Pathway to Japanese Literature

The First Letter

Yamaura Jotaro received a mysterious letter.
Its meaning was—

You killed a person.
Even if it was to eliminate a treacherous retainer from your lord’s house, ending a human life remains unchanged—if you are a samurai, climb Hakone’s mountain path on the coming August fifteenth and stand before the crossroads shrine on Taikō Road at sunset.
Manda Ryunosuke, who seeks you as his father’s enemy, will greet you at his ancestral grounds and proclaim his vendetta.
You—who have lost all hope of returning to your lord’s service—must let yourself be slain honorably by Ryunosuke and permit this filial son to achieve his purpose.
Should you attempt to flee or hide, we shall proclaim this account to every inlet and shore across Japan’s sixty-odd provinces, holding you up as cowardice incarnate and a laughingstock for generations unending.

The wording was quite harsh, yet despite being written in rigidly square characters, there was a gentle quality to it—a hint of feminine handwriting.

“Idiot!”

Yamaura Jotaro crumpled the letter in his palm and tossed it aside.
What welled up from the pit of his stomach was an unbearable fury.

Until three years prior, Yamaura Jotaro—who had served Lord Ōkubo Kaga-no-kami, castellan of Odawara, with a stipend of 150 koku—while working as a Hakone checkpoint official, discovered grave misconduct by his colleague Manda Kyūbee; when confronting him brought only humiliation and his report went unheeded, he could no longer contain his resolve—cutting down Manda Kyūbee on the spot, fleeing to Edo, and continuing this precarious ronin existence ever since.

As the officials’ investigation progressed, Manda Kyūbee’s crimes—counterfeiting checkpoint permits, selling them to shady touts at Odawara inns, and amassing illicit profits—became fully known. Yet there were those who envied Yamaura Jotaro’s merit, spreading rumors: “Yamaura was also a checkpoint official; he must have conspired with Manda in villainy, then killed him over a poor share of profits.” Not only did no reinstatement envoy ever come from the Ōkubo family—on the contrary, rumors even began circulating that they had dispatched assassins to surveil Yamaura Jotaro.

It was just when Yamaura Jotaro had grown utterly weary—of circumstances that forced such misinterpretation upon him, of a three-year ronin life so destitute he lacked even daily necessities—that he received this mysterious letter.

“All right—then I’ll let myself be killed. Rather than cowering in poverty through this world that rejects my truth, dying upon the blade of this dutiful filial son—even if he be a villain’s child—who seeks to avenge his father’s enemy is a samurai’s true purpose.”

Yamaura Jotaro was a man who thought of things in that manner.

A man in his prime at twenty-eight—his face tanned from Hakone’s sun, his build imposing—Yamaura Jotaro set out on his journey to meet his vengeful death with unshakable composure; his haori and hakama were threadbare, yet at his waist hung a splendid Sagami-forged sword inherited from his father; with just one ryō and two bu in his pocket—all he had gained from selling off everything he owned—he departed.

It was the beginning of August in the third year of Shōtoku, during the era of the seventh shogun Ietsugu—a time when Edo had become a crucible of the arrogant, and in every corner of society, people were desperately craving money.

The misery of being a ronin sank deep into one's bones in times like these. Even with martial prowess, there were no daimyo offering stipends worth a handful of rice paste; in an Edo where staff-fighting dojos rivaled Inari shrines in number, not even jobs to sustain a ronin's livelihood could be found through desperate searching. Better to die gallantly in some decisive vendetta than sustain this wretched existence through badly chanted Noh verses and the pitiful alms of a few copper coins—

Even for someone other than Yamaura Jotaro, it was only natural that a fallen ronin would come to feel that way.

The Second Letter

In Bushū Hachiōji, Manda Ryunosuke—a ronin who likewise led a desolate existence—received a similar letter.

Are you not already eighteen? Yet with Yamaura Jotaro—your father’s killer—practically within arm’s reach, what craven weakness this reveals.
True, your father Kyūbee may have harbored some wrongdoing, but it was Yamaura Jotaro who dragged it into daylight and cut him down.
To leave that enemy unavenged while wallowing in Lady Osome’s affections, lacking even the resolve to step beyond Hachiōji—what contemptible cowardice.
If parting from her side pains you so, then take the woman along on your revenge quest.
Come August fifteenth at sunset, your sworn enemy Yamaura Jotaro shall stand before the crossroads shrine on Taikō Road along Hakone’s mountain path.
Never dare doubt this.
Let this chance slip, and all hope of avenging your father dies here.
Anaken—breathe not a word of this to any soul.

The tone was mocking, yet it carried an undeniable authenticity.
As he read this, Manda Ryunosuke felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped down his back.

It was an event from merely three years prior, and Ryunosuke knew every detail.
There was no doubt his father Kyūbee had been killed by his colleague Yamaura Jotaro—yet all fault lay with Kyūbee himself, leaving no grounds to resent Yamaura Jotaro for cutting him down.
Though part of the checkpoint officials, his father’s misdeeds—forging permits and amassing ill-gotten wealth—were such that had he faced judgment while alive, even death by stoning would have been insufficient punishment.
To Yamaura Jotaro who had struck him down, Manda Ryunosuke possessed no justification to declare enmity.

But now that the enemy’s whereabouts had become so clearly known, as a son, Manda Ryunosuke could not simply remain still.

“Very well—I’ll cut down my enemy Yamaura Jotaro and plunge headfirst into the Eight Cold Hells alongside my father.”

That such lawless sentiments stirred Manda Ryunosuke’s young blood was only natural.

“Lord Ryunosuke, where are you going?”

With his travel preparations barely complete, Manda Ryunosuke had just rushed out of Hachiōji Town when a voice called to him from behind.

After being driven from Odawara three years prior, Ryunosuke had taken shelter with a distant relative named Takayama—whose only daughter Osome, now nineteen and a year his senior, had been born to a rural samurai family. Raised in the capital’s refined atmosphere, she retained an innocent freshness in her manner while possessing an alluring charm.

“Oh, it’s nothing—just going there.”

Ryunosuke hesitated slightly.

“Lord Ryunosuke, you are going to Hakone, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Please take me with you as well, I beg of you.”

“———”

When he led her into the shadows beneath trees at the town's edge, Osome adorably clasped her hands together beneath fresh green leaves that cast a verdant tint on her face.

"Lord Ryunosuke, I too have received such a letter.
Please take a look."

What Osome took out from her breast pocket bore exactly the same handwriting as the mysterious letter Ryunosuke had received. It read:

Manda Ryunosuke is set to venture into Hakone's mountain path to avenge his father's enemy.
The opponent is a warrior named Yamaura Jotaro; Ryunosuke alone could never hope to defeat him.
If you wish to help Ryunosuke, you should immediately follow after him.
I'll lend you one Southern Barbarian matchlock gun.
With this alone, even a woman's slender arm should be able to oppose a full-grown man—

The letter was all too meticulously crafted—though whose doing it was remained unclear—but Manda Ryunosuke felt a chilling shiver run down his spine.
“What’s this ‘matchlock gun’?”

“This is it.”

Osome untied the heavy bundle she had brought forth, revealing within a fearsome Southern Barbarian matchlock gun inlaid with gold and silver; Manda Ryunosuke felt an involuntary shiver course through him at the terror of the fate dragging him forward.

Picking up the matchlock gun and scrutinizing it with an eerie sensation—as though handling some gigantic insect—Ryunosuke declared:

“Though I don’t comprehend what lies ahead in the slightest, regardless I must go and see for myself."
“Lady Osome, you ought to turn back from here while you still can.”

"But Lord Ryunosuke—"

Osome, clutching the matchlock gun, wriggled her body.

“Her Ladyship must be worried.”

“No, I have already informed Mother as well. Mother said—‘Your role is to witness Lord Ryunosuke’s fate to the end—I will never stop you.’”

“———”

Ryunosuke nodded with a heartrending feeling.

To Troublesome Kairiku as well,

A man called Troublesome Kairiku—a middle-aged man who did nothing but wicked deeds along the coastal highway—had a mysterious letter written in kana delivered to him too.

“Old man, you’re Troublesome Kairiku, ain’t ya?”

At an izakaya in Oiso where Troublesome Kairiku was coiled up like a snake, a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy who looked adorable called out to him.

“What? ‘Troublesome Kairiku’? Who the hell’d have a freak-show name like that? Damn it—keep starin’ at my mug an’ I’ll gouge yer eyes out, boil ’em in snail stew! Scared now, brat?”

He let out a foul breath and whirled around to face the other way.

"But they told me Troublesome Kairiku's the one without a left earlobe and two big yellow teeth stickin' out!"

"Hey hey hey! Quit itemizin' every damn feature o' my face! This earlobe here? Got bit clean off in a brawl! Who in their right mind'd stick these things on both sides? Feels damn refreshin', I tell ya! If ya think I'm lyin', go ahead an' take off yer own, I tell ya!"

“No thanks—if I go rippin’ off earlobes, my teeth’ll just stick out anyway!”

“Watch your mouth, brat!”

“Getting angry won’t scare me none. Better fess up if you’re Troublesome Kairiku.”
“’Cause I was asked by a pretty lady to deliver this letter.”

Despite his utterly adorable appearance, the things he said were terrifyingly spiteful.

“What?”

“So if you won’t confess being Troublesome Kairiku—”

“Kairiku’s me! Between Edo and Hakone, ain’t no other Kairiku but yours truly—though I hate to admit it."
“Troublesome Kairiku—who’d saddle me with such a godawful name?”

“See? You are Troublesome Kairiku!”
“There—letter delivered proper.”
“Payment’s fat enough.”
“If you claim later you never got it, that’ll be my fault!”

“What the hell, brat?”

Troublesome Kairiku took the letter from the boy and began unfurling the tightly rolled hanshi paper with a flourish.
Beautiful kana characters spanned five or six lines,

“Can you read it, boss?”

“What the—”

“Can you even read that letter? It’s all kana writing—ain’t it? If you can’t read this—”

The boy turned aside and stuck out his red tongue with a flick.

“What the— It’s just ’cause the sun’s casting shadows, makin’ it too dim to read!”
“Smooth talker, huh? —Want me to read it for ya, boss?”
“What the—”

Troublesome Kairiku, even as he made excuses, had no choice but to hand the letter over to the boy.

“There’s somethin’ interestin’ written here, I tell ya, Kairiku-boss.”

“What the—”

“Boss, you’re quite the ladies’ man ’spite yer looks, heh, hff hff.”

“Quit laughin’ to yerself an’ just read it already! If ya keep starin’ at it forever, yer drool’ll smear the damn letters!”

Even as he said this, Kairiku was thoroughly irritated.

“Readin’ this letter for free’s too borin’, ain’t it? Spice it up a bit, boss.”

“What’re you blabberin’ about?”

“That’s how it goes, boss—‘How ’bout it, Kairiku-boss? Won’t shack up with me? If you’re keen, come to Hakone. Be at Taikō Road’s crossroads shrine come the fifteenth moon night, sunset time. Bring that pretty boss mug of yours—from that Odawara gal.’”

“Odawara gal… Huh?”

Kairiku tilted his head slightly.
There were several men he’d harassed in Odawara’s pleasure quarters, but not a single one shared an intimacy warranting a summons deep into Hakone’s mountains.
Troublesome Kairiku, feeling as though a fox had beguiled him, staggered outside.

A letter also to Akasaki Saichi.

“Kairiku.”

In a booming voice that bore down like a crown,

“What the—? You idiot!”

Defiantly hunched his shoulders and abruptly raised his face—there before him loomed a terrifyingly reckless ronin, like a Jūkichi played straight.

“You’re in quite a mood, aren’t you, Kairiku?”

“Oh? Sir Akasaki?”

Kairiku ran his clenched fist over his face in one swift motion.
There seemed to be some unfathomable reason behind this terrifying ronin Akasaki Saichi’s behavior.

"You ain’t much of a ‘sir’ in looks, but that’s one hell of a greeting from an idiot."

A man in his mid-thirties—fair-skinned and tall, clad in decayed habutae silk with a crescent-moon hairline and scuffed red-lacquered scabbard, straw sandals worn carelessly and hem slightly hitched up as he picked at his teeth with a bamboo toothpick—no matter how one looked at him, he didn’t cut a particularly respectable figure.

“Forgive me, sir! I was so flustered I didn’t even notice that red-lacquered scabbard of yours.”

“Well now,”

Akasaki Saichi spat out his toothpick sharply.

“By the way—your business?”
“Sir?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to hide. You just got a letter from that brat a moment ago, didn’t ya?”

“Oh?”

“Simple enough—just let me take a quick look at that.”

“It’s no simple favor, sir! If this humble one were to lose his once-in-a-lifetime chance with women, I’d have no chance to rise in the world at all.”

“You’re such a fool—thinkin’ this is some kinda woman’s luck? If you waltz down Taikō Road with that attitude, best case you’ll bust through checkpoints… Worst case? That thick neck of yours’ll get lopped off in one swing!”

“Let’s cut the threats and get to business. Despite how I look, I’m actually a coward, heh, heh.”

“If Troublesome Kairiku were ever a coward, there’d be no brave souls left in this world—ah well. If you doubt me, why don’t you wander off to Taikō Road and go lose that grimy thick neck of yours?”

Akasaki Saichi, having said such things, swiftly turned his back.
“Wait a moment, sir! What good’s a taboo curse like taking this humble one’s head? My pockets ain’t got a hundred coins to their name!”
“It’s not gold I’m after.”

“Oh?”

“The brat who handed you that letter in a woman’s hand earlier also gave me one.—What’s there to hide? I ain’t some petty bastard who’d keep this under wraps. Here, look.”

Akasaki Saichi took out a thick letter from his breast pocket and placed it in Kairiku’s hand without hesitation.
When he unconsciously opened it, the inside was filled with intricate characters.

“I can’t read this, sir—not that I’m braggin’, but this humble one had some snot-nosed brat read it out in kana for me.”

“Is that really somethin’ to brag about?”

“Read it for me, sir.”

“I’ll read it... if you join my crew startin’ right now today.”

“Well now...”

“Don’t piss yourself, Kairiku—got my reasons for knowin’ this scheme’s guts. This here’s a seventy thousand ryō job.”

“Seventy thousand ryō—wait a moment, sir! When you say seventy thousand ryō, just how much money are we talking about here?”

“Seventy thousand ryō coins—I know a way to keep it all for myself, but the bastards we’re up against are tough as nails. Splitting seventy thousand with a nobody like you seems too generous… but right now, even a kitten’s paw would help. So—how ’bout teaming up? Got the stones to take on this mountain of a job?”
Akasaki Saichi’s proposition reeked of madness.

“That’s quite the offer, sir.”

Kairiku gulped and held his breath.
He was at a complete loss for words.

“Losing your nerve at seventy thousand ryō? Ain’t that beneath someone like Troublesome Kairiku?”

“I ain’t surprised, but that story’s too grand to be real, sir.”

“Fine, fine. If you think it’s a lie, come see for yourself. Help me from now until August 15th—three days—and I’ll pay one ryō per day.”
“In exchange, even if we get seventy thousand ryō in gold, I won’t give you a single coin.”

“A daily wage of one ryō ain’t bad, but splitting seventy thousand ryō sounds a bit sweeter.”
“I’ll take that split, sir.”

“Humans ain’t too clever, but your math checks out—you’ve got that thirty-five thousand being the bigger share figured proper. With that settled, we’re partners from today. Right, Kairiku? Let’s toast this deal—you’ve got five hundred coins or a kan stashed away for drinks, yeah? A man’s duty and all.”

“Heh, ain’t braggin’, but my pockets are empty.”

“Ain’t there some joint where we can drink on credit?”

“Dead end.”

“You’re hopeless. Take off that work coat.”

“Whoa! If I lose this one good outfit, I ain’t gonna make it on the road—that’s too cruel, sir!”

“What nonsense are you spouting? If anyone asks, act like a porter!”

A moral bankrupt and a credit bankrupt—two men who were like thorns that would pierce anyone touching them—thus came to form their joint front.

Seventy Thousand Ryō Treasure

“Explain it proper-like.
“Ain’t that I mind losin’ one work coat, but catchin’ ague while dreamin’ seventy thousand ryō? That’s poor bargain.”
“What’s this whole mess about?”
“Sir?”

Troublesome Kairiku, having confirmed that no one else was in the shop, set down his sake cup and drew his knees closer to Akasaki Saichi.
On the outskirts of Odawara town, in the back of a small eatery that aimed to serve travelers the cheapest yet most generous midday meal, the two sat lined up on a hardened straw mat, pleasantly tipsy.

“No one’s listening, right, Kairiku?”

“Ain’t peak hours, so we’re clear. Just some kitten prickin’ up ears over yonder. Once the bill got settled, the old man ducked out back all relieved-like, an’ the girl’s too busy snatchin’ bites to eavesdrop—their ears ’bout as useful as knotholes.”

Having scoped out the shop inside and out, Kairiku plopped back down in his spot.

“Then I’ll lay it all out—don’t go losin’ your head now, Kairiku.”

“Ain’t losin’ nothin’—but when you lean in with them fixed peepers o’ yours, it’s enough to ice a man’s innards, sir. That mug o’ yours ain’t exactly temple art.”

“Don’t waste words—do you have some weird scrap of paper in your amulet pouch or umbilical record with something unidentifiable drawn on it? Let’s start by hearing about that.”

Akasaki Saichi began ceremoniously.

“There is one, sir—my dead mother sewed it into my amulet pouch. It’s just this tiny three-sun-square paper scrap with what looks like spiderwebs and some damn tricky characters written on it—”

“That’s it, Kairiku! With that, you’re one of Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s descendants too. You can proudly claim ten thousand ryō out of the seventy thousand.”

“Well now, ten thousand ryō.”

“Listen well—exactly one hundred years ago from now, on August 15th of Keichō 18, a man named Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami passed away. In his youth, he was a Noh actor, but having caught the discerning eye of Tokugawa Ieyasu-sama, he was appointed gold mine magistrate. He took charge of all gold, silver, copper, iron, and lead mines across Japan and even managed the realm’s taxes for a time—it’s said his authority surpassed that of feudal lords. The details might be too convoluted for you to grasp, but in any case, since he controlled every mine in Japan single-handedly, who knows how much gold lined his pockets?”

“Well now...”

Kairiku was utterly overwhelmed by the gravity of the story.

“Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami held a domain of thirty thousand koku in Bushū Hachiōji and died there, but after his death, a great uproar arose.”
“That’s because his will stated that seventy thousand ryō was to be divided among his seven concubines as mementos.”
“The concubines pressed Fujūrō, the eldest son, to hand over the gold immediately, but he refused.”
“After a bitter dispute, it became a shogunate matter. When officials raided the Hachiōji mansion to investigate, they discovered—to their shock—that even the storehouse contained a mountain of gold, silver, and jewels Iwami-no-kami had amassed through official privileges during his lifetime.”
“Moreover, they found prohibited Christian letters and foreign trade documents. So they confiscated the domain, seized all assets, and every one of the seven children—the eldest Fujūrō along with Geki, Gonnosuke, Unjūrō and the rest—were executed or exiled. Thus all treasures Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami left behind were utterly destroyed in an instant.”

――――

“However, mysteriously, the seventy thousand ryō in gold he’d promised to divide among his seven concubines couldn’t be found no matter where they searched.”
“The shogunate officials exhausted every method trying to uncover it.”
“But they simply couldn’t find it.”

“――――”

“It shouldn’t exist.
“The seventy thousand ryō refers to when Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami, under Tokugawa Ieyasu-sama’s orders, first excavated the Izu gold mine and set aside a portion of the mined gold to hide in the Hakone mountains for later use.”
At that time, there were no checkpoints in Hakone yet.
“Iwami-no-kami ordered his trusted retainer Sakamoto Samonji to hide the gold somewhere in the Hakone mountains, later fabricated a pretext, killed Samonji—the very retainer who had hidden the gold—then placed only the map into a lacquer case and buried it beneath his bedroom floor.”

“――――”

"The lacquer case had been confiscated by shogunate officials, but before they discovered it, Fujūrō, the eldest son, secretly extracted just the map. Fearing terrible calamity would befall them, he cut it into seven pieces to distribute among his seven brothers, quietly passed them down through seven descendants, and died condemned while praying that one day all seven fragments would emerge together—so the hidden seventy thousand ryō treasure might aid the Ōkubo family’s restoration."

“――――”

“The map cut into seven pieces was destined to gather in Hakone’s mountain paths on the centennial memorial of Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s death.”

“This ain’t no fluke or random happenstance.”

“Is it the guidance of the dead Iwami-no-kami? No—it can’t be that.”

“A terrifying person beyond even our sight is wielding formidable wisdom to gather Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s seven descendants—each holding a fragment of the map—from across Japan to Hakone, reeling them in like threads.”

Even as he said this, Akasaki Saichi furrowed his bold eyebrows and gave a powerful shudder through his formidable shoulders.

“So...”

How many times had Kairiku held his breath?

“Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s descendants are scattered to the four winds.
They’re using made-up family names and doing whatever work they please.
If this Akasaki Saichi counts as one of them, then you—Troublesome Kairiku—are another.”
“If the seven descendants gathered to split ten thousand ryō each all nice and friendly, things’d stay peaceful—but starting with me, I won’t have none of that.”
“Take all seventy thousand ryō or stay Mokuan’ya the fool—them’s our choices.”
“There’s likely bold bastards among the seven, but I ain’t the only one sharpening my claws to snatch every last coin of that seventy thousand.”

Akasaki Saichi’s story stole the guts from Troublesome Kairiku.
For Kairiku, who treated extorting a few nishu or ikkan coins as grand affairs, the realm of seventy thousand ryō must have been an unimaginable—utterly inconceivable—world.

“Boss—w-well, I’ll be damned! Me, I’d jump at seventy ryō outta seventy thousand, but pride’s pride—now I wanna nab all seventy thousand ryō proper-like and take a nap atop a golden mountain!”

“That’s the spirit—go ahead and do it with that determination.”

“What’s the first thing I gotta do, Boss?”

“Just snatch one girl and knock out one young samurai.”

“Well now, you make it sound cheap, but that’s one hell of a job, I tell ya.”

“With such weak resolve, you’ll find it damn tough to even dream of seventy thousand ryō—you hear me, Kairiku?”

Akasaki Saichi brought his mouth close to Kairiku’s ear.

“Ugh, that tickles!”

“Don’t get picky—your ear’s filthy. Clean it once in a while.”

“I don’t bother cleanin’ that deep.”

“Because I don’t waste time on bedtime niceties.”

Engrossed in their idle chatter and whispered scheming, the two men remained unaware that a traveling monk sat listening intently from a back room—one partition away—catching every word.

The wandering monk, whose name was Kuuzen, had also received a similarly mysterious letter and was hastening along Hakone’s mountain path.

The wandering monk Kuuzen had developed a stomachache and, while lying down in the back of the shop, ended up overhearing something momentous.
While watching the two men’s retreating backs leave the shop, he took out the letter from his pilgrim’s bag and reread it,

“On the night of the harvest moon, at the crossroads shrine along Taikō Road of Hakone’s mountain path, you shall behold five or seven corpses of those who meet untimely ends—all being five heinous beings beyond salvation, yet still seeking final rites in their last moments—” it read, written in splendid calligraphy.

Shiraito no Otaki

“Wait a moment, sir.”

“――――”

“Sir.”

When called twice, Yamaura Jotaro quietly came to a stop.
Having passed Hatagoshuku and taken a step to the left, just as he tried to push through the ferocious thicket of Hakone bamboo grass, he was stopped.

“Do you have business with me?”

He looked around in all directions, but there was no sign of anyone.
Though this was a familiar Hakone path, he stood rooted to the spot for some time, feeling as though a fox had bewitched him.

It was exactly midday, and strangely, travelers had vanished; as for entering the mountain path, it seemed there would be no better opportunity than now.
Yamaura Jotaro, who had long served as a checkpoint official, found himself gripped by a sudden unease despite being thoroughly familiar with every detail.

“If you enter there, you’ll be committing checkpoint violation—are you aware of that, sir?”

When he turned around, there was a woman’s head—unexpectedly close—emerging halfway from the grass thicket, melting into a gentle smile.

“I am aware.”

Yamaura Jotaro showed no trace of unease.

“Well—though of course there’s no way you, having served as a checkpoint official, wouldn’t know such things.”

“What?”

Even Yamaura Jotaro stiffened in surprise.

“Knowing that, yet you still mean to enter the mountain path—”

“Who are you—? I feel I’ve seen you before.”

“You’ve forgotten.”

She smiled again—her sun-darkened face framed by unremarkable hair, clad in a plain cotton-lined kimono—yet when she smiled, it held a radiance that might have lit all Hakone ablaze.

“Aren’t you Shiraito no Otaki?”

With this splendid smile, Yamaura Jotaro finally remembered.
At Takimi Tea House, there was Hakone’s famous Otaki, who made her charm her selling point—how the young samurai of Odawara’s household must have clamored about this woman alone as their topic of conversation!
Even so, her youth and charm remained utterly unchanged from before—what could explain such a thing?
Three years ago, Otaki had appeared nineteen or twenty years old, but even now, seeing her up close three years later, she did not seem much older than twenty.

“Well, how delightful!”

The way she said this and smiled again differed from the Otaki of before only in appearing slightly more worldly.

“Where are you going? Popping your face out from the bushes like that—you startled me!”

“At least it wasn’t a sudden attack from the bushes.”

“Enough with the jokes—I have urgent business.”

Yamaura Jotaro pushed Otaki aside and attempted to plunge into the Hakone bamboo grass thicket—following the mountain path.

“Well, are you truly planning to breach the checkpoint?”

Otaki nimbly stepped aside.

“A sacred vow compels me to ascend here.”

“No matter what curse may come,”

“Enough.”

“If a former Hakone Checkpoint official—thoroughly familiar with every detail—were to breach the checkpoint, it would not end lightly. What urgent business could possibly compel you to risk your life ascending here?”

“What will you do if you hear it?”

“Oh, making such a scary face—I’m saying this for your sake.”
“I mean no harm.”
“Return quietly from this place—I will fulfill your wish in your stead.”

“My wish?”
“My wish is to throw away my life—to go be killed by my enemy.”

“Well...”

“Are you saying you’ll take my place in that?”

A wry smile rose to Yamaura Jotaro’s cheek.

“Is that all? Mr. Yamaura.”

“Is discarding one’s life as simple as merely that?”

“What is this? Mr. Yamaura.”

Otaki took out a brocade amulet bag from her obi and flashed it before his eyes.

“Ah, that’s my amulet bag—when did you—”

“Oh ho ho—you didn’t realize this was taken from you at the teahouse at the foot of the mountain, did you?”

“It was you?”

“Well, well, do I look like a thief or a pickpocket to you?”

“There should have been no one else outside—”

“Wasn’t there a man called Yakkai no Kairiku—Japan’s most troublesome man—gulping down ditch-grade liquor right by your side and pestering you?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re aware this amulet bag holds something worth exchanging for your life—aren’t you?”

“Nah—just an umbilical cord record inside. Useless to a dead man walking. Bury it in the grass if you’re feeling kind—keep folks from trampling it.”

Having dismissed her, Yamaura Jotaro pushed into the Hakone bamboo grass.

The autumn sun blazed crimson, illuminating his stalwart back as it cast its light over Hakone’s mountains. The greenery across the slopes aged into a withered hue, rendering the midday scenery somehow desolate and forlorn.

“Do you have no need for the paper fragment wrapped around that umbilical cord record?”

“I don’t need it—such scrap—”

“Well, this ‘scrap’—do you even know what’s written here?”

Otaki appeared slightly taken aback by the man’s carefree demeanor.

“I don’t know. Don’t bother me anymore.”

Yamaura Jotaro parted the Hakone bamboo grass and gradually disappeared into its depths.

“What a carefree man you are—wait a moment, sir, Mr. Yamaura—now, if you would lend your strength, this confrontation would be our victory—just a moment—”

Otaki’s voice too—out of deference to the figures of travelers beginning to appear sporadically—had no choice but to trail off and be swallowed up. Meanwhile, Yamaura Jotaro’s figure—appearing to descend the well-known mountain path toward the valley—could no longer be seen from here.

“Tch, there’s just no helping it.”

Ryunosuke and Osome

“Sir Samurai, you’re on the wrong path.”
“The mountain lookout officials have observed you through a telescope from the pass summit. They require your explanation and will provide guidance.”

Though courteously phrased, it was an ironclad command permitting no refusal.
Manda Ryunosuke and Osome exchanged glances and stiffened in shock.

The standard punishment for checkpoint violations was crucifixion; even mere suspicion or intent would not be overlooked.
Merely realizing this made his lips go numb, and he could feel the blood swiftly draining from his cheeks.

“Due to taking a shortcut on an unfamiliar journey, I have lost my way and ended up in this situation—stumbled into this unexpected place. Though as one seeking revenge where every moment is crucial, I must beg your understanding with a brief explanation.”
“I humbly request your guidance.”

Manda Ryunosuke, resigned to bowing to authority, politely bent his waist slightly.
The man was a dirty, half-naked porter-like figure lacking discernment or dignity, but [he] thought there was no use in arguing here.

“In that case, come along this way.”

Manda Ryunosuke turned back to Osome with a fleeting look that might have said “Wait here calmly,” then followed the man and retraced his steps along the narrow path they had taken.

Having entered a mountain trail from Yunohana and followed a stream upstream some distance, Ryunosuke found himself being led to an uncertain destination while fretting over Osome left behind.
Bringing a woman before officials at Hakone’s checkpoint—infamous for its “exit permits for women and entry bans on firearms”—must have seemed more dangerous than abandoning her on the mountain path.

“Not yet?”

“It’s almost there.”

When rounding the mountain’s edge, they exchanged only a single word; then after another twelve or thirteen *cho*, the path became swallowed by thick grass and gradually distanced itself from the main highway.

“Huh?”

When he came to his senses, the guide had vanished without a trace.
In the course of rounding a bend or two along the mountain’s edge, he must have strayed onto some side path.

“Guide! Guide!”

He went back and forth two or three times around that area, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

“Could it be...?”

Manda Ryunosuke stopped and peered behind him. When he recalled Osome, whom he had left behind on the mountain path, an eerie shudder raced down his spine. In an instant, Ryunosuke whirled around and retraced his original path like the wind. Neither mountains, nor trees, nor rocks were visible. He stumbled several times until blood oozed from his toes, but there was no leisure to consider such things—visions of Osome being abducted, bound, and tormented flickered before his eyes in broad daylight.

“Ah!”

Manda Ryunosuke froze.
In the modest clearing where Osome had just moments ago been watching forlornly, now only autumn grasses fluttered listlessly—swallowed by the surrounding sea of Hakone bamboo grass that shaded its perimeter, there was neither a shadow nor a trace of Osome.

There were only two paths. He dashed wildly along the mountain path stretching in the exact opposite direction from where Ryunosuke had come.
Tormented by impulses to occasionally call out “Osome!” in a loud voice, he pressed his lips tightly together—

But that was a completely futile effort.
No matter how far he went, there was only a sea of Hakone bamboo grass, and the mountain path winding through it seemed to mock him, abruptly guiding Ryunosuke back to where he started.

For about half an hour, Ryunosuke dashed about like a wounded beast—then suddenly dropped to his knees on the grassy ground.

“Ah!”

A red, flaming obi snaked through the long grass before him—there could be no mistaking that tie-dyed hemp leaf pattern burned into Ryunosuke’s memory. Osome’s unmistakable sash. He surged upright as though to seize it bodily. She had come this way—but where had she gone?

Standing bewildered in the clearing, he gradually became aware of water’s crisp murmur nearby. Only then did he notice the terrible thirst scorching his throat raw.

Crawling closer to look, he found that someone had set up a bamboo trough leading to a mountain spring cascading down from the cliff above—a silken stream trickling down through it, was there not?

He scooped water with his hands—one sip, two sips. On the third sip, he thought it tasted slightly bitter, but paying it no mind, he drank five, six gulps, then let out a relieved breath—

“Ah!”

A wave of dizziness struck him, and before he knew it, his hips sank onto the grass.

The drone of autumn cicadas—and gentian and plumleaf hydrangea blooming near his side—were Ryunosuke’s last conscious thoughts before his mind sank into darkness.

Puppetmaster in the Shadows

After some time had passed, Yamaura Jotaro arrived by the same spring.

Though Jotaro walked the mountain path with his accustomed robust stride, baked by the autumn sun, even he must have grown thirsty—drawn by the water’s sound, he sank down beneath the rocky spring as if pulled by an invisible force.

Jotaro, well-versed in mountain living, plucked a single butterbur leaf from nearby and, after checking both sides against the light for cleanliness, deftly fashioned it into a cup.
He held it beneath the trough, savoring the trickling water as it pooled, but once full, he brought it to his mouth and took a hearty gulp—

—

He tilted his head and spat it out with a “Puh!”

“Hold there, honorable samurai!”

When called out to from behind,

“Me?”

Though startled, he turned around without a hint of shame.

“You must not drink that water.”

The wandering monk nearing sixty had somehow flown over and was stopping Yamaura Jotaro’s arm.

“Reverend, why are you stopping me?”

“That spring water has been poisoned.”

“What?!”

“In fact, just moments ago, a traveler drank that water and was poisoned into critical condition.”
“Fortunately, this humble monk happened by, carried him into the shade and nursed him—but before he’d regained his senses, I felt another presence. Startled, I rushed here only to find you about to drink that water.”

“I am obliged.”

“I left the patient lying in the shade of that tree, but with just this humble monk alone, I cannot manage no matter what I do. Would you not care to assist in nursing the patient for a while?”

“Understood.”

He gestured toward a cluster of trees,

“Reverend, where is the patient?”

“There, under that tree.”

The two entered beneath a tree that cast a large shadow. But without even needing to peer closely, there was nothing to be seen there.

“Ah!”

“What happened, Reverend?”

“I’m certain I laid him here to rest, but hmm… how strange.”

“What kind of person was he?”

“A young samurai of seventeen or eighteen, still with his forelocks up.”

“Hmm.”

Yamaura Jotaro was oddly struck by a realization. A young samurai of seventeen or eighteen climbing Hakone’s mountain path specifically today—who could guarantee that this person spying on me as an enemy wasn’t Manda Ryunosuke?

At that very moment, in a patch of grass some distance away beyond a large cliff, there was a woman laying down an unconscious Manda Ryunosuke and tending to him with great care.

“Otaki, heh heh heh, you’re handling this smoothly.”

“Oh—Kairiku Oyabun, is that you? Don’t go scarin’ me like that, showin’ up here with that filthy mug.”

“Callin’ this mug o’ mine a greetin’, huh?”

“You’re the one who lured him here and strangled this young one, aren’t you?”

Shiraito no Otaki raised her beautiful face and declared with finality, as if slamming a lid shut.

“You’re kiddin’ me! I’m the one who lured that samurai out, but I ain’t the one who wrung his neck.”

“Hmm.”
“Do you know the woman, Ms. Otaki?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.”

Yakkai no Kairiku also tilted his head as if pondering.

“We can’t let our guard down with this one."
“The fight for glory isn’t just between me and the bosses.”
“In the shadows, there’s someone even more formidable—they must be plotting something terrible.”

“—”

“I, Mr. Akasaki, and you—we’re all being pulled by those strings, each of us striking our poses thinking we’re the cleverest ones.”

“Who the hell’s the bastard pullin’ the strings?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know at all—that’s why it’s so vexing!”

Otaki said that and gazed up toward Mt. Futago.
The sun hung low—not even an hour and a half remained until the promised August 15th sunset.

Osome's Calamity

“Wait right there, missy!”

A horribly hoarse voice—Osome froze with a start.

“Y-yes.”

“Where do you think you’re going? —This is Hakone’s back path. Push through here as a woman, and you’ll end up strapped to a crucifixion post. You understand that, don’t you?”

The figure with a crescent-moon topknot, decayed habutae silk, discarded red-lacquered scabbard, and shamelessly thrust into straw sandals with hemp linings was none other than the ronin Akasaki Saichi.

“——”

Osome did not know what to say.
Ever since her companion Manda Ryunosuke had been taken away by that strange porter-like man, she had wandered—as though drawn by phantoms—from mountain to mountain, valley to valley, for who knew how many leagues.

When she suddenly noticed, she found herself collapsed beneath a screen-like rock, being intently stared down by an eerie ronin.

“By the way, that young samurai companion of yours—Manda Ryunosuke, was it?—that man has neatly fallen into the trap.”

“What?! The enemy—what about the revenge?”

“No use hiding it—I’m that enemy.”

“Yamaura Jotaro?”

“That’s right—Yamaura Jotaro is none other than me.”
“Now, whether I let Manda Ryunosuke live or kill him is entirely up to me.”

“――――”

Overwhelmed by Akasaki Saichi’s brazenly uttered, scheme-filled words, Osome could only stagger.

“Twisting a brat like that won’t bring much honor. I could postpone cutting him down and help you out quite a bit—”

“Please help him—I beg you, please save him!”

Osome had lost all sense of priority.
If it meant saving Manda Ryunosuke, she would have endured any sacrifice.

“I might be willing to help quite a bit—but that requires something in return.”

“?”

“Inside the amulet you have—there should be a fragment of the map with something like a spiderweb drawn on it.”
“How ’bout you hand that over?”

“――――”

“How ’bout it? Easy enough, ain’t it? That one map fragment’ll save your fiancé.”

“But... Mother said I mustn’t show this to anyone—”

Osome clutched her chest tightly.

“Ah, so you’re saying it’s hidden there—if showing it’s too much, I’ll close my eyes to receive it. How’s this?”

In a tone of teasing a child, Akasaki Saichi even closed his eyes to demonstrate.

“No, no, this is—”

Osome, still clutching her chest and oblivious to the gaping cliff behind her, inched downward.

“Stubborn little thing.”

Akasaki Saichi drew his long blade with a gleaming flash.
The scabbard was badly worn, but the steel within proved unexpectedly fearsome, catching the sunset to glitter like burnished gold.

“Huh?!”

Osome took another step back.

“Careful! Behind you’s a cliff—this blade’s a quicker path to paradise!”

A grin clung to Akasaki Saichi’s tormented face as a cruel, malicious expression spread across it.

“Ah—!”

The town girl Osome was utterly helpless.

Without any sense of direction, she abruptly sprang up like a startled bird and dashed toward the foothills—

“Wait, wait, you unreasonable woman!”

When Akasaki Saichi’s hand reached out, he grabbed Osome by the obi and yanked her back with force.
A crimson robe flaring suddenly—the setting sun reflecting off the autumn leaves inflamed Saichi’s bloodthirsty heart.

“M-Murderer!”

“You idiot! The main road’s right there!”

“Help me—!”

When the young woman’s piercing scream reached him with the realization that the main road was near, he bellowed without restraint.

“Tch, what a hassle—don’t go blaming me!”

Akasaki Saichi swung his short sword.
With a violet flash, Osome collapsed soundlessly into the spray of blood.

Akasaki Saichi shook off the blood, sheathed his sword, lifted the girl’s corpse, and searched through the folds of her obi.

“Nothing here!”

Something whizzed past his raised face—grazing the area around his temples, twisted with doubt and disappointment.
Without a moment’s delay, bang—the report of a matchlock gun echoed through the trees,

“Ah!”

Something whizzed past his face with the acrid tang of gunpowder.

“Were you surprised, honorable ronin?”

A young voice rang out nearby, resonant and intense. When he looked up—there, twenty feet above his head atop a sheer rock face—a boy who appeared no older than thirteen or fourteen stood laughing, a matchlock gun leveled in one hand.

“Who are you?!”

Akasaki Saichi’s eyes flared wide.

“If you live near Hakone and don’t know me, you’re a fraud.”
“Didn’t I bring that strange letter to Ōiso for you?”

“Ah! That brat.”

He recalled that brat who’d brought the strange letter to Yakkai no Kairiku and himself some time ago—the boy with his small build yet oddly mature demeanor, detestable yet somehow endearing.

“The name’s Kaidomaru of Hakone—you’d do well to remember that.”

“What the hell, brat?”

“Make me angry and I’ll piss down on you! Ha ha ha! Scared now? Even if you scramble to run, it’s pointless!”

“Bastard!”

“Go digging through that woman’s clothes again, and this matchlock’ll settle things. Get a good look—it’s a Nanban gun. She had this beauty but didn’t know how to use it.”

“Idiot!”

“I damn well know how to fire a matchlock. That was just a warning shot—grazing your temple without leaving a scratch shows my skill. If I really meant to shoot, I could blast through your eyeball, nostril, or Adam’s apple wherever I damn please. Try circling around the base of this rock face and you’re done for. Shout loud enough and it’ll carry clear to Hatago Village. Before you can count to a hundred, fifty or sixty officials’ll come flying here. They’re already plenty startled by that gunshot.”

“———”

“Were you surprised, honorable ronin? Tuck your tail and retreat if you value your hide.”

Kaidomaru’s bravado was like a rainbow.
In both build and face, he appeared thirteen or fourteen, yet when one heard him speak, he was undeniably a jaded adult.
A boy dressed in handwoven cotton half-naked with a rope belt, exposed knees, and straw sandals as large as a horse’s—like some weathered Kintaro of Ashigara Mountain—yet what a fearsome tongue he wielded.

Akasaki Saichi silently withdrew.
If the secret letter he had been after wasn’t in Osome’s bosom, then needlessly provoking the brat further and inviting some trivial complication would be utterly foolish.

Kairiku glared.

“Quite the theatrical display, wasn’t it?”

A velvety voice drifted from behind.

“Ah! Boss lady! When’d you slip in here?”

As Kaidomaru turned around, the fragrance of Shiraito no Otaki’s skin wafted right up to the tip of his nose.

“I came to check after being startled by the gunshot. But that’s dangerous, you know—treating something like that as a toy.”

“Relax—there aren’t any bullets left.”

“Oh—”

“There was just one bullet loaded—it missed and only grazed that ronin bastard’s sideburns a bit. This matchlock’s worthless—wouldn’t even scare a bird.”

“Oh—”

Before Otaki could stop him,
Kaidomaru’s hand rose—the matchlock gun drew a great arc through the air before being hurled into the abyssal valley depths.

“Feels refreshing, doesn’t it? —By the way, here’s two of those things you asked for, Boss lady.”

Kaidomaru rummaged through his bellyband, took out two pieces of treasure map fragments, and arranged them on the rock as if smoothing out their wrinkles.

“Oh my, how did you get them?”

“One piece I took from the bosom of that young samurai who’s been poisoned and groaning.”

“Well, so it was you.”

“The other piece—that woman was so absorbed she dropped her pouch, so I tailed her and snatched it up. Then, counting the one I took from that Yamaura samurai and the ones you’ve got yourself, Boss lady, that makes exactly four pieces—three left—”

Kaidomaru extended his small palm and counted on his fingers.

"My, you're being remarkably thorough."

Otaki was slightly taken aback.

"You're awfully startled there. Though I must say, Boss lady—when you go 'Oh— Oh—' like that with your eyes all wide, it's downright adorable."

"Oh my, I'm appalled at this kid."

"It's fine if you're utterly astonished. I'll bring the remaining three pieces and make you go 'Oh— Oh—' one after another."

"———"

Otaki, too, was left speechless.

"The sun's about to set. You should go wait at the crossroads shrine. See ya."

With a nimble flip of his body, he leapt down from Byōbu Rock in a single bound, and in the blink of an eye, the boy’s figure vanished into the mountain path.

“Boss lady, you’re bein’ too soft.”

“Who’s there?”

“Kai’s the name.”

Yakkai no Kairiku’s half-naked form rose sluggishly to take position, pointing at his own nose with a repeated grin.

“Forget the ‘Kai’ bit—I reek! Upwind like this, you can’t even stand lookin’ my way.”

Otaki bristled with fury.

“Ain’t ya actin’ mighty prickly? Don’t need nothin’ fancy—just half the sweet smile ya gave that brat.”

As he spoke, Kairiku thrust his worm-eaten scalp and bulbous nose forward.

“This role is too much for you—step aside.”

“This here’s Hakone’s back path, Otaki. Get too cocky and—”

“Trying to scare me? Stop it—Shiraito no Otaki has her thorns.”

“I’d like to get stung by those thorns—that’s a damn reckless move.”

Otaki shielded herself with her sleeve and finally took a step back.

"Ain't gonna sweet-talk ya. Just listen calm-like—hey! Between what you got from that brat and what's tucked in your obi, that makes four map fragments. Time to cough 'em up—"

“———”

“Hey, Boss lady—no, Miss Otaki—you think you can hog all seventy thousand ryō for yourself? That ain’t gonna fly.”
“Hand over those four pieces nice an’ easy, an’ I’ll manage the remainin’ three—it’s all ’bout negotiation.”
“How ’bout it?”

Kairiku swam his large hand over his chin and inched closer with deliberate slowness.

“Are you saying the remaining three pieces are in your hands?”

“Not now—but there’s two others besides me who’ve got ’em. All marked for takin’.”
“If it’s a cipher that needs all seven pieces to solve, then there ain’t no way but for us two to bring ’em together and grab that seventy thousand ryō. I ain’t askin’ for much—three pieces means thirty thousand ryō split. How ’bout it, Boss lady?”

Kairiku adopted an extremely subservient tone.
Compared to Akasaki Saichi—whose lack of work belied his big talk—Otaki found herself astonished at the brilliance of her own efficiency, having used the boy Kaidomaru as her pawn to collect four treasure map fragments within half a day.

“I must decline. The three pieces you’re counting on will end up in my hands in due time.”

“What?”

“Getting angry won’t help. You’d better tuck those three pieces deep into your loincloth and keep them warm—after all, I’ll be taking yours first.”

“What the—”

Yakkai no Kairiku’s glare had no effect whatsoever.
Outmaneuvered by Otaki’s silver tongue and lacking even the courage to lunge at her, he slunk away defeated.

A man calling himself Ryunosuke

“That must be the Taikō Road crossroads shrine.”

Unsu Kuuzen, the wandering monk, looked up at the sky above his head.
At the end of the towering road, hidden from the main highway by groves and mountain ridges, a modest crossroads shrine stood atop a rock.

“Indeed, now that we’ve come this far, all is well. If you’ll excuse me, Reverend—would you kindly wait here?”

Jotaro Yamaura seemed to be contemplating the impropriety of bringing a Buddhist disciple to the site of his revenge killing.

“Are you resolved to proceed no matter what?”

“Indeed.”

“There exists one who has foreseen that tonight, illuminated by the harvest moon’s light, five—or perhaps seven—corpses shall lie before the Taikō Road crossroads shrine.”

The wandering monk pressed Jotaro’s sleeve.

“Such a thing may well be.”

“Now then, regarding your countenance, noble samurai—though it pains me to speak ill tidings—a clear deathly pallor—”

“I, who am going to be killed in revenge—this deathly pallor is only natural.”
“For a warrior, it is an auspicious sign of honor.”

“What do you mean—‘to be killed in revenge’?”

Unsu Kuuzen, taken aback by Jotaro’s unexpected words, released his grip on the sleeve and turned to face him directly.

“Three years ago, when I served as a Hakone checkpoint official—though there were ample reasons for others to cut down this Yamaura Jotaro who slew his colleague Manda and departed—such matters must not serve as pretexts to obstruct a filial son’s resolve. The son of that Manda—Ryunosuke, now eighteen years of age—declares his intent to slay his father’s enemy at that crossroads shrine on August fifteenth’s night, timed to the moonrise tide. I have nothing further to say. Do not hinder a warrior’s end.”

Yamaura Jotaro pushed past the monk as if brushing him aside and slipped out swiftly.
With calm demeanor, impressive build, and refined character, Unsu Kuuzen could only let out a long sigh and watch as this samurai departed to meet his death.

“If this is a matter of samurai honor, I shall no longer hinder you. Tidying up is a monk’s duty—I shall collect your bones in due time. Namu.”

Kuuzen brought together the sleeves of his Buddhist robe and muttered some prayer.

“Farewell. I leave it in your hands.”

With a bow, Yamaura Jotaro—moving with a vigorous stride born of familiarity with Hakone’s terrain, though unbefitting the decorum of one approaching a duel—stepped over the rocks and swiftly ascended toward the crossroads shrine.

However, upon arriving before the crossroads shrine and realizing no one else had come yet, Jotaro sat down on a discarded stone and gazed out at the fading Sagami Bay.
The mountains bathed in golden sunset, the sea of deep blue beyond—all their unearthly beauty gradually dimmed as, from the eastern sky, piercing through the pale purple dusk, the grand harvest moon emerged steadily in its full splendor.

“Yamaura Jotaro—so you’ve come at last.”

From behind the crossroads shrine, within the dusk-tinged shadows, the face of a man that abruptly emerged was sufficient to startle Yamaura Jotaro, who had steeled his resolve.

“And you are?”

“Manda Ryunosuke—father’s sworn enemy. Have you forgotten?”

“What? You... are Manda Ryunosuke?”

“Indeed.”

“Does it seem fitting for there to exist a thirty-five- or thirty-six-year-old Manda Ryunosuke with a crescent-moon forelock, decayed habutae silk robes, a worn red-lacquered scabbard, and a long sword with hemp-lined hilt strapped to his back?”

“Though I’ve yet to meet Manda Ryunosuke face-to-face, I heard he’s a fair-faced youth of eighteen or nineteen with his forelock still intact—”

“No—you were but a youth until just recently. But having shorn your forelock, you’ve aged suddenly into this grimy state—”

The sheer audacity—stroking his stubbled beard and laughing with impudence—

“What did you say?!”

“Stare at this face all you like—an old man won’t grow young again. But I am indeed Manda Ryunosuke, your father’s enemy! Come at me!”

With a glinting drawn sword, Akasaki Saichi—who had introduced himself as Manda Ryunosuke—raised it overhead in a one-handed stance and grinned.

“State your grievance! Depending on your reasons, I may face you.”

“If you object to ‘your parent’s enemy’—then make it ‘your brother’s enemy.’ If that still displeases you, call me ‘your comrade’s enemy.’ Lost your nerve, Yamaura?”
“Lost your nerve, Yamaura?”

“If you insist that much, I’ll face you.”

Yamaura Jotaro, discerning a sinister scheme from his opponent’s countenance, nodded inwardly and drew his sword.

“You’ve finally drawn it.”

“Accepted.”

“Here I come!”

Blade tip and blade tip bit into each other.
In the pale blue atmosphere where twilight and moonlight vied for dominance in midair, twin vipers stretched, coiled, intertwined, and reveled in an instant of mortal combat.

Afterward, Yakkai no Kairiku—who had nimbly popped his head out—seemed to hesitate about which side to support, using a rock as a makeshift shield. However, just as Yamaura Jotaro’s back was exposed defenselessly before him, he nimbly picked up a pebble and took aim at Jotaro’s nape. Even if it missed his vitals, merely grazing his temple or cheek would create an opening in Jotaro’s stance, allowing Akasaki Saichi’s wicked blade to exploit it. At that very moment—it was truly a life-and-death crisis.

“Ah!”

From somewhere, a crude snare trap fashioned from wisteria vines snapped around Kairiku’s neck and yanked him into the dusk. At his feet lay the mouth of a fifty- or sixty-foot ravine—Kairiku’s bulky frame, along with crumbling pebbles, plummeted down without a moment’s respite.

The aftermath was quietly filled in by the dusk that descended without a sound.

Seven treasure map fragments

The duel between Yamaura Jotaro and Akasaki Saichi continued for some time.
Both seemed to have sustained minor injuries, and Yamaura Jotaro in particular had received scratches around his cheek and arm; drenched as if in dark crimson yet rallying his spirit, he desperately crossed blades.

“Hold!”

The grunt of someone clambering up from the ravine’s depths—

“Hold this duel!”

Gasping for breath, the one who forced his way into the sword clash was Unsu Kuuzen, bearing a dying youth across his shoulders.

“Oh... Reverend.”

Yamaura Jotaro took a step back, as if to thoroughly explain—

“Hold—the true opponent for this duel is this young samurai here. The genuine Lord Manda Ryunosuke is this person.”

Kuuzen revealed the face of the dying young warrior to the moonlight.

Startled, Akasaki Saichi avoided the boy—carelessly failing to notice this had brought him perilously close to Yamaura Jotaro.

"You imposter bastard!"

Jotaro’s advancing blade struck Akasaki Saichi with a diagonal slash, cutting him down.

“Lord Manda Ryunosuke.”

Kuuzen lifted the young samurai with frantic haste.

“Now, I shall offer this head.”
“May you achieve your cherished wish.”

Yamaura Jotaro shook the blood from his blade and peered at the young samurai cradled in the monk’s arms.

“He has no breath left—with his dying will, he dragged his near-lifeless body up near the crossroads shrine. Fortunately, this humble monk found him in the dusk and carried him this far, but…”

“——”

Kuuzen closed Ryunosuke’s eyes—which had flown open in the moonlight—and spoke with deep emotion.

“Along the way—beneath labored breaths—he confessed his true identity and repeated that he was heading to the crossroads shrine for revenge… Namu…”

Kuuzen blended his tears with Buddhist prayer.
Manda Ryunosuke’s lifeless face, purified by the moonlight, appeared supremely pure.

“Without even seeing your enemy’s face—how pitiful.”

Yamaura Jotaro, too, felt a profound loneliness.

“All matters are bound by karmic vows—when vengeance remains unfulfilled, there exists cause for its incompletion.”

“For one who yet breathes, no hope remains of returning again to this mortal realm.”
“Your companion along Sanzu’s river shall be this Yamaura Jotaro—”

In an instant, Jotaro readjusted his grip on the bloodied sword to a reverse hold.

“W-Wait… M-Mr. Y-Yamaura!”

The one who came tumbling out was Shiraito no Otaki.
As she suddenly clung to Jotaro’s sword-holding hand,

“Kill me too—kill me too! All of this scheming was my doing—I heard the secret of the seventy thousand ryō from a certain person, wrote six letters, and gathered everyone here. This was all Shiraito no Otaki’s handiwork.”
“Holding seventy thousand ryō in gold coins in my hand—in the third year, I wanted so badly to meet you, Mr. Yamaura.”

“――――”

Balancing love and greed on twin scales, Otaki staged this grand scheme.
That maddened confession still continued.

“The seven descendants of Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami—each should have known about the seventy thousand ryō through ancestral lore. But I couldn’t determine where those seven were. Fortunately, someone came forward to inform me—so I wrote six distinct letters, and just as planned, they all gathered here.”
“I took six distinct map fragments from those six, added my own to them, and located the hiding place of the seventy thousand ryō—”

Otaki slumped and looked down—even she seemed unable to continue.

“You intended to save Mr.Yamaura alone and escape this mountain—you poisonous woman, you viper!”

Unsu Kuuzen raised his prayer beads and swept them through the air with a swift motion.

“That may be true, but Mr.Yamaura would not spare a glance for someone like me—nor for the seventy thousand ryō in gold. He has thought only of being slain by his enemy.”

“Would Mr.Yamaura show favor to a woman who snuffs out three or four lives like insects—a Bodhisattva’s face masking a demon’s heart?”

“No, no—that’s not right. I did indeed obtain the map fragments, but I have no recollection of harming a single person.”

“What?”

Otaki’s words were unexpected.

“The four people were killed by someone, and the map fragments gathered into my hands on their own.”
“Here’s the proof.”

Otaki took six map fragments from her obi and arranged them on the stone.
By the moonlight’s guidance, the six pieces fit together as if freshly cut, with only the one in the middle missing.

“This is that missing piece.”

When Unsu Kuuzen placed the single map fragment he had drawn from his robe in the center, the design aligned perfectly, inexorably drawing the eyes of the three.

Bones and Gold

“This is the crossroads shrine.”

Yamaura Jotaro spoke for the first time.
The map fragment—about the size of a sheet of Mino paper—unrelentingly drew the viewer’s attention onward.

“This is Bamboo Shoot Rock behind the crossroads shrine.”

Kuuzen's finger traced across the map.

"—(Where the shadow of the stone bamboo shoot falls on the night of the harvest moon at the hour of the Dog)—it reads."

“On this side—(Five steps northwest, seven steps northeast; strike the stone monkey and the path shall open itself)—it states.”

“Reverend.”

“Mr. Yamaura—though this treasure has ever been tainted—having guided us who share Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s bloodline this far, we cannot leave matters unresolved.”
“To atone for our grandfathers’ sins—to bring what was hidden into the world, expose what lurked in darkness to daylight’s judgment, and thus return all things to their ordained place—is this not the proper path?”

Kuuzen pulled his sleeves together with a shiver.

“Let us proceed, Reverend.”

“Otaki may come as well.”

After draping haori jackets over the two corpses and offering a one-handed prayer, the three made their way around to the back of the crossroads shrine.
The time was precisely the hour of the Dog. Tracing the prescribed number of steps from atop a single stone slab—seemingly laid there deliberately—where Bamboo Shoot Rock’s shadow fell, the path abruptly collided with Screen Rock.

“Oh—three monkeys are carved here—but with all this moss, it’s hard to make out.”

Kuuzen brushed the moss from the front of Screen Rock and pointed at the faintly visible three monkeys.
The carvings were so shallow that under strong daylight, they might have instead become indistinguishable.

“Shall we try knocking?”

said Jotaro.

“No—‘knock’ is but a turn of phrase. You should try pushing instead.”

“Like this?”

Yamaura Jotaro set his shoulder against the three monkeys and pushed with a grunt. Perhaps due to the several shallow hand wounds he had sustained, he seemed unable to muster his full strength.

Observing this, Kuuzen abruptly slapped his knee.

“Merely pushing won’t suffice—this rock forms a single-panel door with a reverse-lantern mechanism. Yet were lumberjacks or hunters to stumble upon it and have the door open so easily, all would be for naught.”
“To prevent accidental opening through mere contact, they piled rounded stones at the door’s base like this.”

Unsu Kuuzen, having perhaps already deciphered the door's mechanism, removed countless rocks—each about the size of a man's embrace—that had been piled before the large boulder carved with three monkeys.

“This should do it.”

When he said this, the Three Monkeys rock revealed even a slight gap near its base, making it unmistakably clear this was a single-panel door with a lantern-reversing mechanism.

“Well then,”

Yamaura Jotaro stood and pressed the left side of the Three Monkeys where no carvings existed. With a groan, the rock shifted to open an entrance barely wide enough for a person to pass through.
From above rained down pebbles, clods of earth, and clumps of moss.

“I wish we had a light.”

Kuuzen said while peering into the pitch-black sky.

“If we light a fire here now, even from afar, it would be troublesome if spotted by checkpoint officials.”
“Let us enter inside and devise a plan.”
“Fortunately, we have flint tools prepared.”

Yamaura Jotaro slid into the hole without a trace of fear.
Next came Otaki, and finally Kuuzen.

With his back to the entrance, Jotaro struck his flint and steel.
By the custom of samurai of that time, he carried a flint pouch and a pocket candle.

Though meager, the light still faintly revealed the surrounding area.
It was probably a natural wind hole formed between deposits of volcanic rock that someone had blocked at its entrance.
The air inside felt chilly yet was unexpectedly refreshing.

“Oh!”

Yamaura Jotaro, who had taken the lead, stood stock-still.

“What is it?”

What met Kuuzen’s peering eyes from behind was a bleached-white skeleton—wearing tattered clothes, clutching a sword, and leaning nonchalantly against something.

“Ah—”

Even Otaki let out a scream.
But the next moment revealed what the skeleton leaned against—one of countless thousand-ryō boxes, its wood likely rotted and nails loosened—from whose corner koban coins came spilling forth like a gushing stream.

“Ah—the light’s gone out.”

Yamaura Jotaro discarded the remaining pocket candle.
The candle had become thin as a string—a miracle it had burned this long.

“On the right shelf—in the stone hollow—there are candles. They might be a hundred years old, but...”

Kuuzen had already been attentive to such matters.
Jotaro hastily reached out, grabbed two or three white candles from the stone hollow, and transferred the flame from the pocket candle still burning on the rock at his feet.

When the hundred-year-old candles caught flame, their light suddenly illuminated the surroundings, revealing partially rotted thousand-ryō boxes—thirty or forty of them, he estimated—now visible before them.

“First, let us consider—this gold that has slept for a hundred years, created through countless sins. Merely awakening from its century-long slumber has already claimed four lives. How much more blood will it drink hereafter—”

Kuuzen sat down on a cold rock and uttered these words.

A Century-Spanning Grudge

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

An eerie laugh echoed from nowhere.
The three looked back at each other’s faces, but Kuuzen, Jotaro, and Otaki were in no state to laugh.

“It’s here! Don’t you get it? You idiots, Ah.”

To Otaki, it was an unmistakably familiar voice.
When she suddenly looked up at the ceiling, about two jō above, pale moonlight leaked through a crevice between rocks, and there in that moonlight was a boy’s face grinning with amusement.

“Oh, Kaidomaru!”

Otaki's voice resonated with liberated joy.
In this oppressive atmosphere, encountering Kaidomaru—that mischievous layabout—wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

“I ain’t givin’ you no discount, Boss lady.”

“What?!”

“I’m still Kaidomaru alright, but I ain’t your lackey or errand boy no more—time to hash this out proper. Hey, you three!”

Kaidomaru’s face bore an unnervingly domineering quality.
Whether from the moonlight or not, his once-charming features had turned rigid—every trace of boyishness vanished from both expression and tone.

“What’re you sayin’, eh, Kaidomaru?”

“Hmph, still don’t get it, eh? You think you’re the one who staged this whole show, Boss lady—but think real hard. Who d'ya think told ya every last detail ’bout how Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s descendants were faring a hundred years later? It was me!”

“———”

“Sure, Boss lady wrote those six letters—but every damn word in ’em was what I fed ya! And it was me who told that monk five or seven folks’d die here tonight!”

“You—”

“Shut up and listen—if I’m the one who gathered seven people here, then I’m also the one who killed Manda Ryunosuke the young samurai and that nuisance Kairiku among ’em. Making Saichi kill Osome, making Jotaro cut down Saichi—all of it was part of my script.”

“Kai—”

Overwhelmed by the situation, Otaki stood up and waved her hand.
Half-illuminated by the moonlight, Kaidomaru’s face appeared demonic and haughty, bearing no trace of the boy who had been there moments before.

“First off—I ain’t thirteen or fourteen! Been stuffed fulla this century-old grudge since I was a snot-nosed brat, raised all twisted-like to pay it back. That’s why I never grew tall—but take a good look! Nineteen years old I am! Prime young man!”

A fleeting, lonely-looking bitter smile flitted across Kaidomaru’s cheek.

“Who are you?”

Unsu Kuuzen barked a sharp rebuke.

“You should’ve realized that sooner. You seem clever enough for a reverend—why don’t you think about it? Who do you think has been watching Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s descendants—the people from those seven families—for a whole hundred years, waiting for the chance to take revenge?”

“———”

“Don’t you get it? I’m the fifth-generation descendant of that skeleton!”

“Then, you must be the Ishizaka Samonji from the tales—”

Kuuzen shuddered inexplicably.
Jotaro and Otaki were too overwhelmed to speak.

“Exactly—I’m the great-great-grandson of Ishizaka Samonji, who was killed in this very hole by Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami just for helping hide seventy thousand ryō here! —And it was Ishizaka Samonji’s wife who made sure this grudge wouldn’t be forgotten, passing it down generation after generation. We investigated every last detail about those Ōkubo descendants—seven families’ worth—and now in my time, the hundredth year, I’ve finally achieved what we set out to do!”

“———”

“Boss lady may seem sharp, but she’s too softhearted—played right into every bit o’ work I planned.”
“Lured you all to this mountain, made seven of you kill each other—then I’d swoop in and take the seventy thousand ryō after! —Without those seven map pieces, even I couldn’t crack this hole’s secrets. That’s why I had Boss lady collect ’em all and made that monk solve ’em! —Opening the entrance was hellish work, but there’s stories ’bout a vent in the ceiling. Once I saw you fools crawl in here, I looped ’round outside to find it. Easy pickings—just followed light leakin’ underfoot in the dark! —Don’t even dream o’ jumpin’ up! Three ken from here to down there, and this rock’s harder’n a miser’s heart!”

Kaidomaru’s words were cruel and haughty.

"You bastard!"

Yamaura Jotaro, unable to endure any longer, tried to rush out through the entrance—but unbeknownst to him, the lamp niche had been chained shut from the outside, with stones now firmly piled against the stone door.

“Hah. Hah. Hah.”
“No way you’re getting out there. Might take thirty men pushin’ for three days—”

Kaidomaru contorted his face into an amused grin.

Horrifying End

"If I leave you for ten days, all three of you will starve to death. If you don't want that, I'll tell you one way to survive."

“———”

About half an hour had likely passed since then.
The curses spewed from above had mostly run their course, and only the deepening night could now be clearly measured by the angle of moonlight streaming through the hole.

“I decided to take seven lives here on my ancestor’s hundredth death anniversary, but waiting for three people to starve to death is downright idiotic.”
“Let’s do it this way instead.”

“———”

“I’ll let one of you three live—the last one standing. Waiting around for you to starve’s too boring—make it so whoever kills the other two gets to survive.”
“The three of you are gonna kill each other. What a fine spectacle that’ll be!”
“It’s the perfect job for Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami’s descendants.”

“———”

“How ’bout it—Yamaura Jotaro, you look like the toughest here. Ain’tcha got the guts to take down two of ’em and save yourself?”

“You bastard!”

Jotaro's anger exploded.
With a roar, he picked up the scattered koban and hurled them upward, but Kaidomaru swiftly pulled back his face, dodging the throw.

"Heh-heh. I'll do it! But that's useless. What about you, Boss lady? Don'tcha wanna strangle that samurai and monk?"

Otaki could only gaze upward sadly.

"Even a monk's fine. This'll be a real show!"

Kuuzen also silently folded his sleeves.

“What if I give half of the seventy thousand ryō gold to whoever defeats the other two?”

“———”

“Tch—what a nuisance! Let’s just take all seventy thousand ryō and be done with it! Though this’ll cost ya—”

The devilish face laughed again.

“Shut your mouth, brat!”

Jotaro rebuked him through gritted teeth, but the threat rang hollow.

“Angry now, samurai? Fine—I’ll crush all three of you together.—You never noticed the trap in this ceiling, did ya? When thieves come sniffing after seventy thousand ryō...” He leaned closer, moonlight carving his grin. “Pull four wedges and—boom!—the whole stone roof comes crashing down! Thank my ancestor Ishizaka Samonji-sama—he left perfect instructions!”

“———”

“The wedges stand in four directions—four small Jizo statues. Just pull these out one by one. Got it? There—one, two.”

“――――”

“You’d better start chanting your prayers—this is the third one.”

When he knocked something over with a loud crash, pebbles rained down from the ceiling like falling stones.

“I’ll pull out the fourth one.”

As Kaidomaru’s voice rang out, Otaki clung to Jotaro.

“Mr. Yamaura... these three years... I couldn’t forget.”
“Just one word...”

“Otaki”

Yamaura Jotaro's hand was pulling Otaki's shoulder closer.
When Otaki’s unexpected kindness became apparent, the bonds from Jotaro’s days as a checkpoint official must have rekindled in his heart.

“I’m happy, Mr. Yamaura.”

Kaidomaru ignored their fervor.

"Listen up—this fourth wedge! Stubborn bastard," he taunted.

As his voice echoed, another cascade of pebbles showered down. Yet facing imminent death, Jotaro and Otaki lost themselves in each other's gaze—dreamlike, entranced.

"The doorframe! Now!"

Kuuzen snapped from divine inspiration. He tore through the lovers' trance, shoving them beneath the stone archway.

Then—cataclysm. Pillars groaned like falling gods as dust devoured all sense. When the world stopped screaming, Jotaro and Otaki found themselves breathing—alone amidst ruin.

“Reverend! Reverend!”

“Here—hands—hands—lend me your hands!”

When they looked, Unsu Kuuzen was trapped between rocks, unable to move a muscle.
Fortunately, because the ceiling had collapsed, the moon in the sky was shining almost too brightly.

“Reverend, are you injured?”

“It was a bit too heavy—my hips seem to have shattered.”

His upturned blue face, the lonely smile still clinging to it, grew increasingly tinged with the pallor of death.

“Reverend!”

“By our pact—when this foolish monk heard that descendants of Iwami-no-kami Ōkubo kept seventy thousand ryō gold nearby, I rationalized pretexts to draw them in. Even devoid of selfish intent, it was unbefitting a monastic’s resolve.”

“Reverend!”

Crushed by thousand-kan rocks and with his lower body shattered like mud, Shiraito no Otaki took Unsu Kuuzen’s hand and wept.

“The descendants of Ishizaka Samonji were pitiable—but Kaidomaru relied too much on his intellect in avenging his enemies, that one.”

When they looked where Kuuzen’s trembling finger pointed, there lay Kaidomaru—crushed beneath the massive boulder that had fallen from above, his body flattened like a tattered rag.

“Do you understand, Lady Otaki, Mr. Yamaura? This is the law of cause and effect—live well together—you two alone have been spared.”

“Reverend!”

“This is farewell... Farewell.”

Leaving the two to cling to him, Kuuzen’s voice—chanting the Buddha’s name with hands pressed together—gradually faded into the chorus of insects from all directions.

What would become of the 70,000 ryō of gold if taken to Edo—there are various tales about that too—but for now, I think I shall stop at this legend of Hakone’s night.