garden before the Taira gate. It already seemed certain that the message he had previously stated and the letter from his great uncle Kunikiyo had been relayed by the house steward and communicated to Minister of the Right Tadahira. It was by no means treatment befitting a guest, but when the servants permitted him to enter one of the buildings first and he had begun untying his straw sandals, from beyond the courtyard near the latticed shutters—

“You there! You there! Where is Steward Omi no Ka? Omi no Ka, old man! Hurry up and come here!”

With an ill-humored expression, there was a figure shouting at the top of his voice. Omi no Ka, the steward—even with his aged ears receiving it from afar—never misheard the vocal mannerisms of his master, the Fujiwara clan leader who remained oblivious to how his will went unheeded in the world.

“Yes, yes! This humble servant Omi no Ka is here in your presence.” “What might your summons be?” “Now then, you negligent fool!” “You’re old enough to know better!” “Ah—has something displeased your lordship?” “You jester, old man.” “No matter how busy you were tidying up after guests, why did you neglect what I so strictly ordered?” It was said that his late elder brother Fujiwara no Tokihira—renowned for his booming voice—had often crushed Sugawara no Michizane, that scholar-politician of literary bent, in court debates with that very voice. As for his younger brother Tadahira—a man of robust physique in the prime of his thirty-eight years—he too would occasionally unleash bellows no less formidable than his brother’s.

“While you’re scolding me, might I trouble you to repeat your command once more? Perhaps this old man has indeed grown somewhat senile—when faced with today’s commotion, I find myself forgetting things without even realizing it.” “It’s about that Eastern brat.” “That brat who supposedly brought Kunikiyo’s letter.” “Still don’t grasp it?” “Y-yes, your lordship. Regarding that brat—what exactly were your orders concerning his disposition?” “As for that young scamp—what exactly were your lordship’s instructions regarding his handling?” “Ugh, you useless old fool! “What I said was—the brat Kunikiyo sent off on a journey, all alone without attendants.” “In any case, there’s no way he’s decent stock.” “Moreover—above all else—during that long journey from the distant provinces, there’s no telling what defilements he may have contracted.” “No! In fact, did I not tell you myself that he slept in a prison cell last night and was brought all the way to the gate today by impure outcasts?” “No! This won’t do!” “It’s improper to let someone tainted by defilement enter anywhere within the mansion’s buildings.” “That’s precisely what matters.” “Summon the Kannagi priest and have him perform the purification rites. Until that’s done, stick him in a cowshed outside the earthen walls.” “That’s what I told you… And yet here you are, old man—carelessly trying to invite him in over there!”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve already done it!” “Too late. Purify at once the place where you brought in that defiled creature. Then cleanse the boy’s body thoroughly—make him undergo water purification rites.” Tadahira’s fury grew so violent that his shoulders quivered.

This bizarre manner of rage appeared almost pathological, yet neither Omi no Ka nor any other servant seemed to view it as an unnatural outburst.

Deranged aristocracy

Why was this? The reason was simple— this was common knowledge not only to the Fujiwara clan leader here but equally within the imperial court and among all court nobles: whenever "defilement" was mentioned, they would shudder with revulsion, closing their gates for days to conduct purification rites, discarding ceremonial robes, suspending court attendance, and turning away visitors.

Intense faith eventually came to be accompanied by extreme superstition. They were people of the upper class who could not survive without the consolations of diverse delusions: exorcisms, ritual prayers, purification rites, Onmyōdō, taboos, evil spirits, divination, and the like. Above all, the ideology of defilement—deep-rooted and intertwined with both Shinto and Buddhism—was eroding a profound pathological psychology in one aspect of daily life. For example, when one came into contact with death defilement, a thirty-day period of mourning was considered the highest standard, and purification rites had to be conducted for at least seven days.

Those who touched a woman in childbirth, those who touched dead livestock, members of a household where a fire broke out—all were deemed defiled and shunned. And it was not uncommon for not just that individual, but also those around them—household members, and sometimes even visiting acquaintances—to suffer the same fate.

If one seeks actual examples in historical records, incidents arise in abundance—too numerous to enumerate. To take two or three examples:

Emperor Suzaku's Tenryaku era, first year. The lieutenant of the Left Gate Guards' pet dog was said to have brought back a fragment of a deceased person's bone, so the headquarters became defiled for thirty days and closed its gates. In the same month, when a ritual hall acolyte unwittingly drew water from the headquarters' well—sparking an uproar—the entire palace compound submitted to seven days of defilement. During Emperor Kōkō's reign, when a girl's dead hair was discovered south of the Jōgan Hall, various offices were compelled to perform a thirty-day purification.

Beyond these, there were instances of crossroads being closed off due to reports of a newborn’s umbilical cord having fallen, or soil from fire-ravaged sites being shaken to appease the fire god—truly, no other era saw neurotic calamities play such mischievous havoc upon the hearts of the upper class.

This could not strictly be called defilement, but it stood as clear evidence that the monopolization of glory was not solely a path to happiness—for the aristocrats of that age, adorned in the imperial court’s delicate splendor, had come to believe unshakably in the tangible existence of object-curses, living spirits, and vengeful ghosts through their daily lives. Most adopted neurotic dispositions, with some among them even verging on madness. Moreover, the extravagance and debauchery of this class had shortened each individual’s lifespan. Many died young, rarely exceeding thirty or forty years of age. They earnestly believed this too to be the work of vengeful spirits’ curses, attributing it to the wrathful ghost of Sugawara no Michizane.

In the Engi era, the most somber manifestation of this could be found within the present imperial court. There existed even the stark fact that Emperor Daigo—having wholeheartedly embraced the theory of Michizane’s vengeful spirit—ultimately succumbed to grave illness, while his crown prince Hiroakira had not been exposed to sunlight for a single day since birth across three years. Day and night within curtained chambers, lamps burned ceaselessly as palace guards maintained sleepless vigils in shifts, all solely to protect in terror the pitiful thread of life belonging to that excruciatingly fragile white mass of flesh.

Horses, do not grieve.

Though bearing no resemblance to his austere father Mototsune—being merely an indecisive, petty, spoiled child—Tadahira had nonetheless attained the prestigious position of Minister of the Right as a statesman. Even as clan patriarch, he flaunted a lifestyle of extravagance surpassing even his father and elder brother. Yet it was impossible not to notice how some corner of his heart perpetually festered with feeble delusions and madness. Though he had gone to the trouble of inviting guests that day to dispel the gloom of late spring—only to have some lowly provincial governor like Kunikiyo send over an unwelcome nuisance with an accompanying letter, which made him click his tongue in irritation—he couldn’t simply send the boy away, for this was Yoshimochi’s son. For Yoshimochi had been a man who, throughout his life, had always paid obeisance at the Fujiwara clan’s gates in all matters and had diligently managed the affairs of their privately held fields in the Eastern Provinces.

But as for that orphan, he had no goodwill to go out of his way to consider anything for him. On the contrary, what suddenly crossed his mind was the ever-present worry about defilement—his most abhorred concern. The fatigue from a day of exuberant play—combined with that very exhaustion—suddenly erupted into furious shouting directed at Omi no Ka. For his part, Omi no Ka came to the servants’ quarters and began berating them. The consequences ultimately rebounded upon Kojirō himself—the very one who had been admitted thus far. Kojirō was taken out through the side earthen gate to the riverbank, stripped completely naked, and thrust into the waters of the Kamo River.

“You must wash away the defilement—the defilement. “Until the morning sun rises from the eastern peak, we pray to all heavens again and again—sink into the waters, perform the rites, cleanse away defilement—so you may be purified.” “Do you understand?” “During the day, you’ll stay confined to the hut—and come nightfall, you must perform the seven-day purification rites.”

Omi no Ka barked his orders and retreated to the mansion with the zōshiki attendants in tow. Kojirō stood bewildered, unable to comprehend what had just transpired. Yet believing this might be some initiation ritual for serving the Minister of the Right's household, he blankly kept his head above the rapids' churn. The water bit with cold sharp enough to cling like lingering snowmelt. In the current's grip, his bones seemed to fuse against his ribs—but when he gasped a lungful of night air, there hung the mist-veiled moon at Heian-kyō's heart.

“……That moon too has come to the capital. Ah... I too am in the capital.” He drew many horses’ faces upon the hazy clouds. To the horses who were likely peacefully sleeping while treading upon stable straw even tonight in the stables of his hometown’s Great Enclosed Pasture, he spoke earnestly from the heart. ――My friends, do not grieve. I am happy. To become a man of the capital, the waters of the Kamo River were now kindly washing away the grime of my journey.

Entourage-Waiting Chatter

The Engi era lasted twenty-two years, and from the following year onward became known as the first year of Enchō. Sōma no Kojirō had now reached twenty-one years of age. Five years had slipped by since he entered service at the Minister of the Right’s household. This was precisely that insolent flowering of youth.

Of course, he underwent his coming-of-age ceremony, was granted permission to wear a sword, and was now a full-fledged man. When he tied his hair neatly and wore undyed linen robes that never seemed to gather grime, even he—who had often been mocked as a country bumpkin from the Eastern Provinces—had lately come to appear as an ordinary servant in his role as a junior attendant at the Minister’s residence. Within the mansion grounds, his assigned role was that of an oxcart servant—one among the lowly attendants. When his master went out, he would pull out the oxcart, accompany the procession on foot, then upon return release the oxen, wash the cart wheels, polish the shaft fittings until they gleamed, and diligently prepare everything without neglect.

Today as well, he accompanied the court visit, brought the imperial carriage into the Suzaku Gate’s waiting area, and spent the entire day waiting for his master Tadahira to depart. The carriages of other Counselors, Advisors, and various ministers also waited in attendance, their shafts aligned. Here, where servants from other households gathered in numbers, not a single event within the capital ever leaked as rumor. “Last night, a certain courtier sneaked off as usual to the widow of a certain minister’s residence,” one servant began. “Then one of those bandit gangs that’ve been sprouting up lately found them,” another continued, “and just for sport—right when the pair were getting cozy—they raided the chamber, tied up everyone in the house, then made off with everything from treasures down to the lovers’ own clothes.” “So there’s our fine courtier,” a third chimed in, “stark naked with no way home! Ends up borrowing some sodden rag from a servant and slinking back at dawn—only to face that famously jealous wife of his! And her with child again too! Can you imagine the ruckus?” They clicked their tongues in mock sympathy. “Yet that very same lord,” the first resumed with a smirk, “sat through today’s imperial council all prim in his Counselor robes.” “How excruciatingly dull those grand meetings must be!” they concluded in unison.

As one told such stories, another would add their own. "Nonsense! If it's tales of scandal and banditry you want, the capital's got enough to sweep up daily." "This was top secret, but even within the Imperial Palace walls, such things have happened." It happened during this year's rainy season. "A certain lady-in-waiting attached to a Kōi consort of the Kōkiden Palace was indulging in secret trysts with a court official in a dim chamber of the Fujitsubo quarters." "But as fate would have it, that very night, a low-ranking Ministry of Justice official on an errand to inspect the Kōryōden happened to pass by and peek in." "The woman, startled, hid beneath her robes, but when the man kicked open the lattice door to flee, the official shouted for help. They caught him... only to discover he was a thief who'd stolen a courtier's robes from an empty Kōryōden chamber and impersonated an official! Can you imagine?" "Naturally, in the gloom, the lady-in-waiting had no idea he was an outlaw when she let him in. Poor thing—when word reached her mistress's ears, she claimed illness and withdrew from court..."

Once idle chatter arose, there was no end—such indecent and perilous tales were told one after another in endless succession.

The bandit gangs running rampant through the capital grew dissatisfied with merely ravaging the city streets. Now they occasionally targeted palace gates, threatening not only the imperial consorts and ladies-in-waiting of the rear court but even—on one occasion—lurked beneath the bridge corridor of Kōkiden Palace at high noon, where His Majesty himself discovered them during his stroll and caused a tremendous uproar. ――Whenever he heard of such fierce beings emerging, Kojirō would always recall from memory the cluster of bonfires he had seen at Higashiyama's foothills on that evening long ago—the sixteenth spring of his life, when he first set foot upon this capital's soil. And not only the faces of those comrades, but even the names they had called each other—Yasaka no Fujinin, Hagetaka, Anahiko—came to mind.

The Naive Scholar

Despite the imposing presence of the Eight Ministries and Twelve Gates—including the Ministry of War and Ministry of Justice—and with Kebiishi officers patrolling the city, Kojirō found it utterly perplexing why such bandit gangs were allowed to run rampant. However, according to the idle talk of his entourage-waiting companions—servants and attendants from various households— “This outcome was inevitable…” they all declared without hesitation.

“It’s bad governance.” “No… whether it’s bad or good, there’s no governance now. For bandit gangs, there couldn’t be a more grateful era than this.” Whenever the conversation turned to these reasons and causes, Kojirō always felt small. For his master—Minister of the Right Fujiwara no Tadahira—was subjected to more vicious slander than anyone else. As clan elder, Tadahira now held a position where he not only commanded the Fujiwara clan at will but also carried decisive weight with his every gesture and expression within the imperial court.

This was because he, as the younger brother, had wholly inherited the position and authority of Tokihira, the late Minister of the Left who died young—yet compared to his elder brother Tokihira, the current Minister of the Right’s household was said to be a stark downgrade in political acumen, vision, ambition, and even basic humanity. At the very least, the former Minister of the Left Tokihira—though he had employed ruthless political tactics and clan-centric schemes against his rival Sugawara no Michizane—had also held considerable ideals regarding regional agricultural reforms, revitalizing public sentiment, and financial and cultural initiatives. Yet tragically, he had succumbed to illness at the young age of thirty-nine—though Tokihira’s talents had yet to be fully realized in governance—and none could deny his caliber as a statesman.

But when it came to his younger brother Tadahira, there was no comparison at all. “Fox Cub of the Court” The epithet “Fox Cub of the Court” encapsulated it all.

He was indecisive and underhanded. He was selfish and decadently extravagant. The consensus was that his only talents lay in court music and painting. He prided himself on his painting and had once presented a fan adorned with a cuckoo to Prince Nagamiyo. When the Prince absentmindedly opened the fan, its pivot creaked, so (Ah. Ah—this cuckoo cried—) he playfully remarked. And then, the foolish courtiers nearby— Truly, such mastery of the brush—the hallmark of a masterpiece! To depict not just the cuckoo but even its song through painting—throughout history, none could achieve this save Lord Tadahira alone.

they heaped such exaggerated praise. Tadahira himself boasted about such things and even signed his poetry drafts with self-appointed titles like "Cuckoo Minister." Moreover, his nephew Atsutada—being a master of string instruments—devoted himself to the wagon and flute. For his garments, he kept weavers within his residence to create unprecedented designs and dyes through original patterns, priding himself on these innovations as his hallmark. Lately within the imperial court, extravagance grew glaringly pronounced. Low-ranking scribes and chamberlains now adorned themselves in robes once reserved solely for the Emperor, while court ladies and ladies-in-waiting vied in elegance to rival even the consorts themselves. Consequently, moral discipline crumbled—and imperial councils and governance became utterly neglected spectacles of wanton disregard.

Under such high-ranking officials and an imperial court, there was no reason to think that officials from the Ministry of Justice and Ministry of War alone would be performing their duties with diligence and sincerity. ――In their respective domains, they too conformed to the times by seeking indulgences and duty-bound virtues of the same mold. This was one reason why it had become such a grateful era for bandit gangs. In this manner, here at the Imperial Carriage Station’s attendants’ waiting area, among all that Kojirō saw and heard daily, there was not a single decent thing.

“They say lowly officials are sharp-tongued, but these Kyoto chatterboxes are utterly insufferable.” These people are only interested in the ugly aspects of humans and the dirty parts of the world. Instead of just snooping into people’s shadows all the time, why not try seeing a bit more of the good and beautiful aspects of humanity and this world? At times, Kojirō would lose himself in people’s idle talk and find amusement, yet at other moments, he would grow so angry that he felt compelled to rebel in some way.

The reason went without saying. He still held this Heian capital in his heart as a beautiful flower capital. For the first time, he had come up from the barren Bando wilderness to the capital—placing his first step into Kyoto upon that high vantage point to gaze out over the Kamo River, the Imperial Palace, and the willows and cherry blossoms of the capital in springtime— (Ah—could such a paradise truly exist on this human earth?) ...) And, in a trance, he shed tears of satisfied longing—he still held that day’s impression vividly within him. He wanted to believe forever in that reality—not illusion—that he had once witnessed.

And he took pride in having become one of those beautiful people of the capital himself. He did not want to taint it. He did not want to harm it in the slightest.

And what's more, Just as his hometown people had urged, he wanted to prove the worth of his studies in the capital, absorb Kyoto's culture, grow into a man of virtue, and someday return to his native Shimousa Province's Toyoda Village bearing the stature of an accomplished man. "But my studies are hopeless," he thought. "If you're born a Fujiwara, you can enter Kangakuin Academy... but an Eastern-born page like me..." His rustic heart still clung to his original resolve in coming to the capital. Thus he stole away to night lessons and devoted every possible daylight hour at the Imperial Carriage Station to reading.

And even now, he crouched alone between the carriage shafts, pulled out from his robe a book borrowed from a retainer of Miyoshi no Kiyoyuki—a scholar of recent repute—and became engrossed in reading.

Then someone came to his side and stood silently looking down at the book in Kojirō's hand alongside him. A youth in nōshi robes—a low-ranking Blue Attendant whose age differed little from Kojirō's, perhaps three or four years older.

Two Male Cousins

“Hm? Oh...” Abruptly noticing, Kojirō looked up from his book. Flushing with embarrassment, he hurriedly tucked the book into his robe. “The sun still hangs high,” he deflected, avoiding eye contact. “There must be ample time yet before their lordships depart.” To mask his discomposure, he tilted his face upward toward the afternoon sun. Beneath the eaves of the attendants’ quarters, lewd voices clamored as ever. Outside under the blue parasol tree blossoms, some dozed while others—heedless of the listless drone of season’s first cicadas—clustered in shadowed corners to play at coin-toss gambling.

“You’re quite the diligent student.” “You there...” For the first time, the youth smirked slyly. Kojirō’s face reddened. The truth was, what he had been reading was indeed a Chinese text—but nothing more than a beginner’s primer by Confucius. “No… “Studying… It’s nothing so grand.” “But your attitude deserves praise.—Now then, do you know who I am?” “Well... “Might we have met somewhere before?”

“I’m asking the questions here.” “I beg your pardon... but I don’t recall.” “I thought as much. Ha ha ha ha!” “Who might you be? If you wouldn’t mind, please enlighten me.” “Your homeland is in the Eastern Provinces, I take it—” “That’s correct. And you are?” “You get it, right? Even my words? ...I’m from the Eastern Provinces too. Moreover, I’m from Kasama in Hitachi—not far from your birthplace in Shimousa’s Toyoda Village.” “Oh...” Overcome with nostalgia, Kojirō suddenly stood up.

“Then… you must know Lord Kunikiyo, the Hitachi Provincial Governor.” “How could I not know? I am Kunikiyo’s son, after all.” “Ah. Then that would make you and me cousins. Now I remember. Great Uncle Kunikiyo’s son—Lord Taira no Sadamori—I heard came to the capital long ago to study. Are you that Lord Sadamori?” “No. Sadamori is my eldest brother. I’m the younger brother—Shigesada.”

“Well then—are both brothers of yours residing in the Capital?” “This is enviable indeed.” “Since when have you been in Kyoto?” “It was two years after you left Toyoda Village for the Capital.” “Though my elder brother arrived here long before that…” “And where do you reside now?” “My brother Sadamori has already graduated from Kangakuin Academy and serves at the Kurōdo-dokoro in the Imperial Palace.” “As for me—I recently left Dr. Miyoshi no Kiyoyuki’s tutelage and now serve as a student retainer at Lord Kujō no Morosuke’s mansion from the Minister of the Right’s household.” “Since today marks my first time attending palace gates duty—this meeting here becomes our first encounter too.”

“Is Lord Sadamori aware that I have taken refuge at the Koichijō Mansion of the Minister of the Right’s household?” “...Hmm.” “He seemed aware but hadn’t been told specifics.” “Have you ever met him?” “No...” “Not even once...” Kojirō suddenly wore a desolate expression. The truth was—once near Ōtenmon Gate’s ruins, someone had pointed out: “That’s Taira no Sadamori; they say he shares your homeland.” When he’d approached to offer greetings, whether from some prior misunderstanding or not, Sadamori had turned sharply away, departing without a word... This memory now brushed through his mind.

But—before he could dwell on that memory, he found himself gladdened that Shigesada had now addressed him. To speak of cousins—blood runs thicker than strangers'. No, even were they strangers, here in this alien capital a thousand ri from home, he had met for the first time someone nurtured by the same soil of the Bando Plain. Nostalgia and joy—Kojirō felt both a faint homesickness and a great surge of strength.

This feeling of his was by no means an exaggerated sentiment.

At that time—during the era of Emperor Daigo, the sixtieth human emperor, in Imperial Year 1590—regions beyond the Kinai were already treated as “foreign lands” within Japan. Whether they spoke of the Eastern Provinces or Bando, they treated them as nothing more than lands of uncivilized tribes. For example, in the Fifth Month of Gangyō 5 during Emperor Yōzei’s reign, Ariwara no Yukihira had newly established an academy called Shōgakuin. At that time, two scholar-officials named Mononobe no Shiwa and Muraji no Nagano had brought representatives from Mutsu Province—who happened to be visiting the capital—to the lecture hall, where they performed live translations of Tōhoku dialect for the audience. And because these two men had rendered service to the Imperial Court as interpreters of Tōhoku dialect, they were each awarded the Junior Fifth Rank that same year.

In this foreign land, when Kojirō happened to encounter another Bando native, it was by no means unreasonable that his eyes—gazing upon Shigesada—felt a familiarity and nostalgia as kin sharing the same blood, surpassing even that for a cousin.

Vast dreams. “Kojirō—do you also want to study?” “I do,” Kojirō answered frankly to Shigesada. “If you don’t enter either Shōgakuin or Kangakuin and keep working as a miscellaneous servant, it won’t do. Your body will grow exhausted—you’ll never even think of studying.” “But Shōgakuin Academy is for the Ariwara clan. And Kangakuin Academy won’t admit you unless you’re a child of the Fujiwara clan, I suppose.” “The school regulations say that, but if someone from the Minister of the Right’s household were to say just a single word, it would mean nothing. The professors—all those scholars are poor. They hunger for bribes too. There are countless methods.”

“Is that really so…?” “Moreover, even if we approach it directly, isn’t that the case? We were born as sons of Bando’s provincial warlords—not kuge or Fujiwara clansmen—but by lineage, we are indeed sixth-generation descendants of Emperor Kanmu. Are we not of imperial blood ourselves?” “That’s right.” “I see...” “But even after placing myself in the Minister of the Right’s household, Lord Tadahira hasn’t so much as addressed me once—how could I possibly make such a request?”

“To Lord Kujō no Morosuke’s mansion where I serve—my brother is occasionally summoned for gagaku performances. When that happens, I’ll speak to him about it.” “If we make the request through my brother to Lord Morosuke, then from Lord Morosuke to his father Lord Tadahira, it will surely reach his ears.”

“Please.” “Though I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting him, please convey my regards to your brother Lord Sadamori as well.” “Alright, alright.” “Don’t worry…” Shigesada swallowed, started to turn away, then suddenly stepped back— “Hey, Kojirō. Before long, another Bando native will surely show up at the Minister of the Right’s household.”

“Huh? Who?” “From someone in the Kujō household—there’s this local magnate in Tsuchinuma, Ashikaga District of Shimotsuke Province called Tawara no Tōta Hidesato. They say he’s coming up to the capital bringing horses from Shimotsuke’s pastures and loads of gifts to show his gratitude...” “To both the Kujō household and the Minister of the Right’s.”

“The name of Hidesato of Shimotsuke had reached even my homeland.” “However, there was a rumor that this Hidesato had caused some major conflict and been exiled back when I was still in Toyoda Village, but…” “He was pardoned the year before last and had returned to Shimotsuke.” “He spent a year in seclusion, but since they deemed it acceptable now, he came up to the capital.” “…Of course, it’s to express his gratitude.”

That day，with that，they parted ways.

However, having met Shigesada, his hopes grew even larger. Even as he laid plain straw mats on the wooden floor of the retainers' quarters alongside other menial workers, bitten by mosquitoes—amidst the destitution of servant life—Kojirō's dreams freely painted the future. I will study, build my character, return swiftly to my homeland, and put even my younger brothers at ease. I want to bring joy to my clan members as well. And I must take on the role of managing the vast farmlands and family estate left by my father.

The only slight discontent was, (My cousins finished their studies like that—all of them obtained positions, however lowly—so why am I alone still living next to this cowshed, barred from the academy, left to rot like this until now?) was nothing more than this doubt. However, by nature, he possessed a simple essence that accepted all things with goodwill and a pure disposition that placed unwavering trust in others. And even when such doubts arose, the answer he gave himself was—

(Surely, Great Uncle Kunikiyo must have forgotten to include such details in the letter of introduction he had me bring. And Lord Tadahira—being such a carefree man—might remain unaware that I’m even serving here. ...But if Cousin Sadamori speaks up this time, His Lordship will surely realize—‘Ah, so that’s how it is.’) He waited impatiently for good news—that Shigesada would bring word. Or perhaps—suddenly—from Lord Tadahira himself,

(—Kojirō. Come to the garden front.) Perhaps a message would come through the steward, he thought.

The waiting stretched endlessly. Still, no auspicious developments materialized.

August. —It was the beginning of autumn.

One day，a group of visitors arrived at Koichijō Mansion． The visitors，appearing to be people from distant provinces，had on that same day removed their traveling attire at an inn in the city district；having first sent an envoy beforehand to ascertain the Minister of the Right’s household’s private intentions，they had even adorned gifts brought by their attendants－garments，hairstyles，and other offerings－with great beauty，before standing lined up before the gate with utmost solemnity．

“This humble one is Tawara no Tōta Hidesato, Assistant Governor of Shimotsuke Province in the Eastern Country,” he declared. “Having long endured my failure to properly express gratitude for your countless magnanimous favors, and having repeatedly neglected correspondence, I now come forth to humbly present these modest local specialties for your esteemed inspection.” Only Hidesato entered within alone, leaving his other retainers at the Heimon Gate as he made this petition to the high-ranking officials of the Minister of the Right’s household.

Exiled Hidesato

Hidesato, like Kojirō’s late father Taira no Yoshimochi, was the clan leader of local magnates who had maintained their position for generations in the northern reaches of the Bando region. Since his residence stood in Tahara near Tsuchinuma of Shimotsuke Province, people called him Tahara no Tōta, though records sometimes wrote it as Tawara no Tōta. Though a native-born Bando magnate, he bore the Fujiwara surname through maternal lineage tracing back to that clan. This connection enabled him to secure official posts early—venturing to Kyoto for Great Guard service—and more recently receive appointment as Assistant Governor of Shimotsuke, thereby expanding his regional influence through ancestral prestige, political ties, and capital negotiations.

However—it was the sixteenth year of Engi. Hidesato’s trusted subordinate had defied the provincial governor and was severely humiliated. The conflict became one of legal statutes versus brute force, ultimately escalating into a blood-soaked private feud. For insults suffered by their kin, they possessed an overwhelming tendency to unite beyond questions of right or wrong—this being their defining trait, and indeed the natural state of those who followed a clan leader.

Hidesato was still in his late thirties, brimming with youthful vigor. It was a situation he could not possibly overlook. He gathered his family members and retainers and attacked the provincial governor’s office. He opened the prison, rescued his imprisoned clan members, raised a victory song, and withdrew to his mansion. In the process, they killed and injured several government officials, set fire to government storehouses—and though carried away by the momentum of their assault—committed considerable acts of violence. This was promptly reported to the capital, and both the imperial court and Sekkan-ke deemed it a grave matter, preparing to dispatch a punitive force. The Hidesato clan also responded by preparing for battle, and it seemed matters might escalate gravely. However, he—having spent some time in the capital, breathed its air, and maintained connections with certain members of the Fujiwara clan—quickly realized that recklessness would be folly. By nature, he was a man of reason—not one to gamble inherited wealth, fields, official posts—or even his life—on mere subordinates’ obstinacy. Until now, he had been a man shrewd in his dealings and calculated in his daily actions; an incident like the one he had just caused was unprecedented. For him, whether it was the burden of clan leadership or a youthful indiscretion, he deeply regretted it.

(I must accept [my punishment] willingly, submit to the charges, and defer making amends for later.) As he voluntarily submitted to the charges, his entire clan discarded their weapons and were bound by the hands of the general who had descended as an envoy of judgment under the Grand Council’s directive. On the twelfth day of the eighth month of that same year (Kinoe-Uma), eighteen clan members—Kuniyuki, Takasato, Kiyosada, and others—were sentenced to exile for grave crimes and banished to the southern tip of Izu Province.

And so, they spent approximately three years as exiles in their place of banishment. Needless to say, during that time, all manner of pardon campaigns had been conducted among the capital’s high-ranking officials through his wife’s connections. That they were pardoned in less than three years could indeed be attributed to its efficacy. Moreover, after returning to his home province and completing his seclusion, he was able to regain his former official post in just over a year—a feat achieved through no ordinary influential recommendations and the power of gold. Thus, Hidesato—both for his future prospects and to repay the protection he had received from Minister of the Right Tadahira during that time—journeyed all the way to the capital once more, bearing lavish gifts. Even a provincial magnate such as himself was not the sort of visitor a ministerial household would disdain. Tadahira welcomed him in a manner almost no different from how he would receive the nobles of the capital.

In the spacious garden of Koichijō, countless rivulets had been channeled like natural streams; lanterns stood by water basins and stones at every turn, while the cool early summer night had been crafted with every refinement of atmosphere and delicacies for guests from afar. The host’s favored orchestral music further enlivened the gathering, laying bare the chasm between this sophistication and Tawara no Tōta Hidesato’s provincial ostentation—a demonstration of worlds divided. For breaking-in “Page! Page! “...Open the inner garden gate! By His Lordship’s command, these visitors from distant lands shall parade their tribute horse before the fishing pavilion.” “Make haste with the preparations!”

Omi no Ka, the elderly steward of the Minister of the Right’s household—having grown accustomed to frequent reprimands from Tadahira—always conveyed orders to his subordinates in this long-winded manner.

Mimicking his tone, even those from the miscellaneous servants’ room responded, “Understood, my lord.” Laughing as they rose to their feet while the elderly Omi no Ka persisted with his instructions, they answered again: “The esteemed bay horse from Shimotsuke offered in tribute. We shall now lead it before the fishing pavilion. Pray wait but a moment, if you would.”

They burst into uproarious laughter. Omi no Ka had the other servants burn pine torches in the garden and knelt far from the dew-laden moss. “Kojirō, bring the halter. “Kojirō—the halter—” The servants clamored near the garden gate. The horse appeared particularly spirited—one that seemed rather difficult to handle.

Even among the servants, when it came to horses, Sōma no Kojirō had long been recognized as someone of note. In truth, there was no horse that wouldn’t calm down once under his hands. Kojirō had always loved horses by nature. When he saw horses, he felt as if he were seeing family. In their scent, he sensed the vast open spaces of his homeland. He recalled nights spent sleeping alongside them in the stables of Ōmusubi no Maki, nestled in straw bedding—memories of sorrowful days when he had wept himself to sleep with his head pillowed on a horse’s belly came flooding back.

“Hey!” “Understood.—You can let go now.”

Kojirō received the halter from his colleagues and gripped it firmly. While soothing the horse’s spiritedness, he guided it into a steady pace befitting an audience with nobility. The guest Hidesato and host Tadahira stepped out into the corridor and stood watching.

“…Hmm.” “This horse?” “Indeed, a magnificent specimen.”

Tadahira narrowed his drunken eyes and praised it profusely. This minister was exceedingly particular about the decorations of his imperial carriage but had absolutely no interest in horseback riding. However, the reason he praised it so was that horses were currency. Especially when it came to prized steeds, he knew full well just how astonishingly expensive they could be. Hidesato, seeing that the gift had been well-received, then descended into the garden himself. And then, expounding specialized knowledge on how this horse was a prized steed, he explained from the garden.

His manner of speech remained unmistakably coarse with Bando inflections despite all efforts at refinement. Drawn by its nostalgic cadence, Kojirō forgot the horse entirely, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Hidesato's face. The man appeared thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Even his complexion—an ochre hue that seemed to Kojirō imbued with the very scent of their homeland—spoke of eastern soil. Thick eyebrows arched over narrow eyes, while near the base of his elongated jaw sat a mole. Perhaps because hairs sprouted from this blemish, the image burned itself permanently into Kojirō's memory.

“This… Page.” “Why do you keep staring at my face?” Hidesato, perhaps having taken offense at his impertinent gaze, concluded his explanation of the horse and rebuked him thus: “Surely you’re not an idiot.” “Staring so brazenly—what an eerie fellow.” Kojirō, thinking this exchange had reached Tadahira’s ears, startled, cowered, and unthinkingly prostrated himself on the ground.

“Oh, what troubles you, guest…?” Tadahira indeed noticed and inquired— “Do you know that page?” “No, I neither recognize nor know him…” “Did he commit some impropriety? That servant is the child of Yoshimochi of Shimōsa, near your native land—so they requested—” “Yoshimochi? If I may inquire—Your Lordship refers to Taira no Yoshimochi who resided in Toyoda Village of Shimōsa?” “That’s correct. Did you not know? Taira no Kunikiyo of Hitachi sent an accompanying letter—this boy was born dull-witted, estranged from his homeland through circumstance, one who struggles with kin—they entreated us to keep him in perpetual servitude... Thus we maintain him at the mansion.”

“Which son of the late Yoshimochi is this one?” “Well now. Third son or fourth son or whatnot—I can’t quite ascertain the exact details—but Kunikiyo’s letter did state he was Yoshimochi’s child. Perhaps he’s the child of some other concubine? In any case, he is a dull child—and one already noted in Kunikiyo’s accompanying letter. If he has committed some impropriety, do forgive him.”

To Kojirō's ears pressed against the ground, the nearby voice sounded like a deafening subterranean rumble—he could not fully discern the words. This was because, from midway through Tadahira's speech, blood had surged violently to his head. While his face burned hot and flushed, his body shivered cold—assailed by such violent trembling from the night dew soaking the grass that he could scarcely endure it.

The Elder Calligrapher

Taira no Sadamori no longer appeared as a man of Bando in anyone’s eyes. Resembling his father Kunikiyo in stature and refined features, he had assimilated the capital’s intellect and never relinquished an elegance imitative of the court nobles.

He was well-groomed. He performed his official duties with diligence. He was a promising youth—so went the admiration of all. While serving at the Kurōdo-dokoro (Chamberlains’ Office), he would visit Ono no Tōfū’s residence during his leisure hours to study calligraphy.

Tōfū was renowned as the foremost calligrapher of his time, mentioned alongside Ki no Tsurayuki and others as a man of great repute in his field, but what shocked those who visited his home was the appalling poverty of his estate. —but when one considered it, his official rank was merely that of Junior Archivist. [His position] was nothing more than a slight step above copyists and clerks. And yet, he was already over sixty years old, with many children and a host of grandchildren. The wooden verge of the study was rotting, and the shutters and sliding doors were rickety. And in one overgrown corner of the estate grounds, there were infants’ diapers hung out to dry, and even the sound of a young child wailing for food—though the mansion was spacious—somehow seeped through along with the wind, as if the place were riddled with gaps.

But Tōfū was a calligrapher. By his brush and inkstone, he always seemed to dwell in a realm entirely his own. However, this old calligrapher had terrible manners; in summer, though he wore his court cap, he would hike up the sleeves of his gauzy court robe, and whenever conversation excited him, he would immediately perch on one knee and hold forth with his hairy shins and arms bared.

He loved conversation and would grow animated whenever literature was discussed, but what consumed him even more was his indignation toward the times. Regarding current affairs and politics—though one wondered where he gathered his information—he was remarkably well-informed. And his conclusion was always the same: “Clan-based politics is unacceptable.” And then, once more,

“The emperor’s circle must be cleansed. “These superficial stopgaps won’t work anymore. “So long as the Fujiwara cling to power, there’s no hope of that. “...But mark me—just you wait. “Who knows what disaster brews while they play these games? “Such brazen contempt for Heaven! “The people aren’t maggots—they’re human beings! “When men nurse grudges deep in earth’s bowels long enough—that bitterness becomes fire—makes the very ground heave! “A quake—no, a great quake’s coming. “They trembled at Michizane’s vengeful ghost, yet still shamelessly cling to power! “Who knows what retribution comes next? “I tell you true— “What form the wrath takes I can’t say—but strike it will!”

In this manner, forgetting time and feigning ignorance of slander's peril, swatting at lingering summer flies with a fly swatter, he launched into tirades against the Fujiwara clan's decadent self-indulgence.

When things reached this point and the atmosphere gave no indication of when it might end, Taira no Sadamori, who had come to visit there again today, “Master… Actually, today I must make a detour to a certain person’s residence, so…” he edged toward making an exit. —Then Tōfū,

“Ah, I see…” Tōfū softened his tone and closed the lid of his dry inkstone. “A detour?” “……Which mansion?” “Is there a poetry gathering or something?” he inquired. When Sadamori answered that he was going to Lord Morosuke, the son of the Minister of the Right who always favored him—suddenly, as if struck by recollection, Tōfū perched on one knee, took a calligraphy exemplar from the nearby bookshelf, and casually handed it to him. “I’d been asked to do this long ago, but I wasn’t in the mood… so I left it. But since the chance came up, I went ahead and wrote it.” “Take this and give it to Lord Morosuke.” “…Even if I wrote it for him, he’d never put it to any decent practice anyway.”

“As you wish. Well then… I shall take charge of it properly.”

With that, Taira no Sadamori hurriedly took his leave from the gate that was practically a shack.

The Aloof Youth

That evening, he met Morosuke and handed over the calligraphy exemplar. And then, as usual, after tuning the wagon and checking the lamp, when he was about to leave, his younger brother Shigesada, who served here, “Brother… About your face…” he said, ushering him into his small chamber. “Sōma no Kojirō has come to the capital and entered service at the Minister of the Right’s household—are you not yet aware of this?” “...Kojirō,” he said with a slight grimace— “Have you met him?”

“Oh? I met him recently at the imperial palanquin staging area near the palace gate.” “You’d do well not to grow too familiar.” “Why?” “Father in Hitachi has been advising so. I’d meant to caution you myself before long...” “But didn’t Father himself write that letter of recommendation to the Minister of Right’s household? Specifically requesting they permit his studies?” “Expecting scholarly pursuits from that man? A laughable notion. Since his rustic days, Kojirō’s been coarse and unruly—disliked by all. After Lord Yoshimochi’s passing, Father as his great uncle must safeguard the clan’s future to prevent collapse... From that vantage, he apparently finds Kojirō’s character rather disagreeable.”

“Then, does Father intend not to let Kojirō inherit Toyota Village? However, even so, Kojirō is undeniably Lord Yoshimochi’s eldest son, and from what I’ve observed, his character doesn’t seem flawed enough to warrant such harsh criticism.” “Shigesada… Shigesada,” Taira no Sadamori began, fixing his younger brother with an elder’s reproachful gaze— “You shouldn’t voice such reckless speculations carelessly. Everything I say is according to Father’s will.”

“I would never mention such things to others.” “Not even a hint…” “Do you understand?”

Taira no Sadamori stood up immediately.

Before he could mention anything about the promise he had made with Kojirō some time ago—it was over. But Shigesada, thinking he must also reply to Kojirō, saw his brother off and walked him outside the residence. And when he tentatively mentioned Kojirō’s request, Sadamori flatly opposed it. “That’s not something you can request of Lord Morosuke or the Minister of the Right’s household." “Cut it out with the meddling!”

Then he also said:

“Even I once met him near Ōtenmon. “At that moment, Kojirō looked like he wanted something and seemed about to say something—I had to avert myself entirely. “The Minister of the Right’s household has only placed him among miscellaneous servants, using him as a lowly page at best—isn’t that right? “That alone tells you everything. “If someone like that starts claiming kinship or acting overly familiar with us, people will lump us together. “That would only hinder your advancement—surely even you understand it brings no benefit.”

Shigesada watched his brother’s retreating figure vanish into the night mist—and thought, despite being siblings, what a cold man he was. Yet he lacked the courage to act alone for Kojirō’s sake, even if it meant defying his brother’s will. From then on, he resolved to avoid meeting Kojirō at all costs. My own foolishness. Kojirō’s “love for the Capital” had finally begun yielding to skepticism. The longing for the Capital born of ignorance was a bitter draught of disillusionment all such dreamers must once equally taste. Kojirō, too, had largely trodden the same path as the world’s many dreamers. But to him alone, it felt like this ill-fated existence were a misfortune uniquely his own.

Does the Minister of the Right’s household mean to keep me penned up as a palanquin page for life—letting me rot away like this?

The anxiety and resentment that had so grievously threatened his youthful future became an unhealable wound in Kojirō’s heart from that day onward. When Hidehira—a visitor from the East—called upon the Minister of the Right’s household, it was through words Lord Tadahira had spoken to Hidehira that he first viscerally understood his fate’s path—no, not a path at all, but an end right here. "Great Uncle Kunikiyo and those other uncles drove me from my homeland with such cunning." "...That letter to the Minister’s household was no different than an indenture contract—selling me off like a foundling abandoned in the Capital."

Now that he knew—the vast distance of the eastern provinces, his present circumstances— resentment smoldered in solitude, consuming only itself. ——How were his younger brothers back home faring? What had become of the pasture horses? Nostalgia too conspired with anxiety.

Now that he had clearly discerned Great Uncle Kunikiyo’s scheming far-reaching conspiracy, he had considered many times whether it might be better to return to the eastern provinces rather than remain in the Capital clinging to vain hopes.

But if I returned—what expressions would my uncles have? Taking on my great uncles' power—how much could my meager strength oppose?

Inevitable, terrifying things began to take shape in his mind. Probably, those awaiting his return would be little more than his younger brothers and the horses. Even the many slaves and household servants could not be trusted. Let alone that the clan, who feared his great uncles, would ever welcome him with open arms. When he looked back like this, the eeriness of the path homeward carried darker premonitions and resentment than the futility of remaining in the Capital.

“No… I won’t go back now. Even if I went back, it’d be pointless. If I just grow into a proper adult, time will naturally resolve things. ……And someday, Lord Tadahira too will come to understand the circumstances. This is where I must endure.” Kojirō changed his mind. Thus, a certain palanquin steward busily washed the wheels of the palanquin, tended the oxen, and each day followed the shafts of his master’s carriage as he attended court, making diligence his guiding principle. And then, at the attendants’ waiting area of the Greater Palace—

“I wonder if Shigesada hasn’t come. I wonder what became of that request.” Though it had been some time since he could look forward to the latter’s promised reply, even on days when Kujō no Morosuke’s carriage appeared here, Shigesada’s figure remained unseen since that occasion. The year ended, and in the spring of Enchō 2, Tadahira was promoted to Minister of the Left.

There were appointment ceremonies, congratulatory visits from noble houses, pilgrimages to Kasuga Shrine—all for the promotion of a single minister. For one whole day, the imperial court and the capital itself were in an uproar as if celebrating a national triumph. To the entrance of the Minister of the Left’s residence, Kangakuin Academy’s procession paraded forth to present their congratulations.

“Ayumi” referred to a procession. Students and nobles of similar age—graduates of Kangakuin Academy—inserted wisteria blossoms into the trailing ends of their caps, formed a resplendent column with their noble robes and shoes uniformly color-coordinated, approached the entrance of the congratulatory mansion to present their felicitations, sang songs of celebration, then withdrew in stately order. Whenever a Fujiwara clansman received promotion or there was cause for imperial court celebration, one would invariably witness this “Kangakuin ayumi” at their gate as was customary. This was because the Fujiwara clan had originally founded the academy, maintaining its finances under their patronage.

Be that as it may, on that day, Kojirō saw Shigesada among that procession. He also saw Shigesada’s older brother—Sadasue.

Ah... There are my cousins. When he noticed, he felt certain they had both looked his way—yet somehow, Sadasue and Shigesada turned their faces aside. He could clearly sense their intention to avoid him. Regarding this matter too, only after considerable time had passed did he finally make an expression of realization. Oh... Come to think of it, both were Kunikiyo's sons. Being Great Uncle's own flesh and blood, they had no reason to think well of me. What a hopelessly optimistic fool I am. To have admired such scoundrels as cousins, to have earnestly awaited good news about my request... Ah, I might truly be a dullard by birth—just as Kunikiyo's letter described.

He came to realize his own foolishness.

Lady Hydrangea Jar

Tadahira was quite corpulent. His skin was flabby and doughy. Therefore, the Minister of the Left of Koichijō was said to have a constitution prone to summer fatigue—a reputation well-established within the court. The man himself exploited this reputation, rarely attending court in midsummer unless particularly pressing state affairs demanded it. However, gagaku performances at Koichijō Mansion occurred nightly. He appeared never to tire of banquets. After all, from the upper reaches of the Kamo River to the Thirty-Six Peaks lay grounds resembling his private garden. Beneath the spring hall and fishing pavilion flowed murmuring streams—in such a place, there could scarcely be occasion to mention summer’s heat. In particular, the Hydrangea Jar—separated from the Tai-no-ya by a long covered corridor—was said to possess architecture surpassing even the Kōkyōden of the Imperial Palace.

Long ago, Minamoto no Tōru, the Left Minister of Kawara, had twenty koku of seawater transported monthly from Amagasaki to store in his Rokujō mansion, recreating the salt-making scenery of Shiogama in Mutsu Province. He compared the Capital's elegant ladies to ama divers gathering brine and was said to have epitomized extravagance—yet Tadahira harbored no such foolish pretensions. Rather, he was a realist. The Hydrangea Jar concealed only a single beauty. The beauty took her name from the jar (the garden or structure) and was known as Lady Hydrangea Jar. In this world where polygyny was considered commonplace—beginning with the Emperor and extending throughout society—it lay beyond inquiry to determine which number wife this Lady should be counted as for Tadahira. Yet what should be wondered at was this: even though she stood as the beloved of such a prominent Minister, no one in the mansion knew when or how she had come to reside there. Not only that—in the very class that prattled endlessly about lineage and pedigree, not a soul knew a whit about this lady's origins.

This suspicion was being most blatantly whispered about—as befits the malicious gossip of petty functionaries—by none other than the lower servants.

“Did you see…?” one whispered, and “No… I didn’t,” replied another. “I did catch a glimpse!” one would boast, then another would vow, “Then I’ve got to find a way to peek too,” their delusions fixated on the secret garden’s flower. Generally, it was the way of lowly folk to harbor bizarre yearnings for the noble class’s decadent indulgences; their whispers were no different from hungry ghosts imagining a feast’s aroma through a wall. Though their voices were hushed, their intensity was nothing short of ferocious.

Access to the Hydrangea Jar was strictly forbidden to all men except Elder Steward Omi no Ka—not even garden-sweeping toneri attendants were permitted entry. Yet according to one fortunate miscellaneous servant who claimed to have glimpsed the beauty within: “She looked unexpectedly young, twenty-four or five... but she seemed no longer of this world. Because it was summer, she wore a light-toned uchigi akin to white silk, with the layered hues of her raie gossamer robes peeking through at sleeves and collar, while her luxuriant black hair cascaded to such length that it seemed to match her very stature. Placing a comb box and facing the mirror—I saw her through the half-raised bamboo blind…” So he recounted, struggling to articulate her alluring appearance with their meager vocabulary.

Kojirō, too, had heard such talk many times, and the same inquisitive blood within him had been secretly stirred. Yet, unexpectedly—on a sweltering midsummer midnight so sleepless it made even a short summer night feel endless—he encountered an incident where he suddenly found himself witnessing Lady Hydrangea Jar's form revealed before his very eyes. He had developed a habit of occasionally sneaking out to the rear of the mansion, immersing himself in the Kamo River, and splashing about alone in the nocturnal waters. It wasn’t merely about washing away bodily grime and sweat—it was about engaging with the water’s natural will and vitality, about surrendering his innate wildness and youthful heat to unrestrained breaths—a joy beyond words.

This was not a practice he alone observed; many other lower servants too engaged in river bathing once twilight had faded. However, for him, it was confined to midnight hours plagued by fleas and lice or the predawn darkness. Stealing away unseen from his bed to claim the Kamo River and the cool night sky as his own, keeping company with chorus frogs—this had become his secret pleasure.

That night was no different. No, it was already nearing the fifth watch. As was his custom, he stood completely naked in the clear stream when a group of figures descended toward the riverbank from beneath Tadasu no Mori on the opposite shore. Seven or eight of them appeared to be crossing the shallows and coming over to this side. ——What in the world...? In the blink of an eye, those shadows left two lookouts at Koichijō Mansion's rear while the rest crossed over the Hydrangea Jar's earthen wall and vanished inside. ...Kojirō had been watching wide-eyed all along when he suddenly jolted into realization.

"Ah—— Bandits… They’ve finally come here too."

Shallows of the River · Shallows of Men

At present, there was not a single nobleman’s mansion—no matter how distinguished—that remained untouched by the bandits’ brazen incursions. This summer’s desolation of court nobles’ villas was said to stem in part from that very threat. In fact, it was said that even in the consort’s quarters of the Imperial Palace during the early summer rains, audacious bandits had left evidence of their deeds before departing. However, such disturbances had not yet reached the flourishing residence of the Minister of the Left of Koichijō—until today. It was being said in society that such things were inevitable in prosperous times.

However, what Kojirō now saw with his own eyes was indeed no ordinary gathering of humans. At that very moment, with the hour already past Ushimitsu and nearing the fifth watch, lookout-like shadows remained clustered on the riverbank of the opposite shore and stood beneath the earthen embankment. It was a three-stage infiltration. Though they were bandits, they were no common thieves. They were undoubtedly bandits who had systematically set out to accomplish their scheme, targeting Minister of the Left Tadahira’s Hydrangea Jar.

This is terrible... This is no ordinary matter. Kojirō made to leap out of the water. But lookouts were stationed on both banks. If he stood up carelessly, an arrow would find him. He crawled with utmost care to where he had left his clothes. Without drying himself, he hastily wrapped them about his body. What had felt like an instant proved enough—the bandits seemed to have already completed their mission. When they threw open a gate from within, they surged forth like an avalanche charging down the riverbank.

Kojirō saw Lady Hydrangea Jar directly before his eyes at this very moment. Given that no scream had been heard, Lady Hydrangea Jar must have already lost consciousness. Her face, cradled under one man’s arm, showed covered eyebrows and closed eyes without any trace of anguish. Her white nape lay merely draped in limp black tresses. A single fierce-looking man gripped both her legs along with the hem of her robes. The two worked together to drag her away. The other bandits scattered across shallows, splashing noisily as they retreated toward the original bank—

Whether they had shouted "Stop!" or yelled "Thieves!", Kojirō couldn't discern. The only thing occupying his consciousness was the white face of Lady Hydrangea Jar he had glimpsed in that instant. That beauty could be said to have driven him to recklessness. Suddenly, he clung to the bandit's hairy shins and lifted with all his strength. In the same motion—he struck the man holding her legs across the face and knocked him away. Though stones and chorus frogs might litter their feet, the bandits had never imagined a human could be there. With a roar, still clutching Lady Hydrangea Jar, they staggered into the shallows' spray. And in a loud voice, he shouted something to his comrades who were moving ahead.

The first to arrive nearby was a man who appeared to be the bandit leader—the very last to withdraw from the mansion. “What’s all this racket.” “Ain’t no need for all this racket.” snapped the leader. True to his composed nature, he immediately circled around behind Kojirō and seized him by the collar. And then, “A single lowly servant like this— “I’ll handle this. You lot—haul the woman and get across the river quick!” he ordered his subordinates.

Kojirō raised his head trying to see where they had gone, but could not free his single fist from the collar grip...but when he abruptly noticed, the leader held a halberd-like long-handled sword in his left hand. Kojirō grabbed its hilt. Even the bandit leader appeared startled by this, “Cheeky bastard!”

roared and tried to violently shake him off. However, Kojirō had both hands firmly gripped, and since the man was using his left, the momentum favored Kojirō. Instead of his body spinning like a top, the long-handled sword ended up in his grasp. "I'll beat you to death!" The bandit leader immediately drew his nodachi and fixed blazing eyes upon him. Kojirō grew terrified. As if regretting having accidentally obtained a weapon, he discarded the long-handled sword and tried to flee.

Then, the bandit leader laughed dryly and,

“Hey, wait. “Sōma no Kojirō. “Can’t you remember?” “Yasaka no Fujinin?” With that, he laughed again. The minister’s skin—a feast for mosquitoes.

“Huh? …… Ah, I remember. ...one of those warming themselves by the fire under Yasaka.” “You were like some Ainu brat fresh from the provinces back then. How many years has it been?... But I remember everything—that you’re Taira no Yoshimochi’s eldest son Sōma no Kojirō; that you came to Lord Tadahira’s mansion with a letter from Hitachi Provincial Governor Kunikiyo; even every damn word in that letter. Fine memory I’ve got, eh?”

“Yes. How do you know such things?”

“Hahahaha!” “If I were to reveal the secret—that houmen who escorted you from the Ministry of Justice’s prison to Koichijō Mansion the very next day? He’s one of my underlings too.” “That informant’s one of my men.” Kojirō could only stand there dumbfounded. The Immortal One’s arrogance and rogue’s tone somehow even seemed heroic. —Then the bandit leader abruptly softened his manner,

“—…But hey, Kojirō. You’ve come to know the Capital quite well. You’ve become a fine young man, I’d say. Why don’t we have a proper drink together somewhere one of these days? Right… For now, I’ll let you earn yourself a feat. Well—let’s sit under that embankment over there and talk.” The bandit who should have been fleeing in haste calmly stated this. Yet upon hearing the details, Kojirō understood their lack of urgency. The Immortal One had seized Minister of the Left Tadahira’s most vulnerable weakness—by now, he must be writhing alone in agony, whimpering and sniveling, unable to even give chase. He sneered as he spoke to Kojirō.

The title “Lady Hydrangea Jar” was never the woman’s true name—merely a temporary appellation Tadahira had adopted after abducting her and confining her within this Koichijō Mansion. Her true name was Kiyohara no Aiko: a virtuoso of the Gagakuryō Music Bureau, wife of Kiyohara no Tsunenari, a young widow who had lost her husband less than two years into their marriage. Tadahira had long coveted Aiko’s beauty, devising countless schemes to claim her. Yet Aiko—perhaps repelled by his persistence—instead pledged to remarry into the household of Ki no Shishin, an impoverished courtier and nephew of Ki no Tsurayuki. Enraged upon learning this, Tadahira dispatched Takiguchi warriors one snowy winter night to abduct her. After hiding her briefly beyond the capital’s outskirts, he forcibly installed her in this Hydrangea Jar. This was neither love nor even a dalliance. He had stolen another man’s wife through brute force and authority. “Taking back what he stole—that’s no crime,” declared the Immortal One, his voice unapologetically defiant.

“By the way, Kojirō…” he lowered his voice—“You’re the Minister of the Left’s servant. Here’s your chance to earn some merit. Now… like this.” With that, he whispered a scheme.

And then he slowly stood up—

“Then I’ll be waiting— at Yasaka Pagoda.” After giving this final reminder, the Immortal One darted away with the swiftness of a swallow skimming a river, crossing over to the far side of Kamo in moments.

Before he knew it, white clouds began to drift from the embrace of Ichijōji’s peak. Whenever those white clouds started swaying, it always signaled that dawn’s faint light was nearing upon the mountain’s shoulder. —Kojirō steeled himself and dashed into the Hydrangea Jar through the rear gate where the bandits had exited. “Minister. Minister.”

Entering through one of the open sliding doors into the innermost room, when he called out like this, a groan was heard—and then, “Who’s there?” … came a voice trembling with fear. From the direction of the next room, Kojirō— “It is Kojirō.” “I am Kojirō, a minor attendant of the Renshuku. Near the rear gate, I spotted bandits and engaged them in combat.” “—Are you not injured at all, Minister?” At this, Tadahira seemed utterly astonished; instead of replying immediately, he remained completely silent for a time. But after a while—

“Anyone will do. Quickly—untie my bonds. No need for formalities. Do it… hurry!” he blurted frantically. He had been stripped completely naked and bound to a pillar. All over his body, mosquito bite marks were swollen to absurd proportions. This very night, even this Minister had served his own delicious blood for the mosquitoes’ banquet.

“If you saw the bandits, you must have seen them take Lady Hydrangea Jar too... What became of her? Her condition?” “Are you asking about Lady Aiko’s whereabouts?” “What...” His face twisted in stunned disbelief—“How—how do you know that name?” “The bandit leader called her by it.” “That demon? ...And did you fight them?” “Yes. Tonight I woke earlier than usual to feed levee grass to the oxen. When I noticed something suspicious and pursued them, most had already carried Lady Aiko across the river. The bandit leader left behind made this declaration—”

“What did he… What?” “If you care for Aiko’s life, bring a bag of gold dust within two days to retrieve her. “Once that day passes, know that I’ll do as I please with the woman’s body. “When I get bored, I’ll sell her off to the courtesans of Naniwa Bay—if you want, you can search for her and buy her back.” …With those words, he vanished.”

Kojirō managed to deliver the entire speech smoothly in one breath, as though the person speaking were not himself.

Nobles "Don't tell anyone." —Kojirō had been firmly sworn to secrecy. "Of course, why would I ever divulge anything that might harm your Excellency?" Kojirō answered. Immediately, he gained trust.

It was the evening of the promised day after next.

He carried a bag of gold dust received from Tadahira and went to the base of Yasaka Pagoda.

There was no one there. The Immortal One had not yet arrived. Even with Kiyomizu-dera Temple nestled in the mountain's bosom, this place at nightfall held a loneliness that made one imagine hearing phantom wings beating. Above an ancient cedar, he glimpsed the evening moon. Thickets of mosquitoes swarmed in. No monks passed by either. "Oh, you made it."

Just as he had grown weary of waiting and slipped into a daze, the Immortal One’s voice suddenly rang out from the shadows of the trees. Kojirō reported the result from two days prior and, “Here is the promised item,” he said, immediately handing over the gold. The Immortal One laughed uproariously, received it, then turned to the subordinate man behind him— “Hagetaka, take charge of this,” he said, passing it from right to left while adding further instructions before turning to Kojirō with an invitation: “Won’t you come along this far with me? The job went well, and it’s a cool evening. As promised, let’s drink tonight.”

For Kojirō, this marked his first night of such freedom since entering service at Koichijō. What's more, even his master Lord Tadahira now carried a debt toward him. To this already unbearable joy was added how deeply he'd felt drawn to the man called the Immortal One since their previous encounter. Could this truly be the villain they called a bandit? He sensed something unbelievably warm within—yes, in his boyhood days at Ōmusubi-no-Maki pastures, he'd known this same affection from horses. Since being parted from his father by death, he'd starved for such connections. Even from horses, even from outlaws—whenever he felt that warmth, an irresistible urge to remain near welled up within him.

It was unexpected.

The house to which the Immortal One had invited him was a large nobleman’s mansion nestled beside the grove of Shijō Rokkakudō. Throughout the area, the mansions with visible gates all belonged to high-ranking court officials as one would expect. The Immortal One knocked on the side door of the large flat gate and entered as though it were his own home. Even to the blue-robed attendant who greeted him at the entranceway, he gave only a glance, “Is Sumitomo here?” “Sumitomo?” in such a brusque manner. Turning to face the hesitant Kojirō,

“It’s a friend’s house. Come on in.” “Come on in.” He led the way, proceeding down a long corridor. Corridor—when they came upon candlelight in what appeared to be the main hall of the Tainoya, the sound of many people laughing could be heard there. “Oh, you’re here. “You’ve come by?” “Oh, Immortal One. “What perfect timing!”

It was impossible to discern who among them was master of the house. To Kojirō's eyes, they all appeared indistinguishable as either scions of court nobles or princely youths from some illustrious lineage. Each had laid out round cushions until even the spacious floor seemed cramped, cups and dishes scattered haphazardly about. For sons of nobility, it made for an unexpectedly crude spectacle. Yet despite their official ranks, their garments left no doubt—these were indeed courtiers through and through. "This here's Sōma no Kojirō," came the introduction, "a minor attendant from the Left Minister's household... Eastern Provinces born, though his father was the late Taira no Yoshimochi." The Immortal One gestured expansively. "Take proper look at his face now—quite the promising young specimen, wouldn't you agree?"

This was the Immortal One’s introduction. Yet when he reflected on it, whether seeing him among companions at Yasaka’s bonfire that first night or in his guise this evening, the Immortal One unmistakably carried the bearing of a fallen noble. He stood apart in character from common street ruffians. “Ah... I see,” said the young man who had been drinking at the front, turning toward him and casually extending a cup to Kojirō.

“I am Fujiwara no Sumitomo—the one they call the South Sea Pirate. And those here are Ono no Ujihiko, Ki no Akishige, Tsu no Tokinari, and others... all friends without reservations between us. A gathering of free spirits. There’s not a soul here who holds back. Drink freely, you too.”

—A pirate? That had to be a joke. Kojirō dismissed it with a laugh. But there was no doubt—this man was their host. The easy familiarity with which they treated him only left Kojirō more flustered. He felt as if he’d stepped into another world. The sons of court nobles—even those whose only talents were playing the flute or composing the occasional poem—adorned themselves in court robes, rode in ox-drawn carriages, and regarded others as no more than dust. Such was their way. Yet here, from Sumitomo down, not one carried that stench of pretense.

Instead of the stench of pretense or power, everyone here exuded the smell of sweat and grime. They wore an assortment of robes—nōshi court attire, kariginu hunting robes, and nunohitatare underrobes—with sleeves rolled up, engaged in lively debates befitting a summer night. Beside them lay their long swords.

The stories too were unfamiliar to Kojirō’s ears, and each matter filled him with wonder at the unknown.

Ephemeral Offering

Now deserted and thoroughly dilapidated, it was no mystery why this mansion still stood grand. This was an estate constructed during the era of Sumitomo's grandfather, Fujiwara no Tōtsune. Tōtsune had been the younger brother of Regent Mototsune, who exercised authority during the reigns of Emperors Yōzei and Kōkō and laid the foundation for the Fujiwara clan's prosperity. Mototsune's second son Tokihira rose to the eminent position of Left Minister—a man of such political acumen that he contended with Sugawara no Michizane for power in the imperial court and ultimately succeeded in expelling him.

The current Minister Tadahira of Koichijō had merely inherited the lingering influence of his father and brother. Though called incompetent, both the position of clan chieftain and the authority of the court nevertheless remained his. However, despite being a grandson of the same Sekkan-ke regent family, Fujiwara no Sumitomo had been relegated to provincial posts since his father Yoshinori's time. Even so, Yoshinori had at least managed to serve as Dazai Shōni, but Sumitomo had been left like an abandoned child in the remote reaches of Iyo Province—forgotten by the capital while remaining a mere sixth-rank provincial official.

Sumitomo was filled with discontent. "What? The likes of Tadahira..." Even in Iyo, when it came to the central government's decrees, personal resentment lent its support, and he couldn't bring himself to obediently submit. In particular, even the authority of the central government did not reach the South Sea regions. He always, "My father was a cousin of Minister of the Left Tadahira. His incompetence was something my father knew well. He was skilled at painting and court music, but my father used to say he was no man capable of politics or such."

He had been speaking to those around him and had been criticizing government decrees while denouncing misgovernment. That a faction of allies had naturally formed around such a man was only to be expected. Exercising forceful authority, they attacked central tax ships that had come to collect unpaid taxes, seizing back the levied goods, until at last Fujiwara no Sumitomo’s name came to be regarded as heroic in Shikoku. Unable to leave matters be, the authorities had recently dispatched enforcers to bring Sumitomo and his five or six accomplices to the capital.

“Do you intend to punish me?” Sumitomo went out at dawn to pay respects to the officials from the Tax Ministry and Justice Ministry. As a grandson of the regent family, his ties to Minister of the Left Tadahira were undeniable. Finding him too troublesome to handle, the authorities ultimately swept the matter under the rug. The reprimand came instead from Sumitomo himself—delivered with all the vehemence he desired—before he withdrew.

“How about this? After that, they sent me a promotion order—bumping me up one rank from Assistant Governor to Deputy Governor of Iyo... Tadahira must’ve been pulling strings behind it, thinking it’d placate me. That’s central politics for you. Whether you call it comical or absurd—there’s just no way to describe it.”

Tonight too, even in front of the Immortal One and others, he would say this and laugh it off. And, “After all, we’re just using our official visit to the capital on government funds.” “Let’s stay here until autumn and make merry while we can.” he declared.

The boldness of spirit, the audacious declarations—Kojirō could only listen in rapt fascination. No, what surprised Kojirō even more was that the kidnapping of Lady Aiko of the Hydrangea Jar by the Immortal One and his band had actually been orchestrated by one of their own comrades—Ki no Akishige. Ki no Akishige, Ono no Ujihiko, Tsu no Tokinari, and Yasaka no Fujinin included—all these young lords gathered here, aged twenty-four or twenty-five to just under thirty—differed in their whereabouts and styles of indulgence or villainy, yet remained unchanged as a chain of malcontents and rebels beneath their era.

The night had deepened. Kojirō remembered his master.

“Going back?” said the Immortal One, observing his demeanor. “...We’ll return the woman to the Hydrangea Jar within two or three days. Tell that spineless Minister, and you should claim your reward too. Those so-called clan chieftains—their guts are all stinginess. You’ve got to demand it back forcefully. You’re weak-willed. Become strong. Strong.”

he urged. Then Sumitomo, Akishige, and the others gazed sidelong at the Immortal One's profile as they exchanged knowing laughs. "We'll return the woman—but not her body as it was." "That's the Immortal One for you." "After thoroughly enjoying themselves, they'll surely bring back an empty husk—like a cicada's shed skin." "It'd be amusing to present that aftermath to Tadahira." "...Kojirō—even just watching that Minister's face must entertain you at times... But keep that to yourself."

Kojirō returned to Koichijō late at night.

The next morning, he was secretly summoned to the Hydrangea Jar. When he was crouching alone in the garden, Tadahira appeared in the corridor with a face like a sick person’s. “How did it go? “…Kojirō.” “She will be returned, won’t she?” He asked even this in a whisper. However, upon receiving Kojirō’s reply, Tadahira dramatically raised his eyebrows. As if he’d taken some potent drug, his mood improved,

“I see… Ah, so that’s how it was. “Well done, well done. “Even after two or three days, there’s no urgency. “I am relieved now. “As long as her body is returned.”

And then he added, “You’ve served our house for nearly six years now, have you not? “Later, I shall inform steward Omi no Ka.” “…Starting today, I shall promote Kojirō to Blue Attendant and have him work in the Distant Attendants’ Chamber.”

This was an utterly unexpected gracious decree. As Kojirō, had this occurred before the incident involving Lady Hydrangea Jar, he might have prostrated himself on the ground and wept in gratitude. But recalling Sumitomo and the others' words from last night, what welled up within him was not tears of emotion but a sense of absurdity.

Self-Deprecation and Vulnerability He was granted a blue hunting robe from his lord’s household. When promoted to positions such as Distant Attendant or Summoned Retainer, they all donned garments of that color. It was an era when a person’s rank and status could be discerned at a glance by the color of their garments. Young warriors of the blue class were also called "Blue Attendants." This is thought to be the origin of later expressions like 'greenhorn' and 'he's still green.'

At that time, Sōma no Kojirō was twenty-two years old. It was the sixth year since he had come to the capital for study; in any case, he had finally been noticed by Tadahira and become one of his retainers. Undoubtedly, he was still green.

――That year.

It was around the time autumn was drawing to a close.

At the riverbank behind the Sadaijin household, a whistle sounded. Kojirō promptly emerged from within the mansion grounds. The whistler had vanished, but in the customary spot, a paper scrap remained fastened to the grass tips. This was communication from Yasaka no Fujinin. He had sustained a symbiotic bond with both the Immortal One and Fujiwara no Sumitomo since that pivotal encounter.

(At twilight, come to Yasaka Pagoda.) The written message was simple and clear. He kept his promise and set out. Underlings stood waiting. Then in silence they led him from Yasaka deeper inland—to a temple in Gion Grove. Though once a branch temple of Gion, it now lay abandoned like a derelict shrine, having become an ideal hideout—a perfect nest for the Immortal One and his ilk. “Ah, Kojirō,” greeted the Immortal One— “No time for niceties—Sumitomo’s crew finally returns to Iyo Province. We need to plan their farewell.”

The Immortal One first poured sake for Kojirō. Since becoming close with these comrades, Kojirō had suddenly become able to hold his liquor. Along with the taste of sake, he came to understand the texture of human relationships and began to think he had friends in the capital.

“In my opinion, we’re always stuck drinking at the same old place—no style, no surprises. Here’s a thought—let’s send Sumitomo off by sailing down the Yodo River together and throw a proper farewell bash with Eguchi’s courtesans… What d’you say—care to join us?” “When would this be?”

“The morning after tomorrow, we’ll meet in Fushimi, drink on the boat, and aim to reach Eguchi by twilight—that’s the plan.” “So that would mean returning the evening of the following day, then?” “Well—just think of it as taking three days.”

“This is a problem...” “Why?” The Immortal One laughed at his consternation. “Hey now. “You’re not actually being considerate of Master Tadahira, are you?” “But... given your position as a servant—” “There’s a limit to being this softhearted. “If anyone should show consideration, it’s Tadahira toward you.” “Listen. “You’re making a mistake by thinking of him as ‘Minister of the Left Tadahira’ or ‘Clan Chieftain.’ “Remember that naked man tied to the pillar at the Hydrangea Jar that night—the one getting eaten by mosquitoes while blubbering over his stolen woman’s whereabouts. Keep that image in mind whenever you face the Minister.” “Then you’ll find everything easier to say.”

“No. Let’s go.” “I’ll find a way to get leave from my master and join you without fail.” Kojirō ended up making the promise—both from obligation to Sumitomo, who had often treated him to feasts and shown him friendship in countless ways since then, and because he couldn’t bear to miss the man’s grand send-off.

The following day. When summoned by Tadahira for some matter, Kojirō took the opportunity to request a three-day leave. At this, Tadahira immediately: “Take such matters to the household steward, Omi no Ka.”

he snapped in extreme displeasure. Kojirō kept his face pressed to the floor, cheeks burning crimson. The lie refused to surface. The carefully prepared excuse lodged itself in his throat. "…………" Yet in that silence, Tadahira too miscalculated—if this eastern whelp dared bypass the household steward to make direct entreaties, he must harbor some hidden resolve... Damned nuisance. Should the boy clumsily babble about that Hydrangea Jar incident, it'd stir up intolerable gossip. Tormented by this private vulnerability,

"...For three full days—where could you possibly be going?" "You've served diligently enough; it's not that I refuse leave..." He amended his own words.

Boisterous Wanderings

Rustling, as far as the eye could see—water, as far as the eye could see—reeds and sky.

In those ancient times, the Yodo River had a broader width than in later eras, and what would come to be called "Ōsaka" did not yet exist upon the earth. However, to journey from the capital to the western provinces or Kii Province, travelers had no choice but to rely on this waterway; thus, travel ships and small boats—their thatch covers and sail-bearing masts—were lined up here and there in the fishing villages of the waterside. “Eguchi—are we there yet? Eguchi—” “What you see on the right bank is Torikai Village—so we haven’t much farther to go. The river’s sandbar where it splits into the triple fork of Kanzaki and Ajikawa Rivers…” “That’s the village where the Eguchi ladies live.”

“That was unexpectedly swift.” “A swift current worthy of bearing playboys’ hearts. But come dawn’s parting—when we return to the Capital—the boat will crawl like a slug, and our spirits turn leaden.” “No—let’s not name what follows. Never think of tomorrow. That’s the essence of play.”

A small boat was making its way down the mighty river, carrying about seven men. Leading the group was Fujiwara no Sumitomo, returning to Iyo, accompanied by Ono no Ujihiko, Ki no Akishige, and Tsu no Tokinari—four men in total. Those seeing them off on this bank were Yasaka no Fujinin, his subordinate Taka, and Sōma no Kojirō—three in all.

The sake and boxed lunches they loaded into the boat that morning—they drank and ate every last drop and crumb until their voices grew hoarse from boisterous singing and recitations—and finally used the boat’s bottom as pillows for an afternoon nap before all waking now. “Oh… So that’s Eguchi,” someone said. Along the shore came willows into view—houses clustered thickly while countless large and small boats lay moored— “Well now—Eguchi Village! We’ve arrived before nightfall… Oh! The women’s boats approach!”

Suddenly, boredom was dispelled; in their playful spirits, every face grew animated. For Kojirō especially, it felt as though they had arrived at the Isle of Women—he couldn’t bring himself to join in the others’ jests, his eyes wide as he gazed in wonder at the approaching shoreline houses and the many courtesans’ boats. Ki no Tsurayuki—poet and provincial official—had also passed through here on his return to the Capital from his post in Shikoku, writing of the thriving pleasure quarter in this waterside village in *The Tosa Diary*. Truly, for travelers departing to San’yō, Nankai, and Saigoku, the overnight stay in Eguchi was what left an unforgettable sentiment of their journey.

“Whoa, what a racket!” “Just like waterfowl twittering…” As their boat neared shore, the waiting courtesan vessels all began rowing over at once to claim customers. The women raised parasol-like objects—each calling out toward the men’s boat. Coquettish voices rippled across the water; rouge and powder tinted the waves—exactly as poets had described.

Skin Like Wildfire

Now, in this pleasure quarter, there is a tale that has been passed down among the people—

Just two summers ago.

Not far from here, at Torikai-in—a detached palace also situated along the banks of the Yodo River—Emperor Uda, who had come to escape the summer heat, one day summoned a great number of courtesans from Eguchi to the palace out of sheer ennui. And then, “Is there a daughter of noble birth among them?” he asked.

One of them answered, “Indeed, among the Eguchi ladies—there were beauties such as Nakagimi, Tonomori, Kōro, Kokannon, and Kujaku in times past—but these days, none can compare to Ōe no Tamafuchi’s daughter, Lady Shirome.” she reported. Ōe no Tamafuchi was the child of Ōe no Otohito; thus Lady Shirome stood as his granddaughter. Otohito served Emperor Seiwa, holding the positions of Junior Third Rank and Captain of the Left Gate Guards—even rising to become Director of the Kebiishi—while his brother Senri was also renowned as a poet.

The Emperor promptly summoned Shirome,

“Compose a poem that incorporates the place name Torikai,” he tested her poetic talent. Having met spring’s pale green worth— Though not mist, yet rises in pale green worth— When Shirome instantly composed these lines, Emperor Uda discerned her shame over her former station and circumstances, “I’ve made you recall such wretched things.” he murmured through drunken tears. And since he had bestowed robes and layered silks upon her, the attending princes and courtiers too each offered gifts,

“Should you ever face hardships in your life, do not hesitate to bring them to the Retired Emperor’s court.” With these words, he comforted her and sent her home—so it is said. The Retired Emperor continued to summon Shirome frequently thereafter, his favors toward her extraordinary—but since he resided at the Torikai Detached Palace only for a brief period each summer, he ordered a man called Nan’in no Shichirō to oversee Shirome’s daily life in all matters, thus demonstrating a compassion rarely seen among the common folk—so it is said.

This story also appears in *The Tales of Yamato* and likely became local legend in this pleasure quarter at the time—but among the courtesans encountered by Sumitomo, Fujinin, Kojirō, and their companions, not a single woman graceful enough to capture the Retired Emperor’s favor could be found, no matter how one looked. Every last one of them was splotched with white powder, reeking of hair oil, and had been used up as one-night wives by guests from Wu and Yue—women bearing shadows of melancholy within their frayed existence.

Then again, the clients were no better. According to Sumitomo, Akishige, and their ilk, "The women of Tomonotsu and Muro no Minato in the Seto Inland Sea are even coarser than these... Still, the Ladies of Eguchi retain some vestige of elegance—" or so they claimed, and all were thoroughly pleased that night.

The seven went up to the first floor and continued drinking from evening until midnight. They danced, they sang, and caroused until every possible means of amusement was exhausted. “Ah… I’m drunk. I’ve never drunk this much before—” Kojirō became aware of his dizziness and collapsed in a heap. He fell into an oblivious sleep just like that. ...And when he suddenly awoke—as was typical in this waterside area near rivers and seas—the walls and even the night furnishings around him were damp with clinging moisture, while beside his own form lay another figure with disheveled black hair sprawled in sleep.

Dawn had broken outside, yet stillness reigned—within the house, night clung stubbornly. The vague form of the woman sleeping beside him must surely be one of last night’s courtesans from the revelry. But Kojirō gaped at her slumbering face as if seeing a woman for the first time… Then, inexplicably, tears welled at his lashes. ...Ezo Hagi. …The very likeness of Ezo Hagi—dead Ezo Hagi. "Could this be her reborn spirit?"

So much so that one might think it—she bore a striking resemblance to the beautiful slave girl Kojirō had first known when he was fourteen. He suddenly recalled the horse stable in the pastures of the Bando Plain in his half-awake state. In the horse’s straw bedding, the scent from when the older slave girl had caressed him now seemed to emanate from the woman beside him. With the exact same illusion and wildness as that time, he suddenly pressed his lips to her sleeping lips. The woman let out a soft "Ah…" in surprise and opened her eyes, then abruptly pulled his restrained limbs into a deep embrace. And with wildfire-like passion, it consumed Kojirō’s hallucinations and delusions—neither anchored in the past nor rooted in the present.

*Waterweed Chronicles* The fog was deep, and the night had not yet fully broken, so the willow trees held dewdrops, the great river’s water still seemed drowsy, and along Eguchi’s banks, no waves stirred. “…Where? Your homeland?” Kojirō walked along the water’s edge beneath scattering willows, side by side with the woman. Their own lodgings were still asleep, and the similarly constructed brothels and merchant houses all lay hushed as if midnight still reigned, though dawn had broken. “…The Eastern Provinces.”

The woman answered. She was eighteen years old—with jet-black eyelashes and tawny, coarse skin. When she smiled, even the base of her lips where her miso-stained, insect-eaten teeth showed was exactly like Ezo Hagi’s. So she did have Ezo blood from the Eastern Provinces after all—Kojirō gazed anew at her with eyes burning with affection. “So you were sold and brought here—from the Eastern Provinces.” “Yes… My mother did.” “Ah. I see… So you were sold off when you were still a child who knew nothing.”

When he asked about her name— "My name is Kusabue…" she said in a small voice.

Kojirō said frankly that being born in Bando himself made him somehow fond of her—he'd definitely come again too—he added. Kusabue too seemed uncharacteristically free of her trade's usual lies and empty courtesies as she told him through tears that she'd inexplicably grown attached herself—he mustn't ever forget her—she pleaded. When meeting an innocent client like this perhaps even she could genuinely share those girlish heart-flutters. Love ought to bring greatest joy precisely when most naive.

As the surroundings grew brighter, boats here and there started moving, and figures began appearing. The two began heading back toward their original inn.

Then, from one of the water pavilions, there appeared a guest who looked to be from the capital—also being seen off by a courtesan—as he began boarding a boat. The man and woman exchanged lingering morning-after farewells across shore and deck until finally the guest’s vessel drifted into the river’s current, leaving the woman standing alone on the bank. “Ah…?” Kojirō and the guest inadvertently locked eyes. —That could only be his cousin Tsunehira Taira no Sadamori.

Sadamori too appeared to have clearly seen Kojirō's figure. Kojirō felt an inexplicable stirring in his chest.

“Do you know him?”

Being asked by Kusabue, Kojirō— "Hmm... my not-so-friendly cousin. Does that guy come here often?" "He is Awaji-san's esteemed client." "He certainly seems to visit two or three times a month." Upon hearing that Kojirō was Sadamori's cousin, Kusabue appeared to deepen her trust in him even further.

When they returned to the inn, Sumitomo and all their companions from the previous night were already awake. Fujinin persistently argued for staying another day to revel there, but doing so would mean waiting seven more days for the next ship from Naniwa to Shikoku. "We'll come back to the capital eventually—" declared Sumitomo's group as they gathered their travel gear here, then boarded two separate vessels and parted ways upon the great river—one heading west, the other east. The courtesans too all came out on boats, parasols raised in rows, accompanying the party halfway along the Yodo River's current. Among them, only Kusabue's face remained etched in Kojirō's vision.

Takiguchi Lower Ranks

“You... Kojirō—” On one occasion, Tadahira began to reproach him.

“According to what I hear, you’ve lately been frequently neglecting official duties and leaving the mansion for nights on end.—Utterly unspeakable!”

It was not a lie. Kojirō, overwhelmed with awe, could only prostrate himself. “Just who have you been visiting in Eguchi, and with whom?” “Where are you getting the money for such amusements?” “This is most irregular.” “If you do not state that matter plainly, I cannot let it rest… Speak the truth.” “The truth.” “I shall explain… But might I ask who informed Your Excellency of such matters?” “Such matters are none of your concern.” “Speak your piece.” “Disclose your circumstances.”

“Well…” Kojirō considered lying, but finding it too troublesome, he ended up saying exactly what was demanded. “Last month, I was invited to Eguchi for the first time. It was because a close friend was returning to Iyo Province—so we gathered at that water pavilion for a farewell.” “What? A close friend? …What close friend could someone like you possibly have?” “Yes. Junior Sixth Rank, Provisional Governor of Iyo—Fujiwara no Sumitomo. Also, during my stay in the capital, I became acquainted with Ki no Akishige, Ono no Ujihiko, and others.”

“What? That… with Sumitomo?”

This must have come as a shock, for Tadahira stared at Kojirō as though his gaze could bore holes through him. Kojirō inwardly marveled—Sumitomo's words had indeed held truth. Fujiwara no Sumitomo, having witnessed Kojirō's perpetually cowering demeanor toward his master, had once derided that timidity. "Next time trouble comes," he'd sneered, "try name-dropping me. Tell him you're pals with Sumitomo—watch that Tadahira bastard's eyes pop! From then on, even gutter trash like you'll get some respect—"

Kojirō now recalled those words and couldn’t entirely conceal his amusement at their precise accuracy. Whether his demeanor struck Tadahira as even more suggestive of hidden meaning,

“Enough of your insolence. Consider the standing of the other blue attendants as well.”

With that, he ambiguously concluded his reprimand, but henceforth, no matter what occurred, he ceased summoning Kojirō to his side.

Before long, he was suddenly ordered to transfer from the Koichijō Mansion to the Takiguchi Guard Office. The Guard Office was the station for soldiers guarding the Forbidden Gates. The Left Guard Office and Right Guard Office each maintained standing forces of six hundred soldiers.

In addition, within the inner court were the Konoe. At the outer gate stood the various Hyōe military departments. Since ancient times, Takiguchi too had been garrisoned by able-bodied men from across the provinces—frontier guards and militia recruits. As barracks existed in the Takiguchi district of the Imperial Palace, titles like "Takiguchi guardsmen" and "Takiguchi warriors" emerged. —After arriving here, Kojirō too came to be called "Takiguchi no Kojirō." Dawn roll calls, morning and afternoon drills, horse tending—true to a military office within palace grounds, the discipline proved unrelenting, and above all, leave restrictions were severe.

The head of the Six Guard Offices was a Middle Counselor who also served as Commander of the Gate Guards, beneath whom were various officials such as Konoe, Taifu, Jō, and Tachiuchi. “Ah… So he’s confined me here.” Even Kojirō had come to understand Tadahira’s intentions. Yet compared to remaining at Koichijō, he found himself able to spread his wings far more freely here—these days were by no means unpleasant. The only sorrow lay in having lost all chance to visit Eguchi again. Leave existed but lasted merely a single day. Those with hometowns could return to them—yet such furloughs were granted by regulation only once every three years.

"Now I finally understand," he thought. "It must've been Jōhei no Taira no Sadamori who told the Koichijō Minister about my Eguchi visits. Damn that bastard—he's really made me his enemy." This realization came after his transfer to Takiguchi, when he'd happened to pass Sadamori at the Left Stables gate—the encounter that suddenly sparked his suspicion. Even then, Sadamori had merely— "Oh..." —acknowledged Kojirō's bow from afar with a flicker of his eyes before continuing toward Omi no Ka without breaking stride.

Afterward, within the Forbidden Gates, it was natural that he would often encounter Sadamori, but Sadamori always comported himself like a noble prince, wearing an expression as if associating with a mere Takiguchi warrior were beneath him. Could one not perceive it? The life of a Guard Office warrior brought Kojirō no hardship. Bound to the wilderness of the plains, his physique grew ever more robust. Furthermore, life within the imperial palace roused new ambitions in his heart. In every action lay distinctions of rank and official standing. Naturally, within Kojirō too arose desires for advancement.

He applied himself diligently; he studied hard. In everything he did, he strove not to fall behind the other soldiers. Particularly in horsemanship—when handling horses, they said none from either the Left Stables or Right Stables could match Takiguchi’s Kojirō. After four years, he had risen to the rank of Seventh-Rank Jō. In the spring of that fourth year.

After a long time, Fujiwara no Sumitomo of Iyo had once again come to the capital. —And when Sumitomo came to Takiguchi to invite him out, they went off together to enjoy themselves. As a Takiguchi no Jō, even going out was permitted freely. But Kusabue of Eguchi, like duckweed by the water’s edge, was already long gone from there. “Where should we go…?” Fujiwara no Sumitomo said. Kojirō too had no idea. “First, let’s try inviting Yasaka no Fujinin. —Since joining the Guard Office… truth be told, I haven’t met Fujinin even once since that time.”

“Ah… So you’ve been in the Capital all this time and don’t even know about Fujinin’s end?” “Fujinin’s dead?” “...Or so I’ve heard.” “That’s a lie. I haven’t heard any rumors about it either.”

“The fact that he was captured and thrown in prison isn’t a lie. This is something I heard directly from one of his subordinates who fled to various provinces.” “How could that phantom-like man have been captured by the likes of the Kebiishi?” “No, it wasn’t the Kebiishi’s doing. Under the command of a man called Jōhei no Taira no Sadamori, they suddenly raided the Yasaka hideout while they were asleep—and threw them into the Ministry of Justice’s prison, or so the story goes. …By all accounts, it’s said that Sadamori—who’s ingratiated himself with the Left Minister’s house—petitioned Tadahira and willingly undertook the job himself.”

“I… didn’t know. When did that happen?” “They say it was just this New Year. If even you don’t know about it, they must be keeping it tightly under wraps... From what I can piece together, Tadahira must’ve ordered Sadamori to exact revenge for Lady Hydrangea Jar.” “If that’s true, then whatever’s coming might fall on me too.”

“But no matter what tortures they inflict, I don’t believe the Immortal One would ever spill his connection to you.” “There’s likely no cause to fret on that score, but you must stay thoroughly wary of Sadamori.” “There’s no foreseeing what schemes he might hatch.—When I heard your life story before, I learned of your homeland’s circumstances too.”

Eventually ascending the bank of Kamo, “Hey, how about we head to Mount Hiei?” Abruptly, Sumitomo blurted out.

At the foothills, they bought sake and, carrying it with them, climbed Shimei Peak.

Under the spring haze, the roofs of the Heian Capital and the various gates of the imperial palace were visible.

“Ah… the Heian Capital—this human-made paradise.”

Kojirō was overcome with emotion.

At sixteen, having journeyed all the way from the Bando Plain to ascend to the Capital, the beautiful dreams and hopes he had felt upon first seeing Kyoto were starkly different from those he now held as he gazed upon it. Today’s lament was a derisive laugh at the Capital. And it was anger toward humanity’s earthly realm. “Kojirō, you’re really deep in thought, aren’t you?”

“Hmm… I’m just… stunned by how pointless it all is,” Kojirō muttered. “I used to be an honest man.” “That mulish honesty of yours won’t mend—nor should it,” Sumitomo countered, his lips twisting wryly. “We’re two of a kind.” “You’re clever.”

“Ha ha ha! If I were wise, why would I be smoldering away as some Sixth Rank provincial official in a remote corner of the South Sea? I’d have marched into the Capital long ago—wouldn’t let some Left Minister Tadahira swagger about like he owns the place. My grandfather was Kampaku Mototsune’s own brother—Mototsune who served under Emperors Yōzei and Kōkō, who opened the path for Fujiwara prosperity! This blood runs through me!”

Sumitomo’s voice took on a mournful tone; tears glistened in his bloodshot eyes. It was his inherent nature to always refer to himself self-deprecatingly as the Mad Child of the South Sea. “When I’m in Iyo, the corruption of provincial governors and the bullying of the weak by district officials are right before my eyes, and I can’t stay silent—yet when I come to the Capital, the imperial court has become a nest of splendor with day and night spent hunting official posts, endless revelries without regard for night or day, the slanderous schemes of petty men scurrying about with their dagger-like intrigues, and all manner of other things…” “There’s nowhere to put these feelings.”

Sumitomo hid his face behind the sake cup—one he had begged from a temple along the way—then thrust it toward Kojirō. “Have a drink.—You too descend six generations from Emperor Kanmu. “Are you not truly of imperial lineage? “Steel yourself.” “True enough. “I too…was called ‘Young Lord’ in my homeland while my father lived.” “What good is complacency—measuring success by becoming some low-ranking Takiguchi guard? Can’t you see—”

Sumitomo pointed at the distant Heian Capital with hands flushed red to the fingertips.

“Under those roofs—how many people live happily today? Mostly, they’re either undergrowth beneath the great tree of splendor or weeds crushed beneath stones. Whether clan elders or any house member—only the Fujiwara know existence itself, yet refuse to even glance at countless hungers festering upon this earth. And they corrode even the imperial court from within. An astounding existence. That they don’t find it strange—in this radiant spring midday haze—doesn’t your blood boil? Don’t tears well up?”

“I may not grasp political affairs,” Kojirō said, “but even with yearly dysentery outbreaks and floods, the capital’s destitute live wretchedly. Yet before the floodwaters fully recede—the nobles’ mansions already resound with gagaku music.” “Natural disasters may be inevitable,” Sumitomo countered. “But no law commands us to tolerate man-made ones.” “This demands correction.” “I mean to set it right.” “Yet what difference can our lowborn thoughts make?”

“Watch me—when I return to Iyo this time, I will most certainly do something.” “Kojirō—if within these next few years you hear of upheaval in the South Sea, know that Fujiwara no Sumitomo will be behind it.” “I’ll do it. I’ll do it no matter what.”

Return to His Province

It was unclear what Sumitomo’s purpose was for this visit to the capital. He himself also told Kojirō nothing about the matter.

Soon, he returned once again to his post in the South Sea.

“If you learn whether the Immortal One lives or dies… send me word the moment you know.” That was the request he left behind.

However, with nothing more than Kojirō’s prying around, there was no way to uncover the Ministry of Justice’s secrets.

He came up with an idea. One day, having prepared a gift, he abruptly went to visit Inukai Yoshitsugu, the Ministry of Justice Prison Warden.

“You haven’t forgotten me, have you…” Kojirō said as he presented a gift to the wheezing old jailer. “It’s already been ten years,” Inukai replied. “I had just arrived in the capital from the Eastern Provinces when bandits attacked me near Yasaka. That very night, they threw me in this prison alongside the captured outlaws.” His rheumy eyes narrowed. “As for that rustic young lordling from back then…” “Huh?” Kojirō blinked. “Ten years ago?...” He recovered quickly, adopting a formal tone. “Ahem… And what might your honorable name be?”

“Going by the name of Sōma no Kojirō, you are the one who carried a letter from your uncle Taira no Kunikiyo addressed to the Minister of Koichijō-in.”

“Oh… I remember now.” “Would you be that young lordling from back then?” “I shouldn’t have been able to recall.” “What a remarkable change in you.” “At that time—both within the prison cells and even up to Koichijō-in—you ordered your subordinates to guide me and showed me such kindness. I had meant not to forget it, but I ended up neglecting to stay in touch.”

“Well, well—you’ve come to see me after all.” “……And do you still serve the Left Minister’s household?” “Lately I’ve been serving at the Takiguchi Imperial Guards.” “In truth, today I came because there’s a certain matter I wished to inquire about.” Kojirō now brought up the name “Yasaka no Fujinin.” Recently there had been a bandit who breached the Kōi-den of the Inner Palace—some claimed it was Fujinin’s doing. Yet others said Fujinin had long since perished in the Ministry of Justice’s prison. So which was true and which false? “You must certainly know.” “Though it must be confidential—I’d like you to discreetly divulge it—” he artfully baited.

“What? A bandit resembling the Immortal One broke into the Kōi-den, you say?” “He’s already committing such audacious acts…”

Inukai Yoshitsugu rounded his eyes and began speaking of his own accord. “No—it’s true—the Immortal One was indeed transferred here from the Left Minister’s household and put in our prison once, but he didn’t last two nights before breaking out and escaping.” “...Because of that disgrace, I received a hundred-day disciplinary confinement myself—only just returned to duty four or five days back.”

From within his beard, he opened his mouth and laughed—but suddenly returned to a serious expression. “But given that everything was supposed to remain strictly confidential, how did you come to hear of it? Did the Left Minister’s household send you here on some order?” he asked suspiciously.

Taking advantage of the remaining daylight, Kojirō made his excuses and promptly left. —And he promptly sent a letter to Sumitomo of Iyo. But what had happened? From Sumitomo, there came no further word after that.

The following year, Enchō 8 (930 CE), saw not a single good thing occur in the world.

Due to the previous year’s floods across the Kinki region, from spring onward, both halves of the capital were filled along their roadsides with the hollowed husks of those who had starved to death. Kojirō and the Takiguchi Imperial Guards were busy every day clearing away corpses. Signs proclaiming “Do Not Discard Corpses Here” proved utterly useless—by dawn, bodies lay scattered everywhere once more. The Kyoto authorities confined the sick and starving to the Charity Clinic and Poorhouse outside the capital, but these soon filled beyond capacity, and famine victims from distant provinces began pouring through the checkpoints into the city.

It was widely rumored that the only places where food remained were temples, court nobles, and the imperial court.

Moreover, that summer saw an epidemic of dysentery break out, while lightning struck the Seiryōden and caused a great fire. To describe the public mood as merely "in turmoil" would have been laughably inadequate. The reason riots did not erupt was that all those who might have risen up lay starving and prostrate, while those still possessing vigor transformed into marauding bands that nightly ravaged the capital. Amid these societal convulsions, Emperor Daigo passed away, and the eight-year-old Emperor Suzaku ascended the throne—with Fujiwara no Tadahira, the Minister of the Left, installed as regent.

The era was changed to Jōhei 1 (931 CE).

Even when spring came, the rampant banditry in the capital did not subside.

Amidst them, it was impossible to tell whether the Immortal One and Yasaka’s gang were among them or not. According to rumors, even retainers of court nobles were said to be among their ranks. Despite this, at the Minister of Koichijō-in’s mansion, an extravagant celebration for his regency inauguration was held over three days—and following suit, among various powerful houses too, amidst spring’s fleeting snow and Kasuga’s blossoms, the sounds of wind and string instruments began spilling into the streets.

"The world had become incomprehensible," he thought. "Once I return to the Bando Plain and see my younger brothers' faces—sort out Father's inheritance—decide whether to end my days in my homeland or keep living in the capital—then I'll start life anew." Takiguchi no Kojirō reached this resolution upon the arrival of this year.

Thereupon, he resigned from his official post, departed the capital, and at twenty-nine years of age, returned to his hometown of Toyoda Village in Shimōsa after thirteen years.

Old Mountains and Rivers Fuji was Fuji as it had always been. Musashino was Musashino as it had always been. And the plains of Bando too—the hills, great rivers, small streams—all these old mountains and rivers he had parted from thirteen years prior remained exactly as preserved in his memory.

“...Nothing has changed.” Kojirō murmured toward the approaching sky of his homeland. Having returned from the ever-shifting capital to this unchanging realm that retained its primordial countenance, he found himself gripped not by nostalgic longing, but by a desolate loneliness akin to unease. Yet when he finally neared Toyoda Village that day, the scent of his birthplace’s soil swiftly stirred his sensitive heart. “Oh! Brother—Brother’s here!” “It must be Lord Kojirō! Lord Kojirō!” “Lord Kojirō!”

On the road ahead appeared a cluster of people pointing at him and chattering—when suddenly three or four young men came running out from among them. "Brother! We came to welcome you. I am your younger brother Saborō Yoritaka." "I am Shirō Masahira." —And then, from Shōbun and Shōbu down to the youngest brother, all had come.

“Ah... You’ve all grown so much,” Kojirō murmured, looking at each younger brother’s face and feeling the thirteen-year gap acutely. Though undoubtedly country warriors, each bore a rugged reliability that suddenly enveloped him in a whirlpool of affection. “What do you think? Have I changed much too? I’m twenty-nine now,” he said. “You must’ve endured hardships during my long absence—but I’m back. From now on, let’s work together to develop Father’s territories and bring prosperity to our house through unity. How grateful I am you’ve all stayed safe and strong together—Masayori and Masahira grown into men I barely recognize! This is truly wonderful.”

"--Grateful, grateful," he kept saying. It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. It was nothing but overflowing gratitude. He embraced each of their shoulders, grasped their hands, unaware of the tears spilling from his eyes.

The rest of the welcoming party consisted of household retainers. Not a single face from among the uncles was to be seen. Mounted on a horse that people had led forth, with his younger brothers holding the bridle, as though being welcomed through gates of happiness—thus did Kojirō arrive that day at his birthplace: Toyoda Mansion.

The villagers too, on this day, ceased their labors, “The Young Lord of the mansion has come of age and returned from the capital, they say.” they said, celebrating together. Outside the old, massive gate, the old and young of the village gathered and peered inside. Old women and village elders came bearing offerings of rice cakes, noodles, and the like—it was just like a festival day. The antique-style drums and flutes could also be heard somewhere. Warm people, warm words, a warm household banquet. Kojirō, both mind and body completely immersed in caresses and tender care, fell asleep.

But the next day—sitting in one room of this massive structure, he once again— When Kojirō steeled himself with the thought—*This is the house Father left me, the one I must now manage as household head*—and felt profound emotion, he inexplicably sensed a cavernous emptiness and loneliness, vast and unfathomable. The mansion was utterly different from when Father Yoshimochi had been alive. Even compared to when his father had died and he left his homeland at sixteen, the mansion now was changed. Why was it so hollow?

Only the mountains and rivers remained unchanged. There were only old pillars, beams, and gates. So much had changed that something was different beyond all measure.

The Hollow Mansion

Upon waking, he made a round of the spacious mansion and its palisade gates. He peered into many storehouses as well. But there was no rice that once filled them, and nearly all the weapons were gone.

The once-numerous servants had dwindled to a mere handful. Moreover, they were all either elderly who had nowhere else to go or feeble sick people.

"There are no female slaves like Ezo Hagi……"

He peered into the empty moat before the slave quarters. With no slaves fleeing, the place had become a dumping ground for refuse. In the winter, beneath the cliff’s icicles—the memory of Ezo Hagi, who had fallen here to her death, rose vividly as an episode from his boyhood days. He recalled the unforgettable heat of her lips. Kojirō was in a daze. “Brother. Were you here? I thought you were still asleep.” “Oh, Saburō. I slept well last night.—And the other younger brothers? How are they?”

“They set out early this morning—Shirō went to the great uncle at Ishida Mansion. Gorō and Rokurō each headed to different provinces of the other honorable uncles to inform them of Brother’s return.” “What? You should’ve just left it be.” An unpleasant expression unconsciously crossed Kojirō’s face. “How did they know in advance the day I would return?”

“There was word from those honorable uncles.” “Urgh… So when I left the capital—did Sadamori send some urgent missive straight to his father Kunikiyo?” “I don’t know the details, but they’d sent notice of the date. And we’d been ordered—as soon as Kojirō returned—to immediately report that fact.” “What? Report it, they said? …Just like some government office. Have those uncles been showing up here lately?”

“Yes.” “The Great Uncle does not come often，but Lords Yoshikane and Yoshimasa take turns visiting frequently.” “So during my absence—did those two uncles look after you all?”

"No," Saburō Masayori shook his head vehemently, then bent his arm to hide his tear-streaked face.

“Saburō.” “What are you crying for…?” “Didn’t I tell you when I left our homeland?” “You’re the leader among the younger brothers when I’m not here.” “Back then you were still a twelve- or thirteen-year-old snot-nosed brat—now you’re a fine young man next to me.” “Why cry?” “Don’t show me that tear-streaked face.”

“I’d resolved since yesterday not to show any tearful face to you, Brother, who’ve only just returned.” “Brother...” “In this mansion, there is nothing left of the inheritance Father left behind.”

“I saw.” “The rice storehouses, the weapon storehouses... but I’d sensed even while in the capital that things would generally be like this.” “I don’t find it surprising.” “Even while we were here, we were treated no differently than the honorable uncles’ servants.” “Once we began understanding things a little, we couldn’t help feeling discontent—but if we spoke up, they’d immediately...” “‘What nonsense are you spouting? Do you even realize who raised you?’” “‘You lost your parents young—with your elder brother Kojirō being such a dullard—if these uncles hadn’t been here, Toyoda Village and this mansion would’ve been seized by local warlords long ago. You’d have been sold off as servants to other households—if you’d even survived at all.’” “‘And whose grace do you think let you grow up safe—?’ they’d press relentlessly, leaving us no choice but to swallow our tears and stay silent.”

“Hmm… They’ve hung this debt of gratitude over you all—then made off with every last thing Father left for your sake. Those uncles probably snuck it all away.” “Yes. “This mansion stands empty as a husk. “Nothing remains. “Brother—we didn’t lose them. You must believe us.” “Fool. “Who’d ever doubt you? “Weakling. “Quit your blubbering…” “Y-yes.” “It’s fine, Saburō. “Household goods? Finery? Grain stores? Armories? Let them all be gone—I’ve returned. “The fields Father broke open with his own hands—the lands he defended with his blood—even divided among the youngest brothers, there’s earth enough to drown in. “We’ll stiffen our backs and work. “We’ll become fathers ourselves—redo everything he built. …What’s lost matters not. Soil remains.”

"However—both those ancestral manors and newly cultivated fields—during your thirteen-year absence—were all divided up by the three uncles among themselves."

“To whom?” “…” “To whom?” “To the uncles and their sons.” “Th-that’s absurd,” Kojirō began，as if about to laugh out loud—yet with a faint shadow of unease crossing his brows—before spitting out his self-directed denial. There was no way such a thing could happen—no way such a thing could. There was no heir like me，and you all were young—so naturally，the three uncles had been managing things until my return. That was how it had been arranged. Now that I'd come back，of course they'd hand everything over properly.

But... People say otherwise. All of it—such a terrible waste. That it was a terrible case of embezzlement. That must be others' jealousy. After all，the fields are vast—even after paying taxes to the government，what’s left is enormous. Over those thirteen years，those uncles must've been pocketing your upbringing funds. ...Ah—first thing at dawn and I'm already mired in this pointless talk. “I'm heading to Ōmusubi.”

“Ōmusubi Pasture?” “Mmm, mmm. “I’ll show the pasture horses the face of my return…”

“Even the horses—there are neither good ones like before nor even the same number now.” “Only old horses and worn-out ones remain.” “They even took the horses?” “They even took away the servants and slaves.” “It’s fine—as long as we have land.” “Anyway, I’ll be back.” With that, Kojirō left the enclosure.

Ever since his time in the capital, he had carried this wish—that upon returning home, he would sit once more on that pasture hill where he had spent so many days of his youth, gaze at the passing clouds, and look out upon the three plumes of Nasu, Asama, and Fuji. It was a longing.

The Fisherman's Deathbed Letter

Now, the longing from those days of homesickness bore its fruit.

Kojirō sat atop a hill, solitary, hugging his knees in the same posture as his boyhood days. —But. Nothing came to fill him.

Empty heavens and earth. A pasture without horses. Why was I able to spend entire days alone in such desolation during my childhood? Even while in the capital, whenever occasions arose or matters occurred, I must have fondly recalled it with longing. He couldn’t bear to stay long.

However, I'll steel my resolve. In this quiet expanse—amid a reality wholly divorced from the dreams he had nurtured for this hill—Kojirō sank into contemplation. Above all—now that he had returned as a man grown—the burden of household leadership would weigh upon his shoulders henceforth, whether he willed it or not.

Going to the capital wasn’t in vain. Even if I didn’t learn anything else, I’ve observed people. I’m different from my younger brothers who don’t know the capital. I won’t let the uncles deceive me. And I won’t fear them either.

Repeatedly, he began muttering to himself. The great nature of his homeland was, after all, a silent and benevolent father second only to his own flesh and blood. Righteous courage and conscience seemed to invigorate his youthful body with vigor. "Right. I won't concern myself with people anymore. Even in the capital, people were just like that. Getting so angry, I’m starting to think like Sumitomo or Fujinin. My homeland’s no different. The uncles’ underhandedness makes my blood boil beyond endurance, but I won’t let myself be shackled by what’s already done. —Just silently begin anew with the earth as my ally. This son too will straightforwardly follow the path Father Yoshimochi walked. If they want to call it foolishness, let them. If they want to laugh and call me a softhearted fool, then let them laugh. I have the duty of the heir. As long as there’s land, even I can surely restore our house to what Father built in his lifetime. No—I’ll do even more than that and make those uncles eat their words."

On his way back, he peered into the residence of Urabito of Mikuriya, who had been tending the pastures since his father’s time. The stable was decaying, and no trace of horses could be seen. Only on the earthen floor inside the broken door sat a white-haired old woman alone, turning a spinning wheel and spinning thread by herself. ——It was Urabito’s wife, though she was changed beyond recognition. With tears streaming down her face, she told him that her husband Urabito was no longer in this world, “When Young Lord Wako returns from the capital’s skies,” he said, “quietly show him this.” And with that, he drew his last breath… That was already two autumns past.”

With that, she took out what appeared to be a deathbed letter and handed it to Kojirō. That night, Kojirō read Urabito’s deathbed letter and sobbed by the lamplight. Urabito had waited solely for Kojirō’s return, enduring all manner of persecution and poverty while protecting the pastures until his very last moment. At the end of the deathbed letter, it was written as follows. (—Of the three pastures, The other two have already been taken by the retainers of Lord Yoshikane and Lord Yoshimasa. Furthermore, it appears that the hereditary estates and reclaimed fields have also been disposed of in questionable ways. Regrettably, this old beach warden’s feeble strength proved insufficient; forced to witness unconscionable deeds while passing away from illness leaves me with endless remorse. Please, upon your return to the homeland, fully nurture your strength and restore the family’s fortunes. Urabito's spirit, even after departing this world, is humbly protecting you, Young Lord Wako...)

Strung together with words penned in his final moments with poignant clarity, there followed—written in minute detail at the end—the regions and district names of the hereditary territories since Yoshimochi’s time that Kojirō, who had left his ancestral home as a child, rightfully ought to inherit. However, after that, again, (At least this much is undoubtedly the family’s hereditary territories; however, I have not heard in whose hands the land deeds from the Daijōkan or the provincial governor’s certifications now reside.)

was appended as a postscript.

Kojirō was struck by a great anxiety. Even so—surely not? Surely not? ...Yet his desire to deny it grew stronger. Uncles were his father's brothers. To us siblings too—weren't they people bound by close blood ties? All were elders in their fifties or sixties; moreover, each maintained many household retainers—hardly families in distress. They were all established local magnates. Why would they themselves try to plunder a parentless orphan's inheritance? It must be others' resentment. This was baseless suspicion. —And yet Kojirō couldn't fully dismiss his doubts—nor could he erase that sliver of unease.

Shadowed Younger Brothers

After two or three days, Shirō Masahira and the other younger brothers returned one after another.

Kojirō asked Masahira. "What did Great Uncle of Hitachi (Kunikiyo) say... about my return to the homeland?"

“He just said—‘I see.’” “And now that the eldest brother and heir has returned, you can’t keep relying on us forever. ‘Consider relatives nonexistent and work,’ he declared.” “What did you answer?” “Huh, Masahira?” “...I just said ‘Yes,’ greeted them, stayed the night, and returned.” “They’re mocking us.”

Seething, his heart murmured. He found himself growing angry even at his spineless younger brother. Yet when he looked at Masahira—or those below him, Masafumi and Masatake—they were all still youths barely twenty years old. To his cunning uncles' eyes, they must have seemed like milk-scented infants. He couldn't help feeling this assessment held truth. "Masafumi... So he went to Uncle Yoshimasa at Tsukuba?" "Ah... he said to convey his regards." "Regards?"... "Is that all?"

“No,” “He also said, ‘Once things settle down, you should come visit me, Brother.’” “I’ll come visit you myself before long.” “Masatake—what about Uncle Yoshikane?” “He was not at home.” “The family member said something about him receiving a celebratory invitation to Niihari Mansion and having gone out for that.” “Niihari Mansion—whose mansion is that?” “It belongs to Lord Minamoto no Mamoru of the Saga Genji clan. While you were away, Brother, after losing his previous wife, Uncle Yoshikane took one of Lord Mamoru’s esteemed daughters as his new wife.” “The wedding banquet lasted seven days, and we brothers attended to help.”

“If it’s our uncle’s wedding, shouldn’t you all be welcoming a new aunt? And yet you weren’t even invited to the banquet—just put to work helping in the kitchen?”

At their elder brother's displeased tone, the younger brothers fell silent. He shouldn't lose his temper. These orphans had been raised to be so utterly spiritless. Kojirō immediately reconsidered.

“Though it’s not a wedding celebration, our house must hold a gathering.” “We should set a date.” “—It’s my homecoming celebration.”

He said cheerfully. The younger brothers exchanged glances. Like an old man, he seemed to immediately start calculating expenses.

“Send out the invitations.” “Make sure that includes the uncles.” “And also to Father’s old acquaintances, former retainers, temple monks and shrine priests—and various district officials as well.”

He wrote a draft and handed it to his younger brothers. They prepared ten loads of sake bottles and cooked all manner of delicacies—dried fish, dried scallops, river fish, fowl, fruits, butter, root vegetables—in preparation for the day’s grand feast. It was likely the most extensive cooking the old kitchen of this mansion had seen since its founding. These ingredients had largely required procurement at the market. To this end, Kojirō had even sent his deceased father’s personal effects to be sold there. He peered into the kitchen himself to adjust seasonings and demonstrate Kyoto-style table arrangements—mere mimicry of what he’d observed at the Minister of the Left’s residence, yet driven by a childish urge to dazzle the provincials’ eyes and palates.

But it was not mere pretense—there truly existed within him a nature that took joy in others’ joy. On that day, he had them pound rice cakes and scattered them among the old and young of Toyoda Village. To the local peasants who had gathered at the gate, he served sake and sweets.

Around seventy to eighty guests gathered. Many of his late father’s acquaintances had passed away, and those called cousins and nieces were all unfamiliar faces to Kojirō. The retainers who had served in the past, even when coming as guests, still remained in the lowest seats and helped out. In their eyes and expressions, Kojirō instead felt kinship. Great Uncle Kunikiyo had claimed a slight cold and did not come, while the uncle from Tsukuba also remained unseen, saying he was traveling. Yoshimasa, Governor of Kazusa, alone appeared at the seat as if representing the uncles' faction, taking charge of exchanging smooth-tongued pleasantries and cups with the guests.

Among these guests, the person who brought Kojirō the greatest joy had come. That person was, truly, someone unforgettable. “It has been far too long.” Kojirō sat down before the man and, for how long, did not turn his attention elsewhere. “My, how you’ve grown…” The man gazed at him intently, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he raised his cup.

It was Sugawara no Tadayuki. In his boyhood days, this man had once saved his precarious life. Born as the third biological son of Sugawara no Michizane, possessing scholarly talent and upstanding character, yet ending his days unknown to the world as a provincial official in some remote region—without complaint, in silent obscurity—the very existence of those high-ranking ministers and powerful clans in the capital came to seem somehow perverse. “How was it… the capital?” “It’s shameful to admit, but I haven’t managed to learn a single thing.”

“Will you remain in your homeland permanently now?” “I am the heir, after all.” “If Lord Yoshimochi were still alive... ...he would rejoice, and your honored mother would know contentment.”

Perhaps because his uncle Yoshimasa was staring so intently, Tadayuki kept his words to himself. And then, as the drunken crowd began to dissolve into singing and clapping, he had already slipped away unnoticed.

Taking this night's homecoming celebration as a turning point, Kojirō resolved to henceforth bear the name Masakado. Though he had received the name Masakado at his coming-of-age ceremony, his time in the capital had somehow left him lingering with his childhood appellation. Even his younger brothers had long ceased using their infant names. Under the extended family system of those days, he became both household patriarch and Masakado.

Wheat Harvest Season

When word of Masakado’s return spread, former retainers and household members who had once sought shelter here began trickling back to Toyoda Mansion. They all knew the cruel truth—that during Masakado’s stay in the capital, his uncles Kunikiyo, Yoshikane, Yoshimasa and their faction had conspired to divide and plunder these lands and assets. “We couldn’t bear serving such heartless men as masters,” they said among themselves as if by prior agreement, “but when we heard the Young Lord had returned, we came back.”

As if by prior agreement, they were talking among themselves.

Masakado was happy. At the same time, he felt something powerful—a surge of confidence. Though not to the extent of former times, he purchased servants and slaves at the market, bought horses, and began working on nearby cultivated fields and undeveloped land. However, as the population grew, there was an immediate need for provisions. Even that rice was not in the storehouse. “It’s wheat harvest season. The riverside fields along the Keno River are already a brilliant golden yellow. Go reap them.”

Having given the order, for four or five days they had transported mountains of wheat sheaves to Toyoda Mansion as soon as they were cut. That day, Masakado was working on plastering the storehouse alongside his servants atop the scaffolding. The pale sunlight of approaching summer steamed the region's distinctive earthy scent around noon. At the ominous voices, Masakado suddenly peered down from the scaffolding over the gate and saw retainers and servants he'd sent to reap at Keno River carrying injured men and streaming in one after another.

“What happened?!” Hearing Masakado’s voice, one of the retainers cried out in a voice like a child pleading to a parent, “We were attacked—we were attacked!”

“A fight? Who are they? Where are they from?” “We didn’t start it! They came at us out of nowhere—a whole mob from across the river!” “‘Who said you could harvest this wheat?!’ “‘You know whose territory these Riverside Fields are?!’”

“I’m asking about them. The enemy.” “The enemy.” “They are Tsukuba’s retainers.” “What.” “Yoshimasa’s men?”

Masakado stepped down from the scaffolding. “Which area? Someone, lead the way!” he started to dash off in a panic. “Brother.” “Stop…!”

Saburō Masayori and the other young brothers clung to him, trying to hold him back. “The Riverside Fields along the Keno River—Uncle’s servants tilled them last winter, so... originally, we were in the wrong to harvest them.” “Because you didn’t know, Brother.” “Fool! Fool!” “You’re the ones who don’t know.” “That Riverside Fields—back when Father was alive, he worked year after year to finally dam the floods. It took a full decade to make that land capable of even growing wheat. I saw it with my own eyes as a child—I remember.” “It’s farmland that became proper soil through Father’s blood, our family members’ sweat, and countless servants’ toil.” “That—for me, Father’s heir, to reap—what could possibly be strange about that?”

Masakado bellowed those words in a voice louder than necessary for his brothers to hear—a voice that had always yearned, if just once, to roar toward the heavens. “Now! Follow your lord!” “They outnumber us!” Servants and retainers alike gripped their weapons and pursued him as he charged forth. Yet along the Keno River’s sprawling fields, no matter where they scanned, the enemy’s shadow had already vanished.

However, there stood a prohibition sign. Looking closer, he saw that it read: The Riverside Fields, southwest twenty-seven *chō* in total under the Tsukuba Water Magistrate's jurisdiction, constitute one territory within Taira no Yoshimasa's domain. Those who enter with stealing sickles shall be reported immediately upon discovery.

Yoshimasa’s retainer Kagehisa “Don’t make me laugh.” “A thief’s proclamation—you call this?!”

Masakado kicked it down. Still not satisfied, he grabbed it and hurled it into the Keno River's current. The faces of the ten-odd men who had followed him fell silent—not in satisfaction at this act, but as if their blood had suddenly drained away. Particularly Saburō Masayori, with his gentle disposition, “Ah…!” he gasped, his face turning deathly pale. “Masayori!”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry. I’d been waiting in my gut for the right moment to speak out—someday.” Perfect timing. “I’m going to have words with the uncles.” “Wh-what sort of... words would those be?” “It’s plain enough—I’ll make them return all those vast lands they’ve been holding in trust for me. This isn’t some cat’s-forehead squabble over riverbank fields.” “But... oh, Brother. Even if you say that now...”

“Stay silent and watch.”

Masakado had gone to the capital as his uncles had wished and returned having grown somewhat. There was also the matter of wanting to pay his respects to Great Uncle Ishida at least once. "It's simply a matter of having them return what was entrusted to them. I'm going." "...Ah, I can go alone. Even if I don't return for a few days, don't worry." After starting to walk, Masakado turned back once more to his anxious brothers and retainers and issued a command. "Never mind that. Keep harvesting the wheat. Carry it all hastily into the mansion's storehouse. It's not someone else's property at all! Let heaven and earth bear witness—would Masakado ever incite you to such petty theft with sickles? If you're going to live with me, believe in me."

Water rail

Acting as the spirit moves, as the mind clears, as playfulness dictates, as madness desires—yet without strain—there is no being in all creation that has made its domain so thoroughly its own as water, living in perfect freedom. "What an enviable form," he thought. "It is the spirit of water. Throwing a tantrum feels rather shameful." Masakado had been striding along continuously, sweat pouring down his face, when this thought suddenly arose. For the more he walked, the more he realized this land was truly drenched in water—so thoroughly that from his field of vision to beneath his feet, there was no escaping its presence.

Therefore, even patches of soil where grass grew or forests stood were nothing more than islands amidst the riverbeds. And countless water channels coursing unrestrained through these gravel banks gradually converged toward their center, attaining a breadth rivaling lakes. Here flowed the main current—the great Keno River (now called Kinu) demarcating Shimousa and Hitachi provinces—while beyond stretched Niihari's plains and Hitachi's flatlands, with Mount Tsukuba's silhouette hovering on the distant horizon.

“Hmm.” “When I was a child, there was definitely a ferry around here.”

Masakado sat down on a rock in Ashima. After all, having galloped from Toyoda Mansion and walked the entire way, he appeared slightly tired. Before the boundless expanse of the great river, he sat for a time enveloped in the cries of water rails. At the water rail’s cry, he recalled the day from his early childhood when, accompanied by his parents and attended by maidservants and retainers, he had crossed this great river by boat returning from Hitachi. Since it remains in his memory, it must have been his seventh-year celebration rather than his third. After all, whether at every place visited or within the boat, Young Lord himself—dressed in ceremonial robes—stood as the center of blessings.

Great Uncle Ishida of Hitachi whom they had visited along with both Uncles Hatori and Mimori had all come to this riverbank bringing their families and households to see them off—in those days my father Yoshimochi's authority and virtuous reputation must have been truly formidable. They were my father's brothers yet before our father not a single one dared raise their head. They revered him as clan elder and never shirked even menial labors. That day for crossing back over this great river the uncles had specially prepared a new boat made young women hold up large painted parasols and even laid out food and drink. Adorned in seventh-year celebration robes I was seated properly at center like Prince Shōtoku...... Even when our boat reached midriver Hitachi shore's crowd of uncles still appeared bean-sized specks. Waving hands they blessed my father Yoshimochi—Bandō warlord sovereign of wilderness—and my child self heir and Young Lord.

It was only natural that Father had trusted the conscience of those uncles when he died. Father was not a god. That today’s uncles were the same people as those from back then was something Father could not have known—unless he were a god. Naturally, Father had entrusted both the young children left behind and the inherited rice fields he had developed in his lifetime entirely to the uncles’ conscience and passed away. ...If spirits truly exist, how would Father be gazing upon Kojirō Masakado of today—here by the Keno River, looking at its waters like this?

Suddenly, Masakado renewed his fury... Even as he cursed Bastards!, tears spilled onto his knees. If Father were alive, he would never let them be. Those uncles take advantage of Father’s absence from this world to act as they please. Very well. I’ll make those wicked uncles realize that Father Yoshimochi still lives. Where does he live, you ask? ...What a foolish question. I am Yoshimochi’s son. Of course Father lives within me.

He abruptly straightened up. As if propelled by some force. —And as he looked around between the reed beds, searching for a boat to cross to the opposite shore, a man leading a horse—

“Oh! My Lord. Since I couldn’t see you on the river or along the banks, I searched quite extensively wondering what had happened.” With that unexpected call, he drew near.

The man was one of the retainers of Toyoda Mansion, a young samurai of seventeen or eighteen named Ushiku no Nashimaru. He was the youngest son of a wet nurse who had served the household in former times. When Masakado's return from the capital became known, the wet nurse still living in Ushiku Village—clinging to old memories—had sent him here pleading earnestly that he be taken into service. They were milk brothers, so to speak. Masakado cherished him like a keepsake from his wet nurse. Nashimaru, moved by devotion, had been serving him as the master to whom he would pledge his life.

“Nashimaru...” “What are you doing here?” “I’m heading to Hitachi.” “Therefore, without a horse, My Lord would be inconvenienced.” “Eventually, you’ll need to visit either Lord Uncle Mimori or Hatori as well.” “Hmm... That’s quite... the journey ahead.” “I heard from others that My Lord flew into a rage at Kawahara Field and dashed off right then and there.” “Did you bring the mansion’s horse and come chasing after me?”

“And I too earnestly wish to accompany you on this journey.” Nashimaru stared fixedly into Masakado’s eyes and spoke as though pleading. He seemed to know why one would cross over to Hitachi. Taira no Masakado silently nodded. Even in such silence, it was his habit to grow teary all too easily.

Noshimo Lodging “The ferry crossing isn’t around here.” Nashimaru immediately hoisted his master onto the horse’s back and led him five or six chō downstream. After loading the horse and boarding themselves, the ferry pulled away from shore and drifted toward midriver. The waterway stretched terrifyingly wide, its shallows scraping the boat’s belly with each grating encounter. Current-borne and listing sideways, the vessel kept drawing closer to the far bank through its downstream drift. “Did Yoshimasa and the rest return to the mansion afterward?”

“They have returned, My Lord, but all are worried about your journey, praying earnestly for your safe return while showing deep concern for your person.”

“I see… Apart from me, they’re all still such naive younger brothers, aren’t they?” From aboard the boat, when he turned to look back, Toyoda Mansion, the forest, and the slightly elevated terrain around the estate could be seen in the distance—so vivid they seemed as though they might answer if called.

(Will I live to cross here again?) He was suddenly seized by something like fatalism—the thought that he might not live to see tomorrow or the day after. Yet he understood himself to be a vessel of perilous rage, of resentment not born in a single dawn.

(Once we reach the opposite shore, I'll send Nashimaru back. Even if something should happen to me on this journey, I can't let the wet nurse’s child die too.) He thought this—but then, (No... I don't want anyone gathering my bones anyway... But without even Nashimaru here, who'd report disaster to Toyoda Mansion? Better take him after all. Just keep him clear of the crossfire.)

The ferry’s bow bit into the shore, and from the recoil, Masakado lurched violently. From that stumble, he came back to his senses. He moved onto the horse’s back and, while having Nashimaru hold the bridle, took the road east and ever eastward. The wild path had stained crimson, and the long shadows of horse and man trailed across the earth. And Mount Tsukuba ahead, with its purplish shadows, appeared vividly close at hand, yet walking there proved unexpectedly distant. I suppose we must find somewhere to stay.

When night fell, clusters of lights twinkling like firefly specks could be seen flickering at the far edges of the vast emptiness stretching endlessly into darkness. When Masakado asked about them,Nashimaru explained they marked Tsuchiura Market at an inlet of the Tone River. "There's a market?" "Then let's go stay there." "If My Lord insists on traveling so far,"Nashimaru countered,"it would still be quicker to visit Lord Yoshimasa's residence at Mimori." "Is that so..." "Then we'll go to Uncle Yoshimasa's after all." "What does midnight matter? ...But I'm famished—utterly famished." "...Nashimaru—did you bring provisions?"

“I have none.” “I overlooked that.” “If you see a house with light leaking out, go and visit it.” “We’ll manage somehow.” “Very well, my lord.”

Master and servant appeared carefree on the surface. Both were blessed with youth. It felt entirely natural; even death, any peril, or tomorrow’s uncertainties could still be treated with some measure of playful disregard in their hearts tonight.

“Ah… I can see a house.” “Shall we stop by?” “A peasant house?” “It doesn’t seem to be.” “There’s an earthen wall and a gate visible.” “Ah, I’ve remembered.” “This is the Noshimo settlement.” “Still, here and there, many small houses remain.” “Noshimo...” “If that’s the case, there should’ve been an old house here long ago that made weapons or such.” “This settlement has bowyers, smiths, leather dyers, armorers, saddle makers.” “It’s a settlement where everyone makes nothing but weapons and horse gear.”

“In any case, let us visit that earthen-walled gate. My Lord, please wait here just a moment.” Nashimaru went alone to knock on the gate. He did not return for quite some time, but before long came rushing back in great haste. “The master came out, and when I explained the circumstances in full—‘What? The Young Lord of Toyoda has graced us with a visit?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that truly so?’ ...as if welcoming a distinguished guest!” he said, practically overjoyed.

“Hey, hey, Nashimaru. Did you tell the house master about me?” “I didn’t spread word unnecessarily, but when pressed repeatedly, I ended up saying it was Lord Taira no Masakado of Toyoda. Then the master suddenly changed from work clothes, ordered his household to purify the area, and came out to greet us at the gate—‘Please,’ he said—now standing right there. Therefore, my lord, please don’t say you came unknowingly—declare you deliberately stopped here en route to Tsukuba.”

“But I don’t know the master of that place.” “They at the front are well aware of you. —In any case, I shall take charge of your horse.” With that, Nashimaru—pulling the reins of the riderless horse—followed behind his master and trailed after him to the earthen-walled gate there.

Domains

With Hitachi and Shimōsa forming its two banks, the lower reaches of this Keno River converged near Mizuguchi (present-day Jōsō area) with other rivers flowing toward Musashi and the Tone River that emptied into the sea of Kazusa. Surrounding these great waterlands lay the counties of Yūki, Niihari, Tsukuba, Toyoda, Sashima, Sōma, Shida, and Makabe—and most of their rice fields, or rather nearly all of them, had become domains divided between the Minamoto and Taira clans of this region. Half were held by Masakado’s uncles—Taira no Kunikiyo, Governor of Hitachi; Taira no Yoshikane, Assistant Governor of Kazusa from Hatori; Taira no Yoshimasa, Sixth Son of Hitachi from Mimori; and other so-called members of the Taira clan.

Of course, these domains complexly interwove estates of regent families from the capital, temple and shrine lands, territories under direct provincial governance, and unexplored wilderness of ambiguous ownership—all coalescing into what might be termed spheres of influence. Moreover, needless to say, a significant portion comprised rice-field territories that Masakado's late father Yoshimochi had entrusted to his three uncles as inheritance for Masakado and his surviving siblings. And now these lands had wholly become property of the three uncles' households; ultimately, should one remain passive, they showed no inclination toward restitution.

As for the other half of the domains, These were the territories and managed lands belonging to Minamoto no Mamoru, who resided in Ōkushi, Niihari District. Their territories spanned four of the aforementioned districts, and as a military clan, theirs was a house whose power dominated the province. The entire clan, like the Saga Genji, each possessed their own family names. Mamoru’s sons—Fusa, Taka, Shige, and others—each divided territories, established their own households, and were collectively referred to as the Hitachi Genji clan.

In the days when Masakado’s father Yoshimochi still lived, the Bando Heishi—embodying the form of a rival power answering the Hitachi Genji—had maintained an unyielding standoff with them. Yet after Yoshimochi’s death, even the three uncles’ households had tethered their steeds to Mamoru’s gate, submitting beneath the Hitachi Genji. No doubt through such bitter compromise alone had they preserved their ancestral estates and former domains.

Mamoru was undoubtedly a man of bold resolve, possessed military might, and was rich in political stratagems. The position of Hitachi no Daijō had in fact been a post he once held, but he himself had stepped down and installed Taira no Kunikiyo in his stead. Furthermore, he had wed his own daughter to Yoshimasa, given his next daughter as Yoshikane’s second wife, and even bestowed his youngest princess upon Kunikiyo’s son—Taira no Sadamori, now dwelling in the capital—as bride.

Thus through both fame and marriage alliances, Mamoru had effortlessly incorporated the three Taira households into the Hitachi Genji clan, and now stood unchallenged as this region's foremost elder among great clans. Amid these circumstances, Masakado returned home knowing nothing of this reality. Having spent thirteen years in the capital, he came back believing at least the vast lands his father left still remained. Yet all that remained was the hollow Toyoda Mansion and younger brothers whose spirits seemed severed. Though he'd witnessed enough of shifting fortunes and faithless hearts in Kyoto, here in his birthplace—deceived by nature's unchanging grandeur—he couldn't feel their sting as sharply as he saw them. Some part of him still clung to believing in his homeland. The conviction persisted that people dwelling here—steeped daily in these beautiful waters, fields and mountains—lacked the capital's frivolity and corruption. No matter how cunning my uncles are—if I approach them with sincerity now, they might surprisingly understand. Even if driven by greed, it's not as though they'd refuse to return some portion. He desperately needed to believe this.

However, if they absolutely refused to return it, what should he do? Masakado had naturally pondered this matter deeply as well. But rage of the sort that would make him stake his life in an instant kept surging through his blood, rendering any advance consideration of such scenarios impossible. He had fully reflected on how his own character's weakness would plunge him into the most dangerous predicaments. If prior reflection could truly help, it wouldn't be called a weakness at all—what Masakado feared wasn't his opponents, but rather himself.

“...Oh. “Now that you grace us with your presence... Truly, you bear such striking resemblance.” “To your late father Lord Yoshimochi, who has departed this world.” “...Blood cannot be denied.” “The very spitting image indeed.” The old Yosimo Armorer, having seated his guest in the place of honor, had been gazing at him in admiration since earlier. Each time he gazed, he would prostrate deeply with every word uttered. Seated on a round cushion, Masakado found himself at a loss for how to respond. It was because both the master of this house and his family were bowing to him with such excessive courtesy. Even after his time in the capital—washing ox-cart wheels, serving at the Takiguchi Imperial Guards—the habit of bowing his head to every robed official he encountered at the forbidden gates still clung to him. It felt as though he’d become Minister Tadahira himself.

The truth was, his stomach felt unbearably empty. He’d rather eat than deal with formalities. And he still needed to hasten along the night road ahead. “Hey, Nashimaru.” Masakado spoke sideways, looking uncomfortable. “Anything’s fine. Let’s just have some millet or barnyard grass for a quick meal and be on our way—we can stop by again on the return trip.”

Morning mist. The old man made a thoroughly astonished face. "But why ever would that be? After you’ve gone to such trouble to grace this ramshackle hut in the wilderness with your visit..." He had intended to have him stay the night. Therefore, they had already lit bath fires in the bathing chamber, while in the kitchen even his elderly wife and daughter were raising cooking smoke just as you see—throwing themselves into a great commotion to serve whatever they could muster: flavors of the land, bounty from the river, and their heartfelt sincerity.

“To depart so soon would be all too disappointing.” “The previous Lord of Toyoda showed me immeasurable kindness.” “To begin with, it was by Lord Yoshimochi’s invitation that I brought my disciples from the capital and established this settlement here.” “In this region back then, there wasn’t a single worthy armorer.” “Had you brought various craftsmen down to Bando, work would never dry up in your lifetime.” “Bound by that lord’s generosity and weary of capital life—no matter what comforts I might have needed—I gathered disciples and artisans of every trade. Over twenty years have now passed since I settled here.” “…After Lord Yoshimochi too departed this world, I found myself neglecting even those rare pangs of loneliness—yet now, having unexpectedly witnessed your coming of age with these eyes, this old man’s heart shatters into a thousand shards, each steeped in longing for days long gone.”

He wiped away his tears.

Masakado could no longer remain standing. He couldn't even bring himself to mention his hunger. The old man's name was Fushimi no Jō, born in Yamashiro, but after migrating to this region as an artisan, he came to be called simply Old Man Noshimo or the Noshimo Armorer. After the death of Yoshimochi—their sole patron—the village craftsmen temporarily lost their work and were at a loss, but then Minamoto no Moro of Ōkushi began placing even greater orders than before, and since then, they had undertaken armor production for various houses of the Hitachi Minamoto clan year-round without pause—or so he explained.

“The splendid suits of armor, foot soldiers’ gear, bows, spears, halberds, and more that we presented to your late father, Lord Yoshimochi, were provided in vast quantities—I trust those items remain intact in the armory?” “I do hope you’ll allow me to craft armor tailored to your body someday…” he added. Masakado inadvertently made a lonely face. Nashimaru, too, showed his emotions plainly on his face when he heard that. For regional warlords, their pillars of reliance were first the land, and next, weapons. His master now possessed neither of those two things.

“Tomorrow morning—where are you bound when you set forth?”

The old man, having already decided on his own that Masakado would stay, asked this.—When Masakado replied, “To the estate of the uncles in Tsukuba,”— “Ah, are you going to Mizumori or Hatoori? “Well, well, that’s…” With that, he made a somewhat troubled face. Old Man Yosimo’s tone suggested he was aware of Masakado’s current circumstances. The question about whether the arms he had supplied were still in the storehouse might have been asked deliberately to draw out Masakado’s response.

The fact that his uncles had colluded to embezzle the vast lands rightfully due to Yoshimochi’s heirs seemed to have spread beyond rumor—it had become an open secret even among peasants in neighboring villages.—Old Man Yosimo’s hospitality might not have stemmed solely from nostalgic affection but perhaps also from pity for Masakado himself. But as they feasted late into the night and gradually spoke more freely, it grew clearer still—every member of this household unanimously sympathized with Masakado as a pitiable, unfortunate young lord deserving compassion. The old man’s wife, a woman who appeared over fifty, emerged to help serve and wept quietly nearby as she listened to their talk.

“Even if you go to Hatoori or visit Lord Kunikiyo of Ishida’s mansion, do not let your anger flare." “Everyone knows this truth.” “And should you come to harm...” “That would keep your late father Lord Yoshimochi from resting in peace…” The old woman spoke. The old man added. Enveloped in human warmth and sated with warm food, Masakado stayed that night at the Yosimo Armorer’s house. The dwelling proved surprisingly spacious, teeming with apprentices and servants that spoke of prosperity. As he was led to bedchambers, somewhere he heard a young girl’s voice. As he imagined the owner of that lovely voice, Masakado sank straight into sleep.

Because he had said he wanted to depart at dawn, he was awakened while the morning mist still hung thick. After eating and having a lunchbox prepared for him, as he exited the gate escorted by the family, Masakado suddenly glimpsed from horseback a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl standing beside the old woman. She resembled exactly the girls he had seen in the capital of Heian-kyo. When Masakado's gaze turned toward her, the girl hid herself behind her mother's shoulder. The morning sun was vividly illuminating her dazzling face.

“...Even on your way back…,” said the family members. Masakado nodded, but in truth he had no confidence. As the horse’s tail swung toward the earthen-walled gate, Nashimaru immediately grabbed the bit. Nashimaru, too, did not tell anyone they would pass through this path again. “Farewell.”

After the horse began moving, Masakado turned to look back—and then. The gazes of the still-standing family members had all averted elsewhere. Masakado scanned his surroundings from horseback. Beyond the blue pampas grass, the upper bodies of five or six men became visible. Among them was a mounted samurai.

The closer they drew to each other, the more inevitably they passed by those men. The young mounted samurai looked at Masakado’s face with an unceremonious sidelong glance. Whether it was the hunting robe, the saddle, or the long sword—in this region, his attire stood out conspicuously. Even their retainers were more splendid than Masakado. Nashimaru averted his gaze and passed by. After they had passed each other, Masakado asked. “Nashimaru.” “Do you know who that was just now—” “Who’s that?”

“That is Minamoto no Suke.” “They say he’s the eldest son of Minamoto no Mamoru of Ōkushi.” “The Hitachi Genji.” “...I see... They’re quite showy indeed.” “Their sons already have people call them ‘young lords’ or ‘noble heirs,’ so they never set foot in the fields or forests anymore.” “...But My Lord’s family lineage far surpasses that of the Hitachi Genji and such.” “You are the sixth-generation descendant of Emperor Kanmu.” “Even the villagers—no one calls those people ‘Young Lord.’” Nashimaru was talking to himself. Nashimaru did not realize Masakado was looking back. Masakado watched—swaying rhythmically on horseback—as the Hitachi Genji’s young lord dismounted at the earthen-walled gate he had just departed from, being welcomed into the house along with his retainers while putting on airs of dignity.

Lord of the Babbling Stream

At the southwestern foot of Mount Tsukuba, facing toward the Tsukuba Plain and Keno River, manors such as Mizumori, Ishida, and Hatori stood scattered every two or three ri apart.

All of them were foothill villages with Mount Tsukuba at their backs.

That day, Masakado first went to the residence of Yoshimasa of Mizumori, but his uncle was absent. There was no sign he was feigning absence through pretended absence. Yet when the retainers saw Masakado, their expressions instantly flickered with movement, (He's here!) A reaction that seemed to say as much was plain to see. Moreover, at Masakado having arrived accompanied by merely a single young retainer, there lingered a palpable tension in their demeanor—almost of disappointment.

"He is absent. Our lord has been away since last night. Do you have some business?" Several retainers peered out from the great watchtower gate, refusing entry and delivering only this curt response through clenched teeth. No doubt these were the very men who had beaten my household's servants and retainers yesterday at the Riverside Fields along the Keno River. That retainer Kagehisa - the one who later planted those embezzlement proclamations like victory banners in our wheat fields - likely stood among them too. Yet Masakado found himself unwilling to brawl with such rabble. Though their insolence burned his gut, he forced a laugh and turned his horse away.

In terms of distance, Ōryō Kunikiyo’s residence in Ishida Village was closer from that point. However, Masakado viewed that great uncle as the ultimate monster and prime culprit behind it all. Even back when he was in the capital, he had discerned as much from the actions of Kunikiyo’s son, Sadamori Jōtaira, and moreover, from the very beginning to the end of his time there, the attitudes of Kunikiyo and his son toward him were riddled with inexplicable inconsistencies.

"...I'll save him for last," Masakado resolved silently. "As the final reckoning." He decided to first visit Hatori no Kazusanosuke Yoshikane. This uncle might be cunning, but among their clan, he had always been the most pious. It was said he maintained profound devotion to Buddhist law, having even built within his mansion a private chapel resembling a temple. Surely such a man retained some measure of mercy in his heart. Confronting the most formidable great uncle immediately would be reckless - beginning with this devout relative seemed the wiser course. Masakado remained convinced of his own composure. Not once had he surrendered to panic or lost his reason.

Uncle Hatori’s residence was a mountain villa. Perched on a high elevation slightly carved into the mountainside from the foothills, a gate resembling that of a grand temple crowned the winding stone stairway, beautifully adorned with ancient cedars and pines growing wild. He dismounted his horse at the foothills, left Nashimaru waiting below as well, and entered the gate alone. As he surveyed the main entrance, a warrior emerged from the servants' quarters to the side. At first, the warrior acted with brusque authority as if to throw him out, but when he firmly announced himself as Kojirō Masakado, even this man seemed daunted and began altering his tone.

The retainer had left to relay the message but did not return for quite some time.

The sun nearing evening shone through the conifers like a rainbow, while deep in the mountains behind, cicadas had already begun their twilight song. From somewhere came the sudden murmur of flowing water, and Masakado became acutely aware of his parched throat.

"They’re taking so long. What could they be doing?"

The retainers who had hidden behind their role as messengers neither confirmed nor denied their master’s presence. It seemed that word of yesterday’s incident at the Keno Riverbank had reached here as well. If that was the case, then he needed to steel himself for what might come. For Masakado, coming to his uncle’s mansion and forcing himself to maintain a mindset of suspecting danger was a burdensome task for his nature. But the Yosimo Armorer had also subtly given him a warning. He had muttered while scrutinizing him with an uneasy look—"Well, you're still young, after all."

Alright. No matter what suddenly occurs, I won't so much as flinch. If that weren't true, I'd never have crossed the Keno River.

Masakado felt compelled to tell himself this. He began striding diagonally across the broad front courtyard with large steps. He ventured deeper into the mountain garden. For some time now, he had apparently been searching for the water his parched throat craved—the sound of spring water cascading somewhere—.

The neatly trimmed shrubs, rock moss, and towering pine trees within arm's reach caught his eye, but he couldn't discover where the water flowed through. Instead, he suddenly glimpsed something unforeseen in the faraway tree shadows.

Earlier, she had been watching Masakado with a quizzical look.

“Ah…?”

Masakado flushed for no reason. Even now, whenever he perceived a beautiful woman, before any reason could arise, a reflex occurred not only in his face but throughout his entire body.

The place he had carelessly wandered into might have been the enclosure where the women’s quarters were located. The Koichijō enclosure of the Capital’s Minister of the Left Tadahira came to mind. The Minister had secretly cherished there a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Lady Hydrangea Jar—slightly more petite and younger than her—and she remained still in the shadows, her gaze fixed intently on his figure.

Tamamushi “You cannot pass through here”—she offered a well-meaning warning and smiled. “Do you have some business here? “......” “Perhaps you came through the wrong gate?” When addressed so familiarly, Masakado became flustered once more. While he himself thought his baseless shame was unsightly, the more he dwelled on it, the redder his face grew.

“No, water. I wanted a drink of water.” “Is this water for you to drink?” “Yes. Since morning, I’ve ridden through grassy paths on horseback. When I arrived here, I suddenly felt parched—then I heard the sound of water nearby.” “Hohoho.” “In that case, please come this way and step inside.” “It’s easily arranged.”

She threaded her way through the trees of the garden enclosure and slipped into the elegant house's water room. She filled a vessel with water, then emerged from the sliding door of the corridor and presented it to Masakado. Masakado sat down at the edge of the slatted veranda. Then, as if enveloped in an unexpected calm, he surveyed his surroundings.

“Sitting here like this, it somehow resembles a residence in the capital.” “The capital... Are you acquainted with that Heian capital?” “Yes. I had been away there for a long time.” “My,” said the woman with an exaggeratedly nostalgic expression, “which part of the Heian capital were you in?” “I was at the Koichijō residence of the Minister of the Left, and later served at the Takiguchi Imperial Guards as well.” “Then, are you not Lord Masakado, the Young Lord of Toyoda?”

“Yes. Kojirō Masakado.” Finally able to meet her gaze—he suddenly probed the distance between their hearts. “Do you know me?” “No. This is our first meeting, but I had heard the rumors.” “Moreover, I too was originally from the capital.” “I see.” “I had thought that might be the case.” “Why is that?” “Somehow, you carry the capital’s refinement about you—and here in this eastern frontier where the soil grates coarse and winds bite fierce, someone as beautiful as you…”

“Oh my, you would say such a thing…”

She flushed around her ears and hid her face behind her own shoulder. As her body shifted posture, her long black hair traced gentle curves. Masakado detected the long-forgotten scent of capital-style powder from the collar of her layered robes and forgot everything.

Then came the voices of three or four men—undoubtedly Yoshikane's retainers who had earlier gone inside to relay messages—busily searching for Masakado. Then suddenly, one of them peered beneath these eaves through gaps in the trees,

“Ah! There he is!” “Here he is!” “He’s here.” “He’s come to Lady Tamamushi’s chambers and is deep in conversation.”

With exasperation, they called out to their comrades. Masakado sprang away from the veranda as if released from a bowstring, striding toward the retainers himself. Yoshikane’s men looked between him and Tamamushi with equal scrutiny, their faces twisting in momentary bewilderment— “Young Lord of Toyoda.” “Lord Yoshikane has granted you an audience.” “Come this way.”

With that, they took the lead. Then they returned to the front courtyard and guided him from there into the mansion’s interior.

The Ingratitude Debate

It was likely modeled after capital-style architecture. It was built in the shinden-zukuri style with opposing wings. However, to withstand the harsh weather of this region, the pillars had to be thick and the walls numerous. Naturally, it became stubborn, crude, and dimly lit—sharing many similarities with later Kamakura architecture.

In the broad floored room facing the inner garden - spread with igusa rush mats and seated on enza round cushions - the guest and host had been cheerfully exchanging sake cups while engaged in lively conversation since earlier.

Kazusa-no-suke Yoshikane and Mizumori no Rokurō Yoshimasa.

They were the brothers of Masakado’s father, Yoshimochi. In other words, they were the uncles. Though not present here, Hitachi Provincial Governor Kunikiyo held the highest position, followed by Masakado’s father, then Yoshikane, and Yoshimasa in that order. “Yoshimasa. Even if Masakado comes here, don’t torment him too much. If you make sport of him, there’s no sense in rousing his anger.” “But I think we should crush his neck once and for all... Lest it become a habit.” “Well. That may be so, but even so...”

“Considering that yesterday at Riverside Fields, after Masakado’s servants and our family’s retainers clashed violently, he himself came here in anger—it’s clear he’s still fixated on the former territories and deeply resents our methods.” “That obsession won’t be shaken off in a day.” “The only path is to wear him down patiently—shifting tactics endlessly until he surrenders.” “You often preach patience, but Masakado’s no longer the sniveling brat of old. He’s breathed the capital’s air long enough to learn a trick of logic or two—past the age where soft words work. Overpowering him by force remains our only course.” “Unless we show him—with one decisive strike—the true measure of our strength—”

Footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. The two men exchanged glances, made stern faces, and fell silent.

Masakado abruptly stood outside the room. And met his uncles’ gazes with his own. However, forcing a calm demeanor, “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, sitting down in a corner. The retainers who had guided Masakado remained stationed in the corridor, staring at his back like watchful attendants. “Oh, Masakado.” “Won’t you come a bit closer?” “There’s no need to crouch so far away.”

Yoshikane dismissed him nonchalantly. But Yoshimasa—with yesterday’s incident still fresh, and unlike Yoshikane, who feigned piety through Buddhist rituals—was a man renowned throughout the neighboring villages for his martial valor even in ordinary times. Completely ignoring his nephew Masakado, he turned sideways and continued drinking sake, but— “What did you come here for?” “What for?” ……”

With that, he suddenly fixed his gaze on Masakado. Masakado’s entire body seemed to puff up with suppressed emotion. But he braced his hands against the floor and bowed his head as if to hide his fierce expression. “Since returning home...I’ve neglected to pay my respects. I thought...I ought to come greet you properly at least once.” “Come to show gratitude?” Yoshimasa sneered. “After all these years of neglect?”

“Uh… “Well… yes.” “What’s this ‘well’ about? “You should’ve paid respects to Great Uncle Ishida long before this. Have you gone there yet?”

“No. I haven’t paid my respects yet.” “Why not? Wasn’t that on your way here? Every move you make—Washu’s—is completely botched. Inviting useless district officials and every Tom, Dick, and Harry from neighboring villages to Toyoda for your homecoming spectacle—instead of putting on airs like that, why don’t you go thank your great uncles who looked after everything during your long absence?”

“I had considered that... but”

“Masakado!” “Yes?” “Don’t talk like you’ve got gristle stuck in your molars. You’re harboring some delusion here. Pathetic.” “...” “Mark this well— Listen close. These ten-odd years—say what you will—whose mercy d’you think let fatherless whelps like Shōrai grow to manhood unscathed?”

“...”

“That’s not all! If it weren’t for us uncles’ protection—your father Yoshimochi’s lands, mansion, pastures—do you think they’d have stayed untouched in your brothers’ hands till today?” Yoshimasa spat into his cup as if hurling the words themselves before downing his sake. “What an ungrateful wretch!” “It’s this naive thinking that makes you forget debts of gratitude and breed resentment instead!” Masakado countered. “You see this vast Bando wilderness as just sunrise and sunset—but don’t you realize? Every moment without cease! Emishi prisoners from Nasu and Miyagi northeastward! Warlords on all borders! All scheming to gnaw away at every inch of land! Who’s guarded against this for over a decade?” His voice rose raw. “Yes—even if our old fields and estates shrank—we returned from Kyoto to roofs over heads! Soil to till! Our family name still stands in our homeland! Whose *great mercy* made this possible?”

“U-Uncle—wait a moment, please.”

“Shut up!” “Then answer me.” “Whose power has defended these lands and mansions from the wolves on all four borders?” “I-I know… but—”

“If you understand, then that’s fine.” “You say you’ve understood—so what’s with those tears? …Why are you crying?” “If you insist on phrasing it that way… then I shall speak plainly.” “What?!” “You speak of whose mercy and compassion this is—but does this not stem from our father Yoshimochi trusting you, his own kin, because we brothers were young? Before his death… Father entrusted you with his final plea… Did you not swear to a dying man—‘Do not worry—once the children come of age, we shall return both the estates and reclaimed lands’—and take them into your custody?”

“That’s right… So today, you’re living in the Toyoda Mansion, aren’t you? Your brothers aren’t starving either—they’re still alive, aren’t they?” “No. There remains what hasn’t been returned—the lands my father spent his life reclaiming, the hereditary estates granted through his merits. The majority of the inheritance—the Grand Council’s land deeds, decrees, provincial governor’s certifications attached to them—none of these have been restored to us.” “Don’t get above yourself!” Bellowing, Yoshimasa tried to hurl the sake from his cup, but Yoshikane hastily seized his wrist.

“Now, now, Masakado.” “The only reason we tolerate this is because we’re family—you’ve no right to make such selfish demands.” “Selfishness? —When it’s not you Honorable Uncles, but I who am?”

“What?” “What did you just say?” “You... you’re the one,” Yoshikane retorted, now forced to defend his own interests. No—they found themselves compelled to justify the lands they had divided and embezzled. “You speak of returning or not returning as if it were simple—but safeguarding these vast rice fields for years has demanded its own sacrifices.” “Whether Lord Kunikiyo or Yoshimasa here—how many times might they have spilled blood clashing with invaders from neighboring districts or Emishi tribal chiefs?”

“That may be so. If you would just return them, Masakado and my brothers would remain eternally grateful. Whenever calamity strikes your households, we would be first to take up our bows and arrows and come rushing to your aid.—Though I was too young to remember myself, kin from my mother’s side tell how when you stood vulnerable in Hitachi and Shimōsa, surrounded by countless foes and Emishi tribes, my father Yoshimochi aided you as his own flesh—until these vast plains east and north of Mount Tsukuba finally became your domains.”

“W-Who spoke such words?” “All society knows it—precisely why Father entrusted his orphaned children to you. He surely believed no error could exist in that trust. If you call me ungrateful, does that not make you the faithless ones who betrayed a dead man’s charge?” “Insolent whelp!” This time, intervention failed. Yoshimasa’s roar cut through. Before Yoshikane could restrain him, he surged forward—straddling Yoshikane’s back—

“You called me ungrateful!” “You dare hurl abuse at your uncles!” “You insolent brat!”

Yoshimasa’s large foot lashed out at Masakado’s left shoulder. Masakado caught the foot with both hands. As Masakado rose and Yoshimasa stumbled over serving stands and sake flasks, they fell backward together in one motion. “You’ve crossed the line now, Masakado!”

Yoshimasa roared. However, before Yoshimasa could rise, the family retainers stationed in the corridor had already lunged forward and seized Masakado from behind.

The Woman of the Insect Cage

The sturdy fortified house was momentarily shaken by a rumbling akin to a house settling and the beast-like roars of men. But—in an instant, it came to an abrupt halt.

Beneath the harrowing silence that followed came Masakado's groan—no, his voice fractured by spasmodic sobs, an unnatural sound that clawed at the air. Around him sprawled men with blood-caked eyes and lips, their sleeves and hakama rent—pale-faced specters heaving great breaths through trembling shoulders. “D-damn brat...” “Had I not shown restraint—thinking you’re my nephew—”

Yoshimasa finally regained his voice and muttered. And they kept glaring—at Masakado's figure, at his convulsive struggles—for some time, having beaten and kicked him senseless with their numbers until he lay half-dead.

“Stand up. Now. “Stand up again. Try talking like you just did.—Masakado. “What’s the matter. “Can’t you stand up?” Yoshimasa, Yoshikane, and the others finally noticed the shattered cups and dishes scattered about and the collapsed wall hangings—wiping their own nosebleeds with their sleeves.

Masakado was writhing and still sobbing convulsively. "You fool!"

Yoshikane ordered his retainers. “What a waste of a perfectly good banquet.” “Throw him out.” “This nephew.” The family retainers who had rushed to the commotion numbered more than ten. They attempted to lift Masakado. It seemed he had been brutally beaten—he could not even stand. He could only writhe in frustration. “Wait—not yet!” Yoshimasa stopped the group that had started carrying him out— “Masakado. Don’t forget. Today I let you go, but under open skies you’d have no life left. …Yesterday our retainer Kagehisa tore down the noticeboard he’d erected in the Riverside Fields and threw it into the Keno River. That single clause alone gives us grounds to send our warriors storming into Toyoda Mansion. Once hundreds of rowdy fighters begin their assault—even if we uncles order them to stop—they won’t obey. …Hear me? Henceforth curb your recklessness. Don’t make your younger brothers weep with your foolish antics.”

and came to speak these words into his ear as he lay there, deprived of all movement in his limbs. Masakado too tried with all his might to let out a cry, but in that instant, he was carried across the long corridor bridge and out to the open front courtyard. "What should we do...?" After a brief consultation, they soon decided it was too troublesome and, from the cliff edge just beyond the mansion gate, threw Masakado downward.

The cliff was steep, but thick with towering cedars, so his body immediately caught on a tree root partway down. “...He’s moving. He won’t die.” From above, Masakado heard the retainers speak these words before departing. But his consciousness could grasp nothing else. It felt as though he were groping through empty air, yet his hands held no sensation. He slid from one gnarled root to the next. Pain shot through him—with that awareness, he managed to lift his head.

“You mustn’t move... You mustn’t move. Below is the current.” Someone was speaking somewhere. He was completely unconscious of time's passage. The crimson evening sky vividly illuminated the gaps between the black cedar treetops. Evening dew seeped into his skin. “I’m coming now… Don’t struggle.”

The voice was close. No—it was drawing nearer. Masakado turned his clouded eyes upward. Someone was descending from above with desperate care, as though undertaking some life-risking venture. It was the figure in kariginu robes he had glimpsed that afternoon. This must be the woman Yoshikane's retainers had called Lady Tamamushi.

“Huh…?” Stunned and acting on instinct, Masakado from below— “It’s dangerous!” he shouted. By the time he managed to shout, his consciousness had cleared, and the pain throughout his body, now burning hot, forced a groan from him. He groaned loudly, again and again. Groaning brought relief. Tamamushi had finally made her way down to his side. She urged him to summon his strength and climb back up from here, but it was no use. Moreover, with her slender arms, there was nothing she could do to move Masakado’s body.

“The young retainer named Nashimaru, whom I brought along, waits at the base of the main gate’s stone steps.” “Please inform that Nashimaru.” Masakado finally managed to say. She climbed back up the cliff once more, heedless of her kariginu’s hem coming undone. Then she brought Nashimaru.

The crimson in the sky faded, and the evening star began to appear.

Finally, after pulling up Masakado, Nashimaru hoisted his master's body onto his back. Along the high, dark stone steps, Tamamushi accompanied them partway while showing concern. And she kept watching until the pitiable shadows of master and retainer blended into the evening dusk at the mountain's base.

Suddenly sensing someone's presence, she turned back up the stone steps. However, there stood a figure who made her profoundly uncomfortable—his face twisted into a scowl as he waited. Of course, this was the master who owned her body. This Yoshikane was indeed a Buddhist believer, but he was also a man who found supreme pleasure in keeping multiple women besides his wife housed in the chambers of this mountain villa. Tamamushi was a woman he had brought back to the eastern provinces after frequenting the Eguchi pleasure district under the guidance of Sadamori of Sakyo during an official government visit to the capital, ultimately trading a vast sum of goods for her.

According to the household retainers, Masakado had been engrossed in conversation in Tamamushi’s chamber even during the day, and now when they peered into the chamber, Tamamushi was nowhere to be seen. And thus was the state of this place. Masakado had been in the capital too—and Yoshikane had once heard from Sadamori that Masakado had even been spotted in the Eguchi pleasure district. This stirred in Yoshikane, a man of middle age susceptible to resentment and jealousy, a sudden flare of bitter envy. However, he was not one to immediately voice such things or hastily seek cheap consolation.

“What are you doing in a place like this? …I had them searching for you since earlier, intending to listen to your biwa together with Yoshimasa—just the two of us—” “……”

Tamamushi merely laughed with a self-conscious smile, didn’t so much as say “I’m sorry.” She possessed a kind of unshakable confidence—it was her habit to declare that if you found her disagreeable, she’d return to the capital anytime. “You there! Where are you going? Where?” When she strode ahead briskly alone, Yoshikane called after her in pursuit. Tamamushi tossed her reply over one shoulder: “A woman must tend to her makeup. Expecting me to play biwa or dance in this state would be preposterous.”

Yoshikane gave a bitter smile but followed behind her until she entered her chamber—the small jar-shaped room of her insect-cage chamber.

Moon and Water

The old man of Noshimo—Fushimi no Jō, the armorer—was working through the night.

The reason was that just yesterday there had been another excessive demand from Minamoto no Tasuku—eldest son of Minamoto no Mamoru—urging completion of the custom-ordered suit of armor. Three oil lamps had been positioned around the workshop. Beneath each dim glow, his aged wife, daughter, and two apprentices hunched over their tasks—spreading glue with heated spatulas, threading armor lacing cords—all laboring intently. "...What could have become of him," Fushimi no Jō muttered suddenly while working. "The Young Lord of Toyoda..."

Suddenly, as if remembering something, Fushimi no Jō muttered.

Yesterday morning, Masakado had departed at dawn, and today his name arose repeatedly in the family's conversations. "He still hasn't come down this road today... Has anyone seen him?" The old woman spoke too. The disciples shook their heads. Only the daughter - aligning dyed threads for armor lacing across her pale palms before arranging them on the binding board - remained detached from the talk, as if indifferent. "Until we see his figure return safely along this road, I can't help feeling uneasy... It seems the Young Lord himself has begun dimly perceiving those uncles' black-hearted schemes."

Following the old man's words, the disciples too began speaking bluntly of Mizumori no Yoshimasa and Hatori no Yoshikane's misdeeds. They treated their slaves like cattle, driving them with whips, and even their retainers swaggered through markets and villages as if parting the wind with their shoulders. Moreover, whenever we delivered commissioned arms, not once had they accepted them without complaint. The disciples chattered endlessly—how they didn’t understand a craftsman’s conscience and only quibbled over prices being too high or too low… Once they started, there was no stopping them.

“No, no. Those two are still the better ones among them.”

said Fushimi no Jō. When the old woman and disciples made surprised faces, the old man muttered "Indeed..." to himself, continued working, and then added more.

“The truly black-hearted one is Lord Kunikiyo, the Hitachi Provincial Governor living in Ishida.” “He swallowed whole Lord Yoshimochi of Toyoda’s vast inheritance, merely doled out a pittance to Lords Yoshikane and Yoshimasa.” “...Yet he cunningly feigns ignorance, letting those two handle everything.” “That’s exactly the kind of lord they mean when they talk of an old badger.”

In the distance, dogs barked fiercely. As a precaution against bandits, even this village kept dogs. The daughter suddenly lowered her pale face into the shadow of the lamp dish, her eyes wide with fear. “Put it away. Let’s turn in—it’s late enough.”

They were tidying up the workshop and had just begun dividing tasks to secure the doors throughout the spacious house.

There was someone knocking on the earthen-walled gate.

The two disciples went out to check. A horse whinnied. In the low, rain-laden clouds, the moon—now past midnight—hung hazy and faintly white.

“Who’s there? ...Who goes there?”

“I am Nashimaru—the servant of Lord Masakado of Toyoda who received your kindness along with my master the night before last.” “I beg your pardon for coming at this late hour.” “Huh? You mean Lord Masakado?” “Yes.” “Remembering your words from that time, I rushed back here with all haste.”

“Well! Welcome,” the old man said to the cowering disciples,

"Hurry and open the small gate! Won't you let us through?" he scolded. Before long, when they saw Nashimaru enter carrying Masakado on his back, both the old man and old woman lost all color from their faces for the first time. ...The daughter stood frozen in a corner, blankly. Nashimaru had carried his master on horseback and, barely managing without even a drink of water since then, retraced his way from one wild path to another until now. To the stunned family who had rushed to meet them, he recounted the general course of events with bitter frustration, then pleaded whether they might spare a room until Masakado's bodily injuries had somewhat healed.

Naturally, there could be no refusal from this family. All of them sympathized with Masakado and his retainers, devoting themselves from that night onward to preparing medicine and nursing care—even staying up through the night.

“Oh, it’s nothing—it’s nothing serious. I’ve quite settled my mind as well.” When morning came, Masakado expressed his gratitude to the family and declared he would return to Toyoda Village that very day.

Fushimi no Jō made a face of utter astonishment. "You must be troubled." "Yet for us, this brings nothing but joy." "As I recounted the other night, we could never fully express how deeply indebted we were to your honored father Lord Yoshimochi." "That years later we might unexpectedly offer you humble lodging for a single night—this too flows from bonds that shall never fade." "What greater earthly joy exists than to serve you who remain as Lord Yoshimochi's living remembrance?"

The old man’s words were directly manifested in the sincere care shown by this family. Masakado, perhaps because his guard had been lowered, developed a high fever starting that day. The next day too, his condition remained dreamlike.

When he regained slight consciousness, he would do nothing but weep bitterly. While public displays of tears were unhesitatingly accepted by all Japanese people of this era—the Heian period—this Masakado had been particularly hot-tempered and prone to crying since childhood. That very Masakado, having by chance encountered such unexpected human kindness in a wilderness household after surviving such a bizarre calamity, may have completely regressed to a childlike psychological state. Moreover, he must have been someone who had been starved of affection in his daily life to such an extent.

Yet from around the third day onward, he consciously stopped weeping. The reason was that whenever he wept, the young girl of this household who nursed him at his bedside would weep in unison with him, until finally she would muffle her sniffles and sobs in her sleeve. The daughter’s name was Kikyō. She had not yet reached twenty, of course. The disciples addressed her as Lady Kikyō.

“Lady Kikyō—why do you weep?” Masakado asked her once.

There is nothing that accelerates the closeness between hearts more rapidly than that between a patient and their caregiver.

“But Lord Masakado, you’re the one crying,” Kikyō answered bashfully. “When someone is crying, you don’t have to join in and weep along with them.” “It’s not just keeping company.” “I cry because I want to.” “Why do you want to cry?” “But… because you’re crying.” “Then, if I didn’t cry—” “Then I would not cry either.” "But Lord Masakado, in your heart of hearts, there must be times when you cannot help but weep."

“Perhaps… you’re right.” “If that’s the case, then perhaps even I might sometimes find myself unable to keep from weeping in my heart.” “Huh? Why?” “Why do you think? Even when silent, your heart reflects in mine like the moon on water—each ripple trembling through me.” “Lady Kikyō… truly.” “Huh.” “Truly.” “If that’s true…” he trailed off, reaching out his hand. And suddenly, with a jerk, he tried to sit up—

“...It hurts,” he grimaced, curling his body.

“Oh!” “You mustn’t!” “You mustn’t sit up so suddenly—”

Kikyō embraced him and laid him down. It was a gesture like that of an older sister caring for her younger brother.

Bruise.

His body had recovered. He could move freely now.

The younger brothers left behind at Toyoda must surely be worrying as well. He thought he had to return. But he also felt he didn’t want to return.

The same reluctance showed in Kikyō as well. As if faintly sensing this, the elderly couple of the Noshimo Armorer continued their kindness toward Masakado. It was a warmth not of guest treatment, but of family. "If only in my own mansion," he thought, "we could gather like this each morning and evening, laughing together at mealtime..."

He felt envious. Even during these family gatherings, he would sometimes let his chopsticks lie forgotten as he stared at Kikyō's profile. He had sent Nashimaru to Toyoda to tell them not to worry, yet here came both his younger brothers—Masakahira and Masakafumi—following in Nashimaru's wake. Seizing this as his moment, Masakado offered thanks to Fushimi no Jō and his household, then left the village of Noshimo together with his brothers. "You needn't have troubled yourselves to come—both of you together like this."

On the ferry crossing the Keno River，Taira no Masakado spoke. Kikyō’s visage would not leave his mind. Even with his brothers before him，her face appeared superimposed over theirs. I wish I’d stayed one more day. ——

It was his lingering reluctance that made him speak so brusquely.

“But—was there any trouble while I was away?”

“Huh.” “Not really.” “…While you were away—” The younger brothers feared their elder brother. To this elder brother who had returned from the capital, they believed he possessed immeasurable new knowledge, ample life experience, and aspirations for the future—qualities far beyond their own comprehension. They relied on him as a great pillar standing in their father’s place. “How is Masayori holding up?” “…Masayori’s so timid.” “He must have been worrying himself sick.” “But as for me—I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.” “Even if all my uncles band together, I won’t fear them.”

When he spoke of his uncles, Masakado’s eyes flared from their depths without conscious intent. He turned toward the distant shadowed slopes of Mount Tsukuba and remained wordless for a long moment. Abruptly regaining his awareness— “Even with Nashimaru guarding me, having you two come meet me in case something happened again on the road—that was Masayori’s doing, wasn’t it? Don’t trouble yourselves over imagined dangers. You mustn’t let your nerves fray thin like Masayori’s.”

“No. That’s not it.”

“What’s different?” “The one who told us to bring Brother back quickly was an honorable guest from the capital.” “A guest from the capital?” “Uh... He’s been staying at Toyoda Mansion all this time, waiting for your return.”

“Idiot! If that’s the case, why didn’t you say so sooner?” “The honorable guest insisted on surprising you, Lord Masakado. We were strictly ordered to remain silent until your meeting.” “In the capital, they call such behavior ‘foolish honesty.’ Who would ever believe such a jest? And what name did you hear for this guest?” “We did not ask their name.” “Have you not heard anything from Masayori either?” “No—Brother Masayori doesn’t seem to know either. But he did say they appeared to be someone of importance.”

“About how old are they?”

“Around forty, we think.”

“Alone?” “Uh. They’re alone. But they’ve laid out a splendid long sword and address everyone by bare names—whether capital folk, members of the Left Minister’s household, or even this region’s provincial and district governors. And they love their sake; from morning onward, they drink, seizing Brother Masayori and never letting go of their cup all day.” “Not just the capital—they know everything thoroughly, from Kyushu’s farthest reaches to matters of this Bandō region. Even Brother Masayori clicked his tongue in amazement and revered them.”

“Hmm... Who could it be?” “Who could it be?” Taira no Masakado had no idea. If this were an envoy from the Left Minister, they should have brought four or five attendants. Even so, he was appalled by Masayori and these younger brothers’ uncritical attitude and worldly ignorance—not only allowing a traveler of unknown lineage to stay at the mansion but even serving them sake from morning onward. Given this, he could see why those uncles had resorted to wicked schemes. He did not think of himself as some naive do-gooder. In fact, he had come to realize that being too much of a good person could even create villains around him. And even as exasperation toward his brothers gnawed at him, anger welled up—

(The capital remains the capital, and this is what the countryside amounts to. There exists no ground where honest folk might live honestly. To endure this world while bearing five younger brothers—to prevail—I must cultivate a black-hearted cunning exceeding even my uncles'. Very well—at least I...) At least I—Masakado swore inwardly. To repay those uncles through us six Toyoda orphans—he resolved to assume a disposition foreign to his nature. Were he to choose this path—he steeled himself—nothing prevented him from becoming a villain more ruthless than his uncles.

When he visited Yoshikane and Yoshimasa in Tsukuba, what he carried back in his heart was that resolve. No—along with that, there remained beneath his left eye a faintly black bruise from a strike.

The Carefree Guest

The night he returned to Toyoda Mansion. After briefly showing his unharmed face to the joyfully welcoming family members and servants, he immediately,

“Where is this guest from the capital?” he asked Masayori. Unaware of his reproachful gaze, Masayori bustled— “They’ve already been staying for four days and have been waiting eagerly every day in the inner guest hall.”

was already rushing ahead toward it. “Wait, wait, Masayori. “Let me verify their face first. I can’t think of anyone from the capital who’d come all this way to see me. There’s something fishy about this.”

Taira no Masakado went to the inner quarters, leaned against the wall in the corridor, and quietly peered at the guest's figure. Indeed, there was an unfamiliar figure.

Moreover, as if he had drunk himself into a stupor, he lay sprawled out nonchalantly with his arm as a pillow, leaving cups, plates, and trays laden with food disgustingly scattered about.

……? Masakado, with displeasure and suspicion, instinctively gripped the scabbard of his long sword with his left hand. The candles flickered in two places, but unfortunately unable to see the other's sleeping face, he strode right up to the man. And he peered down at that shameless sleeping face from directly above.

……Hm?

Just as he thought this, reflexively, the man also opened his eyes.

The eyes in his ripe-persimmon-like face were still somewhat hazy. But Masakado stared with drill-like intensity. And it seemed someone had remembered before he did. His voice was filled with nostalgia. “Ah! Isn’t this the Immortal One? —Yasaka no Fujinin!” “Oh, you’ve returned. Kojirō.” “Kojirō.”

The man jolted upright. He reached out toward Masakado’s hand. And they gripped each other firmly. Sitting cross-legged facing each other, bringing their faces close together, the two of them stared at each other in a daze.

“It’s been a while... “Kojirō. “Though I hear nowadays they call you Masakado.”

“Hmm. Long time no see. Never thought the guest’d be Washu.” “Surprised you, didn’t I?” “Honestly. I was... I was.”

“Ahahahaha! Well, it’s a relief to see you’re still in one piece. I’d heard even in the capital about your mansion—quite something indeed. Truly worthy of the Bandō warlord, son of Emperor Kanmu, descendant of Prince Katsurabara... You can still see traces of Taira no Yoshimochi’s influence from his time here. You’re the heir, aren’t you? Oi, get it together!” “I am doing it. Holding on tight.” “Don’t lie to me. While you were away, I asked your brothers—apparently those uncles of yours have divided up and stolen most of the manors and family assets your father Yoshimochi left behind. And I hear just days ago at Hatori no Yoshikane’s residence, you got yourself cornered and beaten by a whole mob.”

“You knew, didn’t you.” “You must understand my situation.” I was so bitterly disappointed—so bitterly disappointed I could hardly stand it. How should I vent this bitter resentment? That’s all I’d thought about as I returned… You’d come to visit at just the right time. “Hey, Shōrai! Have this place cleaned up once, then bring more sake.” “I want a drink too.”

The younger brothers could not understand what kind of relationship existed between their older brother and the guest. They could only imagine he must have been a close friend from their time in the capital. The retainers trimmed the candlewicks, tidied the seating area, and brought out fresh tall serving stands and sake decanters.

All the while, Fujinin and Masakado kept talking non-stop. They had a mountain of things they wanted to discuss and ask each other, and both appeared equally hurried in their thoughts, unsure where to begin unraveling their lingering old bonds.

The Mount Hiei Pact

Back when Masakado was still at the Left Minister’s household in the capital—one year when Fujiwara no Sumitomo was due to return to Iyo Province—a large group of friends poled a boat to Eguchi’s pleasure quarters, held a grand farewell banquet, and spent the whole night in raucous revelry before parting ways. It had been a long time since he had last met Fujinin—since that very occasion. One reason was that Masakado had been transferred from the Left Minister’s household to the Takiguchi Guards. During that period, Yasaka’s comrades who had betrayed the Left Minister’s household were arrested, and rumors spread that their leader, the Immortal One, had perished in the Ministry of Justice’s prison.

After that, when Fujiwara no Sumitomo came up to the capital for the second time, Taira no Masakado climbed to a remote corner of Mount Hiei with him. As they poured sake for each other, they became intoxicated with dreams of youthful ambition, gazing down at the capital of Heian-kyo below, (Look here. Before long, a divine army will rise from a corner of the southern seas to accomplish great deeds. When one appears who will shake the rotten core of aristocratic rule and bring merciful rain and hope to the world’s destitute—know that man will be Sumitomo of Iyo. You too were born in Bandō’s wilderness—are you not also a scion of an imperial lineage? If you hear that Sumitomo has risen in the west—then you must rise in the east.)

Having been sung an ode of passion in this manner, Taira no Masakado too,

(Hmm. You’re right. Listening to you speak truly lifts my spirits.) he replied.

Sumitomo, raising a cup in one hand,

(Then let us commemorate today's oath. You too—take the cup.)

With that, the two of them raised their cups in a toast. And then, they roared with laughter. On a certain spring day in the capital, such memories did exist—albeit distantly—for Takiguchi no Kojirō. (It was unclear whether the Immortal One was alive or dead. When you find out, send word to Iyo.) That was something he had heard from Sumitomo for the first time then and had also been requested to do. For that reason, Taira no Masakado had even gone to visit Inukai Yoshitsugu, the Ministry of Justice’s prison warden, to investigate. However, contact with the Yasaka gang had been lost, and the Immortal One’s whereabouts remained unknown; since then, he had let them fade from memory without consciously trying to forget. After returning to his homeland, both his life and his mind had completely changed. Far from that, he found himself constantly occupied with pressing matters day after day.

“Now then… You’ve done nothing but ask about me and talk of me,” said Masakado. As the sake service had been renewed, he once more offered a cup to his guest and redirected the conversation toward the Immortal One’s circumstances. “Just what has Washu been up to since then? That he didn’t die in prison and is still alive—well, I can see that now with my own eyes—but for him to come all the way out to distant Bandō to seek you out, Masakado—there must be some reason behind it.” “There most certainly is.” “Who would come all the way to this remote province without reason?” “No matter how dearly one might miss Kojirō Masakado...”

“Let’s hear it.” “First, that…” “To put it simply, he’s Fujiwara no Sumitomo’s messenger. In truth, this spring he met with Sumitomo at Muronotsu in Seto and was told to come down once to the eastern provinces to begin preparing to finally set into motion the old pact with Kojirō Masakado.”

“What do you mean by ‘the old pact’?” “The so-called Mount Hiei Pact—where Washu and Fujiwara no Sumitomo supposedly raised cups and swore an oath.” “Hold on. “I ain’t made no promises or nothin’, though.” “No, Sumitomo confided. “He confided that secret to me alone.”

“Hmm... I wonder.” “Is that so?” “At that time...”

Taira no Masakado tilted his head. He remembered exhaling rainbow-hued aspirations with him over wine—those days when Sumitomo would denounce corrupt nobles, raise his eyes in indignant lament, and spin grand vows to "save the suffering masses" or "become a merciful father to this wretched age." These memories lingered clearly enough. But that was simply Sumitomo's nature—his signature performance. Those impassioned tones and drunken tears flowed whenever wine loosened his tongue, not just during their Mount Hiei meeting. Masakado had long dismissed it as mere rhetorical habit. True, he too shared some of Sumitomo's grievances against this decaying world—enough to raise cups in solidarity when drinking, singing, or venting fury. But forming some secret pact to overthrow the realm? In a drunken stupor? Unthinkable. Yet now this "Mount Hiei Pact" was being pompously invoked, leaving him flustered and grasping for words. Taira no Masakado found himself tongue-tied.

“Hmm… Now that you mention it, Fujiwara no Sumitomo often spoke of grand ambitions, but since he has a past of piracy in the Seto Inland Sea, I had assumed he was referring to that. What exactly does the Mount Hiei Pact refer to?” “Ahahahaha! No need to hide it. I’m part of the crew too.” “But regarding that—you’re saying he came as a messenger?” “Well, there’s no need to rush into settling things so hastily. We both have grand designs to pursue. For now, I’ll be staying here a while, so let’s talk properly when the time’s right. …But more importantly—what’s next for you? ……Hey, Masakado. Haven’t you met that Kusabue-like lady from the Eguchi pleasure quarters since then? Ahahahaha! You’re still single, aren’t you? You’re still spineless, aren’t you?”

Rōyū

I couldn’t match him. No matter what，I just couldn’t hold my own against him. Between Fujinin and him，it was like an adult and a child.

To be sure, on the very night in the spring of his sixteenth year when Masakado first set foot on the capital's soil—the night he was nearly abducted by a strange nun and taken into Gion Forest—Yasaka no Fujinin had already been established as a full-fledged bandit chieftain among those shadowy denizens of the night who gathered around bonfires.

(It’s only natural I can’t match him…)

Taira no Masakado inwardly lowered his guard. At the same moment, he recalled Fujinin’s uncanny ability to appear and vanish throughout the capital—and suddenly his drunken warmth turned to a chill. Through strange ties dating back to his first day studying in Kyoto, this man had taught him the taste of wine and introduced him to its emotional facets. Over time, he had grown so accustomed that fear dissolved, their interactions becoming like those of irreplaceable friends. Yet now, upon reflection, he realized this was no ordinary companion—but an extraordinary figure.

It was fortunate he hadn't yet revealed his true lineage to my brothers. His past identity must never be disclosed. Moreover, should my sworn uncles learn of it, it would spell dire consequences. It was perfect fodder for slanderous campaigns to destroy me. Taira no Masakado found himself torn between thoughts, unable to succumb to drunkenness.

“...Hey.” “What’s wrong?” “You’re not getting drunk at all, are you?”

Fujinin kept refilling his cup by himself, “A mansion without women’s company feels rather lonesome.” “Why haven’t you taken a wife?”

With that, he stared intently at his companion’s sober face.

“Nah, I’ll take a wife soon enough.”

Taira no Masakado smiled faintly. He was remembering Kikyō in his heart. “Marry already, quickly. Youth is fleeting. Once you’re caught up in grand ambitions for the future, you won’t have time to glance back at flowers from horseback… Do you have someone in mind? A lover?” “It’s not that there isn’t.” “That’s good enough. I’m relieved—now that I’m relieved, let’s turn in for the night.” “In my merriment, I had forgotten to be considerate.”

Wako must have been exhausted. “Spare me—spare me!”

He was a convenient guest. But there was something of a starving wolf in his demeanor. There was no telling when he might try to greedily devour chickens or rabbits into his thinly coiled belly.

The next day，Taira no Masakado told his brothers the following.

“His manner’s rough, but he’s an interesting fellow.” “Even so, in the capital, he’s the esteemed second son of a noble courtier who served as Fifth Rank Chamberlain.” “It seems he couldn’t maintain his official career due to heavy drinking and debauchery, ending up ruining himself like some disgraced noble… But during my student days, he was kind enough to look after me.” “You all, make sure to treat him well.” “For the time being, he probably intends to tour the Eastern Provinces and then return.” The brothers did not doubt him.

In the faces of his brothers nodding in unison, Masakado found his sole satisfaction. It was their obedience—the unconditional trust they placed in their older brother. Even more than their elder brother—the innocence of those unacquainted with the world. He felt responsible. He felt the weight of responsibility, thinking he must bring happiness to each of these faces. “Brother… Might I ask the guest’s name?”

Shichirō Masatame, the youngest brother, suddenly asked. "Ah. Right. "His name is Fujiwara no Fujinin." "...Since he's living idly, he holds no official title."

While answering, somewhere in his pores grew damp with sweat.

The Immortal One himself had been drinking since noon. Taira no Masakado, fearing he might get caught again and be unable to leave his seat, "I’ll head to the provincial office while I can." With that, he had his two young attendants Nashimaru and Koharumaru take the horses’ reins, and due to the incident from days prior, brought along about ten other retainers behind him as he set out for the provincial governor’s office. Though unclear what it entailed, a summons had arrived during his absence ordering him to appear. The round trip to the provincial office required an overnight stay. Worst case, he feared Ōryō Kunikiyo or Yoshimasa might have preempted him by filing some lawsuit, and though filled with mounting anxiety, Masakado had prepared countless arguments along the way to dismantle their fabrications.

The expectation proved wrong. But it had turned out to be a fortunate matter instead. Through the promulgation of a Grand Council decree, an official appointment had arrived for him from the capital. By decree, Taira no Kojirō Masakado, formerly of the Takiguchi Imperial Guards and holding the Seventh Rank, Junior Grade, was hereby appointed as steward of the Sōma Imperial Estate. Thus it was written.

Masakado was overjoyed precisely because the appointment came unexpectedly. The Imperial Cuisine Offices were imperial estates scattered across the provinces. This official position entailed managing provisions for the Daizenryō—the fish and fowl, fruits, vegetable oils, and vegetables harvested there—and dispatching them seasonally to the Imperial Court. Though a petty provincial post compared to capital courtiers, in rural domains even the lowliest official title fundamentally altered both the residents' trust and its perceived authority. Masakado—casting aside years of resentment toward the Left Minister's house that had exploited him—now directed his gratitude toward Lord Tadahira of Koichijō, sincerely thanking his patron before returning triumphantly to Toyoda.

The younger brothers rejoiced. Family members and servants alike all offered their congratulations. For the old mansion that had known nothing but misfortune, this was truly the first auspicious event since Masakado's return home. Precisely because of this, the servants immediately spread word through the village, turning it into the entire settlement's joy until the gatefront buzzed with activity.

But the one who heard this and laughed mockingly alone was Rōyū, lurking deep within.

“How laughable, Masakado. What’s so auspicious about being appointed caretaker of fields and marsh waterfowl? Though if this were some grand stratagem of long-term planning—fine—but with everyone carrying on like this, even I’d have to cough up some hollow congratulation.”

An old acquaintance.

The homeland was fond of festivals. In Sashima, Katsushika, Tsukuba, Yūki—even here in Toyoda District—any occasion became a festival.

When the native people heard that the Young Lord of the Mansion had received a Grand Council decree and been appointed steward of the imperial estate, they gathered at once at the local tutelary deity’s shrine—their joy and anxiety mingling like five winds and ten rains in perfect balance. They brought out primitive instruments and masks, performed twenty-five Kagura dances, pounded rice cakes in every household, poured black sake, and sang. At night, they held a song-gathering in the shrine precincts where countless lanterns had been extinguished all at once—maidens and married women alike waited in the heart-pounding darkness for men’s hands to find theirs. Another’s husband and another’s wife. Stranger youths and stranger maidens. No matter how intimately they frolicked, within the festival grounds both people and gods forgave—such was the custom of that time, never deeming it sin. It was merely that they continued practicing vestiges of ancient human customs from when giant beasts had roared in the primeval forests here—never forgetting them. And this was their supreme joy—these peasants who gave no thought to the capital’s skies, the sweat dripping onto soil, or corvée labor.

“Well then, Masakado. Take care of yourself—I’ll definitely stop by again on my way back from Mutsu. After winter passes—it’ll be next year by then—but I’ll come without fail.”

That night.

The Immortal One suddenly announced his departure.

He said he was heading to the remote depths of Tōhoku—where the Emishi people still held considerable power—around Hiraizumi. The purpose was gold. To achieve one’s aims required gold. He said he would acquire gold dust and bring it back. Masakado had no knowledge of geography. He could only stare wide-eyed and listen. (——Is he going off to steal or something?) He had wanted so badly to ask—but as he hesitated to voice it, merely by the look on his face, The Immortal One burst out laughing as if he had read Masakado’s mind.

“Even the capital’s phantom thief becomes like a monkey fallen from its tree once exiled from Kyoto.” “The provinces don’t suit my methods.” “This backwater won’t tolerate phantom thieves appearing and vanishing at will.” “Don’t make that face, Masakado.” “I’m not going to steal—I’ll bring proper trade goods to exchange for gold dust.” “That’s well enough—but these trade goods...” “I’ve stored them in another man’s mansion.” “Guess whose.” “Go on.” “How should I know? Things kept in someone else’s estate—” “But Wako—you must have seen her.”

“I? Hmm...” “At Hatori no Yoshikane’s mansion—there was a beautiful woman from the capital, wasn’t there? A bit older, around twenty-five or twenty-six—” “Huh? …Tamamushi?”

“That’s right. “One year, a large group of us—Sumitomo, Ki no Akishige, Tsutsushinari, and others—went to see them off to Eguchi’s pleasure quarters when they were returning to Iyo. You came along too, Wako.” “There was. There was… but what does Tamamushi have to do with that?” “There was… but what does Tamamushi have to do with that?” “I’ll be straight with you—she was an acquaintance of mine. The woman from a different pleasure house than where Sumitomo and I caroused that night—Taira no Sadamori frequented her. That Sadamori once guided Yoshikane when he came to the capital, and through that connection, he was compelled to withdraw to the eastern provinces. That’s the Tamamushi being kept by Hatori.”

Unbelievable. He couldn't bring himself to see her as the woman Yasaka described. She had seemed noble and kind-hearted—that was his impression. At least in his memory and deepest feelings, that was how it remained. "You'll understand in time." "Anyway, I'll come again next year." "Farewell..." Despite the late hour, he departed from Toyoda. Without mounting a horse or revealing where he might stay—even Masakado, raised in wilderness—found himself astonished at his way of living. Like an owl, he dissolved completely into darkness. Masakado recalled how that man had always kept a bonfire burning in Gion's shadowy forests, surrounded by dubious companions. There had also been that incident where he stripped Minister of the Left Tadahira naked, abducted his lover Lady Hydrangea Jar, hid her until her beauty faded, then returned her to the minister's bedchamber. The man could only be called extraordinary. Would he truly return next year? In any case, Masakado felt relief seeing off this peculiar guest.

However, after about half a month had passed, unpleasant rumors reached his ears. Nashimaru, who had gone on an errand as far as Shimotsuma in Hitachi Province, stopped by the house of Fushimi no Jō, the Noshimo Armorer, as a courtesy from the other day—and there too the rumors were brought up; he heard them elsewhere as well.

The rumor was that Tamamushi—the concubine Yoshikane had ceased to favor—had suddenly vanished from the Hatori mansion. They divided their efforts to search, but she was nowhere to be found. As a result, (They were certain she must have fled to Masakado. They had ample reason to suspect.)

And so, with the Hatori people spreading this as their motive, their speculations sprouted tails and fins, (To think that the Young Lord of Toyoda has brazenly stolen his uncle's beloved concubine!)

...that this was now being gossiped about far and wide. Nashimaru had heard that Tasuku, the eldest son of Minamoto no Mamoru, had come to the Noshimo Armorer's house, declared it to be Masakado's doing, and denounced him as inhuman. After reporting that exact account to Masakado, Nashimaru added further. “That’s absurd!” “That’s pure nonsense!” “If those Hatori bastards are so suspicious, why don’t they come to Toyoda Mansion to see for themselves?” “What right do they have to say anything without even coming to see for themselves?” “So I thought—and at the Noshimo Armorer’s house—I shouted my piece.” “But the old man and woman there were also furious—agreeing ‘That’s right! That’s right!’” “The blacksmith’s daughter—Lady Kikyō—was also crying.” “It’s... regrettable.” “Even before this—it was frustrating—but today I returned home swallowing tears of bitter frustration that surpassed even that.”

Masakado simply listened in silence. Wondering if he didn't care much about it at all, Nashimaru suddenly looked up at his master, who resembled a wooden statue. There was a countenance that could not be discerned as either anger or tears. Nashimaru, filled with regret, closed his mouth. While suppressing his own tears, he bowed before his master—and from the wooden statue's eyes too, two streams of tears trickled down.

The Silent One

To swear to oneself for a period of time and work mindlessly like a fool—this was something a serious person often resolved to do. It was a form of self-abasement, yet within him lay a satisfaction imperceptible to others. The year had ended with his anguish still unresolved, but as the new year dawned and Jōhei 2 began, Masakado underwent an epiphany. He swore a similar vow to himself alone. Self-mastery. Become a fool, become a fool—that became his mantra. And with that, he set his goal: "Just wait and see."

"This is a relief," he thought. Masakado believed he had saved himself from crisis. Though no fool, he would play the fool while steadfastly pursuing his goal—in five or ten years' time, he would demonstrate through his achievements that he was no idiot after all, proving those uncles wrong. "Amusing," he mused. "To become The Silent One. If I simply imagine myself once more as the Left Minister's groom, it means nothing."

He plugged his ears to the world. No matter what rumors the household members or servants heard from outside and came to report, he resolved to laugh them off. If only they cultivated the land, new farmland could be endlessly acquired. They cut down mountain forests, filled marshes, and diligently worked on flood control—even in just that single year, the area and agricultural production of Toyoda Village transformed its reputation. At that time, from Jōhei 2 to 3, a nationwide great famine struck the length and breadth of Japan. In autumn, the cold persisted; the following May, though it was apricot blossom season, frost fell across various regions; and that summer brought repeated typhoon strikes and the emergence of floods.

Therefore, by autumn of the second year, the regional tribute-tax goods were not sent to the capital at all.

The Emperor issued an edict reducing the usual quantity of the imperial meals to one-fourth of their normal amount.

(——Furthermore, reduce the quantity of the imperial meals to one-fourth of their usual amount.) This edict, issued as a model of frugality for the court nobles, was proclaimed as often as twice a year. Moreover, in the western sea regions such as Shikoku and Kyushu, which had suffered relatively little damage, pirate uprisings were frequently heard of.

The pirates of the Inland Sea targeted and attacked the tribute ships bound for the capital's official storehouses. "It's Sumitomo of Iyo... Sumitomo's doing." This rumor too compounded the capital's unrest. The Granary Office's reserves dwindled daily to disheartening levels merely from distributing gruel to paupers within the capital. At Ōiryō's Granary Office, financial officials turned ashen-faced as they urgently pressed manor offices across the realm - both private estates and public lands - demanding tax collection and transport.

Naturally, in every region, the tax officials' levies reached extremes of harshness. The powerless people of this era, lacking any legal protection whether to resist or appeal, had no choice but to submit to every oppressive exaction. Even if their lifeblood were wrung dry, they had to pay. In the folk songs of Heian subjects from that time— Ornamental combs— Seventeen We had them once, Takefu no Assistant Governor's They take at dawn, they take again at dusk, Once they had taken all, No ornamental combs remained. It was a ballad so vivid one could almost see the face of the peasant’s wife lamenting that even her hair ornaments had been seized by subordinates of provincial assistant governors in place of meager tax goods. The local children, it seems, innocently sang of that resentment for generations to come.

But when even combs were gone and they had nothing left to sustain their meager lives, they resorted to their last means—abandoning their huts, forsaking their villages, scattering their families, and casting themselves into slavery however they could. Whether temples, government offices, or warrior households—wherever power resided—they entered into service as slaves or servants. Taxes could not be imposed upon such stateless people. In other words, they discarded their very status to escape taxation’s burden.

Such tax-evading refugees swarmed into Masakado’s Toyoda Village as well.

Masakado did not pursue them. Rather, he considered it a blessing— “Those who can’t eat—work with me. Where there’s work, there’s no famine.” he took them in. As a result, while the mansion’s extended family structure expanded and the villagers continued to multiply, they employed rapid reclamation methods like slash-and-burn agriculture and worked together in a desperate frenzy for approximately two and a half years.

Though the world was said to suffer through the Great Jōhei Famine, Toyoda Village instead increased its wealth during this period.

The tribute goods from the Sōma Imperial Kitchen, which had been appointed by the imperial court, were properly sent to the capital each spring and autumn, and the land taxes were also fully paid. Moreover, the pasture mares that had promptly begun breeding all gave birth to foals, and now three-year-old spring colts, two-year-olds, and yearlings began frolicking in herds at Ōmusubi no Maki, presenting a scene that increasingly resembled former times. No—an even greater force at play was how the minor warlords of neighboring districts like Yūki and Sashima, drawn by the allure of his descent from Emperor Kammu’s line and witnessing firsthand both his efforts and Toyoda Village’s rapid growth, had begun forging allegiances to Masakado’s mansion through various means.

To this as well, he—

“Hmm, shall we unite as one?” “Very well.” “Rather than remaining small and cramped, growing tangled together, let us form a clan united in strength—sink deep roots and become a great tree.” He refused none who came, sharing cups with all who approached. There seemed to be in him a leader’s charisma that inspired such devotion. This custom of Kantō Hasshū—where bands of chivalrous warriors pledged loyalty through shared cups for generations—might indeed trace its origins to remnants of clan alliances forged during the Bandō Kōya era of Heian times, alliances born from necessity within this region’s primal systems to survive harsh realities.

Kikyō bloomed.

Though it was nowhere near the scale of the inheritance embezzled by his three uncles, Masakado had at least managed to recover his family’s fortunes for the time being. He had narrowly restored the ancestral Toyoda Mansion, which had been on the verge of collapse. Not a single field had been returned from his uncles’ hands, but through his own effort and sweat, he had managed to recover a fraction—perhaps one-tenth—of the family estate lands that had been seized. "Heaven has shown me mercy. "I have my motivation—and a secret joy known to none."

The secret that had occasionally made him smirk throughout three years of silence was first revealed to his clan brothers in the first month of Jōhei 5 (935 CE).

“This year, I’ll take a wife……Who is it? Take a guess!”

It was the night of a New Year’s banquet. He had made this sudden declaration before the crowd—in his characteristic manner. “If true, this would bring great joy to the clan. Even you, my lord, have reached thirty-five years of age.” The assembly murmured and raised their cups in unison—but who could this woman be, whom Masakado had resolved to take as his lawful wife? None could even begin to guess. In those days, the custom of early marriage prevailed not only in the Heian capital but also in the provinces, where many took wives at thirteen or fourteen—or fifteen or sixteen years. This did not mean Masakado had lacked women by his side until thirty-five. He had kept wives in all but name within the village. They might have dwelled in another wing of the mansion—he likely did not even know for certain. Yet he had never taken a lawful wife.

“Brother. I know… Shall I take a guess?”

The one who had spoken was his younger brother, Masayori. Masayori exchanged a glance with Nashimaru, who stood behind him, and laughed. “What? You know?”

“I know it!” “Then guess.” “What will you give me if I’m right?” “For you—the whole Moriya district, Mikuriya imperial lands included.”

“Oh… I wouldn’t make such a demand, Brother.” “Enough—just take a guess!”

“The one from Noshimo… Lady Kikyō, I presume?”

“That’s right!”

Masakado clapped his hands. The voice that declared "That's right!" was so thunderously loud that everyone froze, their gazes fixed on Masakado. What's more, Masakado hastily brought the cup to his lips, tears welling in his eyes. Then he gave the cup to Masayori.

“You got it right, Masayori! You understood after all—I’m so glad. ……What say you, Masahira? Masafumi? Masatake? Masatame?”

He looked around at all his younger brothers' faces, “Is it acceptable for me to marry Lady Kikyō, or not? That’s what I want to hear. All of you—speak up. Speak without hesitation. Is it acceptable or not for her to be the northern lady of this mansion?” he asked with terrifying seriousness.

Starting with Masayori, his brothers answered one after another.

“There is neither good nor bad in it. If it’s the one whom Brother loves—”

“Brother, this must be your resolve, though—” “We had heard hints from Brother Masayori.” “Even though there is someone you love so dearly, we ourselves have been waiting impatiently to know when you intended to take her as your wife.” “…………” Taira no Masakado, as though he had gained powerful allies, nodded at each word his brothers spoke, then messily wiped away the tears at the tip of his nose along with his snot. “If you all say so…”

“Why do you trouble yourself so for our sake?”

“No. To marry her, I’ll need your strength as well. To put it plainly—her father, the old man of Noshimo, says that if we cannot wed her openly with proper ceremony through insistence... then we must deign to steal his daughter away.”

“Ah, I see. If the difference in status is too great, those honest parents must be feeling inferior.” “Well… that’s not it. The reason… is entirely different.” “Then why would they desire such an old-fashioned thing? In ancient times, I have heard there was a wedding custom where the groom and his clan would go to the desired household, seize their daughter, and bring her back.” “That too is their wish—there’s no helping it. I fully understand the distress of Lady Kikyō’s parents. And I fear this hardship will eventually accumulate and weigh upon you all as well.”

……But I couldn't bring myself to abandon it. I… this brother here…

Masakado combed back his hair with his fingers. That hand, gripping the roots of his hair for who knows how long, had become a sigh quite unlike him.

Neither Masayori nor Masahira understood the deeper circumstances. They only knew that their brother’s love had been kept in his heart for four long years. And seeing their brother writhe in such anguish—not in drunken revelry, but before the crowd—they all at once assumed expressions that seemed to encourage his love, as if to say, “How could we possibly refuse?”

As for the family members and retainers, while they may have felt this was reason enough to raise another toast, there should be no objections. Soon, in unison, “Auspicious matters should be hastened. There’s even the proverb: flowers need rain, the moon needs clouds.” they roared as though singing a victory song. Blessed and encouraged by his clan in this way, Masakado too seemed to finally resolve himself firmly,

“Then by February, we shall welcome the bride here. Be prepared for every eventuality.”

he declared. The strength of alcohol was a characteristic of this era—particularly of the people of these wild plains. They emptied ten jugs of black sake (millet liquor), and still it wasn’t enough. The clan were drunk as mud turtles. And then they thoroughly celebrated Masakado’s love along with the New Year’s night.

However, there was one old man who alone watched this with unease. This was Taji no Tsuneaki, an old retainer who had served since the time of Masakado’s father, Yoshimochi. Taji no Tsuneaki, now an elderly man with dimming eyes and a bent back, too aged to be of practical use, was stationed at the guardhouse of the imperial pond in the kitchen precincts and rarely came to the mansion. Yet having chanced upon the New Year’s banquet, he sank into a deeply troubled expression.

He too seemed to have something to say, but to oppose this atmosphere—where drink-fueled vigor permeated the youthful wildness of the gathering—lay beyond the feeble willpower of an old man. As if having realized this, he alone trudged back along the dark, distant path to the imperial pond's garden precincts.

Hitachi Minamoto Clan

Throughout New Year's, celebratory guests never ceased. Masakado remained seated the entire time as he received guests, keeping up the appearance of being perpetually drunk. Today as well, Sugawara no Tadayuki had come.

“Well done, well done! You have persevered thus far.” “If the late Lord Yoshimochi were here, how greatly he would rejoice!” “Truly, as expected of Young Lord Masakado—a descendant of Emperor Kammu!” “I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am.” “I have been permitted to celebrate this fine new year in this nostalgically familiar mansion.” Tadayuki praised to the utmost Masakado’s years of self-restraint. Before this scrupulously virtuous gentleman, Masakado reverted to his childhood self—the sniveling boy he once was—merely sitting rigidly upright, expressing gratitude for past favors and vowing future diligence to restore his family’s fortunes. These remained the only topics he could bring himself to voice.

“I’m counting on you.” “Let us walk this path together from here on.”

It was Tadayuki who departed, speaking as though a true father were encouraging his true son.

After escorting the man to the mansion’s inner gate, he glanced toward the storehouses and noticed five or six packhorses had arrived. His younger brothers and household members were carrying the straw-wrapped bundles of weaponry they had unloaded from the horses’ backs into the armory. “Oh, has the armor we had ordered from Noshimo arrived again?” “Yes. As for spears, bows, and the like—once they are completed in the coming days—they will be delivered one after another.” “The horse gear, polearms, bows—they’ve all piled up in quite some quantity by now.”

“A considerable amount has been assembled,” “Would you care to inspect the three storehouses once?” “No, let’s leave it for today… Instead—Masayori and Masahira—could you come to my quarters for a moment?”

Masakado eventually placed the two younger brothers who had followed from behind in front of him and said: "It was the night before last. At the New Year's night banquet." "Yes." "It seems I was in quite a lighthearted mood. Unintentionally, I ended up mentioning Lady Kikyō. She was a woman I couldn't give up on—I never once thought of abandoning my feelings—but neither did I intend... to speak of her in that way." "Is that not perfectly fine? Rather than keeping your feelings wrapped up as they are forever—"

“When you said that for me… tears spilled from my eyes—Masayori, Masahira.” “…To confess—there’s another man staking his life to love Lady Kikyō besides me.” “For me, he’s nothing less than a formidable rival in this.”

“What’s wrong?” “Brother, how can you let love defeat you?” “If there’s a rival out there, we won’t let you become some heartbroken fool.” “Right, Masahira?”

“Absolutely. Who’s this rival?” “Well—it’s Minamoto no Mamoru’s sons.” “The sons? That’s absurd. Mamoru’s eldest—Tasuku? The second son—Takashi? Or perhaps the third son—Shigeru?” “Precisely—a laughable farce. Tasuku and Takashi are both vying for Lady Kikyō too. Because of this squabble between brothers, neither can simply claim her. Kikyō’s parents have skillfully used their rivalry as pretexts to refuse both suitors... but those excuses are wearing thin now that they’re cornered.”

“So you mean—” “It seems Tasuku and Takashi, being brothers after all, discussed it and decided to draw lots to determine whose love would prevail—who gets to claim Kikyō.” “Th-that’s ridiculous! Treating the woman I love like… like some gambling chip…” Even the gentle Masayori burst out indignantly. “Then does Fushimi no Jō of Noshimo mean to hand his daughter over to one of them?”

“No, Lord Fushimi no Jō may be an armorer by trade, but his spirit is unyielding. Of course, he has no intention of doing so. He has sworn that to me as well.” “When did you meet him?” “If he were to come here openly, it would draw too many eyes. That’s why he always slips quietly into the imperial kitchen’s garden instead. We met countless times in that Ikemori Cottage where Tsuneaki lives—pitiful, isn’t it? Even that old lord of Noshimo, driven by love for his dear Lady Kikyō’s sweetness, visits me at every turn like the proverb says: ‘a crane wanders lost at night for its young.’”

“In that case, Lord Fushimi no Jō also wishes to wed his daughter to you, Brother, and Lady Kikyō also holds feelings for you.”

“Well… That’s how it is.”

Taira no Masakado’s face turned red. He nodded reservedly, as if fearing his brothers might laugh at him for being conceited. “Then what reason could there possibly be for hesitation?” “If you’d just promptly execute the method that old man devised—in a way that gives Tasuku and Takashi a plausible excuse—that would settle everything.” “No—what I fear lies beyond that.” “However you look at it, the Minamoto no Mamoru clan heads the Hitachi Genji lineage across Niihari, Makabe, and Tsukuba districts.” “They’re also one of Bandō’s few great clans, with Saga Genji allies spread throughout the provinces.”

“But… Brother.” “This is about love.” “No matter if he’s the Saga Genji heir, he can’t openly wield such power over just one woman.” “But... Brother.” “Unfortunately, even Mamoru’s two daughters have been married off to our uncles.” “One became Yoshikane-dono’s wife.” “The other was taken as Yoshimasa-dono’s wife.” “No matter how these ties connect.—Then Brother, can you truly abandon your feelings for Lady Kikyō?”

“I can’t… let go…”

Taira no Masakado closed his eyes. “Then even if you must brace yourself against future complaints and some unpleasantness, isn’t pressing forward your only path?” “Will you forgive me?” “Such faint-hearted talk.” “I don’t waver.” “This is my own love.” “I’d stake my life to see it through.” “Now then, Masayori—as I told you two nights past, you shall separate from the main house and soon take residence near the imperial kitchen.” “I grant you all the rice fields in the Moriya region there.” “And Masahira shall hold the Iwai district of Sashima.”

“You need not trouble yourself over our circumstances at such a time as this.”

“Someday, I must gradually do the same for Masabumi and Masatake as well—they’ve all reached the age when it’s necessary. Since this is a fatherless household, I must finish what my father left undone. Ahahaha... Now that I’m caught up in love, I’ve become such a troublesome substitute parent, making even you all worry. You must think I’m not much of a pillar to lean on now...” The two younger brothers meekly bowed their heads. Together, they were reminded of the melancholy of their childhood. Taira no Masakado wore a look of remorse, as though regretting having made them cry.

Then, despite being typically timid and nervous, Masayori resolutely wiped away his tears and spoke up.

“I understand.” “I’ve come to fully grasp both your feelings and circumstances.” “As you commanded, I’ll leave for the imperial kitchen within days.” “Masahira will do likewise.—Now then, Brother.” “When will you bring your lover home?” “When you ride to Noshimo to take Lady Kikyō, take me with you.” “Brother… Me too.”

Then Masahira, too, pressed his brother.

Plunder

The fields and hills still lay barren in winter’s desolation. The wind of early Kisaragi whistled through reed plumes, while evening hail—fallen so abundantly—glittered with moonlit whiteness upon both wild paths and village roofs.

That day. Fushimi no Jō's house remained hushed throughout the day. Neither the old man nor his disciples showed any sign of beginning their work.

At the evening meal, parent and daughter quietly exchanged cups of earthenware, and the old woman who was Kikyō’s mother kept wiping her eyelids. She put on makeup. She faced the mirror again and again, fixing her tear-swollen face. The disciples were keeping watch both inside and outside.

Before long, torches could be seen waving in the distant fields. “Then…”

Suddenly, both the old man and the old woman—and the entire household—burst into commotion.

“Quiet… Stay quiet.” In tears, they sent Kikyō off through the small gate in the earthen wall. Kikyō wore a layered kosode with collars of pale plum, green, white, and purple, her glossy black hair cascading down her back. But no sooner had she taken a few steps beyond her parents’ gate than the Akagi oroshi wind whipped through, tearing at her hair and sleeves as though to shred them into the sky.

They must have been lying in wait nearby all along. Swiftly, over ten figures rose from the shadows of trees and clumps of grass, approaching Kikyō. Even Kikyō let out an "Ah—" in a faint voice. And then, she was hoisted onto the horse’s back, bound to the saddle with cloth, and galloped away eastward. As if signaling those waiting in the distance, the torches that had been seen earlier were now moving busily across the open plain. Depending on how one looked at it, the flames could be interpreted as conveying some message to the old man and woman of Noshimo.

The old woman and the old man returned inside the house and comforted each other over the endlessness of their aged tears. “How lonely. It feels as though we’ve lost a jewel from our hands… Yet our daughter’s wish has been fulfilled. It may be a sorrowful wedding, but put yourself in Kikyō’s place and rejoice for her. Kikyō’s heart has already gone to Toyoda. No, those torches seen waving in the distant field—they might have been those the groom himself was brandishing.”

Throughout the night, the old couple reminisced about memories from Kikyō's birth to this very day—no matter how much they spoke, their stories seemed endless—and as they shared them, they sank into tears again and again. The following day as well, the armorer’s residence remained hushed as though night had returned.

The disciples, even to their fellow craftsmen in the village, “Lady Kikyō has been missing since yesterday evening.” concealed the facts. And, “Whether she was abducted by Hiraizumi human traffickers or taken by a bandit gang—” they deliberately spread exaggerated rumors far and wide. Such cases were not unheard of. If one ventures into the semi-Emishi territories (lands of the subjugated Emishi) in Mutsu Province, it is said that beautiful women are bought and sold at high prices. Moreover, the traffickers who import beauties all the way from the capital often pass through the northern regions.

In fact, just a few years ago, there was an instance where even a woman confined within Hatoori no Yoshikane’s private chambers—a woman from such a heavily fortified mansion—had abruptly vanished without a trace.

Moreover, even if one appealed to the Provincial Governor’s office or the District Governor’s office, there was nothing to be done. Even with all his influence, Hatoori no Yoshikane’s beloved concubine Tamamushi vanished without a trace—no one ever discovered where she had gone. For a time, suspicion had fallen on Masakado hiding her, and investigations were conducted. But once the truth emerged—that she was nowhere to be found in Toyoda or beyond—the rumors finally subsided about a year or two before.

Scion of a Noble House “What? What’s this? ‘Kikyō has gone missing?’” “—‘Kikyō has gone missing’?” Tasuku, eldest son of Minamoto no Mamoru, had gone to visit Yoshimasa of Mimori at his mansion that day. Before even meeting Yoshimasa, at the gate, he was informed of the matter by Yoshimasa’s retainers. “That can’t be left alone. “This is a crisis!”

He immediately turned his horse and galloped off toward Noshimo. The eldest son of the Saga Genji was already of a considerable age. He had both a legal wife and concubines. But love seemed to follow a different path. A rare dandy in the provinces, his resplendent long sword, hunting attire, and splendidly decorated horse gear never failed to catch the eyes of rustic peasants in the remote fief. And he always traveled with seven or eight retainers in tow. “Hurry up! Idiots! Don’t fall behind, you lot!” “Idiots!” “Don’t fall behind, you lot!”

From horseback, he occasionally turned back to scold the retainers who couldn't keep pace, his tone as urgent as if charging toward a battlefield.

Was this Takashi’s doing? …… That’s it. If things went badly, that brother of mine was capable of something like that.

Fully suspecting, he burst into the village residence of Fushimi no Jō, the Noshimo Armorer. However, his younger brother Takashi had already arrived there before him—though he didn’t know where he’d gotten the information. Ever since that evening, both the old man and the old woman had taken to their beds, refusing to meet anyone as they lay sunk in grief.

He had gathered the disciples and various craftsmen of the village and was interrogating them in minute detail. “I can’t quite figure it out—the fact that Kikyō has vanished seems true enough, but the circumstances before and after don’t add up.”

“Takashi. Is there really no clue at all?” “Ah, Elder Brother. This was a bit of an oversight on our part. From what I can gather, I suspect it might be Toyoda.” “Masakado? …Hm, I did consider that once, but that coward wouldn’t dare pull off such an audacious stunt. He’s fully aware that Kikyō is under our control—that bastard knows it a hundred times over.” “Could it be that in our fixation on such thoughts, we’ve been outmaneuvered by a hawk? Upon reflection, over the past year or two, the majority of arms produced here in Noshimo have been purchased by Toyoda. It’s possible that Masakado and Fushimi no Jō had already reached some agreement without us noticing.”

Takashi shook his stout, short frame and repeatedly darted his sunken eyes around the area. He declared with absolute certainty based on his instincts.

Tasuku turned pale. It seemed to be his nature to turn pale when enraged.

“Hey, Takashi. Tie Fushimi no Jō and his wife to your horse’s back and bring them to the mansion afterward. Understood?” Having given those orders, he returned to his mansion ahead of the others in sullen displeasure.

Before long, Takashi arrived afterward. However, he had not brought the old couple of Noshimo with him. When asked what had happened, it was said that the old man and woman had cleaned a single room, laid out their pillows, and taken their own lives as though going to sleep. “Just send spies into Toyoda territory—you’ll see the truth at once.” “Is there any room left for doubt?”

Takashi’s words had been proven correct within a few days. Having both fallen into despair, these brothers—united in their hatred of Masakado and their shared aim of revenge—suddenly grew closer than any siblings anywhere else. “That bastard has retainers too.” “We can’t act rashly.” “What should we do about him?”

The two brothers racked their brains, determined that any plan they implemented must completely strangle Masakado’s life. But when it came to complete elimination, no brilliant plan readily came to mind.

Then, it was the end of February.

A messenger arrived from Kunikiyo, the Provincial Governor of Ishida. When they opened the letter, it read as follows. "My son Taira no Sadamori, who had long been stationed in the capital, has suddenly returned home. This return serves both to inform this old father of his recent appointment as Assistant Master of the Right Stables and, as part of his official duties en route, to inspect the tribute horses from pastures across the eastern provinces for this spring’s Imperial Horse Presentation. He will only have leisure to rest his travel-weary body at our ancestral home for these scant two or three days. I earnestly hope that during this brief period, we might meet again after so long, share tales of the realm, and fully express the affection I have long held for you."

I humbly await your arrival. I earnestly entreat you both to grace us with your presence together.

Wealth and Accumulated Sins

In Hitachi, the seasons differ considerably between the north and south. The Ishida mansion was located in Minami-Hitachi.

February. The wind from Tsukuba still carried a chill, but on the earthen walls of the grand mansion and the lattice fence of the inner gate, red and white plum blossoms had already begun to bloom.

Provincial Governor Kunikiyo had been in high spirits since morning. Like a sage of Penglai, his white hair was neatly combed and tied, and a sparse white beard hung down the front of his court robe. He kept his eboshi hat and garments perfectly arranged as he busied himself with preparations for receiving guests.

Before long, the household staff and samurai came and announced that the preparations were complete. “I see. “Not just around the guest gate—you’ve cleaned the stables where visitors’ horses are tethered too, haven’t you? I detest sloppy stables.” “We cleaned so that not a single straw remains out of place.”

“Good, good… They should be arriving soon,” he murmured contentedly, squinting his aged eyes as he gazed dazedly at the spring sunlight bathing the garden. “What is Lord Assistant Master of the Right Stables doing at present?” “He has just left the bathhouse and is graciously changing his attire.” “He’s become quite the capital gentleman.” “He’s quite the dandy indeed.” “Once you’ve finished preparing, would you kindly come here and speak with your father until the guests arrive?”

The “Lord Assistant Master of the Right Stables” referred to his own eldest son, formerly known as Taira no Sadamori. Having newly been promoted to Assistant Master of the Right Stables, this old father had lately been deliberately making his household address him thus, combining affection with pride.

“Father, please come here.” “Oh, Sadamori.” “Well, sit.” “The weather has been most favorable.” “Who might today’s guests be?” “The main guest is Lord Minamoto no Mamoru. Along with Yoshimasa of Mizumori and Yoshikane of Hatori—though I’ve kept it strictly to close associates.” “What of Lord Mamoru’s sons?” “They will come.” “I’ve already made the arrangements.” “Though I have been away in the capital for so long without returning home, your manor lands have expanded beyond comparison to before, your retainers and vassals multiplied, and this mansion has become splendid enough to be unrecognizable indeed.” “A lifestyle of this magnitude cannot be achieved even in the capital unless one holds a position as high as Minister or Governor-General.”

“However, my official rank remains unchanged as Provincial Governor.” “No matter what they say, staying in the countryside leaves one at a disadvantage.” “You have become Assistant Master of the Right Stables and will soon rise to Commander of the Imperial Guards.” “In terms of official rank, you are far above this old father now.” “In the capital, I have somehow managed to receive the patronage of figures such as Prince Shikibu of Ninna-ji, the Minister of the Right’s household, and Lord Kujō no Morosuke.” “In the capital, above all else, one cannot rise in status without gaining proximity to the regent families and imperial princes.” “Ah—that reminds me—how has Kojirō Masakado been faring these days?”

“Masakado, you say?… Heh heh heh,” Kunikiyo laughed, curling back his lower lip. This old father—who melted into such tenderness when looking at Sadamori that he seemed ready to enfold him within his very gaze—let a glint of cursing seep from the depths of his eyes at the mere mention of Masakado’s name. Provincial Governor Kunikiyo—now enthroned in his Bandō mansion that rivaled the capital’s grandeur, presiding over cowering retainers and kin while affecting the air of a virtuous patriarch—must have, through half a lifetime spent building his dominion over Minami-Hitachi, strangled within himself all notions of faith, mercy, or affection. To the world, he instead chose ruthless stratagems as his keys to success, amassing wealth through rapacious accumulation. Now in his seventies, traces of that avaricious demon from eras past—though deeply buried—would sometimes ooze up through the crevices of his wrinkled countenance.

“He’s a nuisance, that Masakado… Even now, at every turn, he trots out Yoshimochi’s will and those ancient estate deeds to make a fuss.” “He seems to harbor a remarkably deep-seated grudge.” “Because of that, we too cannot rest easy.” “Yoshikane and Yoshimasa both say that very thing is the root of calamity amidst the clan’s prosperity.” “It must be the dullard’s stubbornness.” “Because he’s not clever, that only makes dealing with him all the more troublesome. Hahaha!” “You think this is a laughing matter, Sadamori?” “To begin with, you were somewhat negligent yourself.”

“Heh. Do I too bear guilt?” “Oh, there is—don’t play the fool with me like that.” “Hmm? Do enlighten me.” “It is a matter of the past now, but when Masakado was still in the capital, did I not instruct you in that secret letter? ...If that Masakado were to return safely to the homeland, it would spell trouble. I told you to deal with him somehow while he was still in the capital.” “Ah, right—I do recall. During his time in the capital—whenever an opportunity arose—I too attempted to secretly tail him. But it would have been disastrous if I’d botched it. In the end, I simply never found the right moment to kill him. Moreover, given that he is such a dull-witted man devoid of talent, we also took into account that even if he were to return home, you, Father, and my uncles could easily deal with him—though that too was a factor in our underestimation.”

“No—dull though he may be, letting that brute return home was like taking a beast’s cub we’d driven into the capital’s cage, raising it there, only to deliberately release it back into Bandō’s wilderness.” “That oversight of yours—that’s precisely the issue!” “This is an unexpectedly harsh rebuke to receive after all this time.” “I’m not saying this formally, but mark my words—at today’s banquet, Yoshimasa and Yoshikane will undoubtedly dredge up that matter.” “I’m telling you this in advance out of parental concern.” “If the uncles blame you, explain it away properly.”

Diabolical Scheme While it was framed as a farewell banquet for Sadamori’s return to the capital, it also likely served as a celebration of his promotion to Assistant Master of the Right Stables. The feast lasted until nightfall.

The guest of honor, Minamoto no Mamoru, due to his advanced age, made a brief appearance but departed by palanquin while daylight still lingered. Most of the clan had also dispersed, each choosing their moment to depart.—Those remaining were Yoshikane, Yoshimasa, and Mamoru’s sons—Tasuku, Takashi, and Shigeru—who had arrived slightly later, making five in total.

Having gathered the hall’s candles into one corner, the inner circle centered on Kunikiyo alone continued drinking late into the night—for their conversation had turned to Masakado.

“Please hear my brother’s lament today,” said Takashi, setting aside his own unrequited love— “For years now, my brother has been plunged into bottomless grief after Masakado stole the woman he loved… If you don’t let him drink deeply and restore his vigor, he might well perish from heartache.” He let these words spill out drunkenly.

Sadamori instead remarked half-mockingly, "Ah, Lord Tasuku—no wonder you've worn such a gloomy face. But heartbreak can't be healed by drink... even physicians would throw up their hands," he jeered.

However, Yoshimasa and Yoshikane deliberately maintained grave expressions and did not laugh. They had heard of this matter days prior, and upon learning it was Masakado behind it—a revelation that made them share in the humiliation—they fanned the flames. "If that insolent Masakado were to confront us," they pressed, "your man would lose face—and we cannot let that stand." Resentment seethed. It was utterly infuriating—even these two elders, long past their youth, found their anger showed no signs of abating.

All the while, Kunikiyo maintained a grave expression, stroking his sparse beard with his fingers as he kept darting glances at his brothers' faces and nodding emphatically at Yoshimasa's inflammatory tone.

Even without that cause, the smoldering resentment enveloping Tasuku and Takashi's hot-blooded natures had been needlessly stirred up. Then, with impassioned voices, they began giving voice to their usual bold ideas.

“Of course, we haven’t simply been lying low,” “How to lure Masakado to the killing ground—truth be told, we’ve been devising that very scheme all this time.” “If you have any sound strategies, pray share your wisdom.” They pressed their case, their drunken flush fading into pallor. While ostensibly placating this youthful fervor, words that in truth forged unshakable resolve could be discerned in the seasoned cunning of Kunikiyo and Yoshikane’s manner.

Sadamori too had thought that if Tasuku and Takashi could accomplish what he himself had previously failed to achieve, nothing would be better. That too depended on who carried it out—but if the Hitachi Minamoto clan’s heir and second and third sons were to administer justice, neither surrounding areas nor neighboring provinces would dare raise objections. The provincial governor’s office could be maneuvered as needed. As for managing perceptions in the capital—once he returned there himself, he could take preemptive steps to lay the groundwork.

Sadamori too voiced such views. Hearing this from him in his characteristically intellectual manner, Tasuku and his brothers grew even more convinced of their own plans. That Sadamori would take charge of manipulating the central government—this too they counted as a formidable advantage.

In any case, it was certain that a conspiracy had been solidified that night. That Sadamori—having long resided in the capital and rarely returned home—was present there seemed fated when later reflected upon.

That Sadamori eventually returned to the capital.

The splendor of spring fields across Bandō, transitioning from March to April, defied description. The pinnacle of natural beauty stretched endlessly across boundless wilderness in all directions. Masakado, steeped in this natural world, continued urging his household servants onward while laboring diligently himself. After taking his lover as wife and building a honey-sweet new household with Kikyō in one wing of the mansion, he worked harder still—striving to become an ideal husband. Then came early May. The day arrived just after the moon waned.

A polite messenger came from his great uncle in Ishida, Provincial Governor Kunikiyo. And there was a written document addressed to Masakado.

When he opened and read it, it was an invitation to hold a memorial service for Masakado’s father, Yoshimochi.

"Ah... So it's already my late father's seventeenth-year memorial?"

He suddenly grew dazed, seized by distant recollections.

―The day was May 4th. The location was Daihōji Temple in Niihari District. The clan would gather to conduct a memorial service for Lord Yoshimochi. As this concerned none other than the deceased himself, they earnestly requested his presence at the service—past grievances and recent discord to be set aside. Such was the message conveyed in the document. "I will attend," he resolved. "No matter what." Tears pooled unbidden in his eyes. He penned his reply and relayed an oral message to the envoy.

Blissful Hundred Days

Kikyō lowered her troubled eyes beneath her lashes upon hearing about the fourth day's matter. Like a new bride, she still maintained a certain reserve toward even her husband. “Must you really go…?”

She lowered her eyes, said only that, and maintained a posture of unshaken composure.

The next day arrived.

Kikyō, again, “Must you really go…?” She said the same as she had the day before yesterday.

Masakado slightly hardened his brows—

“More importantly, did you have the new kariginu sewn? The hakama too?” “Yes...” “The ceremonial robes are all prepared, but...” “Why make such a desolate face?—Kikyō, stop trembling your lashes so mournfully.” “Now you’ve made even me feel sorrowful—somehow I don’t want to go anymore.”

“I beg you…” Kikyō pressed her damp lashes firmly against the back of her husband’s hand as he held her. “Please don’t go—to the memorial service on the fourth.” “Why? Why?” “But… I can’t stop worrying. No—your younger brothers have also gathered around, voicing their worries to me, and insistently urged me to stop you.” “Is it Shōyori?” “No. Lord Shōhei and Lord Shōbun as well.” “You’re worried because it’s Daihōji Temple in Niihari—like venturing into enemy territory—but the sons of the Hitachi Minamoto have no connection to this memorial service. Uncles like Hatori and Mizumori will likely show up, but as long as I endure everything, matters will resolve. Even if it were another person’s memorial service—but since it is said to be my late father Yoshimochi’s, no matter how many unpleasant people gather there, I cannot refuse to go.”

“Couldn’t Lord Shōyori attend as your proxy?” “But I’m right here as the heir. ...Moreover—if this were truly proper—the memorial service ought to be held in my name as the heir. Right... That may be true, but—”

“Um, well…” “These past two or three years, I’ve been consumed with restoring our family’s fortunes. I’d wake, go out to the fields, work alongside my servants covered in dirt, then collapse my exhausted body... Kikyō, I saw only your dreams in my sleep. Those dreams drove my daytime labors—for three years now, I’ve lived clinging to night’s dreams to endure day’s weariness.” “...I did too... I did as well.” “Our dreams became entwined like this. The happiness since that February night... Now, every day overflows with it—this happiness.”

“Therefore, I want to steadfastly guard these cherished days so they might endure forever.” “Of course. “It’s just… having been granted such happiness these hundred days, I hadn’t once recalled my late Father’s seventeenth memorial in my thoughts. “They may call me unfilial—but Father knows… He must have forgiven me.”

“…………”

“I was parted from my mother without ever knowing her face, and my father died when I was but a boy. In this mansion life, I parted from that father too without ever having days to be spoiled. I think it’s all right to indulge in that affection now that he’s gone. Right, Kikyō?” “That’s why… even tomorrow’s memorial service—”

“Are you telling me not to go?” “Now, it’s become rather too late for that.” “If I go—having already sent my reply—yet fail to appear on the day itself, the entire assembly will erupt in derisive laughter, jeering that cowardice has seized me.” “It would disgrace my late father Yoshimochi.” “I am the heir of the Bandō Taira clan.” “Could I possibly not go?” Kikyō had already lost any words to stop him. Moreover, she found herself drawn to that unyielding masculinity her husband embodied. With a start, she realized she was becoming entranced by this fearsome allure. And so that night too, she spent a blissful night in those compelling arms, surrendering herself completely.

Ambush

“I’m off now.”

Taira no Masakado mounted his horse at the stable and departed from the mansion. From atop his horse, he turned back and left a cheerful remark for his new bride among the household members.

He brought only two young attendants and about ten retainers.

It was the fourth day of the fifth month of Jōhei 5.

The early morning wind through fresh greenery was refreshing.—He passed through the townhouses of Toyoda. The village’s elderly and children hurriedly moved aside for the horses and offered polite morning greetings.

Taira no Masakado— The doors of the townhouses had also improved compared to before. He gazed out, wondering if everyone’s financial state had grown somewhat more comfortable. To reach Daihōji Temple from Toyoda meant taking the Shimotsuke Road along the Keno River.—Then from somewhere along the route emerged an armored contingent that began shadowing Masakado’s retinue, their figures flickering in and out of view.

“Ah, those must be my brothers’ retainers.” Shōyori? Shōhei? Shōbun? Or were they all here together? In any case, they must have come out of genuine concern for me—the result of their deliberations. Grateful souls—heartening men they were. There was no sense in harshly scolding them and sending them away now. —Masakado pretended not to notice.

However, when they reached Nozumigahara west of the river, beyond the reeds and rushes and the undulating low hills, they saw numerous arrowheads. The spear tips glinted as well.

"What's this?...Could those be my brothers too?" As he stretched up from the saddle, a strange sound—whiz—grazed past his ear. Swish, swish—countless arrows rained into the surrounding thickets, their whistling scattering through the air as the arrow wind shuddered. "They're not kin!"

Taira no Masakado, startled, shouted. “Wh-what’s this? That many people—could they be mistaking me for someone else? Hey! I’m Masakado of Toyoda! Don’t mistake me—I am Masakado!” He still hadn’t noticed. He was wearing his everyday hunting attire. Even though taking a single arrow would mean his end, he was still deliberately waving his arms high to make himself a target. What a fool of a brother. His good-natured brother.

Rather than the enemy ambush, as if angered by that very fact, two armored warriors came charging from behind— “Brother, look out!”

Bellowing, they overtook him and charged toward the distant swarm of archers.

Glancing at the profiles of the two riders, “Ah! Shōbun! Shōhei!” Even the slow-witted Masakado finally realized this was no ordinary situation. Then, once again from right behind, Shōyori came galloping on his horse. And then, “Brother! Brother! Put this on quickly!” “Hurry, put this on!”

And then, Shōyori jumped down from his horse, clutching a suit of armor. Taira no Masakado also jumped down, following suit. “Shōyori. Who exactly are these opponents?” “I know full well. They’re Minamoto no Mamoru’s sons. Look at the attire of that army!” “What? Tasuku and Takashi?” “Why are you so shocked now? Before you brought Lady Kikyō to the mansion, did you not yourself warn us, Brother, to be prepared for such eventualities?”

“But… That… was a matter of love. And today… isn’t this the very day of the Buddhist memorial service?” “What reason could you have to show such restraint toward enemies targeting you, Brother? When we sent people to investigate, we found that memorial service was a lie. It’s an ambush plot to lure you out without hesitation and strike you down in one blow. What room for doubt remains? Now, Brother—” Shōyori helped his brother into his armor and urgently hoisted him back onto the saddle.

The arrows stopped flying. However, in the distance, Toyoda's retainers who had followed Shōbun were engaged in close combat with the enemy. Masakado grasped his retainer's long-handled weapon,

“I won’t hold back anymore! I—” And, facing the wilderness, he let out a roar.

Battle of Nozumigahara

There was a grove of zelkova trees.

Where there was an orderly grove, there must surely be houses forming a hamlet—this assumption could not be mistaken. It was a communal living barrier that the wilderness residents had initially planted as a windbreak, differing in form from other mixed groves by its very nature.

Weaving through the reeds of the marshland, galloping across vast fields and farmlands, dragging a single trail of dust, the group of cavalry now vanished as if swallowed into the shade of that zelkova grove. “Here he comes! Here he comes! Masakado—” “It’s Masakado!” “Soon, he’ll charge like a wild boar!” “Hide.—Stay out of sight.” Positioning their first ambush line east of the Kenogawa River and this zelkova grove as their second line, the forces of Minamoto no Tasuku, Takashi, and their brothers lay in a two-tiered ambush.

The scout cavalry returning from the front line bellowed such warnings to their allies here and there as they arrived at the largest house in the hamlet and hid their horses inside the earthen-walled compound.

“What happened to Masakado?” Here, Tasuku and Takashi—heavily armed—waited for reports. Surrounded by twenty burly retainers, their formation resembled a general’s headquarters.

“Did it work? Did you encircle that bastard? Is the battle underway?” Alongside his older brother, the younger brother Takashi also asked the scouts in this manner.

From among five or six scouts, one answered.

“Yes. The battle is currently raging between Nozumigahara’s marsh and hill.” “However, we cannot say the outcome follows our plans.” “It seems Lord Masakado’s side had preparations of their own.”

“What? They had battle preparations ready beforehand? That’s odd… Surely none of our own betrayed us…?” “They had defenses prepared in advance.” “Strange…” “...” “There couldn’t be a traitor among us leaking plans…” “I can’t say for sure, but Toyoda’s retainers formed ranks and trailed Masakado from afar.” “Which means our frontline vanguard—few as they are—can’t surround him with arrows alone.”

“Damn it. Then we should’ve laid in wait there with all our forces concentrated in one place after all. And the state of the battle—?”

“To begin with, since Masakado flew into a rage, the ferocity of the Toyoda forces defied description. Moreover, Shōyori, Shōbun, and Masakado’s other younger brothers had united—our allies were being scattered like chaff.” “Then don’t come—over here!” “Undoubtedly, they’ll pursue our crumbling forces relentlessly—chasing them straight into an attack.” Tasuku appeared composed, but beneath his armor lay a visible tremor, his face stiffening like cured leather.

Takashi, on the contrary, sneered. “What’s wrong with that? It’s going according to our plan. Here too lies our second ambush force. Let them grow complacent in victory—lure that bastard into the village, set fire from all directions, and burn them to death.” There was someone shouting from higher than the rooftops. It was Shigeru, the third son. Shigeru called out while sliding down from the great zelkova tree.

“From the Keno riverbank—a dust cloud black as pitch comes racing toward us!” “It must be Masakado and those Toyoda bastards!”

The earthen-walled compound seethed with murderous tension. Tasuku and his men vaulted onto their horses and galloped away in an instant. The retainers followed close behind, while those who remained hid themselves skillfully in the shadows between houses.

Before long, the voices and hoofbeats carried by the dust whirlwind began to drift up even within the zelkova grove. The ambushers from Tasuku’s forces, who had been pursued by Masakado and his retainers, darted about in every direction like hares being hunted. And finally, not a single shadow of the enemy remained visible—the only ones left in sight were Shōyori and Shōbun, who had followed Masakado, along with the Toyoda retainers.

Uninvited Allies Indeed, they all looked at one another—exhausted from battle, their figures smeared with blood and dirt. Every suit of armor bore embedded arrows. “Stop the pursuit,” Masakado commanded. “We’ve wounded them enough to make them reconsider. This endless wilderness—chase them to its farthest reaches and still you’ll find no conclusion.”

Masakado dismounted from his horse. He wanted to drink water. Between the houses ran a water conduit. He pressed his face to the outlet of the water conduit there.

Shōbun imitated his brother, and the retainers too crouched around the pond.

Then Shōyori cautioned. “Ah, Brother. You mustn’t dismount from your horse at all! Dangerous—dangerous!” “Why, Shōyori?” “Look here. Every farmhouse is empty. This village is abandoned. From what I observe, enemies must have been here until recently. There’s danger they might set fires from all directions.” “Ah—right.” Masakado hurriedly pulled his horse closer. He had always considered Shōyori timid and weak-willed, but today found himself astonished at his brother’s composure and sharp awareness.

“Let’s get out to the open fields quickly." “Our allies will gradually gather here, but staying clustered in the village is dangerous." “Visibility’s poor too.” “Right, you’re correct.” He hastily gathered his men and started to rush off—but just as Shōyori had feared, that action came too late.

Black smoke crept through the narrow gaps between houses, and if they raced down the path, whichever way they turned, mountains of brushwood had been piled up unnoticed, the brushwood crackling as flames burst forth. Flames crept out even into the gaps between trees and thickets of bamboo grass. Moreover, in the gaps between trees, there were places where ropes had been stretched across and trees felled, making it perilous beyond measure—not just to bring horses through, but even to run on foot. “Watch out!” “It seems there are still enemy ambushers lying in wait around here too!”

As if in response, the twang of bowstrings and whistling arrows erupted from all directions. Threading through smoke and grazing flames, arrows flew toward the figures glowing red. “Brother!” “Brother! Brother!” Calling out again and again, they could only repeat their wandering struggle against unseen enemies. Indeed, the trap at Nozumigahara Village was so excruciatingly harrowing and fraught with impending crisis that it brought about a profound change in Masakado’s character from that point onward. And he had fallen completely into their trap. He could not help but resign himself—this was the end. At the same time, it was also on this day that he burned with true anger toward Tasuku and his men—no, toward that whole string of wretches who had skillfully plotted until now, using the name of Great Uncle Kunikiyo to lure him out against his will. The phrase “hair standing on end” would have perfectly described his countenance amidst the flames.

After all, he had faced death here, but there was one stroke of fortune. This occurred because during the chaotic skirmish at Keno River, they had lost sight of their elder brother and consequently rushed elsewhere—leaving only Shōhei among the younger brothers absent from this fiery trap. Shōhei had been chasing different enemies in another direction when he spotted the smoke and raced here at full gallop. Clearing obstacles and burning brushwood from the path, he pulled his brothers from the inferno raging through the village.

“Shōhei... I nearly died there.” “You came.” “I’m alive.” “Are you wounded anywhere?”

“Two or three arrow wounds—it’s nothing. I survived.” “Brothers, watch me.” “What I’ll do—”

“But—Brother. We should withdraw to Toyoda for now. After all, the enemy has attacked us fully prepared. This is a battle we’re fighting unprepared.” Shōyori’s admonishment proved insufficient to quell Masakado’s rage. He resolutely insisted he could not return to Toyoda as things stood, gathered his family retainers, took provisions, and sent out scouts to locate where Tasuku and Takashi’s forces were positioned.

They discovered that Tasuku, Takashi, Shigeru, and the Hitachi Genji troops were encamped at Nodera Temple, approximately half a ri east from here. Moreover, it was said that not only were the three Hitachi brothers there, but Masakado’s uncle Mizumori no Yoshimasa had also joined them with his own forces.

“Look! They’re colluding with my uncles! No matter what means they use, they won’t rest until I’m dead—that much is certain. If I retreat, those bastards will chase us all the way to Toyoda!”

Masakado addressed the surrounding clan members in a tragic tone. “If we barricade ourselves in Toyoda, it’s our defeat.” “More than that—I cannot stand by and watch as Toyoda’s peasants and villagers are set ablaze and plundered by them, scrambling to flee. If we must fight—let us strike first.” “Burn them all down—their mansions, their villages, every last one!” He had already mounted his horse and charged forward in the form of Ashura.

Initially, it had been a modest force of a hundred and fifty to sixty men, but news of the Keno River incident spread swiftly to Toyota Honmura, and those concerned for Masakado’s safety came streaming in ceaselessly—one after another. From mansion servants to local samurai living in the villages—those who held resentment toward the Hitachi Genji clan or found themselves in oppressed positions—they called out to one another, “To Nozumigahara!” “Rescue Lord Masakado!”

Seeing the flames, they came gathering. Moreover, this region had originally been part of Masakado’s father Yoshimochi’s former territories, and there were many who secretly harbored sympathy for him—resenting Provincial Governor Kunikiyo, Yoshimasa, Yoshikane, and their years of wicked deeds. All those people too, “There’s a battle at Nozumigahara!” When they heard this, many came rushing in—donning tattered armor, brandishing rusty blades, or mounting bareback on wild horses.

And so, before long, Masakado launched his assault on what he believed to be the enemy’s encampment at Nodera Temple—but when he suddenly turned around, he found that the number of men at his back, which should by all rights have dwindled since the start, had instead multiplied severalfold. At this, even Masakado himself— “What? Why are there so many allies behind me?” He was utterly astonished.

Riding the Tiger

It was not the flames that Masakado had first raised. It was a conflagration that swelled from failure—the failure of an ambush at Nozumigahara, where scions of the Saga Genji, skillfully incited by Masakado’s uncles Provincial Governor Kunikiyo, Yoshimasa, and Yoshikane, lay in wait. On May 4th, in the pristine skies of early summer, as billowing plumes of horse dust and flames rose into view, the people dwelling on the Bandō Plain—those of a more primordial disposition—

“To battle!” That they rose as one and raced toward the smoke from all corners of the plains marked an extraordinary upheaval rarely witnessed in these vast lands. Moreover, that most who rushed forth joined Masakado’s side rather than heading to the stronghold of the dominant Hitachi Genji scions—whether this proved fortunate or ill-fated, he could not discern. For this reason—because of this sudden surge—Masakado gained overwhelming advantage, and the battle unfolded nearly exactly as he had envisioned.

The manner of that victory was also truly terrible. Tasuku’s encampment at Nodera Temple soon met the onslaught of retainers and peasant soldiers who had followed Masakado in their assault—reduced to a single blaze—while dozens of Tasuku’s fleeing subordinates were cut down. Amidst this, the headstrong Takashi was struck by an arrow and fell in battle, while the third son Shigeru failed to escape and perished. At this point, the beast-like soldiers knew no restraint—and above all, Masakado himself had become akin to a wrathful deity incarnate. Surging across the border into Hitachi Province, they burned not only the entirety of Nozumigahara but also villages like Ōgushi and Toriki, seized weapons from Hitachi Genji loyalists’ mansions, breached granaries to plunder provisions, and continued ravaging enemy territories through the next day and beyond. Their destruction spread across three districts: Tsukuba, Makabe, and Niihari.

Moreover, in this assault, they burned down Minamoto no Mamoru’s Ōgushi Manor, and in doing so, finally slew Mamoru’s heir Tasuku in the midst of the blazing battle.

No. The atrocities did not end there. Provincial Governor Kunikiyo, unable to stand idly by, was counterattacked by Masakado while rushing to reinforce Ōgushi. He had not perished on the battlefield then and there; wounded, he managed to flee back to Ishida's residence, but that night, unable to endure the agony, he took his own life. In addition to these, the number of small residences of village officials who had obstructed or opposed Masakado, shrine households, private homes, and storehouses that were burned down was beyond count. According to the Koki, five hundred households were reduced to scorched earth, the casualties among humans and livestock were immense, and the skies over the wilderness smoldered for seven days and nights.

From this, one could easily imagine how fearsome had been the rampage of Masakado as wrathful Ashura. After seven days passed—once torrential rains swept through and cleansed both smoldering fires and blood from the wilderness—even Masakado felt his triumphant pride cooling, "...Did I go too far?" he may have murmured, stunned at his own deeds. Yet from that day forward, Toyoda Mansion overflowed with kinsmen and retainers. These men had arbitrarily decided to become Masakado's trusted lieutenants and vassals, never returning to their rustic dwellings. Serving Masakado as their lord, they observed formalities identical to those once paid to his father, the late Yoshimochi,

They revered him as “our lord.” To be sure, when they returned triumphant from Hitachi, they had brought back hundreds of horses from enemy lands, and on those horses’ backs, they had loaded as much in valuables and provisions as could be carried. According to them, “For years, these belonged to those who had unlawfully seized the manors and rice fields of our late lord Yoshimochi.” “Taking them back as tribute is only right!”

they declared. When news of the Nozumigahara battle’s outcome soon spread to neighboring regions, even long-silent paternal and maternal relatives began proclaiming themselves part of the Toyoda clan, arriving in numerous groups to visit Masakado. And speaking in the most vehement terms, “This is only natural.” “This is all part of the late Lord Yoshimochi’s design to safeguard Lord Wako!”

they celebrated their military victory. Those relatives’ families too, in time, began setting up their gates side by side near Toyoda Mansion. Toyoda Village no longer bore the desolate rows of houses of years past; merchant houses and markets began to flourish, taking on the bustling prosperity befitting a small regional capital. The residents’ respect too converged upon Masakado alone, and now it seemed as though Yoshimochi’s days of old had come full circle to Toyoda Mansion unchanged.

The outcome of the war swiftly manifested as vast territorial shifts. The majority of the Hitachi manors had broken free from Kunikiyo and Mamoru’s control and come under Masakado’s dominion. The flux of land and people always begins with such events, taking new forms. Moreover, given that many of these lands had originally been part of Toyoda territory and that many of the people had ties to Yoshimochi, this realignment of ownership could hardly be called unnatural. Yet from the perspective of the Hitachi Genji and those like Yoshimasa of Tsukuba and Yoshikane, the situation demanded intervention. The psychological blow Yoshimasa had suffered was no ordinary matter. He—as the hidden instigator who had caused this catastrophe—first made his way to Minamoto no Mamoru’s temporary residence to offer apologies.

“I swear I will slay my nephew Masakado and avenge your noble sons’ grievances. I’ll tear that bastard into eight pieces and devour his flesh—only then will this heart of mine know peace!”

Ten times, a hundred times, Yoshimasa pressed his forehead against the floorboards and apologized to Mamoru. He made this both contrition and oath. Mamoru—his manor burned, all three sons fallen in battle at once, aged as he was—sat prostrate with shock in his fire-scorched makeshift shelter, utterly hollowed. “Put yourself in my place.” “Unbearable!” “Simply unbearable!” “I could raise the Saga Genji’s forces and hand them to you—but could you truly defeat that Masakado? That Masakado…”

“His forces are limited in number,” Yoshimasa pressed his forehead against the floor. “The recent defeat stemmed solely from your sons’ grave miscalculation—they underestimated him too leniently.” “But even so,” Mamoru’s voice contorted with anguish, “why did my sons have to clash with Masakado in such a manner? I believed this quarrel was originally your affair—a matter between uncles and nephews.” His fingers clawed at the straw matting. “That alone… no matter how I ponder it… I still cannot comprehend.”

“N-no, that matter…” Yoshimasa pressed a hand to his forehead, his face contorted in discomfort— “In due time… when the moment is right… I shall explain everything at length. There are deep circumstances behind this—though I can only imagine the depths of your misfortune—” Stammering incoherently and making excuses, he hurriedly left Mamoru’s presence. Meanwhile—he had dispatched a fast horse to Kyoto with a letter, reporting in detail this incident and the sudden death of Provincial Governor Kunikiyo to Kunikiyo’s legitimate heir, Sadamori.

Sadamori’s shock went without saying.

The death of his aged father, from whom he had only just parted so recently. Moreover, his own promotion to Assistant Master of the Right Stables had sent the old man into such raptures. Yet upon reflection, Sadamori could not help but conclude that this calamity had arisen from their own hubris—presuming the endless accumulation of auspicious events would allow them to bend mortal affairs to their will, overlooking reality with fatal leniency. For at the farewell banquet held days before his return to the capital, the matters discussed by his aged father Kunikiyo, Masakado’s uncles Yoshikane and Yoshimasa, and others had been nothing but excessively self-serving desires and wicked schemes. No matter how much their own clansman father and they loathed Masakado, this conspiratorial gathering was so steeped in malice that even Masakado might have drawn some pity.

“I should have firmly stopped that scheme back then. —But I was at fault too. I’d been completely intoxicated by my promotion to Assistant Master of the Right Stables.” Be that as it may, though he had only just returned to the capital, he resolved he must journey home again. In frantic haste, he submitted a petition for official leave to the ministry and readied fresh traveling gear. When Yoshimasa of Mimori heard that Sadamori had raced through night and day from the capital, he hurried to visit him at Ishida Manor. Wearing an expression of profound contrition,

“...Truly... this time...”

With that, he fell silent, unable to muster even a single word of consolation.

Sadamori, though likely fatigued from his journey, showed an indescribably unpleasant expression upon meeting Yoshimasa, “Uncle. “You’ve committed a grave folly.” “What a foolish thing—” “Lord Yoshimasa—were you not by my father’s side?” “Putting such an old man at the front—what were you and Lord Yoshikane doing?”

With tears in his eyes, he reproached him with a slightly confrontational tone. "You misunderstand," Yoshimasa explained in detail. "Though we urged restraint—when he heard Lord Mamoru’s Ōkushi residence was imperiled—given his temperament… he spurred his horse forward despite our attempts to stop him… and was shot by that Masakado." "Was it Masakado who shot him?" "It was."

“That’s right. Masakado is an uncle-killer—it was fate, I tell you.” “That it came to this…” “Why must it be fate?” “Just think about it. While Masakado was still in the capital, secret letters must have reached your residence several times… But had he returned safely to his homeland, he would surely have brought calamity upon us later. That’s why we had to devise some means… to kill Masakado while he remained in the capital…” “That was indeed mentioned by my late father, and I believe it appeared once or twice in your letters as well—but within the capital, such opportunities to easily kill him were hardly to be found.” “…Moreover, Masakado had served in the Left Minister’s household and later been stationed with the Takiguchi guards at the Forbidden Gate—he was not someone this Sadamori could easily subdue by force.”

“No—I’m not here to complain or blame you now for not accomplishing that.” “I merely call it fate—that all our careful planning for the future has led to today’s outcome…” “In this misfortune, I too have no desire to quarrel with you now, Uncle.” “There’s no use regretting what’s done.” “What matters now is what comes next.”

“Well.” “The repercussions will not be simple.” “Already, everywhere from manors to private fields of various estates have been seized by Masakado of Toyoda.” “For example, even the peasants around Nozumigahara have since completely turned their backs on the Hitachi Minamoto clan; in all matters, they now direct their steps toward Toyoda.” “That is a troubling matter.” “If we stand idly by…”

“Of course, Ishida’s domain will be stripped bare within two or three years at most.” “Once Ishida—our pillar—falls under assault, naturally our Mimori and Hatori too shall face threats from that Masakado.”

“Lord Sadamori, get a hold of yourself!”

A few days later. In Sadamori's name, a funeral for Provincial Governor Kunikiyo was held at Daihōji Temple. Naturally, Masakado did not attend, nor did any of his supporters make an appearance. The composition of mourners at this funeral served to clearly delineate friend from foe. Though unintended, this became an unforeseen consequence of the memorial service.

Sadamori fell into deep thought. For he had come to realize how unexpectedly many supporters Masakado—whom those in the capital had deemed so foolish—now commanded. Under these circumstances, he thought, should they resort to force against him rashly, they would surely face a bitter struggle. He thought it necessary to thoroughly investigate Masakado's true capabilities and character—as well as the circumstances of that Fourth of May incident—once more while still in his home province.

Raging Wildfire

What was wrong? Sadamori showed no initiative whatsoever. Rokurō Yoshimasa of Mimori seethed with impatience,

“Useless—that capital-soaked fool.” “What’s the use in relying on some nephew?” “Very well—I’ll settle this myself!”

And so, this time, planning to attack Toyoda on his own, he secretly had his men sharpen their arrowheads.

Summer had passed, and it was now the twenty-first day of the tenth month in the fifth year of Jōhei. A force of nearly a thousand light infantry and cavalry that had departed Mimori headed toward Toyoda. On Masakado’s side as well, since they had scouts constantly deployed, they quickly became aware of this. “Do not burn the villages.” With that, Masakado rushed out to Niihari and established his battle formation. Rokurō Yoshimasa saw this, “Strike down Masakado the uncle-killer!”

He sounded the war drum and issued commands to his allies. Masakado, without a hint of fear, spurred his horse forward into the storm of arrows: “Don’t spout nonsense! It was you who killed Kunikiyo! I did not strike him down with my own hands!” he retorted. Even in such circumstances, Masakado could not abandon the urge to somehow assert his righteousness before the multitude. Mocking that foolishness, Yoshimasa—

“Hey! How long’re you gonna stand there?” With that, he drew his bowstring taut, took aim at him, and let loose a single arrow.

“Damn it! You think I’d get hit by those feeble-ass arrows?!” Masakado held his naginata sideways and spurred his horse forward. The arrow bounced off his body, hurtling him into close quarters with Yoshimasa.

Yoshimasa panicked and fled into the midst of his allies.

The day’s battle too ended at last in the total collapse of the Mimori forces, serving only to instill renewed pride in Masakado’s Toyoda faction.

Yoshimasa, having suffered a terrible ordeal, returned to the Mimori estate and immediately went to his elder brother Yoshikane in Tsukuba to voice his grievances. “This is rather harsh, don’t you think?” “Why? What are you saying?” “Originally, the plan to eliminate Masakado was our mutual secret pact, was it not? You leave me alone to endure such hardship—though I sent you letters beforehand, you haven’t dispatched even a single soldier to aid me.” “That matter? …Well, truth be told, it’s not that I fear Masakado in the slightest. But there’s something that doesn’t sit right with me—that’s why I can’t easily leave this Hatotorino Fortress unattended.”

“—And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Regarding Sadamori’s recent conduct—” “I see.” “It’s suspicious.” “No—I too am deeply dissatisfied.” “Father Kunikiyo has been slain. Yet Sadamori—who more than anyone should be enraged at Masakado, the first to rise in righteous fury—” “Why not accompany me to sound out his true intentions?” “I’ve been profoundly discontented about this matter myself.”

A few days later, the two went together to visit Right Stable Assistant Sadamori and interrogated his composure.

Sadamori’s response was as follows. “…None of the rumors from home bode well for us.” “No matter whom you question, they sympathize with Masakado.” “Under these circumstances, no matter how much I witness my father’s death, I cannot muster any courage.” “There are even those who openly say that resenting Masakado for the failure of their evil schemes is nothing but misplaced spite.” “…Given how things stand, I can only resign myself to the fact that even my late father Kunikiyo’s death was a calamity of his own seeking, and I have already begun preparing to return to the capital.”

Yoshimasa and Yoshikane were aghast upon hearing this. This was like a breach emerging from within their own allies. Fighting now would mean more fratricide. Thereupon, the two admonished his error with sour expressions.

“After all, you’ve been holed up in the capital—you don’t know our homeland’s daily truths.” “All that’s just poisonous rumors Masakado’s Toyoda lot keeps spreading.” “Meaning you’re swallowing the enemy’s lies hook, line and sinker.” “This wasn’t half so bad till lately—but once Masakado started crowing about his victories and folks saw his gang’s strength, even the damn peasants began parroting this filth! ……And here you stand—Right Stable Assistant Sadamori himself—a proper heir of noble blood—calm as you please while your own father’s murderer runs wild! What face will you show your provincial subjects from now on?”

The two cunning uncles took turns mixing truth and falsehoods as they emphatically argued. They alternated between reproach and coaxing. Sadamori too, at last, reconsidered and once again pledged to join the campaign to subjugate Masakado.

However, as his leave of absence neared its expiration date and political necessity demanded preemptive maneuvers in the capital be undertaken, he found himself forced to return once more to Kyoto for the time being. Thus that year drew to its close, and the next—the summer of Jōhei 6—came.

Combining Yoshimasa and Yoshikane's forces with Sadamori of Ishida's retainers and the Hitachi Minamoto clan, a several-thousand-strong army cut through the scorching summer fields to assail Masakado for the third time. When one considered it had begun as a mere quarrel between uncles and nephew, matters had unexpectedly escalated into full-scale war. The wildfire raged. The flames that had broken free spread without end. Neighboring lands' rumors became wholly consumed by this conflict—a single wave swelling into ten thousand—as dangerous tremors began surfacing everywhere, here and there.

—And so.

At that time, there was an old local magnate in Asono-shō Tanuma—not far from Mount Akagi's foothills—who had constructed a mansion and fortress commanding the Tōsandō post road, coldly observing the distant battle dust rising over Bandō's plains. He was this region's Military Governor: Tawara no Tōta Hidesato. Lawsuit Document

At that time, the two roads of the Tōkaidō and Tōsandō served as the arterial routes for travel between the Bandō region and the capital, Kyoto. The Tōsandō Highway crosses Usui Pass, traverses the Shinano Plateau, and emerges onto the Kiso Road. Of course, this route took more days, but Right Stable Assistant Sadamori had people to visit along the way, so for this return to the capital, he chose the Tōsandō Highway. “I do hope he’ll be there to receive us.” From atop his horse, Sadamori repeated to his retainers time and again. “No, he will be there. “Even if we ask at the post stations along the way, they say he’s been holed up in the Tanuma fortress lately and rarely ventures out on journeys.”

One of the attendants, Ushihama Tadatsu—a retainer of Sadamori—answered thus. The party numbered twelve in total—the master and his retinue—with only Sadamori and Tadatsu mounted while the rest proceeded on foot. No—there was one more: a minor servant leading by the reins a horse laden with gift parcels.

Up close, the long foothills of Mount Akagi stood out sharply against the summer sky. The Tanuma lodging lay several ri north of the Tōsandō Highway. The official residence of Ōryōshi Fujiwara no Tōta Hidesato stood there, while his mansion occupied a separate location some distance away in Tawara. Thus people also called him Tawara no Tōta Hidesato. “Ah! Right Stable Assistant Sadamori,” he exclaimed. “So that Sadamori has come? Show him in at once... I’ve been expecting his visit these past days.” At the imposing gate of Tawara’s mansion, the travelers’ horses stood tethered.

Lord Hidesato was nearing sixty. Among local people, those who bore the Fujiwara surname were rare. To such an extent did the Fujiwara surname carry the scent of centrality and aristocratic class, along with its privileged status. However, Hidesato was neither a man of the capital nor of noble lineage. A man born of Bandō stock—a figure of indomitable wildness from the hinterlands. Admittedly, since his mother was a woman descended from the Fujiwara clan, he could have traced his maternal lineage to establish close kinship ties with high-ranking officials in the capital and adopted his mother’s surname of Fujiwara.

From this alone one could see that from his youth, he had been both a consummate schemer and a man of fierce ambition, striving early on to become the sort of "power broker" unique to provincial society. And indeed it could be said he was a successful man who had adroitly realized his ambitions. In this region, his official posts were those of Military Governor and Assistant Governor of Shimotsuke Province.

The Military Governor held authority over public order, policing, and judicial punishment, while the Assistant Governor oversaw tax collection. In other words, he commanded magistrates overseeing eight provinces and ten constabularies—a role that would later emerge in future generations—while supervising tax officials; thus, there could be no greater authority than this. Moreover, he maintained many retainers, and all his clan members had accumulated land and military might; positioned with the Tōsandō Highway and Azuma Mountain Range at his back, he faced south onto the great Bandō Plain. “It has indeed been an age since last we met, but you appear more hale than ever.”

Having been ushered into the guest hall, Sadamori paid his respects as a junior and greeted his host. “Ah—you’ve grown quite splendid yourself.” Hidesato received him with ceremonial courtesy. And then,

“Ah—I have been remiss in mentioning your honorable father Lord Kunikiyo’s passing.” “I heard the rumors from afar.” “He must have been filled with such bitter regret.” “I offer my deepest condolences.”

“When I received word in the capital, I was utterly astonished,” Sadamori said with formal deference, his Kyoto-bred eloquence intact. “Though I returned to my home province for the funeral rites, your gracious dispatch of condolence envoys during that time—and the diverse offerings bestowed before my father’s spirit altar—are remembered with profound gratitude by all our clan.” Hidesato waved a calloused hand, his Bandō accent roughening the courtesies. “A trifling gesture—but this intractable business plagues us still.” His voice lowered as he leaned forward, the aging tactician’s eyes sharp beneath wiry brows. “Disturbances spread unchecked—they say even Minamoto no Mamoru’s three sons fell to Masakado’s blade. Such tidings echo loudly even in these hinterlands.”

“You must have heard everything already, but now old grudges have piled upon older grudges, making this conflict impossible to resolve.” “If matters worsen further, this may well become the precursor to a great rebellion.” “Why—despite having the might of the Saga Genji clan, yourself, and even Lords Yoshikane and Yoshimasa all united—can you not suppress a single Masakado?” “Unfortunately, these past several years have seen unrelenting famines.” “To these starving masses and displaced wanderers we must add local warriors from Lord Yoshimochi’s former domains—all converging on Toyoda Village to inflame Masakado’s ambitions and profit through rebellion.” “Thus their savagery cannot be directly opposed.”

“In that case, what are your thoughts on the matter?” “As I hold the office of Assistant Master of the Right Stables and am stationed in the capital, now that my father Kunikiyo’s funeral rites are concluded, I must inevitably return to Kyoto without delay.” “Hmm.” “Quite reasonable.” “Masakado’s violence has become intolerable to witness, and I can no longer idly watch this rebellion spread. Therefore, upon returning to the capital, I am resolved to present Lord Minamoto no Mamoru’s petition along with my uncles Yoshikane and Yoshimasa’s appeals to the central authorities, obtain an official decree from the Council of State, and subjugate him by force.”

“I see.” “Therefore—though I hasten to the capital—having until this very day been consumed by turmoil since receiving your condolence envoys and thus failing to send word, I have come to express gratitude. To visit en route may seem discourteous, but such is my purpose.” “Even after my father’s passing, I humbly entreat your continued benevolence as before.” With this, Sadamori had the condolence return gifts and travel tokens brought by horse stacked in the adjoining chamber and presented them to Hidesato.

**Masakado Returns to the Capital**

Taira no Sadamori was hospitably received. From the diplomatic intent underlying his considerations, this visit proved fully effective.

Hidesato too had not forgotten to utilize this guest for expanding his own influence considerably. That night he particularly hosted a banquet to honor Sadamori, and through his seasoned handling of people, discerned Sadamori's true intentions. "You may consult me regarding any matter you wish."

he encouraged him. And yet, “Don’t succumb to hardships and ruin your health. After Lord Kunikiyo’s passing, you’ve become all the more essential.” With these solicitous words, he moved Sadamori to tears. Then abruptly raising his cup again, he shifted his manner with boisterous vigor and spurred on Sadamori’s strenuous efforts.

However, regarding Masakado himself, Hidesato said neither ill nor good. He was far older than Sadamori. He knew more than Sadamori about the circumstances of the Jōsō region dating back to the era when Yoshimochi, Masakado’s father, still lived—the ancient facts, the history of the land and its people, even the intricacies of each family’s power distribution. Yet this cunning old man betrayed little sign of his knowledge.

That aspect must have left him vaguely unsatisfied. Consciously, Sadamori attempted to draw out his thoughts on Masakado. “Lord Hidesato. Have you ever met a man called Masakado?”

“No. I have never been visited by Masakado, nor have I ever met him.”

“Long ago—it must be thirteen or fourteen years now.” “There was just one occasion, wasn’t there?” “Where was that?” “At the Minister of the Right’s residence in the capital.” “……Ah. “I see.”

He wore the look of one who had remembered. However, rather than the figure of Kojirō Masakado from that time, something else came to Hidesato's mind.

That was in Enchō 1—Hidesato had still been in his thirties. He had once instigated a violent clash with officials under the provincial governor, torched the government office, slaughtered or maimed clerks, been condemned to exile, and been marched off to the place of banishment with eighteen clan members shackled in a chain gang.

He mobilized efforts in all directions, even presenting massive gifts to the then Minister of the Right Tadahira, and was pardoned after three years. In gratitude for that, he journeyed to the capital. At that time, Tadahira had the famed horse gifted by him led to the edge of Kotsubo. It was then that Tadahira informed him—the one who had removed the muzzle and emerged at Kotsubo's edge was Kojirō Masakado, son of Yoshimochi of the Bandō Taira clan. Before and after that occasion, the only time Hidesato ever laid eyes on Masakado was during that single encounter. It was now a distant past.

Lately, even when he frequently heard rumors of Masakado, his memory had grown so faint he could no longer recall. “When you visit the Left Minister’s household, please convey my regards to Lord Tadahira. Though I have never neglected to send the harvests of spring and autumn or seasonal greetings.” Hidesato immediately changed the subject. He had no desire to touch upon memories that might suggest he had once been a criminal. Sadamori, perceiving this, “Upon returning to the capital, I intend to pay a visit without delay. If there are any other documents you wish to send, I shall bring them and ensure they are delivered.”

he said.

The next day, when Sadamori departed Tanuma, Hidesato had three robust warriors added to his retinue. “After all, crossing the Usui Pass is perilous. Please take them as far as Saku.”

and saw him off all the way outside the mansion.

Taira no Sadamori eventually arrived in the capital.

He immediately went to the Dajokan and submitted the petitions from Mamoru and his uncles,

"I shall present this matter to the morning council and humbly seek judgment from the assembled lords." Moreover, he himself drafted a separate detailed document and submitted it.

But deeming that insufficient, he visited every noble and high official he knew, going about to spread word of Masakado's misdeeds.

Taira no Sadamori paid a visit to the residence of the Prince Minister of Ceremonials at Ninna-ji Temple, who had shown him favor since his youth. He also met with Kujō no Morosuke—Tadahira’s son, whom his younger brother Shigesada served—and immersed himself in lengthy discussions. Naturally, he could not neglect visiting the private residence of Fujiwara no Tadahira: father to that Lord Kujō, former master of Sōma no Kojirō Masakado at the Left Minister’s household, and now occupant of the highest position in the imperial court. Yet wherever he went, none showed particular inclination to lend earnest ear to his appeals.

“Hoh…? Hoho…?” was all the reaction—typical of capital dwellers—their serene eyes widening ever so slightly, as though hearing tales from foreign lands.

"The timing was ill." And with that realization came clarity to Sadamori. The misfortune lay here: since summer's onset, pirates had risen anew in the South Sea, their disturbances spreading across Iyo, Sanuki, and throughout the Seto Inland Sea regions. The imperial council judged this crisis too urgent to disregard. Heeding the petition of Kino Yoshito, Governor of Iyo Province, they dispatched over a dozen official ships laden with troops to subdue these marauders—leaving both the Dajokan and various ministries wholly consumed by these affairs. Even absent such emergencies, the capital dwellers' sense of proximity and daily concerns clung far closer to the southern waters stretching from Naniwa Port through Seto's straits than to those uncultivated wilds they called the Eastern Provinces.

Autumn arrived. There was still no ruling on the petitions.

That autumn, Fujiwara no Tadahira was appointed Grand Minister while concurrently serving as Regent. For a time, between the celebrations for his promotion and other such affairs, the nobles’ carriages came and went solely for musical performances and congratulatory banquets, and even the South Sea pirates’ disturbances left no shadow upon the capital’s countenance. “If matters continue to be neglected like this, the rebellion in the East may well escalate into a calamity of unimaginable scale. “In the various regions of Bandō, there are numerous estates of the regent families and public fields. Moreover, in Mutsu Province, the Emishi clans—who still refuse to obey central decrees—possess formidable military strength and wealth, lying in wait to exploit any disorder in governance. “For the nation’s sake, I can no longer endure this anxiety.”

He had lost count of how many times he had tried to persuade Morosuke. He had also submitted a second appeal to Tadahira. Whether his various efforts had finally borne fruit or not, when even that year reached October, at last— Geshi of Shimōsa Mikuriya, Taira no Masakado. He has committed violent disturbances; the signs of rebellion are evident. Dispatch envoys to apprehend him, and properly denounce and interrogate him in the imperial court.

The resolution from the nobles' deliberation was publicly announced. Immediately, a summons was issued to Masakado of Shimōsa. Upon receiving the official order, Masakado soon hurried forth from the Eastern Provinces. And after submitting his arrival notice to the Dajokan, he stayed at a city inn for some time. For him, this was his second journey to the capital and his first sight of the Heian capital in six years.

Judicial Confrontation "They had beaten me to the punch. I was supposed to come forward as plaintiff." Masakado felt deeply resentful upon realizing he'd been outmaneuvered. "...But white remains white and black stays black."

He calmed his anger. Appearing before the central authorities and arguing right and wrong before the judges might actually be a good thing. Was this not the perfect opportunity granted to a man of justice? Yes, he reconsidered.

I will not grovel. I will state my case openly and with dignity; I will not resort to petty bribes or go around secretly pleading with nobles from behind the scenes. Even while in the capital, he conducted himself prudently and observed proper decorum. He spent each day in a state of tension. Yet the official summons did not come within that year. The New Year of Jōhei 7 arrived.

He bleakly welcomed his thirty-fifth New Year's Day at an inn while embroiled in litigation.

A letter arrived from his wife, Kikyō. The familiar characters of her handwriting. Each character resonated with Masakado like poetry. Masakado finished reading, tears welling in his eyes. Yet there was nothing sorrowful to be found. It stated all remained well at home. And toward the end, she had written— "By your return, our first Wako may have been born at Toyoda Mansion."

She had quietly informed her husband that she appeared to be pregnant even before his departure for the capital. And—there was another matter written. Regarding the matter during your absence—Yasaka no Fujinin had stopped by on his return from a journey to Mutsu and stayed for four or five days.

A twinge of irritation stirred deep within him. Was that rogue giving Shōyori and Shōhei trouble again? He must be acting like he owned the place back home—ordering drinks around and making Kikyō wait on him hand and foot... If it were just drunken selfishness, that’d be one thing. But Kikyō had probably never met someone so smooth-tongued and stubborn; an odd unease gripped him at the thought of her getting tangled up in that man’s overbearing antics.

The end of January. At last, summoned for the first time by the Dajokan, he returned to his lodgings after presenting a detailed account of the disputes among his relatives that had persisted since the year before last.

After returning alone, he muttered under his breath—I messed up.

Perhaps because I appeared where I shouldn't have—despite having thought it all through so thoroughly—I completely forgot to say what needed saying. Just recounting quarrels since the year before last wasn't enough. To begin with—after Father Yoshimochi's death, we helpless orphans were left in our uncles' hands. Then when I was sixteen and they packed me off to the capital—unless I laid bare every scheme of Provincial Governor Kunikiyo from those days, even how he'd ordered Sadamori to have me assassinated while I remained in Kyoto—they'd never understand.

Thinking this, he found himself unable to articulate even half of what he intended before the assembled nobles—the Minister of Justice, Imperial Police officials, directors, and senior, middle, and junior judges—all arrayed in their court robes. One day, in the Uchi no Tsukasa court, Taira no Sadamori, Assistant Master of the Right Stables, and he were made to confront each other. With his rich lexicon, incisive mind, and eloquence, Sadamori refuted every single one of Masakado’s statements up to that day in a torrent spanning thousands of words, “As this is a matter between cousins, it pains me to pass judgment out of personal sentiment. But in essence, Masakado has construed his uncles’ goodwill as malice, incited starving peasants and vagrants, himself committed the heinous crime of uncle-slaying—a deed even he may later recoil at—and ultimately come to harbor audacious anti-governmental wicked ideas.” “It stems from the resentment of a pitiful orphan, his inherent violent nature exploited by local villains.—Though I find it pitiable, if the authorities neglect this, the rebellion will not stop at Bandō—it will spread to neighboring regions, resonate with pirates on the South Sea, and surely become a national calamity.”

he concluded. Masakado found himself captivated by Sadamori’s arguments and, despite their enmity, could not help but admire his skill. At times, he even nodded as if in agreement. The Great Judge looked at him with pity,

“Masakado. “State your case fully and without reserve.” he said. But ultimately, his rambling proved too disjointed to follow, and before Sadamori, his arguments found no purchase. Yet when he saw the cold smile playing on Sadamori’s profile, his indignation—a fury blazing like wildfire across open plains—burst forth unchecked from his lips as he denounced Sadamori’s lies and fabrications. But the more vehemently he spoke, the more his words testified to his own brutishness. It was his nature—without passion’s spur, he could not unleash such fiery speech. Thus it sounded only as roars and lunges to bite. His reasoning fragmented into incoherence; in the end, tears glistened in his eyes as he merely clenched his fists in futility.

“You are dismissed for today.” When he left the Uchi no Tsukasa Office, he always felt as exhausted as after battling on horseback.

There were seven summonses; on two occasions, he was made to confront Sadamori. And once again, there was no official word for some time.

Then, at the end of March. The final verdict was delivered after morning deliberations before assembled nobles. “Masakado’s crimes warrant severe punishment; however, by virtue of the general amnesty issued for His Majesty’s coming-of-age, pardon is hereby granted.” “Return to your province and demonstrate contrition.”

He was innocent. Masakado stood there dumbfounded, as though caught in a dream. The verdict addressed to Sadamori stated: "We conclude that Taira no Yoshimochi's bequeathed domains lie foremost at the root of this clan's internal strife." "You shall duly return all manor deeds, paddy-field certificates, and related documents rightfully belonging to Masakado, thereby effecting reconciliation." Thus it read.

For Sadamori, it was unexpected. Needless to say, his face showed disappointment. He was seething with resentment. However, without a word of rebuttal, he obeyed the command and withdrew from the court that day. Masakado dispatched an express messenger to his home province,

He first reported to his wife and clan via messenger: “The lawsuit was won.” Only then did he wander about the capital for four or five days with a sense of regained autonomy. For his wife Kikyō, he bought capital souvenirs—rouge from Kyoto’s markets, perfumed oils, rare textiles—filling his days with purposeful bustle. Today too he walked beneath Yasaka’s scattering late blossoms and through Gion’s groves, turning toward his lodgings. Then came the call—“Masakado! Masakado!”—from behind. When he turned, there stood a traveler in hunting robes dyed shinobu-leaf pale, tachi at his waist, head wrapped in layered hood and bamboo hat.

They drew closer and finally recognized each other. It was Yasaka no Fujinin. “Oh… When’d you come to the capital?” “When I heard you’d gone up to the capital, I followed after you.” “But I couldn’t find your lodgings.” “Asked at the Uchi no Tsukasa Office and finally tracked you down—thought I’d give you a proper surprise by showing up like this.” “I see… So you’re just strolling around the capital now?” “What’s it matter?” “Ain’t you supposed to be lying low with an arrest warrant over your head?” “Broad daylight too—and waltzing right into the Uchi no Tsukasa Office yourself?”

“Ha ha ha! People’s rumors don’t last but a few days. With the South Sea pirate uprisings, even the Imperial Police and the Ministry of Military Affairs have their hands full. They’ve long since forgotten. Those matters from back then have passed the statute of limitations.”

Fujinin was always Fujinin. He hadn’t changed; his tone still made clear he didn’t see officials as officials or people as people. “Going back to the inn, or shall we drink somewhere else?” “Tomorrow I intend to set out for home—I’ve various matters to attend to.”

“Ha ha ha! For someone called Masakado, aren’t you being terribly serious? Must be that beautiful wife waiting back home. But at least share one farewell drink with me. Come on—follow me. There’s a fine hidden pleasure house.”

The Shadow Capital

From the first time he met Fujinin, he had already been an adult yet showed no signs of aging thereafter. No matter how many years passed, whenever they met, Fujinin would immediately propose revelry. He seemed a man with no other purpose in life.

Yet in his own way, Masakado had matured. There had been a shift in substance as well. Somehow, he found himself feeling that he could no longer keep associating with this man.

Despite this, he still found himself unable to refuse and followed Fujinin into a pleasure house within the capital. Once they were settled with drink, Fujinin became even more like himself, his wit sharpening, “First, let us celebrate your lawsuit victory.”

he said, raising his cup to eye level.

“Huh? You knew? About the lawsuit against Sadamori. No—you must’ve heard that from someone at Toyoda while I was away—but who exactly told you I’d won?” “Hey now, Masakado. You actually think you won this lawsuit through your own power? This legal battle—” “The righteous always prevail in the end.”

“Ahahaha. Ahahaha!”

Fujinin laughed even harder—"Well, fine. “Well, fine,” he said, nodding to himself. “What’s supposed to be ‘fine’ here?” “Because it’s too absurd.” “No matter how much time passes, you never grow up.” “A heaven-sent innocent.” “What a strange thing for you to say!” “Well then, I’ll tell you the truth.” “Since I heard Sadamori had filed a lawsuit, I thought, ‘This won’t do—you’re bound to lose.’” “If things go badly, it might mean the death penalty.” “I had that intuition—that’s why I went to your Toyoda and rushed up to the capital, as if chasing after you.”

“And” “You probably don’t know this, but I spent most of the gold dust I brought from Mutsu for that purpose.” “I worked through the Ministry of Justice and Utsukai Bureau—greasing palms of key nobles and senior counselors through back channels.” “—Your victory came from that.” “If you think I’m lying, you’ll see soon enough.” “Well, drink.” “Keep drinking and you’ll understand.” As he spoke, “Hey, Fujinin.” “Started already?”

Suddenly, a court noble entered. Masakado tilted his head slightly, thinking the court noble looked familiar somehow. And then, after they began exchanging cups, he was aghast. He was one of the judges from the Utsukai Bureau. Indeed, he must have been one of the court nobles who had presided over his trial. “I’m just now explaining the details to Masakado here, but this man stubbornly refuses to believe a word I’m saying.” “You tell him too.”

Fujinin laughed brusquely. Then, as if their friendship were as thick as honey, he poured drinks for the court noble and seemed to thank him for his behind-the-scenes efforts.

Gradually, three or four court nobles at a time came gathering around. Before Fujinin, they could only grovel, their demeanor utterly servile. Without uttering a word, they confessed themselves to be among those who had shared in the division of gold dust. "You see, Masakado here's just this hopelessly upright fool."

Face-to-face, Fujinin said. It was as though everyone were drinking to Masakado's obtuse foolishness as their accompaniment.

When night deepened， they each took courtesans and slipped away to other sleeping quarters. Refusing their insistent invitations to stay， Masakado returned to the inn and slept alone. "I see now，" he thought， his jaw tightening against coarse straw。 "I’d been a fool。"

Masakado now acknowledged his own folly.

He had known full well about the corruption of government officials, the impoverished underbelly of court nobles, and the true nature of urban life—things learned during his long years of study. Yet he had forgotten it all completely and been such a fool as to believe righteousness would always prevail—a fact he could not help but acknowledge now. “—So you’re leaving this morning?”

Fujinin came at dawn to see him off on his return home. And at the moment of parting, he lowered his voice and spoke earnestly of this one thing.

“Fujiwara no Sumitomo of the South Sea has finally begun his rampage.” “The government coffers are strained to breaking point by expenditures.” “No matter how many imperial troops they dispatch, this rebellion won’t be quelled.” “Now then, Masakado—your moment approaches.” “What do you mean by ‘moment’?” “Still playing ignorant…?” he scoffed. “Honor your pact with Sumitomo.” “Coordinate raising armies—your forces in Tōhoku, his in the southern seas.” “I lack such strength.” “If you speak of that Mount Hiei vow—tear it up and be done.”

“That won’t do. Having sworn to a grand pact for the realm—”

“Even managing our clan’s infighting strains me to the limit.” “What grand designs could I possibly hold for the realm?” “I’m spent.” “All I want is to return home and see my wife’s face by tranquil candlelight.” Masakado mounted his horse and never glanced back. With three retainers in tow, he pressed his steed toward Keage. Fujinin trailed him as far as Ōsaka Pass, “Once I’ve met Sumitomo, I’ll descend to Tōhoku again come autumn.” “We’ll speak at greater ease then,” he declared before parting ways.

Half a year had passed since he left his homeland. Unlike his previous homecomings, this time there was undeniably a wife awaiting him at Toyoda Manor. The state of his heart now stood in complete contrast to those days of fierce ambition and solitude when he had chanced upon Fujiwara no Sumitomo and spoken of blood-drenched schemes.

Moreover, he had won the lawsuit. That he later learned this lawsuit had not been won through his own justice left him with a hollow ache—an unbearable burden on his heart—but the fact remained: he had won. There was no denying it. At the verdant Toyoda Manor, having already learned of his arrival through his earlier message, on the day he was to arrive, the clan's retainers all gathered at the gate, awaiting their triumphant lord.

Kikyō had just left the birthing hut. But on that day, having renewed her makeup and cradling her jewel-like son in arms now a mother's, she waited by the middle gate to greet her husband returned from his journey.

Within the cocoon

Never had his wife Kikyō appeared more beautiful in Masakado’s eyes than in this late spring. Having witnessed her safe first childbirth, her complexion had been purified all the more, and now both her age and physique seemed to fully embody the blossoming of womanhood. She was a new bride whose every aspect—from the tips of her nails to the depths of her eyes—embodied the ripened beauty of childbirth so completely it seemed to radiate through her being. “I am happy. You love me… But I’m so happy… I can’t help wondering how long these blissful days will last.”

She was utterly enveloped in a cocoon of happiness. Yet even into the deepest chambers of Toyoda Manor, rumors from the outside world inevitably seeped through. Above all, those years that had ceaselessly haunted her heart made her quiver like a blossom fearing the stormwind—even sheltered within her silken refuge. "You mustn't fret over shadows yet unseen. Truly, you worry yourself too gravely." Masakado forced a laugh,

“Such anxieties—to put it another way—mean you’re saying I’m too unreliable a husband.” “Why are you so afraid to cling to my arm for survival?”

“What a waste. “I am utterly content.—Please look. “Just like this nursing child—so utterly at peace in my arms as his mother…” “Oh. He’s sleeping soundly, isn’t he?” “Soon, he will be your heir.”

“How strange,” he said. “To think I’ve become a father.” “...Therefore, please steel your heart now. No matter how the world may clamor, whatever schemes they may devise—even if it pains you—endure it quietly.” “I see. So you’re worried again that Uncle Hatori and Sadamori might be plotting something?” “Because I hear unpleasant rumors from time to time.” “The more I hear, the angrier I get—it makes my blood boil sometimes. But no matter what those bastards plot, I’ve rightfully won the lawsuit in the Dajokan’s court through my recent journey to the capital. The central government has already recognized my legitimacy and ruled by law—‘All land deeds for fields those uncles conspired to embezzle must be returned to Masakado.’ There’s nothing more they can do about it now.”

“But people’s hearts cannot be measured. “Even if the Honorable Uncles never return the inheritance, please—I beg you—do not grow angry. “I don’t need anything more. “Nothing beyond this.” “That’s right—nothing beyond this.”

Taira no Masakado, too, thought in agreement. His wife’s words were wise, and he thought they were the voice of one who cherished life.

In truth, there had never been a time when he was more filled with happiness than now. Having won the lawsuit, since returning to his homeland, his popularity among the local people had been elevated beyond measure. (Having succeeded Lord Yoshimochi, you are now the pillar of the Bandō Taira clan—surpassing even Yoshimochi himself!) In days to come, there would be no one but you to unify the Eastern Provinces! Small landowners and local samurai from all directions came unbidden to tether their horses at Toyoda’s gate, and gradually honeyed flattery and sycophantic praise began gathering in Masakado’s ears.

Yet he was not one to grow complacent so easily. He resolved not to be swayed by their flattery,

(No—truly,I am an unworthy son who bears no resemblance to my father Lord Yoshimochi. I know my own foolishness well. But I cannot allow honest people to be oppressed while cunning schemers strut about，amassing vast fortunes and indulging in luxury. I will fight such forces. Let us fight to the bitter end—make this land of Bandō truly peaceful，and dwell here. That’s all there is to it—my principles.)

And this was what he uniformly told everyone. However, precisely because that simple, open-hearted nature of his was, if anything, a source of charm, the stream of visitors from all directions showed no sign of abating. Moreover, these visitors from all directions invariably returned home having witnessed—from within Toyoda Manor—the prosperity cultivated by the diligence and harmony prevailing throughout the domain. Sericulture, agriculture, fisheries, forestry—the progress in this region was truly remarkable. Markets sprang up everywhere, transportation improved, and even peering into each farmhouse revealed not a single face showing signs of hunger. When it came to festivals, theirs were livelier than any other region’s; and if one listened to the drunken peasants singing, even their songs extolled Masakado’s virtues.

Masakado himself had acquired a good wife, sired a fine child, and now lacked nothing. Therefore, he would no longer demand unreasonable exploitation from the peasants under his domain. Moreover, because he was perpetually reminded of Ezo Hagi’s death—the slave girl who had adored him passionately in his youth—he remained a warm master to the many servants kept in the slave quarters.

“Ah. I get it,” he said. “No matter what happens, I’ll endure it. So enough of this preemptive worrying.” While coming to gaze upon their child’s sleeping face, he pressed his lips to his wife’s. Day after day, countless times like this, he would visit the northern hall of the mansion to immerse himself in the cocoon of peace and love—this had been his sole pleasure these past few months. Yet this mansion’s peace lasted barely half a year from spring to early autumn. Kikyō’s premonition had unfortunately come true.

Earth and People

August.

It was the early dawn of a certain day when crisp and cool autumn began to arrive. Masakado’s younger brother—Ōashiba Shirō Shōhei, who had established a branch family last year and now owned an estate in Ashihara—

“Brother—” “This is no ordinary matter—” Ōashiba Shirō Shōhei came galloping to Toyoda to deliver the news. “What’s all the hurry?” That morning too, Masakado was in his wife’s room, which carried the scent of their infant. The chirping of birds outside and Kikyō’s bright voice enveloped her husband’s smiling face as they did every morning, while the retinue waiting beyond the gate—prepared to depart for the nearby territory inspection—remained forgotten in the passage of time. “Last night late, someone from Tsukuba knocked on the gate and came to inform us.” “—Hatori no Yoshikane is gathering troops in the mountains and exchanging fast horses with Mizumori no Yoshimasa. They seem to be plotting something.”

“Another empty uproar from the uncles?” “It’s a nuisance—people coming all this way to report every little thing without even being asked.” “There is no cause for concern.” “It is precisely because they care deeply for your household and hold goodwill toward you, Brother…” “But listen, Shirō.” “I don’t want to keep fighting these wretched, blood-soaked battles between uncle and nephew forever.” “We feel the same way, but there’s nothing to be done—our uncles still sharpen their arrows against us brothers of Toyoda as sworn enemies.”

“Don’t pay them any mind. No matter how much they spread slander or plot.” “We’ve been keeping our distance as much as we can. However, over these past six months, the Hatori and Mizumori factions have been diligently gathering weapons and horses, leaving no slack in their war preparations. Moreover, they’ve been proclaiming far and wide that theirs was the rightful victory in the Dajokan lawsuit.” “No matter what they claim—I held in my hands the document of my court victory. And an official notice ordering that the land deeds of our family’s rightful inheritance—the rice fields—be immediately returned to Masakado should have reached our uncles in Hatori and Mizumori.”

“Such documents hold no authority over them. If anything, being cornered like this has made them focus all their malice on schemes and military force—they’re resolved to crush Toyoda in one stroke and obscure the central government’s unfavorable verdict. That’s exactly their aim.” “...Wait.” “Shirō.”

Masakado, finding his brother’s indignation unrelenting, suddenly changed his tone as though to restrain his own words.

For beside him, his wife listened with bated breath, and he was struck by a sudden urge to shield her from hearing more. “I’m about to head out. The retainers were also waiting with their horses readied. I’ll hear the rest over there. We can discuss it while riding side by side along the way.” Kikyō’s face had already turned completely pale. The mother’s terror immediately resonated through her mammary glands, and even the child in her arms came to know it through the taste of her milk. Suddenly, something began squirming restlessly in her bosom.—Though Shirō Shōhei’s heart had been pounding like a temple bell since dawn that morning, he remained mindful of his brother’s feelings and his sister-in-law’s state of mind,

“Ah.” “Ah, of course.” “Then let us at least accompany you that far.”

With that, he nonchalantly exited Kikyō’s room ahead of her. When Masakado and Shōhei emerged into the corridor near the servants’ quarters at the front of the mansion, the footsteps of the house servants and women there already carried an unusual urgency. “What’s all this commotion?”

Taira no Masakado scolded one of his retainers, and—

“No, it’s the villagers making a commotion.” “And upon hearing that, the female slaves and male servants started spouting nonsense.” “What nonsense?” “This morning, a traveler passing through Toyoda said—‘How carefree they are in Toyoda, I tell you." “‘...they remain oblivious even as the Hitachi and Tsukuba forces could arrive at any moment—’ he said, laughing incredulously as he passed through this area.”

When Ōashiba Shirō Shōhei heard that,

“Just look at this. “Even travelers and peasants have heard the rumors.—From what I gather, Uncle Yoshikane of Hatori must have left Tsukuba last night, joined with Mizumori’s troops, and now races toward Toyoda.” “Ugh—are they spoiling for a fight?” “Elder Brother! “Make ready!” “Shirō.” “Yes!” “Is there no way...to avoid this? To not fight—” “Y-You can’t mean that. Then we’ve no choice but to abandon Toyoda and flee.”

“I do want to flee, but…” “This is no joke.” “Can you truly abandon and flee—leaving behind all those who gathered here with their families trusting you as Lord of Toyoda and pillar of this land—countless villagers left to their fate?”

At that moment, Mikuriya Saburō Shōyori, who resided in Moriya, also whipped his horse and came galloping to join them. Shōyori was gentler in disposition than his younger brother Shirō Shōhei and seldom grew as fierce as his elder brother Masakado. Yet even Shōyori was already armed, carrying arrows and clutching a bow. “With Yoshikane as their commander, a large force of over two thousand soldiers is said to be advancing toward Kogai Crossing one after another.” “It had long been rumored that Yoshikane and Yoshimasa—having learned from last year’s defeat—were devising military strategies determined to succeed this time…and indeed it appears to be true.”

After Mikuriya Saburō Shōyori spoke breathlessly, "If they cut off Kogai Crossing, we'll be driven into Toyoshi District—cornered into a disadvantageous position for battle." "Elder Brother, you must ride out at once!" "We must race against time!" "Tch... It can't be helped." "There's no alternative."

Masakado, too, made up his mind. However, even before awaiting his command, the retainers nearby had been rushing about shouting warnings to their allies within the mansion compound; thus, as they led out horses, seized weapons, and jostled one another, a torrent of armored warriors came spilling out from every gate into the thoroughfare.

Taira no Masakado also hurriedly donned his armor. Even as he did so, somewhere deep within his heart, (I really don't want to see any bloody scenes...) a persistent timidity throbbed within him. The pale face of his wife and their suckling child rose before his eyes, making the armor's weight press upon him with unaccustomed heaviness for the first time. Meanwhile, Gorō Shōbun, Rokurō Shōbu, and others from Ōmusubi no Maki and nearby manors rushed to join them, swiftly amassing seven to eight hundred cavalry.

“To Kogai Crossing!” “Hold Kogai!” And they charged forth - a black tide.

From behind and behind, many soldiers still continued to rush forth. The soldiers of Kōya at that time were still all either "half-farmer, half-warrior" or "half-farmer, half-hunter." In any case, from the mansion retainers to the scattered local samurai, those who could be called pure warriors were generally exceedingly few in number. "The Konjaku Monogatari and similar works describe them as 'a people who made battle their profession—' but unlike bandits, it was not their sole purpose." Even warrior houses stood upon an economy of manors, land reclamation, and soil. Precisely because of this, they did not hesitate to shed blood in struggles over land, nor did they refrain from conflicts between kin.

Such a military force. Such primitive military forces—thus, they still lacked military laws and orderly tactics, possessing only the most rudimentary strategic knowledge and crude class distinctions.

That said, their fighting spirit—akin to the valor of savage warriors—and the very blood of wildness within them had already flourished to such renown across the land that they were celebrated as the "Bandō Mosa."

The characteristics inherent in nature undoubtedly made what history has called the "Tengyō Rebellion"—incited by Masakado—into something horrendously brutal; of this, there can be no doubt. Wooden Figure Formation “Ah. Too late?”

"Was I too late?"

"Damn it. It's too late." When they rushed to Kogai Crossing, the enemy had already completely secured the crossing there. This surprise attack led by Hatori no Yoshikane as commander was, in truth, their fourth assault. It seemed they had thoroughly studied both the lay of the land and Masakado’s combat tactics through experience. First, from the previous day, they had released disguised skirmishers and completed covert preparatory operations in the area; then, all at once, they pushed across using rafts, boats, and sought-out shallows.

Taira no Masakado, from afar, observed the enemy forces' formation,

“Damn it!”

And at once, a surge—so characteristic of him—coursed through his entire body. And, (After all, had I been too complacent? Do those uncles of mine truly intend not to cease until they’ve seen my head?) And he shed bitter tears, writhing in regret. A terrifying whistling of arrows cut through the wind, grazing past left and right. His brothers had already charged into the very heart of the enemy ranks alongside their subordinates. The enemy’s bows, which had lain in wait with ample preparation and composure, inflicted heavy casualties upon the Toyoda forces in the initial battle.

“Hold—the enemy isn’t just here!” Taira no Masakado momentarily faltered. Smoke had begun rising from hamlets near Kayō, Tashita, Mūdō and other outlying areas. Though these small settlements held few households, they all lay within Toyoda District. These were roofs Masakado saw daily—the humble villagers who steadfastly relied on their “mighty lord,” wielding hoes in fields and casting nets in rivers.

“You did it, you damn uncles!” As if the visage enduring humiliation had been suddenly struck away, Taira no Masakado raised the corners of his eyes in fury.

“Once I truly unleash my wrath, do those bastards not yet realize what will become of them?” He became one with his fierce steed and charged toward the enemy front, “Yoshikane! Come out!” “Today, you’ll face me in battle!” and challenged him to single combat.

Of course, Yoshikane and Yoshimasa had no reason to comply with his demand. Rather, like fishermen emboldened by the sight of a great fish's back breaking the waves,

“There! That’s Masakado!”

“Target Masakado!” “Shoot Masakado!” “Block the escape routes! Don’t let them slip through!”

With such shouts spreading from every mouth, in an instant, they concentrated all their arrows on him alone.

Breaking free from the arrow storm was imperative. Taira no Masakado transformed into a demon god of singular focus. Directly confronting enemy soldiers, scattering them beneath his warhorse's hooves with brutal kicks, he scythed through their ranks in every direction until his polearm's edge grew blunt with gore. At last, he pressed toward the enemy general's headquarters.

The reason this was unmistakably recognized as the core of Yoshikane’s encampment lay in how the warriors fortifying that lowland—blanketed entirely in blue miscanthus—had encircled it with shields, draped sections with curtains, and stood arrayed in fearsome armor and weapons, starkly distinct from common soldiers. “Where are you hiding, Yoshikane? “Is Yoshimasa not here?” “Kojirō Masakado has come this far today—why won’t you come out to take my head?”

“Oh! Masakado, so you’ve come at last.” It was impossible to immediately discern whose voice it was, but as one section of the shield enclosure clattered open, two bizarre wooden statues swaying gently atop waves of miscanthus were hoisted aloft like mikoshi, flanked by dozens of armored warriors on either side. “……Ooh! Masakado, you’ve come at last.” they chanted in unison, their voices rising like a ritual hymn.

“Wh-what? …What is this?”

Taira no Masakado involuntarily tightened the reins of his fierce steed. Both wooden human statues were seated figures. They were dressed in formal court attire, and on the crossbeam of the pedestal was clearly written: Founding Ancestor Prince Takamochi: Venerable Spirit The Late Lord Taira no Yoshimochi: Venerable Spirit In other words, they had brought out wooden statues of the Taira clan's ancestor and Masakado's deceased father from somewhere and advanced them to the front lines.

When they saw Masakado falter slightly, the group that had brought forth the wooden statue formation once again raised their voices in unison, “Tremble! Tremble! Have you no reverence?” “Before the revered statue of Prince Takamochi—” “Before the late Lord Yoshimochi—” “Loose the arrows!” “Charge forth—audaciously!” “Tremble, Masakado!” they roared as if deliberately scheming to deafen their opponent’s ears with their clamor. And then, seeing them swish swish through the waves of grass as they pressed forward, Taira no Masakado suddenly yanked his horse back, showing cowardice as he began to hesitate.

Seeing this, the front row before the wooden statues— “Masakado, drop dead!” —suddenly twanged their bowstrings. Four or five arrows whizzed through the air, targeting Taira no Masakado’s pallid face. With a thud, Taira no Masakado threw himself down onto his horse’s mane. It was swift. The horse kicked up its hindquarters and whirled around. At once, Masakado applied the whip—a figure one could indeed call fleeing in haste. From behind came a sound that was neither war cry nor storm of laughter—something indefinable.

“Now, press the attack!” “Burn it all! Commence fire attacks!” Yoshikane’s subordinates, riding their momentum, advanced deeper into Toyoda Village, indulging in arson, plunder, rape, and other acts of demonic rampage before withdrawing to Tsukuba around midnight that day. Suffering from beriberi,

In a single night, countless patches of scorched earth had been created here and there throughout Toyoda County. As if narrating the precarious peace of the human world, smoke from dying embers continued to thickly darken the waterlands the following day as well.

"Even innocent peasant women, girls, elders... Ah, pitiful. This is all my fault." Taira no Masakado rode around on horseback, surveying the devastation everywhere. He saw the horrors with his own eyes and heard them with his own ears.

Last year—when he had charged into enemy territory—the same kind of devastation Taira no Masakado had inflicted upon his enemies had now been visited upon his own domain.

Fortunately, Toyoda’s main base remained unharmed. The mansion, the palisade front, and his wife and children—none came to harm. But Taira no Masakado was pained. Truly, it felt as though a heavy blow was struck against both his mind and body. After surveying the relief porridge distribution and returning to the mansion, he bore an unusual look of fatigue. Despite having slept a little that morning, for some reason his vigor refused to rally. “What’s wrong, Elder Brother?” Shōyori, Shohei, and Shōbun all gathered around him.

“No—it’s nothing. Just worn out some, I am.”

“Your complexion looks unusual.” “I see…” Taira no Masakado touched his own cheek. His senses felt dull, and somehow it seemed his face had doubled in width.

“It seems I’ve been short on sleep. You need not worry. “Yesterday, I fought a poor battle… But no matter—if we hadn’t been careless on our side, we wouldn’t have suffered such a foolish defeat.” “In fact, we believe it was for the best.” “You judge others too much by your own feelings, Elder Brother.” “From now on, you will surely listen to what we have to say—” “...My mistake.”

He was honest. Masakado’s honesty only made his brothers feel all the more uneasy, wondering what had come over him. “No, we are by no means gathered here to reproach you, Elder Brother. It’s just that you must once more engrave in your heart how dangerous these opponents are.”

“Understood. I won’t be caught off guard again. I need to make them realize my true power once more. Saburō, Shirō.” “Yes.” “Just wait and see. And make sure the retainers and horses get proper rest.”

Then, about ten days later.

Taira no Masakado, upon seizing critical intelligence, immediately gathered his chief retainers and brothers to devise a flawless stratagem. At midnight, he led over a thousand Toyoda soldiers across the waters of Kogai Crossing.

This was the shortest water crossing point in any direction, even when accounting for all the great rivers and their tributaries.

While the dawn sky remained dark, he lay in ambush near Daihōgō Horikoshi Crossing, close to enemy territory. It was the season when reeds, silver grass, and autumn plants alike had all grown to their fullest. The ambush had gained perfect timing. And steadfastly enduring the silent torment of leech bites and mosquito stings, they waited for the impending battle opportunity. “……They’re not in sight yet…” “Hmm, they’re not coming...”

On this day, a secret report had been uncovered the previous day: Hatori no Yoshikane, emboldened by his recent surprise attack, was planning to strike Toyoda once more. And indeed— When the sun stood high in the sky, a massive army combining forces from Tsukuba, Hitachi, and Mimori appeared in an endless serpentine shadow. They began to cross. Boarding rafts, pulling horses into shallows, and waiting for the moment when both their ranks and formation were thrown into disarray—Taira no Masakado—

“Fire!” With that abrupt command from Masakado, chaos erupted. The enemy ranks dissolved into panic. Crimson tendrils unfurled through the river’s currents. Yet Yoshikane’s forces—greater in number than before and evidently prepared for ambush tactics—swiftly rallied their strength. “Advance!” “Today we seize Masakado alive!”

With that, they counterattacked. What was wrong with him? On this day, Masakado found himself repeatedly retreating.

“Hmm.” “Suspicious...” “Something’s wrong with Elder Brother’s condition.” His brothers too, burdened by this lingering unease, could not fight to their full potential. The reason—though this would only become clear later—was that Masakado had already contracted beriberi, a disease endemic to this watery region, around that summer. Even during the previous battle at Kogai Crossing, he had somehow felt an overall sluggishness in his entire body, and his mind had lacked its usual sharpness.

Particularly on that day, having been immersed since before dawn in marshland thick with reeds and waterlogged wetlands for half a day, his condition had deteriorated rapidly. No matter how much he tried to become an Ashura, his spirit would not grow fierce, and above all, he could not control his horse freely.

Because of this, despite actively marching out this far to meet the enemy in battle, his army was once again forced into a miserable retreat. “Even Masakado’s famed ferocity had revealed its limits.” “His backbone’s already shattered!”

Yoshikane so judged. “Today press the attack on Toyoda to its final conclusion—by nightfall Masakado’s head will likely be laid before me.”

Having said this, he grandly had his drummers beat the war drums and advanced on Toyoda as though his forces were already an occupying army entering the city gates. And just as before, they set fire to every village home and storehouse in their path, pressing ever closer until they reached Masakado’s stronghold. This was the heart of the district and served as the gate town to Masakado’s mansion, where houses stood densely packed together. Beneath the smoke, the screams of women and children fleeing in panic swiftly gave rise to pandemonium. The first barrier caught fire.

The second barrier gate and the mansion's main gate were already engulfed in flames. The fire did not stop at consuming the lower territories; it raged unchecked all the way to the North Hall where Masakado's wife and children resided. Ailing body. “Fire wherever I look. Nothing but fire. Brothers... Toyoda Manor’s fate too appears to end today.” When the enemy’s offensive slackened, Masakado’s spirit conversely seemed to slacken. He avoided stray arrows beneath roadside trees and sighed exhaustedly on horseback.

“Elder Brother.” “You must keep fighting.” “This isn’t like you at all.”

His younger brother Goro Shōbun grew irritated at his older brother’s listlessness. He untied the leather canteen fastened at his armor’s waist and passed it from horseback to horseback, “There’s water here,” he said, handing it over. “Will you take a drink?” “Th-thank you.” Masakado threw back his head and gulped noisily as he drank. He heaved a heavy sigh. Then he wiped away both droplets and sweat across his face with his underarmor sleeve. “Shōbun—what about Saburō and Shirō?” he asked. “I’ve lost sight of them…”

“The other brothers fight valiantly—they’ve driven the enemy beyond Kamaniwa. You must rest assured.” “No—the enemy holds fresh reserves. If they’ve pressed this deep…” “Why must you speak such frailty today of all days? If even you, Elder Brother, lose heart—what becomes of our men’s spirit?” “But look—the mansion from Father’s time...the gate town...the Mikuriya storehouses—all swallowed by fire and smoke. How can we keep repelling these wolves who retreat only to surge again?”

“Is something the matter with your health?” “Nonsense.” “My body?”

“Your face is swollen to twice its usual size. I’ve only just noticed it now.” “I see… No, I’m fine. My body’s as it always is.” There was no need for anyone to tell him—Masakado was already aware. Even as he stroked his own face, there was no sensation at all; his entire body felt heavy, and the lack of courage frustrated even him. However, he still kept his illness hidden from his brothers, maintaining the pretense that nothing was amiss.

Meanwhile.

Mikuriya Saburō Shōyori, Ōashiba Shirō Shohei, and other brothers such as Rokurō Masatake fought fiercely and managed to repel the enemy to a considerable distance. “No long pursuit—” “No long pursuit—” they cautioned one another, “It is Elder Brother’s well-being that concerns us.” they lowered their battle lines and came searching everywhere for Masakado.

And yet, their rejoicing at finding their eldest brother safe here was fleeting—like the turning tide, the enemy rallied fresh troops and launched another assault. “We will hold this position. “Elder Brother, please go encourage the allies in the manor.” “Take shelter in the manor and protect the women and children.” Following his brothers’ urging, Masakado led twenty to thirty retainers on horseback and retreated to the Toyoda Main Residence, their final fortress and stronghold. Yet from the East and West barrier gates to the main house and outbuildings, flames already raged in a vast ring. Even family members and the men and women from the servants’ tenements were all working together to extinguish the flames, but their efforts seemed to be making no difference at all. The only fortunate thing was that the fire seemed to have spread from flying embers, and the shadow of enemy forces had not yet reached this far.

“Kikyō! …What’s happened to Kikyō?” “Kikyō…!” Masakado ran around and around the spacious compound, shouting toward the flames. For the northern hall where she resided had also been engulfed in flames.

“O-oh, My Lord!”—Nashimaru swam through the smoke, spotted him, and came running up. “Starting with Her Ladyship—the ladies-in-waiting and all others young and old—everyone has evacuated to Ōmusubi Pasture.” “This is how things stand.” “The flames and arrows can no longer be held back.” “My lord, I beg you to retreat to Ōmusubi as well.” “So… this is it.”

A fierce gale fanned the flames, transforming everything within sight into a sea of fire. Though no enemy figures were visible, their arrows converged on the blazing light from all directions. When Masakado considered how everything his father Yoshimochi had built through a lifetime of battling both the land and neighboring clans might now be reduced to ashes in an instant, it seemed to him that turning to ash alongside the manor would be the proper way to die. But remembering Kikyō and picturing his nursing child's face, he found himself unable to perish so easily.

Makeshift Shelter

By nightfall, the fires across Toyoda had expanded their reach into the vast scale of a raging wildfire.

Kikyō, holding her suckling child, hid herself within the stable of Ōmusubi Pasture, "My husband... Lord Masakado...?" she kept asking Taji no Tsuneaki, the elderly retainer attending by her side. Tsuneaki would occasionally climb the hill, gaze at the crimson night sky, and reflect on his own life and the half-century of land history stretching back from his service under the previous lord Yoshimochi.

"Ah... What a long span of years it had been." "And yet it had also been but a brief, fleeting dream." "The stars alone in the sky twinkled eternally, feigning ignorance of all—would this land, after enduring hundreds, thousands of years of raging fires like tonight's, ever truly become soil where people could dwell in peace and safety?" "…"

After all—with my finite lifespan—such things lie beyond discerning; it seemed I had indeed outlived my time.

The elderly retainer over eighty, not particularly driven by any intense emotions, would periodically return to Kikyō’s side and— “It still appears that His Lordship is fighting desperately.” “Once His Lordship has driven back the enemy, he will surely come to you.” “If you fret overmuch, it may hinder Lady Wako’s milk flow.” “Entrust everything to fate…”

In an utterly composed tone, he was calming her storm-like anxiety.

Before long, the wounded allies and those whose defensive positions had been breached began retreating to Ōmusubi Pasture as if by prior agreement.

At last, Masakado too arrived— Shōyori and Shohei came swarming in together, crying out in unison, “What a disgrace!” and “This is unbearable!” “Now that things have come to this, we have no choice but to scatter temporarily and plan our resurgence. Elder Brother, given your ailing condition, I implore you to withdraw from here and focus on recovery.” His brothers, the elderly retainer Tsuneaki, and even the chief retainers—all regarded this as an imminent crisis demanding immediate action.

“Take Lady Kikyō with you as well.” Whether he willed it or not, they selected a horse that wasn’t exhausted and hoisted him onto its back.

And under Tsuneaki’s direction, they carried out treasures from within the flames up to this point and loaded them onto over a dozen horses,

“With all haste!” they urged them to hurry from the hill of Ōmusubi Pasture into the southern wilderness. Afterward, Tsuneaki calmly took his own life.

Approximately forty to fifty stalwart horsemen followed Taira no Masakado. With the two horses bearing him and Kikyō at their center, they escaped the night’s perilous ground, aimless in their flight. With his few retainers and family in tow, Taira no Masakado spent several days fleeing this way and that.

For the first four or five days, they had lurked in a fisherman’s house in Ashigaya (Anshin Village), hiding his wife and child while keeping watch over the vicinity—but Nashimaru, whom they had sent out for reconnaissance, and Koharumaru, a scout runner, returned to report.

“This place has become dangerous too. Yoshikane’s soldiers are going around everywhere—checking each and every farmhouse while barking threats—searching for any Toyoda remnants or whether anyone is sheltering Masakado.” he reported.

The next day.

Rokurō Masatake also arrived here with about ten horsemen and joined them.

“Third Brother and Fourth Brother had retreated far away to await another day.” “Elder Brother,” he admonished Masakado’s complacency, “remaining this close invites peril. The enemy has occupied Toyoda and now boasts triumphantly—they vow to comb through every blade of grass until they bring back your head this time.” Masakado knew this well. Yet Kikyō remained a hindrance with their suckling child in her arms. His lingering illness compounded matters, as did his reluctance to part from wife and child.

But he had also begun to feel various other dangers closing in around him. “It can’t be helped,” he said. “Endure this loneliness for a short while. I will surely gather allies greater than before the first frost of winter falls, make the enemies at Hatori and Mizumori suffer our counterattack, and then come to get you…” Kikyō nodded tearfully at her husband’s words. No—her true will, as she pressed her cheek to the suckling child nestled against her breast, rich with the scent of milk, never lifting her tear-streaked face—was, _I refuse… Even if I die… I won’t be parted from you…_

"I refuse... Even if I die, being separated..."

She may have been shaking her head vehemently in refusal, but to Masakado’s eyes—and to the retainers who had averted their grave gazes from the scene—they all saw her as having nodded bravely with the resolve befitting a warlord’s wife.

Three fishing boats were prepared. The decks were completely covered with reed mats beneath which provisions, bedding, and some of the treasures salvaged from Toyoda—all of it—had been loaded and concealed. In one boat boarded Kikyō along with young maidservants and women attendants; the other two vessels carried over ten retainers. Then he ordered them to flee first from Ashigaya Inlet out onto the lake that stretched like a sea. The three reed-covered boats bearing his wife and children poled their way through stands of reeds and rushes where possible, fleeing northward for a full day and night like timid waterfowl until at last they hid their forms deep near Hirokawa River's banks, making this their temporary refuge.

Taira no Masakado had followed an overland route to confirm his wife and children's safe settlement. “This boat dwelling won’t last long. I won’t keep you waiting. Stay well—don’t let sickness take you.”

He prayed from afar. He burned his parting gaze into the desolate mist drifting over autumn reeds and miscanthus of that area.

And he himself, leading his forces, hid in the mountains near Rikukan Coast (Shimoyūki Village).

The autumn waters lay desolate and withering.

A relentless autumn rain fell without end. In the mountain's shadow, they dug a horizontal hole, assembled logs at its mouth, and thatched a roof with tree bark—such was his temporary hideout. They constructed similar structures nearby like ground hornets' nests, sixty to seventy retainers forming a makeshift mountain stronghold—dispatching scouts, contacting scattered allies, gathering provisions—all persevering solely through their determination to rise again.

But from the day Masakado settled here, his illness worsened; he took to his bed and could no longer move his body. His legs swelled barrel-thick, sinking deeply when pressed with a finger. His facial edema showed no signs of abating, and while the full-body lethargy had been bearable when his nerves were strained, since hiding in the mountains he could scarcely manage even his own form. "Is Kikyō safe?... And Wako—has there been any change?" "...And Wako... has there been any change?" Though groaning, this alone he never forgot to ask—time and again each day.

“It might be difficult…”

The youngest brother, Shōtake, heard the retainers whispering such things in hushed voices time and again. He wanted desperately to contact his brothers Shōyori and Shohei, but reckless action risked exposing their mountain stronghold to enemy eyes still swarming near Toyoda.

"If they attack us here—" Shōtake shuddered violently at the thought. He prayed fervently for his eldest brother's recovery—but even securing medicinal provisions proved nearly impossible.

Then, by some means, he had learned of it. Sugawara no Tadayuki—a friend of his late father Yoshimochi who had harbored profound sympathy for Masakado from the shadows—came one day to visit and observed Masakado’s condition. “This is not an incurable illness. I too once suffered from this same illness. I shall deliver that medicine to you.”

With that, he left.

Taira no Masakado bowed deeply to the man’s retreating figure, Ah, I have no excuse. I had often heard from him his esteemed opinion that one must endure all things and that forbearance was paramount... Yet now I had shown him such a wretched state of myself...

And there he lay on his sickbed, shedding tears. A few days later, Tadayuki’s messenger delivered the medicine. He would boil the herb bags and continue drinking the medicine countless times each day. Astonishingly, his urine flowed freely. In proportion to this, his mood had grown increasingly invigorated. Taira no Masakado muttered to himself, “I’m cured!”

he declared in a loud voice. Then, the hollow echo boomed—"I'm cured!"—resounding once more as if harmonizing with him. As health returned to his body and began restoring his characteristic willpower—

"Hmm. Why have I come to this? A man known as Sōma no Kojirō Masakado— "I am not a man who gets beaten in a fight and mopes... That’s right—it wasn’t the battle that defeated me. I was defeated by my own illness."

Unbidden, such thoughts welled up in his mind. Each time he contemplated his wretched state and recalled his beloved wife and child's pitiful boat dwelling, he drew taut the bow of resentment in his heart, his brow tensed like a drawn bow ready to loose its arrow. "How's my face?…The swelling's gone down completely now." "The porridge tastes surprisingly good." "Everything I eat seems delicious—like a starving demon devouring its meal."

That morning, Masakado felt particularly refreshed. He could no longer endure the cave dwelling and walked back through birdsong at dawn. And it was at that very moment he was eating—boisterously together with a great number of retainers—an unusual porridge of mixed millet and nuts while grilling small birds' meat.

Someone was running up from the foot of the mountain. Instinctively, they all stood. However, when they realized it was their own scouts, they quickly settled back down—but as those approaching scouts drew near, they suddenly cried out in unison: “It’s a disaster—!” In their voices and expressions lay something undeniably extraordinary—something that stunned them all. “The northern ship was attacked!” “They were discovered by the enemy—even Lady Kikyō and Lord Wako!”

Their tongues were stiff, unable to speak much of anything properly. All their voices were not so much reports as screams exhaled in breathless gasps the moment they arrived here. "What?!" Taira no Masakado’s voice in response trailed a tremble, then— "Kikyō... Wako..." And that was all he could say.

Enduringly holding a face as pale as death save for his lips, "Speak in more detail," he demanded, voice trembling. "What happened when they were discovered by the enemy?" With that, he finally managed to utter the next words. And then, he glared at the three scouts. "It was merciless—their figures were nowhere to be seen," one scout gasped. "...blood-soaked boats lay abandoned, with sleeves of noble robes and the corpses of our allies’ retainers scattered here and there—" Before even hearing everything, Taira no Masakado was already racing down the mountain. Of course, it goes without saying that all his subordinates continued to charge after him with the force of a mountain avalanche.

In the flatland near the base of the mountain, ten-odd allied horses were hidden. He leaped onto one of them. Whether soldiers followed behind him or not seemed to be of no concern. He was merely running in the direction his soul yearned to soar. From Rikukan Coast to the lakeside where his wife and child’s boat lay moored was a distance of two or three ri. All the while, Taira no Masakado could not even see the path before his eyes.

The reeds and silver grass drew near along with the water.

The late autumn air—water and sky merged as one—hung utterly still and clear, making one question whether anything had ever occurred there. Nature maintained such profound peace, autumn ripening into a beauty so excessive it verged on obscenity.

“……Kikyō—!” Masakado’s voice resounded across the water as he dismounted his horse. Like a mindless child, he repeated the same cry toward the water again and again. “K-K... Kikyō...” His choked sobs dissolved into tears until he wandered aimlessly through the reeds, pacing frantically as if night had fallen—then suddenly— “It’s me! “Masakado! “Kikyō...!”

And then, with a splashing sound, he tried to wade into the water. By now, the group that had come running after him were already scouring the ground, discovering a blood-soaked wrecked ship sinking among the reeds, stomping the earth in frustration as they cursed their oversight. “Ah! “Where—?” “My Lord, where are you going?!”

Seeing Taira no Masakado’s bizarre behavior, one of the retainers grabbed hold of him. Shōtake also came running up and seized his hand. “Let go of me, damn you!” “…Won’t you let go?!”

Taira no Masakado flung off the two with terrifying strength.

Shōtake clung to his leg,

“Ah, it’s dangerous! Elder Brother! There’s no one on that ship. Lady Kikyō... no one...”

“They’re here... They’re here...” "I can see them... Kikyō... Wako..." “Oi!” “E-everyone, come here!”

And Shōtake let out a shriek. “—Elder Brother has gone mad. “Ah—someone carry Anija away somewhere else!”

Demonic wails

Perhaps there had been someone who had informed on them. Hatori no Yoshikane had finally discovered, through some clue, that Taira no Masakado’s wife and child were hiding in a thatched-roof boat on the lake.

He had already occupied the stronghold in Toyoda County, committing outrages, plundering, destruction—doing everything he desired. However, his true objective lay not in that, but rather in seeing Masakado’s head.

The fact that he had let the essential Masakado escape still left a lingering disquiet in Yoshikane. He could not know when Masakado might muster troops and launch retaliation, and above all, he grew uneasy about leaving his Tsukuba-Hatori stronghold undefended. "That's enough. "My fury has been satisfied. "For now, we withdraw to Hatori."

On his triumphant return, he learned the whereabouts of Masakado's wife and child. And so, for that reason, he abruptly altered his course. As they came along the waterways through Kōno, Ozaki, Ōmagi, and Ashikaya, they suddenly spotted three thatched-roof boats with their bows pulled into the reeds near the eastern shore of the lake. Moreover, on one of the thatched boats, an infant’s swaddling cloth hung out to dry. “Fire at those!” Yoshikane ordered his soldiers to ready their bows. Hundreds of arrows were loosed all at once toward the thatched boats. It was unbearable. Beneath the thatch, there arose an indescribable human scream.

The more than a dozen retainers guarding Kikyō all leaped out of the boats at once, With cries of "This ends here!", they brought their boats closer, transformed into Ashura-like demons, and charged in to attack; but many were struck by arrows and fell into the water, and even those who reached shore were mercilessly cut down and slain.

Yoshikane’s subordinates boarded one of the boats and promptly towed the other two to shore. One boat was filled only with ladies-in-waiting and young servant girls. Yoshikane, “Capture Kikyō! Drag her up and bind her!” “Drag her up and bind her!” he bellowed. However, before the boats could be towed near the shore, Kikyō—with eyes closed—had used her own hand as a mother to stab the beloved child born just this spring, whom she and Taira no Masakado had cherished like a jewel, and then taken her own life with that same blade.

Yoshikane felt her actions vexingly hateful. —He still clung to this belief even now. The emotion matched when his beloved concubine Tamamushi had disappeared—that conviction Masakado had stolen her away. This resentment must have festered from losing his rightful target for vengeance. He kicked Kikyō’s corpse into the watery depths, abandoned even the innocent servant girls and ladies-in-waiting to his subordinates’ cruel devices, then withdrew to Hatori.

That had been yesterday at dusk. The state of the area, having reached the height of horror, remained unchanged; the rawness was so overwhelming that not even crows dared approach. Taira no Masakado had indeed suffered a fit bordering on madness. He raged wildly with a roar that was neither wail nor scream. He lamented in a display so pitiful it could only be called disgraceful. Yet for the people of the wilderness in this era—nay, even among the refined dwellers of the capital—honestly expressing one’s joys, angers, sorrows, and pleasures did nothing to diminish that person’s worth. Masakado’s retainers were rather moved to see him weep and rage with such abandon. And they too wailed openly, sniffled back tears and snot, and gazed out at Mount Tsukuba’s distant shadow,

“Look, look, you fiend! Don’t you forget this, Yoshikane!” Some shook their fists, while others glared with eyes wide and hurled curses. Even among semi-primitive men like them, there still existed affection for women and the young. No—the emotion of hating acts that oppressed those deemed weak and beautiful was not a moral concept, but bore the raw strength of pure instinct. Therefore, this outcome is also recorded in the Shōmonki—the sole primary source said to transmit the historical facts of that year—as follows:

Here, Masakado’s homeland was trampled under the hooves of the enemy, yet he knew not where to direct his fury—his body lived on, but his soul was as though dead. To this extent, Masakado had been condemned to a lifetime of fatal darkness, yet how extraordinary it must have been that his retainers wept with him and banded their hearts together around him alone. It is not difficult to imagine that they gathered all sacrifices and sympathy to console and comfort Masakado's wounded soul.

Mount Fuji erupted.

Once Yoshikane’s forces had returned to Tsukuba, Saburō Shōyori and Shirō Shohei—who had previously concealed themselves—immediately made their way back to the scorched earth of Toyoda. Though their numbers had been reduced to less than half by the recent defeat, when word of this spread throughout the provinces, twice as many men as before came flocking to Toyoda County—its mountains, rivers, and even the very grass and trees scorched and smoldering.

“For now, let us expand the Ishii Stockade and entrench ourselves at Ishii.”

Ishii was located in the neighboring county of Toyoda, within Sashima District.

Taira no Masakado also eventually returned here. From this Ishii period onward, his character and his view of humanity had indeed undergone a complete transformation. That the cause lay in the tragedy on the lake that autumn went without saying. At times he would stare vacantly with a foolish, dazed expression; at the slightest provocation, he would fly into a rage or burst into booming laughter. “Anija has still been a bit different since that day.” Masatake whispered this to the aforementioned Shōyori and Shohei.

To his younger brothers, he had been a compassionate eldest brother, but of late, there were times when he would even yell at those very brothers without hearing them out. And then, he would often— “Let’s drink,” he would declare. His capacity for drink was no longer what it had been. He longed to drink himself into oblivion, yet no matter how much he imbibed, intoxication eluded him. “Even when I’ve raged, raged, I’ve never truly given myself over to rage. That was because there was someone dear who made me value my life. ...But now... there is no one. My sack of patience lies in tatters. Until today I fought on the defensive—but from this day forth, I’ll be the one declaring war. An eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth—”

He said it, again and again.

Perhaps it was their imagination, but even Masakado’s countenance now seemed different from before to everyone. His eyes now held a fierce light, yet their warmth had vanished. Not only his eyes—his brows now furrowed fiercely, his lips pressed tight as if binding something within—but also that smile he had shown Kikyō and those gentle paternal dimples that once softened his face while soothing his child would never again grace his countenance.

The beginning of winter. Ah, the beginning of winter.

When he saw the first frost, he remembered. When he parted from Kikyō and fell, "Even if it’s lonely, you only have to endure it a little longer. I'll surely come for you before the first frost falls." Those final words with which he had comforted her—so he had spoken. Taira no Masakado counted the garrison soldiers at Ishii. His forces now numbered over two thousand. Since then, they had been rigorously trained as an elite force. “Good, the preparations are complete. This shall be the funeral battle for my wife and child!” Taira no Masakado set out for Tsukuba with 1,800 soldiers. He left an additional six to seven hundred soldiers at the Ishii camp and entrusted the defense to his younger brothers.

When Hatori no Yoshikane learned of this,

“The best course is to avoid such a spearhead.”

With his clan in tow, he swiftly crossed Tsukuba and holed up in Mount Yutsubo. “Well, I was ready to fight to my heart’s content and vent all that’s built up since summer…” Taira no Masakado came to Hatori and felt bitter frustration. He tried every means to lure Yoshikane out, but the adversary was a cunning old fox. In such cases, he would absolutely refuse to engage. Reluctantly, though that had not been his intent, he repaid Yoshikane’s domain with the same outrages, arson, and pillaging that had been inflicted upon Toyoda Manor and his own subjects, then returned. He had indeed repaid tooth for tooth.

And so, that year drew to a close. Jōhei 7 had entered November. The Bandō Plain saw mornings and evenings when winter swept fiercely under Akagi’s gales and Nasu’s snow-laden winds. Then, suddenly, from the imperial court, the “Order to Pursue and Capture Masakado” was issued via official decree to the Kantō provinces. Its content was: (Regarding Taira no Masakado, also known as Sōma no Kojirō: He has gathered gangs, committed acts of violence, unlawfully entered government fields and private estates, set fire to innocent subjects’ homes, plundered provincial storehouses, and slaughtered countless people.) (...namely, [you shall] cooperate with clansman Yoshikane, Minamoto no Mamoru, Umanojō Sadamori, as well as Kimi Masa, Kimitsura, Hata no Kiyofumi, and others to suppress the rebels, capture the ringleader Masakado, and present him to the Court.)

Such was the decree.

However, despite receiving this official decree, the provincial governors and military officials across the various provinces showed no sign whatsoever of obeying the imperial command. The very existence of the central government’s orders served as proof of how little they had been implemented in the provinces—but at the same time, they questioned why an order to pursue and capture had been issued against Masakado while Yoshikane and the others bore no charges whatsoever—especially since that spring’s lawsuit had ended with Masakado’s victory and his return home.

There was also considerable suspicion regarding this, and they all adopted an attitude of first waiting to see how neighboring provinces would act.

The scope of the official decree’s communication was the provinces of Musashi, Awa, Kazusa, Hitachi, and Shimotsuke. However, by sheer coincidence, at the end of that same November, Mount Fuji erupted in a massive explosion. Therefore, in those very regions that had just received the official decree, the earth’s crust trembled repeatedly like an earthquake. The heavens and earth were enveloped in a strange gloom tinged with faint phosphorescence, as ash that could be mistaken for snow fell ceaselessly for days on end.

The very next year was Tengyō 1 (the first year of the new era). In hindsight, everyone would come to see this as the precursor to what would be called the Tengyō Rebellion.

Winter Sea

Umanojō Sadamori sat aboard a ferry passing offshore of Chinuura (the mouth of the Edo River). Separated from the other numerous passengers, he had enclosed part of the stern and was sharing a boxed meal and drinks with his two retainers, Nagata Maki and Ushihama Chūta. The rustic locals stared at this lord and his attendants, but— “Are those capital courtiers traveling east... on some poetic pilgrimage...?” They could muster no observations beyond such speculations. The ferry had departed Kazusa’s beach that morning and was heading toward Shibazaki Village in Musashi (later the vicinity of Asakusa). As the vessel now passed Chinuura, all passengers grew agitated and pointed toward one section of the sky. Far to the west, the hills of Toshima-ga-oka and Iizuka (the elevated areas that would later become Shiba Park) stretched like a peninsular shadow, while in that direction Fuji’s volcanic smoke stood clearly visible.

“Oh, the western sky—such tremendous black smoke. For days now there have been rumors of Mount Fuji erupting—could that be its smoke? …It’s ash like a snow-laden cloud, isn’t it?”

Sadamori, holding a cup in one hand, looked up at the strange visage of the celestial phenomenon and spoke. The two retainers also called out: “Look. Even here by the sea, something like mist is settling in.” “Ah! Ash is falling right into my sake cup. If this continues, Sagami and Musashi might end up buried in ash.” “Surely not…” he laughed. “Mount Fuji’s eruptions are nothing new. Once it spews forth all it can spew and burns all it can burn, it will naturally die down on its own.”

Sadamori peered into his cup and drained it in one gulp. And now, he felt that his own casually spoken words had unconsciously prophesied the raging might of Masakado, who was unleashing great chaos across the Jōsō Plain.

...That's right. There's no need to panic. While chewing his food, he repeated to himself. To be honest, he had been growing increasingly frantic, for Masakado proved more unyielding than anticipated, and allies for him kept emerging in numbers beyond expectation. Whenever he went up to the capital, he busied himself with political maneuvers, and whenever he returned to Hitachi, he went around persuading the district governors and provincial government officials of various provinces, (The central government had already recognized Masakado's crimes and issued the Order to Pursue and Capture Masakado. Official decrees stating that neighboring provinces shall cooperate to subjugate him should have reached each region.) Why were they not sending troops to Tsukuba to aid Lord Yoshikane?

and he had been traveling through Hitachi, Shimotsuke, Kazusa, Awa, Musashi, and other provinces to pressure them. Since summer—though the battles between Masakado and Yoshikane had been truly fierce—not once was Sadamori’s name even heard on the battlefield. He himself had undoubtedly consciously avoided taking a public stand.

He was a rationalist, the polar opposite of Masakado, and despite his youth, a shrewder tactician than even such cunning old foxes as Yoshimasa and Yoshikane. It appeared he had skillfully obscured his own involvement by entrusting the brutal brawls and killings to Yoshikane.

But lately, even he—who should have been prudent—had grown somewhat flustered. Even the hard-won "Official Decree" carried no weight whatsoever. The provincial governors and district governors of the various provinces were all remaining bystanders. For Sadamori, this was impossible to take with equanimity.

Before long—

The ship entered Shibasaki Inlet. When he disembarked from the ship, before him— “Ah, the weather is splendid, and you’ve arrived quite early.” And promptly leading horses and accompanied by a group of retainers, there was a man who had come to greet Sadamori.

It was Musashi-no-suke Tsunemoto.

Bewildered Officials and a Sick Nation

Tsunemoto was the newly appointed "Musashi-no-suke" who had arrived in Musashi from the capital around autumn through his assignment. He had been appointed as successor—via Sadamori's maneuvering—after Fujiwara no Koremoto, the former Musashi-no-suke, was transferred to Hitachi.

“You must be weary. In any case, please stay at my Shibuya residence this evening.” “I shall accept your kind offer. I trust the document I sent ahead has already reached your hands?”

"I have reviewed it... Regarding troop deployment, we have been consulting here and there with the Provisional Governor." Tsunemoto trailed off evasively. "I shall explain the details later. You see, local affairs—once you actually live in the provinces—defy all expectations." "It took me six months after assuming office to barely grasp how challenging they truly are." He sighed while arranging the horses in formation. The retainers lit pine torches along their path. When they reached Tsunemoto's estate on Shibuya Hill, night had deepened.

Sadamori overslept.

The next day, when he got up, a guest had already arrived at the mansion's main hall. “Are you awake? Lord Provisional Governor has been waiting in the guest hall since early this morning.”

Introduced by his host Tsunemoto, Sadamori soon met with the man in the guest hall.

"This is Provisional Governor of Musashi, Ōkimi no Okisei." With that statement, he announced the name. Sadamori too adopted a capital-dweller's manner, "I am Right Stable Master Sadamori. Your esteemed name had long been heard even within the Council of State's chambers." He delivered this greeting - sparse in words yet instantly gratifying to his counterpart.

A banquet commenced. When welcoming officials from the capital, holding a banquet was an established custom among provincial officials of this era. However, Ōkimi no Okisei was a man with a somewhat eccentric and haughty countenance. The fact that he was a provincial authoritarian who habitually looked down on the powerless local populace like insects became apparent after sharing just a few drinks. (An unpleasant man.) Perhaps because Sadamori felt this way, Okisei for his part—

(What an unpleasant bastard.) (Putting on those capital airs...) He seemed to be observing. However, the newly appointed Tsunemoto was someone Sadamori had recommended and also served as Okisei’s deputy. So, Sadamori, for Tsunemoto’s sake, "I humbly ask for your continued support and guidance." he had been insincerely trying to ingratiate himself. After that, he, “By the way, there still appears to be no indication of troop mobilization in this province. Should any actions contrary to the official decree occur, there may well be severe repercussions after the rebellion. What is your esteemed view on this matter?”

Since this was in the name of the Council of State, Sadamori pressed them quite forcefully to ascertain their true intentions. “No, by no means do we disregard the imperial command, but…” “Well, you can hear the details from Tsunemoto.” With that, Ōkimi no Okisei jerked his chin toward his deputy Tsunemoto while feigning nonchalance. Tsunemoto explained the circumstances in his stead.

The reason for this was: Though Tsunemoto was newly appointed, Ōkimi no Okisei too was a provincial governor who had received his commission as Provisional Governor about a year earlier and come to this Musashi Province.

However. In this land of Musashi Province—descendants of the ancient Muzashi no Kuni no Miyatsuko and local lords deeply rooted in the soil—there existed indigenous clans. Adachi District Governor’s Assistant, a man named Musashi no Takeshiba.

This man was rejecting the newly appointed “Provisional Governor” and “Deputy,” (I refuse to acknowledge them.) Thus rejecting them, he would not allow even a beak’s intrusion into tax affairs or any other administrative matters. Takeshige’s argument was as follows. (My administrative achievements and efforts to pacify the people were not accomplished overnight. For generations, we have contributed to this region. However—though we’ve committed no faults, neglected neither tribute nor tax collection—these strangers ignorant of local affairs come swaggering in with their central appointments, calling themselves “Provisional Governors” and “Deputies.” How could we readily entrust all Musashi Province to such scoundrels? There’s a limit to how much this Takeshige can be trampled upon!)

Takeshige was the District Governor. Ōkimi no Okisei, as Provisional Governor, served as deputy to the provincial governor and held higher authority than district governors. That, too, seemed to be one of the things he found unacceptable.

In any case, Takeshige had continued to absolutely reject the newly appointed "Provisional Governor" and "Deputy" by raising various complaints. Given these actual circumstances, carrying out troop mobilization under the official decree's command was currently unthinkable—this had been Tsunemoto's explanation.

“Ah… So that’s the reason.”

Taira no Sadamori gave a tentative nod. That said, he did not even feel exasperated at this unconscionable state of affairs. Viewed from the perspective of later states, this would be seen as astonishing rebellion against authority and a state of disorder. However, it was not limited to Musashi Province alone—the more remote the region, the less central government decrees were being implemented. They would accept administrative decrees that suited their convenience, but ignore or resist those that disadvantaged them. Moreover, a mere Council of State decree held no authority whatsoever for those long rooted in the provinces. They might tolerate those who posed no threat to their own positions, but they would never readily submit to the authority of heaven-sent commanders appointed from above.

Era of the Volcanic Crater

“Takeshige is utterly outrageous,” Tsunemoto declared indignantly to Sadamori. “He ignores imperial commands and doesn’t even deign to acknowledge central government decrees.” He explained the circumstances with barely contained fury, as though he had been waiting years for Sadamori’s arrival in the province. Taira no Sadamori frowned at this judicial quandary. My purpose here is to secure troop mobilization against Masakado’s rebellion, he thought. I never intended to mediate these petty regional disputes. “Why not submit a full report to the capital,” he proposed aloud, “and request official measures against Takeshige? Have the regent house issue another stern directive under their august name—or bring the matter before full court deliberation.”

“No, that won’t work. We’ve repeated those procedures countless times. However, neither the Imperial Court nor the Council of State would issue any directives—on the contrary, they feared Takeshige themselves. The reason—it was likely due to the court nobles’ passive mindset: with Fujiwara no Sumitomo and his ilk of pirates now frequently inciting rebellions in the southern seas, and Masakado’s companions disturbing the neighboring regions across the Bandō Plain at this very moment, they feared provoking further conflict in Musashi.”

“Well, in truth, the pirates of the southern seas grew more violent with each passing year.” “…But does that mean we two, holding official decrees, should return to the capital in vain?” “Is there no way to somehow reach a compromise with Adachi Takeshige there?” “We humbled ourselves thoroughly in our attempts at negotiation, but even when we approached the Provincial Government Office in Fuchū, they repelled us with armed forces—not permitting a single step inside. There remained no path to compromise.” “The only remaining strategy was that since we held the Council of State’s appointment decree, we could honor the official command and crush Takeshige with military force once and for all—”

“What about military strength? If we have sufficient force to overwhelm him…” “That has more than enough prospects of victory.”

Ōkimi no Okisei opened his mouth here for the first time—there was no other way, he declared; he had secretly been preparing military force for some time now. "However, if word spreads that we employed force without justification, we risk being branded as rioters ourselves." "If Lord Sadamori would stand witness before the central government to validate our righteous cause, now is the moment to decisively dispose of Takeshige." "And we shall pledge our full cooperation in mobilizing troops to subjugate Masakado."

“I see… So you’re saying if we go that far…” “Well, that’s reasonable.” “Very well.” “Proceed.” “Regarding the government authorities and the regent house—Sadamori will stand as witness and submit a detailed report when returning to the capital.”

He vowed to do so. At the same time, once the conflict was settled, he also secured a binding pledge that Musashi's troops would cooperate in subduing Masakado. For Sadamori too—who had invoked the official decree—if provinces colluded to withhold every soldier from responding to this government order, it would not only disgrace him before the central authorities but endanger his own standing. To this end, he deemed it unavoidable to enlist Tsunemoto—to whom he had accrued some debt—and permit Prince Okisei to undertake such a venture. To guarantee troop mobilization, he even concluded that purging dissenting elements within their ranks ought to be hastened.

Ōkimi no Okisei and Tsunemoto,

“No—this settles our resolve concerning Takeshige.” “Now that we understand Lord Sadamori will testify before the authorities on our behalf—”

With that, they abruptly regained their vigor and began to drink.

For several days, Sadamori stayed at the Shibuya residence and participated in their secret councils—a plan to raid Takeshige’s mansion, seize the Provincial Government Office, and imprison Takeshige was being developed during this time. However, Sadamori stated that he still intended to tour the provinces of Shimotsuke and Kōzuke and meet with Tawara no Tōta Hidesato of Tanuma. Taking along his retainers Ushihama Chūta and Nagata Maki, he set out from Shibuya Mountain for the Tōsandō a few days later.

Since then, his whereabouts had once again vanished without a trace, and nothing more was heard.

Sadamori’s personality and actions were ultimately passive, akin to a planet moving in fixed orbits. Yet even during this time, turmoil had once again arisen in the Jōsō region centered on Masakado, and furthermore, immediately after Sadamori’s departure, the long-planned disturbances at the Musashi Provincial Government Office had erupted.

Mount Fuji’s eruption may have thus been propagating some mad, explosive force—roaring and rumbling—through every inch of the earth’s surface and into the very physiology of those dwelling there.

Musashino Skirmish

The estate of Adachi District Deputy Governor Takeshige stood on an elevated area in Shiba that would later be called Mita-Shōzaka during the Edo period. Ancient documents recorded Takeshige alternatively as Takekibamura, with those elevated lands being lapped by the crashing waves of the Eastern Sea directly beneath steep cliffs. They named the shore Takeshige-no-ura, for Musashi Daijō Takeshige—a powerful clan descended from the Muzashi-no-Kuni no Miyatsuko—had constructed his grand residence atop a mountain with sweeping vistas.

At the time.

If we were to take a bird’s-eye view from here of Musashi Province—the entire domain under his governance—

First, it could be considered that almost the entire Shitamachi area of present-day Tokyo Metropolis was sea. The primeval forests of Asakusa, Nezu, and Hongō, along with a full-bodied great river disgorging into the sea from between the dense woodlands of the highlands—along its banks, sandbars formed naturally by accumulated sediment would have borne thickets of reeds and rushes here and there. (Those sandbars, marshes, and natural silt would later become Chiyoda Ward, Chūō Ward, and other such areas.) Musashi was said to have twenty-two districts during the Edo period, but in medieval times, it was divided into ten districts of Musashi. Within this, Naka-Musashi had its northern part called Toshima District and its southern part referred to as Ebara District, with the Akabane River in Shiba serving as their boundary.

Thus, when viewed in the context of the era, Takeshige’s residence must indeed have occupied a strategic location well-suited for managing the manors under his jurisdiction. And from time to time, he would commute from here to the Provincial Government Office in Tama-no-Fuchū. “Recently, Right Horse Assistant Sadamori has come from the capital and seems to be staying at Tsunemoto’s residence—perhaps you should pay him a visit.”

Takeshige’s retainer conveyed rumors he had heard in the market to his master and advised him thus.

“What nonsense! There’s no way I’d go to him!” Takeshige had appointed himself as lord of Musashi Province, and thus, “Even if the likes of Right Horse Assistant Sadamori come here, there’s no reason for me to bend my knee and pay respects. If he has business with me, let him come here himself.”

he had paid it almost no heed. However, as it still weighed on his mind, he secretly summoned the spy he had planted and had him investigate. It appeared that during Sadamori’s stay, Prince Okisei had also joined in, and frequent secret councils had been held while military preparations had been quietly advanced.

“Hmm...?” But by the time Takeshige grew wary, it was already too late. One day at dawn, approximately two thousand soldiers launched a surprise attack here.

Takeshige had made no preparations to counterattack. Leaving all family heirlooms and assets behind in his mansion, he sent his wife and children away by boat from the shore, then took a few retainers and fled to Chōfu by following the Tama Riverbed along the hills. Upon learning there was no disturbance at the Fuchū Provincial Government Office, he fled to Fuchū. However, the very next day, word reached him that Prince Okisei and Tsunemoto’s forces were also attacking Fuchū,

“Very well,” “We’ll barricade ourselves in the Provincial Government Office and fight to the end!” With that, he abruptly began preparing defenses. But the provincial office’s local officials had long resented his arrogance, and the subjects too had nursed grudges against Takeshige for years—thus none stepped forward to face the crisis alongside him. “Ah, what useless wretches,” “Just wait and see!” With that parting shot, Takeshige had no choice but to flee once more. He concealed himself in the far northwestern reaches of Tama—around Sayama. His villa was said to lie there.

Prince Okisei and Tsunemoto’s show of force succeeded. The two confiscated the assets from Takeshige’s residence, reigned over the Provincial Government Office, issued decrees, and took charge of new administrative affairs in Takeshige’s stead. “Damn them. How could they possibly comply?” Takeshige, his pent-up resentment with no outlet, thought of revenge day and night.

Within the Provincial Government Office, there remained many petty officials who maintained divided loyalties while still showing interest in his cause. Manipulating them to neglect internal administrative duties, he incited rumors from without—arson and various disturbances—plotting to create chaos. Takeshige’s countertactic proved successful. Ultimately, the Provincial Government Office became riddled like a wasps’ nest, and Sadamori’s planned expedition to Tsukuba descended into utter disarray beyond any hope of realization. They clashed and wounded each other. At the stockade on Mount Tsukuba’s foothills, Yoshikane Hatori had rallied his clansmen and faced off against Masakado at Ishi-no-saku throughout that winter.

“There’s been no word at all—what on earth has happened to Sadamori?”

What he awaited was reinforcements from various provinces—the effect of the official decree issued through Sadamori’s scheming. Earlier, having encountered Masakado’s vengeance, he had fled to Yutabukaiyama and narrowly escaped his assault. But upon returning, he found Hatori’s mansion—along with all nearby dwellings from commoners’ homes to government storehouses—reduced to scorched wasteland overnight. Moreover, around this time, Mizumori no Yoshimasa—whom he had relied upon—succumbed to illness and died. This too dealt him a severe mental blow.

“The official decree had been issued,” he muttered bitterly, “yet none of the provinces send troops! Sadamori won’t even take command at the front.” His voice dropped to a hollow rasp. “So this old body alone must stand as Masakado’s sworn enemy.” He counted losses like prayer beads—Provincial Governor Kunikiyo dead; Minamoto no Mamoru gone; Tasuku,Takashi,and Shigeru fallen one after another; now Yoshimasa claimed by illness too. Even survival felt cursed—this great conflict’s weight crushing his aged shoulders alone.

Yoshikane, too, was already well advanced in years.

Moreover, though his faith was neither deep nor steadfast—having originally been somewhat devoted to Buddhism, enough to have even built a temple in this region—he could not help contemplating the impermanence of all things and arriving at such thoughts. "It is Sadamori who is unreasonable.—Originally, should it not be Sadamori himself who takes the vanguard?" Having come to realize this irrationality, he had finally noticed Right Horse Assistant Sadamori’s deviously clever maneuvering.

*Yet even realizing this now was already too late.* His subordinates had invaded Masakado’s Toyoda Village, burning everything from granaries and imperial kitchens to temple towns and commoners’ homes. In the end, they had even sought out Masakado’s beloved wife and child—whom he cherished as his own life—and slaughtered them all. All of this was attributed to Yoshikane’s doing, earning him Masakado’s lifelong enmity. Even if one had grown weary of the blood-soaked kin-strife and the ravaging of territories, Masakado had no reason to sheathe his spear now.

Moreover, his relatives and companions who had come down from Yutabukaiyama to the village ground their teeth in frustration after Masakado withdrew to Ishi-no-saku, “Watch us—this time, we’ll make them foam from our side!”

And so, they prepared thoroughly for another attempt, omitting no preparation. Truly, if one continued to repay tooth for tooth—if such retaliation were repeated—men’s descent into beast-like savagery and cruel methods would know no bounds. For every act of vengeance came vengeance returned, and for that vengeance yet more vengeance was plotted.

Here. Among Masakado’s lower-ranking messengers was a retainer named Koharumaru, who had risen from pagehood.

Originally, he was the young son of a peasant near Mizumori. Yoshikane’s retainer Keihisa lured this Koharumaru with rewards and had him spy inside Ishi-no-saku. "The fortress defenses are sparse," "They’ve no real military strength." "On the year’s final thirtieth day, they’ll deliver a thousand bales of charcoal to the storehouse. If you blend Tsukuba troops among the grooms and peasants entering the stockade then, we’ll strike from within and without—breaching their walls easily."

Koharumaru, blinded by greed, colluded with the Hatori faction and ultimately became the agent to carry out such a scheme. His stratagem was employed. Because of this, on the evening when the plan was executed, Ishi-no-saku caught fire from the charcoal storehouse. Simultaneously, surrounded by traitors from within and Tsukuba forces attacking from without, it was brought to the brink of crisis for a time. However, Masakado was no longer the beriberi-ridden man he had been from summer to autumn that year. His health had already recovered, and ever since losing his wife and children and his stronghold in Toyoda, he had been burning with a single-minded, fiendish vengeance.

“Perish, Yoshikane!” Such was his ferocity. Though momentarily rattled, the retainers in camp—even his brothers—swiftly united to confront the assault. Through fierce combat, they annihilated the advancing enemies and instead dealt crushing losses to Yoshikane’s Tsukuba forces, driving them back in splendid fashion.

“The traitor is Koharumaru.”

Nashimaru, a comrade who knew him well, immediately reported this to Masakado afterward. "Even though I'd looked out for you since you were a child... You wretched brat!" Masakado ordered his brother Shohei to immediately capture him, behead him, and deliberately deliver the head to Yoshikane Hatori.

Koharumaru had an elderly mother. The elderly mother came to Hatori no Saku to retrieve the head and, before Yoshikane, clutched it and wailed bitterly. “Who has done this to my son?” “Who has done this to my child… my child!” ...", the elderly mother—while still weeping bitterly—suddenly seemed to go mad. She grabbed the topknot of her child’s severed head, staggered to her feet with a terrifying visage, and turned toward Yoshikane. “It’s you. “It’s you.” “Give me back my child as he was!”

And suddenly, she hurled the severed head of her child she had been clutching. The head struck Yoshikane’s chest. Then, with a heavy thud, it fell onto his lap and settled heavily.

Yoshikane developed a fever that very night. Even during the New Year, he could not leave his sickbed. "...If I recover, I want to take monastic vows." That he had spoken such words was likely a sign of his weakened spirit. When February came, his illness worsened further, and it was even thought he might follow Yoshimasa to the grave.

“From this point on, we absolutely must bring Lord Umanojo (Sadamori) to the forefront.” “In the first place, because that person is oddly hiding only in the shadows, the neighboring provinces do not form alliances either.”

Yoshikane also had capable sons. Shimotsuke no Suke Kimimasa and Awa no Shōji Kimitsura, among others. And though not his sons, there were also powerful allies among Awa’s key officials, such as Hata no Kiyofumi. Adding retainers such as Keihisa, Tsuneyuki, and Masatada to their council, after deliberation, they suddenly dispatched messengers in all directions to search for Sadamori’s whereabouts.

In Pursuit of the Serpent

Those searching for Sadamori’s whereabouts were not limited to the Yoshikane clan of the Hatori faction.

Masakado too was deploying forces in all directions,

“Ever since my great-uncle Provincial Governor Kunikiyo, that pale-faced schemer Sadamori has been trying to eliminate me—targeting my very life from the time I was a child in the capital.” “That bastard is my lifelong enemy—find Sadamori!” he strictly ordered his subordinates. His brothers too were scouring every blade of grass across the Bandō Plain, frantically sniffing out his trail.

They had traced his movements as far as Awa and Kazusa provinces—across Musashi through Ryōmō region—even confirming his visit to Tawara no Tōta Hidesato of Tanuma. Yet Hidesato had skillfully denied assistance before departing elsewhere—truth by all accounts. What followed remained unknown—utterly shrouded in obscurity. "If he's gone back to Kyoto again," I ground my teeth at the thought, "that complicates matters." My calloused fingers tightened on my sword grip instinctively. "Once he starts cozying up to those regent-house vipers—no decent tales he'll spread." A bitter laugh escaped me despite myself. "Then I'll have no choice—must make my own play for the capital."

And so, Masakado was tormented solely by this concern.

He knew the capital. He was a man who had spent over a decade living among its people and, as a provincial, understood precisely what the regent and chancellor families represented and how the imperial court operated. Precisely because of this, he paid heed toward the central government in ways uncharacteristic of a provincial warlord. The end of February in Tengyō 1 [938 CE]—mountains and fields stood at winter's last gasp before spring's arrival.

“Elder Brother! “We’ve found him! “Lord Sadamori’s whereabouts—”

Then his two younger brothers Shohei and Shōbun came rushing into Ishiinoki Fortress and reported.

“He was hiding at his sister’s husband Fujiwara no Koremochi’s residence in Hitachi. Last night, he suddenly left under guard with some forty retainers—crossed the mountains via Tōsandō, passed through Usui Pass, and now makes for the capital. If we give chase, we’ll surely overtake them.” “What? He took Usui Pass toward the capital?” “The report comes from one who witnessed it firsthand. Let this chance slip, and we’ll never again have him within our grasp alive.”

“Got him!” Masakado shouted, clapping his hands. “This is heaven’s gift! “Sadamori’s luck has run out.” “Let’s pursue them at once!”

Putting on his armor, shouldering his arrows, and leading his horse, Masakado stood exultant in the square. The assembled family members and retainers numbered fewer than a hundred.

“I care not if our fortress stands empty for thieves to plunder! Follow me, every last one of you!” They departed through the fortress gate that day, churning up clouds of dust in their wake. Though it was now but a temporary residence devoid of his beloved child and wife, his resolve burned clear—even were he to abandon this place to the Hatori clan’s forces, he would not let a single Sadamori slip through his grasp. From this fierce determination alone, one could discern how he had long restrained his fury toward Sadamori—that cunning and treacherous foe—not merely in recent days but since his youth when serving as a page in the capital; how through years of smoldering rage he had bided his time, waiting in secret for this very opportunity.

Chikuma River

February in the highlands was still a land of lingering snow. Spring showed itself only in the young grass at their feet, but in the distant mountains—whether Yatsugatake or the Azuma Range—there remained not a single peak untouched by snow. “What? Masakado is pursuing us?” Even upon hearing this, Umanojō Sadamori did not truly believe it at first. However, rumors that last night Masakado, Shōyori, Shōbun, and their forces had camped within the precincts of Usui Gongen had been heard repeatedly along the way—and now in Saku no Maki—

(It appeared over a hundred horsemen were scouring the area from Saku Highlands to Kōzuke today with bloodshot intensity.) Having heard this from the herdsmen there, there remained no room for doubt. “Maki. What should we do?”

Sadamori turned around from atop his horse. Nagata Maki, Ushihama Chūta, and the rest—he had only about forty retainers with him. “If that bastard catches up to us, it’ll be dire.—So then, should we cross the mountains of Shinano and head to Suwa, or ford the Chikuma riverbed and race through Sarashina and Mizuchi toward Echigo Road? There are two options… What do you think, Chūta?”

“Well... “If only there were no snow in the mountains...” Both Maki and Chūta wore expressions darkly gloomy, weary as if they had journeyed until nightfall. The mere mention of Masakado’s name made their courage drain away. Moreover, their forces were but a small band—still in the travel attire they had donned when quietly fleeing Hitachi—and moreover, they were heading toward the capital. After all, there was nothing better than fleeing as far as they could. Sadamori did not possess courage that could defy ten thousand men. Maki and Chūta’s way of thinking was, in its entirety, Sadamori’s own prudence.

“Then let us make haste straight for Zenkōji Plain. We’ll figure out the rest once we find shelter for the night.” The party of about forty men—mounted and foot soldiers—hurried along the road that day from the vicinity of Komoro to near the provincial government office of Kōzuke (Ueda). And no sooner had they reached the banks of the Chikuma River than—whether by design or chance—a cluster of men and horses, centered around what appeared to be a ferry hut, turned toward them. In an instant, they nocked arrows to bows, raised spears and long-handled swords, and began shouting war cries.

“Ah! It must be Masakado’s Toyoda soldiers!” “But they seem rather few for that.” “They must be an advance squad lying in ambush. Before their main force arrives—” “Right. If Masakado himself isn’t here, that small band would be...” Suddenly Sadamori’s group too made battle preparations. Without any formation or reconnaissance, a ferocious arrow exchange erupted between both sides. Among fifteen or sixteen Toyoda soldiers, the young mounted commander was surely either Shōyori or Shohei—Masakado’s younger brothers.

“They’re faltering—the enemy!” cried Sadamori, emboldened by their early advantage. “Now’s our chance—charge across the Chikuma! Shōyori’s forces are limited in number—there’s nothing to fear!”

And he himself, leading the charge, sent spray flying as he rushed into the shallows.

But. From a few hundred meters upstream, a group of horsemen could be seen crossing to the opposite bank ahead, while from downstream as well, a dark mass of troops came surging toward them.

“Ah!” “No!” “—It’s Masakado!”

Sadamori shouted this and, in his astonishment, nearly tumbled from his horse into the river.

Mountainous Maneuvering

The mountainous region showed no signs of snowmelt yet, leaving the Chikuma River's waters shallow. Across the desolate expanse of riverbed, only the undulating currents—like arteries and veins—could be seen. Masakado's forces had split into three groups. For Masakado, there had likely never been a day that tasted sweeter than this. Sadamori was already a fish caught in the net. All that remained was to draw it tight and pluck him out barehanded. Yet even Sadamori was no coward who would sit idle and let himself be taken now that matters had come to this.

"Damn it!" He had once let out a cry of despair, but even if they were fewer than half the enemy's numbers, he still had forty retainers with him. If this many men were resolved to die—he reconsidered. In battle, he had relied more on wisdom than courage.

“Fight using that ferry hut as your base. “Take cover behind the hut and willow trees—do not venture out recklessly. “Just shoot arrows from cover.”

On a battlefield devoid of cover, this strategy would surely prove advantageous. Yet Masakado's forces were battle-ready troops, while Sadamori's men remained in travel garb. Above all, their arrow supply was limited. Naturally, their arrows began dwindling. Seizing the moment, Masakado's soldiers encircled them around the ferry hut. Masakado, Shōyori, Shōbun, and Shohei—the brothers rallied their steeds— “Sadamori. Come out!” he shouted.

“Whoa—!” With that cry, from behind the hut, a figure emerged, spurring his fierce steed.

Because they had identified Sadamori, Masakado—

“Alive! Take them alive—” he cautioned his brothers.

That rider was truly ferocious. No small number were wounded at his hands. Not just here—the chaotic melee became like the roar of a beastly horde. Someone set fire to the hut. The flames and black smoke fanned both sides' bloodlust.

In the end, the victors prevailed. Sadamori’s retainers, having slipped through, scattered and fled toward the mountains like spiderlings. Masakado, seething with rage, surveyed the enemy corpses scattered around, “Shōyori! Shōhei! …” “…What happened? Where is Sadamori?”

he said, turning toward his brothers’ figures.

“What a pity,” Shōyori answered as he brought his horse closer. “I had thought to take him alive and drag him back to our homeland...”

“What? Did you let him escape?” “No—he’s gone and killed himself.”

“He committed suicide…” Masakado trailed off into a despondent sigh, “A hateful bastard—but I’ll grant him this: he knew shame. If he has taken his own life, then there’s nothing to be done. Shōyori.”

“Yes!” “Retrieve the head.” “Understood.” Shōyori jumped down from his horse’s back.

Masakado and all the commanders and soldiers of Toyoda were, at that moment, solemnly preparing in their hearts for a song of triumph. However, in the very next moment, an entirely unforeseen event had occurred.

“What?!” “Th-this isn’t Sadamori!”

As Shōyori lifted the head and spoke, those around them erupted into uproar. "He’s wearing Sadamori’s long sword and armor, but this is Nagata Masaki—one of Sadamori’s retainers," Shōyori explained. "Nagata Masaki stood as a decoy and acted the part of Sadamori." "Then—where is the real Sadamori?"

Tears began to well up in Masakado's eyes.

"Did he escape and vanish among his retainers? Or perhaps...?"

Recalling the aftermath of the chaotic battle—when the hut belched black smoke—several people inside, like an old ferryman and locals who looked like peasants, had scrambled and stumbled away in their escape. Perhaps he had changed his appearance and hidden among them. No—I couldn't believe there'd been any opening for that. Or maybe he'd become a corpse lying somewhere else entirely.

Shōyori and Shōhei, unable to bear the sight of their brother’s dazed face, began examining each enemy corpse one by one. But they soon realized the futility of their efforts.

“What a disappointment. But this is no time for despair… Now we must split up—even if Sadamori tries to hide in the deepest hole, we cannot leave him unfound.”

Masakado turned pale and issued orders to his brothers. Over a hundred men split into eight groups and headed out toward the villages, edges of fields, mountainous areas, and so on—each going their own way to search.

But that day ended without yielding any leads.

The next day and the day after that, they scoured every mountain hamlet and road. In such circumstances, it was actually the larger force that found itself at a disadvantage. Their every move must have been immediately noticed by the fugitive. Moreover, when the local district governor heard these were likely forces of Masakado of Shimōsa, he showed an extremely cold attitude despite not interfering. Rather, covert protection had been extended toward Sadamori—who held the title of Right Horse Keeper and maintained connections to both central government and court nobility. Of course, Sadamori must have hidden himself under that faction's protection and escaped the perilous situation.

Even so, Sadamori seemed to have endured calamitous hardships. He had likely escaped alone along the Kiso Road and eventually reached the capital. Immediately, along with submitting his notification of return to the capital, he lodged a complaint with the Council of State regarding Masakado's violent acts. In part of that appeal document, he himself wrote of the Chikuma River ordeal as follows. Rather than remain, I resolved to ascend to the capital and present my appeal; in early February, I departed via the Tōsandō. Masakado, having plotted a scheme and learned of my journey to the capital, pursued me with over a hundred light cavalry, swift as a gale. On the twenty-ninth day, as I passed through Shinano Shimoina Kokubunji, Masakado had already positioned himself along the Chikuma River and surrounded us from front and rear. Though I was defeated with my small force, Sadamori nonetheless received divine aid; making the mountains his home and pillowing his head on firewood, through great hardship he managed to return to the capital...

The hearts of the people were in turmoil.

Around this year (Tengyō 1 [938 CE]), a monk named Kūya appeared in Kyoto, standing at street corners, chanting Buddhist invocations, encouraging others to join in, and beginning to preach that such invocations were themselves the Pure Land. Kūya walked through the provinces, visiting the poor, aiding the sick, building bridges, repairing roads, and was skilled in geomancy. It was said that wherever he went to dig a well—no matter how water-scarce the place—water would spring forth from the ground. In the capital as well, there were numerous wells that Kūya had dug, and the townspeople had taken to calling these wells "Mida's Wells."

In any case, he was a friend and teacher who belonged to the common people through and through. Therefore, when the townspeople called him, "the Market Holy Man" they affectionately called him. No—as if he embodied their own strength, when Kūya stood at the night crossroads, everyone gathered around him. Then they listened attentively to his sermon, chanted Buddhist invocations in unison, and soon—guided by the rhythm of a quietly struck bell that no one could quite place—the ring of the crowd circled around the Market Holy Man as though dancing.

Kūya's invocations—Kūya's dance—

Spring stars tinged the capital’s sky with an eerie light. When such phenomena arose among the people, it was a time when some unease lurked within them.—The circles of Kūya’s dance, the rhythm of Buddhist invocations and bells—they spoke of it.

“Today again, a western courier entered the gates of the Council of State.”

“No, they did yesterday too.” “They say Fujiwara no Sumitomo’s gang from Iyo—not just pillaging the South Sea anymore—have lately started ravaging even Awaji and Tsu no Umi.” “What in blazes are the government’s punitive forces even doing?” Such uneasy whispers circulated endlessly.

In recent years, the central government had been completely at a loss in dealing with Sumitomo’s pirate faction. Ono no Koretoshi and Ki no Yoshihito may have received imperial decrees numerous times and headed south through the Seto Inland Sea to subjugate Sumitomo’s pirates, but not once did the people of the capital witness triumphant armies return. “The more they go out there,” came whispers through Kyoto’s streets, “the more they turn into sea foam.”

Without anyone needing to say it, the defeat became known.

In the end, even when conscripting soldiers, the situation had reached such a state that there were no able-bodied men left to respond. The most egregious example of this, if we consider Tengyō 1 [938 CE], was just two years prior in Jōhei 6 [936 CE], in the third month,

The pirates of the southern seas, using over a thousand ships, plundered official tributes and taxes; therefore, the sea routes throughout the western seas were rendered completely impassable.

This could be seen even in an entry from the Council of State log. Government ships laden with tribute and tax goods being targeted by pirates were by no means rare occurrences—this was no matter of once or twice. In extreme cases, there were even unbelievable tales of entire ships being carried off to remote islands, with officials stripped naked only to flee back to the capital months later. The signs of national turmoil extended beyond Sumitomo's pirate faction alone—in the San'yō and Hokuriku regions, constant reports streamed in of clashes between provincial governors and local inhabitants. Particularly alarming was an urgent dispatch stating that captive Emishi (Ainu converts) in Dewa had torched the provincial government's Akita Castle, a development that severely strained the nerves of the court nobles. Moreover, the capital's notorious arson incidents and rampant banditry had become nightly occurrences—so commonplace they were no longer considered remarkable.

Such was the capital. Amidst this pervasive anxiety gripping both high and low, Taira no Sadamori—who had *“made the mountains his home and pillowed his head on firewood, managing at last to return to the capital after great hardship”*—fled back from Kantō in such a state that...

“What’s this? What’s happening?” Thus, it was not unreasonable for the ministers and Counselors—unfamiliar with distant affairs—to take his appeal seriously. The appeal document declared that all disturbances across the Bandō region stemmed from his ambitions and rebellious disregard for the central government—asserting in exaggerated rhetoric that *“manors lie depleted, farmers weep and flee across scorched earth, and these atrocities surpass even what demons or beasts would commit”*—thus cataloging Masakado’s anti-governmental acts with embellishments, inflating minor incidents into major ones.

“We could not simply dismiss this.”

The Council of State took up the matter. However, during Masakado’s previous journey to the capital for his legal confrontation with Sadamori, the Council had not only ruled in Masakado’s favor by declaring “he bears no guilt” but had also issued an order to Sadamori stating that “the inherited estate lands from Masakado’s father must be immediately restored to his possession.” In short, the official judgment at that time had deemed Masakado legitimate and dismissed Sadamori’s appeal as unjust.

Now, to take up once more the appeal from Sadamori—who had lost the lawsuit—and rashly brand Masakado as a criminal of the imperial court—what manner of judgment was this? Was this not somewhat strange? Such valid criticisms were also being voiced by some among the court nobles. "As a first measure, we should summon Sadamori and hear directly from his own mouth—in detail—the true state of affairs in Bandō."

The opinion of the high-ranking officials aligned with that. That day, Taira no Sadamori donned formal court robes and prostrated himself in the southern courtyard of the imperial court. In the palace’s upper chambers, high-ranking officials from the Three High Councilors downward sat in rows, prepared to hear from his own mouth the true state of affairs in the eastern provinces. Among them could be seen the figures of Grand Minister Tadahira’s (former Minister of the Left) sons—Dainagon Saneyori and Acting Middle Counselor Morosuke. Taira no Sadamori gazed up from the courtyard below, (Oh. They are here...) ...and secretly felt a surge of resolve. Kujō no Morosuke, the Acting Middle Counselor, had often heard from Shigemori that his younger brother had long served as a master, and that his elder brother Saneyori also held goodwill toward him.

“Is the appeal document accurate? Regarding Masakado, you, the Right Horse Keeper, have judged him a rebel—is this assessment without discrepancy?” Saneyori asked. “There is no discrepancy.” Taira no Sadamori answered succinctly. In such settings, wielding eloquent arguments at will was Taira no Sadamori’s greatest strength. That Saneyori himself would conduct the questioning—this was more than he could have hoped for. The schemer’s scheming. Taira no Sadamori’s explanation of regional affairs was, from beginning to end, an artful defense crafted for his own benefit. Simultaneously, it branded Masakado as an irredeemable “rebel” and “brute” in the minds of the court nobles—a stain he could never erase.

His words were crisp; his principles rang true; and above all, Sadamori's demeanor remained deferential. Such impressions naturally invited favor from the court nobles' psyche—this too lay within their nature.

“Indeed…” “So that was why.”

The court officials all affirmed Sadamori’s explanation. Saneyori asked finally. “But Sadamori. Did you not previously request an official decree to subjugate Masakado and descend to the eastern provinces bearing that imperial edict?” "That is correct." “Why have you not apprehended Masakado in accordance with the imperial edict? For many months in the eastern provinces, none knew your whereabouts—thereby allowing Masakado to freely wield his violent might.”

“Regarding that matter, I have no excuse.” Taira no Sadamori sincerely prostrated himself in the courtyard and apologized for his crimes. “However, there is indeed a reason for this. The cause lies in the fact that my father Kunikiyo, uncles Yoshimasa and Yoshikane, and even Minamoto no Mamoru’s entire household have nearly all been destroyed by Masakado." "Therefore, now that Masakado alone holds dominant power, the neighboring provinces—fearing his retaliation—have no intention of obeying the imperial edicts." "All of this stems from fear of Masakado."

"But isn't that precisely why the official decree was issued—to eliminate such threats? Why do you not enforce it?" "Therefore, I myself traveled through Musashi, Shimotsuke, Hitachi, Awa, and Kazusa provinces, visiting each in turn to urge compliance with the imperial command and press them to dispatch troops. But as dangers closed in around me, I had no choice but to take refuge temporarily with my sister's husband—Koremochi, Governor of Hitachi—to whom she had been married." "Is Masakado targeting you so relentlessly that you cannot even walk in public?"

“He has dispatched assassins and spies who have been hounding this Sadamori without respite—blocking every road at every opportunity—leaving me in perpetual terror for my life.” “Moreover... my defeated uncle Hatori no Yoshikane—his residence and territories were utterly razed by Masakado’s hand... Overwhelmed by grief and indignation... he collapsed upon his sickbed...” Here, Sadamori’s voice thickened with emotion— “And then... regrettably... he recently succumbed to illness.” “Thus... at last... our nine clans have perished entirely... leaving none but this solitary name—Sadamori.” “...Now... rather than endlessly hiding in foreign lands... languishing there in vain... I conspired with Koremochi... journeying secretly through Shinano Province along the Tōsandō... hastening to the capital... to renew this appeal.”

“Hmm.” “The incident at Chikuma River occurred during your journey, did it not?” “Good grief—the ferocity of Masakado’s obsession!” With a sigh, Saneyori concluded the interrogation.—Thus, Sadamori withdrew shortly that day, but regarding the reactions from the courtiers, he— “First step accomplished.”

And with private satisfaction in his heart, he returned home. And then, several days later, he visited the private residence of Major Counselor Saneyori and also called upon the residence of Acting Middle Counselor Morosuke of Kujō. "Now in my homeland of the Eastern Provinces, even the family estate passed down through generations has been ravaged by Masakado, leaving me in a precarious position of utter isolation without allies." ...veiled in casual conversation like this, he made statements designed to elicit sympathy from young Morosuke. Though considered young, Kujō no Morosuke was thirty-two years old. His eldest brother Saneyori was already forty years old.

Fujiwara no Tadahira, whom Masakado had once served, was now over sixty years old and held the prestigious position of Grand Minister, though he had effectively withdrawn from practical political affairs. In the imperial council chambers, those holding real power were his sons Saneyori and Morosuke. “No, do not concern yourself with that. I have already conveyed my intentions to your younger brother Shigesada.” “However, my father Lord Tadahira seems to harbor some measure of compassion toward Masakado… Likely out of pity for having once served our house as a menial servant… He does not readily consent to formally declaring him a rebel against the court.” “However, if there is no falsehood in your petition, time and facts will surely substantiate it.” “Wait a little longer for the time to come.”

Morosuke reassured Sadamori.

What Taira no Sadamori sought from the authorities through his public petitions and behind-the-scenes maneuvers was to definitively establish Masakado as an enemy of the court. However, once an imperial edict declaring him an enemy of the court was issued, it naturally followed that a formal General for Subduing Rebels must be appointed for the campaign, and imperial forces must be dispatched from the capital. “Even if Sadamori’s petition were entirely accurate,” an unnamed councilor interjected, “declaring someone an enemy of the court remains a grave matter.” “Should we summon Masakado for questioning and he grows suspicious—refusing to come to the capital—would it not be prudent to dispatch interrogators to ascertain his true intentions and actual circumstances?”

Morosuke had revealed to Sadamori that the Council’s deliberations now stagnated at this very juncture.—For Sadamori’s part, he had to steer the Council’s decision in his favor by any means necessary. Now, for him, whether the central government’s policy would open or close the path of his life’s destiny had become the decisive turning point.

Nightly Crossroads

Throughout the summer of Tengyō 2 (938 CE), night after night, the crossroads of the capital presented a bizarre nocturnal tableau—the chanting voices of Kūya’s Buddhist invocations, the feverish clanging of gongs, and shadowy figures dancing with such frenzied abandon that they seemed possessed. “War is coming.” “Signs of great rebellion are appearing.” “A rainbow has appeared northwest of the palace gates.”

Amidst the nighttime crowds, there were those who whispered such things. Since ancient times, the capital's populace had believed that whenever a rainbow appeared in the palace forest, war would follow. By autumn, rumors had begun circulating more frequently than the voices of Buddhist invocations.

“Fujiwara no Sumitomo of Iyo and his horde of pirates have already ascended through the Seto Inland Sea and now lie in wait near Settsu and Naniwa Port, biding their time.” There were others who circulated such talk. “That’s because they’re waiting for Masakado of the Eastern Provinces to march up here in attack.” “Sumitomo and Masakado made a pact ten years back to set the world aright—they’ve even formed a secret compact to split the realm between them.” Who in creation was spreading such tales? Could it be what they say—that Heaven lacks a mouth, so it makes men speak?

“Hey, younger brother. “It’s as if someone were speaking for us, isn’t it?” Taira no Sadamori and his younger brother Shigesada had gone out one evening to observe the crowds gathered for Kūya’s Buddhist invocations at the crossroads. As they walked, they exchanged knowing smiles while making such remarks. —And they gazed at the ring of shadowy figures dancing as though possessed by dreams.

Then, a man in a hunting robe—his face wrapped in cloth beneath a black-lacquered court hat—suddenly approached the brothers. "Might your lordship be Lord Umanojō Sadamori?"

presumptuously addressed them. “…? …”

“That’s right… but who are you?” “Until a few years ago, I served at the residence of Lord Minamoto no Mamoru in the Eastern Provinces.” “Oh. So you were one of Lord Mamoru’s retainers?” “After my clan met their end as you know, I wandered until coming to the capital. Yet encountering your esteemed presence here unexpectedly—I cannot contain this nostalgia. Oh, that’s it—if I may ask your lordship, I believe we might ascertain the truth.” “What would you ask of me?”

“No, it’s not just me alone—those swaying darkly here and all the people of the capital must be wanting to know whether it’s true or false. —Hey! Everyone, gather round!” While Sadamori stood dumbfounded, the man raised both hands and roared. “This here is Lord Umanojō Sadamori! If it’s about affairs in the Eastern Provinces, there’s no one who knows them better than this lord. …Everyone, go ahead and ask him! Whether all these recent rumors are lies or the truth.”

“What nonsense are you spouting? What does Sadamori care about the town’s idle gossip?” "But your lordship—did you not submit a lengthy petition to the Council of State this spring, immediately upon returning from the Eastern Provinces, formally accusing Masakado of rebellion?" “Hah! How would someone like you know such things?” “However deafened we lowly commoners may be kept, we eventually catch whispers of such matters. You dismiss them as mere rumors—yet those very rumors flow from the court’s own chambers! No—the true architect sits before us. Now answer the crowd.”

Then, from within the crowd—though none showed themselves—a questioning voice flew toward Sadamori.

“Isn’t it merely a rumor that Taira no Masakado of the Eastern Provinces has destroyed Kunikiyo, the Dazai of Hitachi, along with his uncles Yoshimasa and Yoshikane, and suddenly begun wielding fierce power in that region?”

“...” “Is it a lie?”

Sadamori ended up answering.

“It is absolutely not a lie.” “So it’s true then.” “It certainly is.” “Then gathering troops, burning down various regions, and committing outrages—is that also true?”

“Hmm...” “So Masakado is clearly a rebel then?” “Exactly. Because he refuses to submit even to the imperial edicts issued by the Council of State.” “Will he soon gather a great army and march on the capital?” “If left unchecked, who knows how far that wildfire’s ambitions will spread?” “Then there truly is collusion with the pirate Sumitomo as rumored?” “I don’t know. Such matters—”

“Oh, please speak plainly. We lowly commoners are anxious. If they set fires from both sea and land and come raging into this capital, we cannot endure it.”

“Do not spread baseless rumors.” Sadamori scolded the crowd and, together with Shigesada, started to turn into the darkness of the crossroads as if fleeing from there. Then, some of the figures— “Hey, wait!” “—Who was it that started that rumor?” “You bastard!” Pattering, stones flew toward his shadow, and at the same time, footsteps scattering like spiderlings scattered across the night streets.

“Wahaha! Ahahaha! …Well tonight I made good use of that bastard. It’s been ages since I saw such an entertaining sight!”

The same night.

Turning through the side streets near Rokujōbōmon, where brothels clustered thickly, four or five men who seemed to be ruffians were walking along, conversing in brash, loud voices that defied all propriety. Among them, one of the older men indeed had the unmistakable voice of Yasaka no Fujinin, as well as his distinctive sharp eyes.

Land Liquor The area around Rokujōbōmon was a nest of brothels. Nearby stood markets, slum districts, and pleasure quarters. Yasaka no Fujinin had made this district his stronghold, outwitting the authorities at every turn. They ran wild, plunging the capital’s order into chaos. Naturally, more of his old Yasaka-era underlings now swarmed beneath him than ever before. They would twist the Kebiishi to their will, scatter groundless rumors, and rattle the court nobles—only to dissolve like soap bubbles into the markets and brothel-lined alleys of the commoners’ quarter for a time.

The end of summer. Yasaka no Fujinin received word from his maritime comrades. (We'll hold the usual meeting in Eguchi—come to Eguchi.) Such was Sumitomo's letter.

On the day he was to go there, Yasaka no Fujinin strictly commanded his subordinates Akahiko, Hokone, Hagetaka, and others: “There should be no oversights—but make sure you don’t neglect keeping watch on Umanojo’s gate. And his younger brother Shigesada too. Lately there’s been considerable traffic between those bastards and the authorities.” Yasaka no Fujinin, escorted by Akahiko, departed from Yodo in a small boat and made his way down to Settsu. At the first floor of Eguchi, a great number of friends had already gathered—faces like Fujiwara no Sumitomo, Ono no Ujihiko, Tsu no Tokinari, Ki no Akishige, Ōtomo no Sora, and Iyo no Michimasa.

They were the dregs of court nobles and degenerate local officials. And they were those who had turned to piracy in their southern provincial postings, brazenly rampaging through the Seto Inland Sea these past few years as if they owned it. Though initially confined mainly around Hiburishima Island in Iyo Province without exceeding certain limits, as their piratical experience grew through training while gradually understanding the authorities' incompetence, they had recently begun roaming freely from northeastern Shikoku to the coastal waters near Awaji and Settsu—even venturing up to areas like Eguchi, Kanishima, and Kanzaki at the Yodogawa River's mouth at times to drink land liquor.

They were top patrons in Eguchi and Kanzaki. Their extravagance was utterly unlike that of passing travelers or court nobles. After holding their secret meetings, they would engage in wild, unrestrained revelry with courtesans. And this wasn't just for a day or half a night. For two or even three days straight, they would indulge in drink and women until sated.

Then, riding a fast boat from the Rokujō base they had left behind, Hagetaka came to deliver news. "Sadamori has suddenly departed for the Eastern Provinces. Moreover, I hear the Council of State has finally recognized Masakado as a rebel—they’ve begun deliberating about issuing a subjugation order and appointing a commander-in-chief for the campaign, or so they say." When Yasaka no Fujinin heard this, "That’s bad. I can’t stay like this," he said, suddenly panicking.

“So in the capital, they’re already clamoring about the Masakado subjugation army setting out?” “No, not quite yet. “With those feckless Council debates, who knows when it’ll fizzle out—but from what I’ve dug up, seems Kujō no Morosuke and Dainagon Saneyori are pushing things that way.” “So Sadamori went east clutching that promise?” “That much is certain. But here’s the odd part—they say nobody wants to be commander-in-chief for Masakado’s subjugation. “After all, out east these days, just hearing Masakado’s name makes men tremble—they say his momentum’s so fierce none dare oppose him… and all the court nobles know it. “Seems Umanojo Sadamori tried lighting a fire under those nobles, but the damn medicine worked too well.”

Yasaka no Fujinin immediately relayed this information as it was to Sumitomo.

Sumitomo, upon hearing this, filled his cup to the brim, “The moment has ripened.—A toast to what’s to come.” and poured Fujinin a drink, “Then you chase after Sadamori and head down to the Eastern Provinces.” he said.

Naturally, Yasaka no Fujinin seemed willing. In the Eastern Provinces, they would have Masakado instigate a major revolt, while from the sea, Sumitomo’s faction would land in Settsu and launch full-fledged revolutionary action—this was the aim of their alliance.

Female Tribute

“Masakado and I have a pact from Mount Hiei.” “Now, the day has truly come to witness that oath.” “When you meet him, tell him this: …Once we both march upon the capital and achieve our ambitions, let us clasp hands atop that Mount Hiei of our memories.” “…Make sure to convey that Sumitomo said so.” Sumitomo was drawn to the fact that Masakado was a scion of the imperial lineage. In other words, it was a matter of usefulness. But he was no prudent schemer—rather, a kind of mad child. When he drank, the mad child’s eyes would emit rainbows, and his tone would always take on a quality as if reciting poetry.

To tell the truth, unease still lingered within Yasaka no Fujinin’s heart. As for that so-called “Mount Hiei Pact,” Masakado’s faction had never taken it seriously from the very beginning. He had once tried mentioning it before, but Masakado had worn an expression as if he had nearly forgotten—treating it as nothing more than words exchanged in a moment of drunken revelry. But rather than such hollow vows, fate was seizing Masakado—capturing him precisely as he envisioned and steering him toward the very direction he desired. This was where Yasaka no Fujinin placed his trust.

It was impossible to say whether he was laughing off the Mount Hiei pact as nonsense to Sumitomo’s face, so...

“That’s dramatic. If it comes to that, it would be splendid. When I meet Masakado, I’ll make sure to tell him that,” he replied. “Hmm. The Mount Hiei pact... it’s my love. I want to make it a reality and stage a dramatic reunion. That’s right. He’s no longer the Kojirō of Takiguchi of old. On your way down this time, take four or five courtesans from here under the pretext of them being tribute from Sumitomo.”

“Ah. …That Kusabue?” “Kusabue as well—but you’d better add about three more young and beautiful ones. If I’m thought stingy, it’ll damage my standing, you know.”