Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue

Woman’s Departure “It’s awfully dark, Kin-san. Any idea what time it might be now?” “Not yet—it can’t be past three, I reckon.”

“Good grief—in this valley, a day’s half what you’d get elsewhere. Can’t even get half a day’s work done.” “But nights here stretch twice as long.” “Twice as long don’t mean nothin’—no ’lectric lights, lamp oil’s dear—nothin’ to do but sleep. No wonder folks keep leavin’ this village for the city. Them that go far—Hawaii, Brazil even—plenty make it big there. Them that do? Never come back to this backwater again. Truth is, they ain’t comin’ back.”

“Man-san, seems like you’ve gone and caught the wanderin’ bug yourself, ain’t ya? Your brother Rinsuke-san went off toward Kanmon, they say—reckon he’s doin’ alright out there?” “Yes, he’s in Moji doin’ offshore work and makin’ good money—he’s sent me letters time and again sayin’ I should come join him.” “But really, you shouldn’t go off to some port or the like. They say the crowds are rough there—young girls get crushed to bits. Man-san, you should stop smoothin’ out those tobacco leaves now. Let’s head back.”

“Because Father’s eagerly waiting.” “That’s what a good daughter does.” “Your mother’ll be at ease too.” “But are those tobacco leaves really okay?” “Of course they are.”

It was the bottom of a deep valley. Because the mountains towered on all sides, morning light arrived late in this village, and the sun set early. Moreover, being the short days of autumn, though it was only three o'clock, dusk already seemed to be falling. The village was called Mine, in the Mineda hamlet of Hiba District, Hiroshima Prefecture.

On the bank of a mountain stream roaring with fierce rapids, two young village girls were talking. While their robust health was a shared trait, Man’s round face and petite frame contrasted with Kin’s elongated features and astonishing height. In her rough cotton work clothes, Man squatted in the tobacco field—about two tanbu along the riverbank—and kept searching for fallen leaves to stack. She meticulously smoothed out the wrinkles. Her hands moved with practiced ease.

In her work clothes, sickle in hand, Kin lay sprawled on her back in the susuki grass thicket, “Oh my, the foxes are already making such a racket.” Muttering to herself in a carefree manner, she meaninglessly swished and swished at the susuki grass, cutting it down. In the deep mountains there were many foxes, raccoon dogs, rabbits, monkeys, and such, and wild boars would sometimes appear. From ancient times to the present day, stories of people being bewitched by foxes were countless. There were said to be kappa in the mountain stream. An old man who claimed to have wrestled a kappa would recount his firsthand account by the hearth with a serious face.

Man intended to gather even one extra leaf for her tobacco-loving father. Strong-smelling yellow withered leaves accumulated in the bamboo basket.

Then Kin, who had been lying sprawled out, suddenly spun upright. She seemed to have noticed something. “Man-san! Watch out—the demon’s coming! Hurry up and hide!” She shouted in a tense voice. Man, startled, floundered—but it was too late. “Hey! You ain’t gettin’ away!”

A booming voice echoed down from the mountain path.

From the bend in the mountain path where the Kannon Hall stood, a large man appeared, leaping in spring-like strides as he bounded down. Wearing a black Homburg hat and dressed in a black high-collared uniform, he swung a black leather bag from his right hand. His complexion was a reddish-black from sunburn and drink, his stubble like smudges of charcoal.

“So I’ve finally caught you.” “Enough of this—you’d better quit while you’re ahead.”

Kin had already turned pale. “Like I give a damn.”

Seeming to have resigned herself, Man stood up in the tobacco field and waited for the man to approach. She hid only the bamboo basket filled with tobacco leaves in a hollow of the field. “You ain’t runnin’ nowhere now,” he barked. “Run and I’ll know!” Still shouting such threats, the man reached the mountain stream’s bank and crossed the rotting log bridge with unsteady steps. He came to where the two of them stood. “Knew it’d come to this,” he growled. “You’re Taniguchi’s girl, ain’t ya?”

“Yes.” “Hand over the stolen leaves.” “I didn’t steal.” “I saw it clear as day. Hand over that bamboo basket.” Man gave up and silently retrieved the bamboo basket from the hollow.

“Look! You’ve stolen this much!” “I didn’t steal them.” “I just picked up what had fallen.” “You think this many leaves just drop by themselves?” “I tell you, you lot here are rotten through.” “Mocking the government, are you?” “This time I won’t let it slide.” “I’ll make you pay.” “Hey! You there—girl! You were in on this too!” “That’s ridiculous.” “I was just passing through after cutting grass.”

“Suspicious.” “Well, fine.” “I could haul you in as conspirators, but I’ll show some special restraint.” “Go home.”

Kin shouldered the basket onto her back and dashed away in a flurry. “You from Taniguchi—come with me.” “I’ll meet your father, investigate this properly, and then impose the fine.” “Mr. Official, please… have mercy on just this one thing…” “Won’t happen.” “I really didn’t steal them.” “Shut up and move!” Grabbed violently by the shoulder by the man, Man reluctantly took the lead.

The man in black was an official of the Monopoly Bureau. When tobacco became a state monopoly, stringent regulations were established. In this village as well, many households cultivated it, but the number of plants per tan was regulated and recorded in the Monopoly Bureau’s ledger. The seeds were received from the Monopoly Bureau, the number of leaves was meticulously investigated, and not a single one could be kept for oneself. However, the flavor differed between the upper, middle, and lower parts of the leaves, and there were unusable portions; only smoking a few of those fallen leaves for personal use was tolerated.

In the depths of the mountain gorge, sunset came early, and as they walked on through the gathering dark, lamps flickered to life in scattered houses. Evening cicadas trilled while foxes yipped their calls. Beside a stream that pooled into black depths stood a watermill hut, its wheel turning with sluggish creaks. When they reached it, the official halted mid-stride. His gaze swept the surroundings. “Wait here.” “What…?” “There’s something I need to discuss.” His voice dropped lower. “Get inside that watermill.” Man’s eyes darted toward the hut—just a flicker—but in those large lashed eyes surfaced a tremor of unease.

“If it’s a talk, I’ll hear it here.” “Now, I want to count how many tobacco leaves you’re holding, but out here the wind’ll scatter them.” “A strong wind’s picked up.” “Inside the hut, there’s no worry of them scattering.” “Now, get inside.”

With that, the official clattered open the watermill hut’s single door and briskly entered first. From inside, he urged Man on.

Man, too, reluctantly and timidly entered the hut.

It was dark. In the faint light filtering through the lattice window, three wooden mortars half-buried in the earthen floor could be discerned in a corner of the roughly three-tsubo hut. Within them lay rice husks being pounded by three pestles driven by the waterwheel's rotation—thud, thud—at a sluggish pace. The water's sound flowed ceaselessly. The hut reeked strangely of mold. "Let me see those tobacco leaves." The official spoke in a gentle voice. His demeanor had transformed entirely. The black-clad giant—from hat to face—suddenly cooing in that sickeningly sweet tone made Man feel increasingly unsettled. Silently, she extended the bamboo basket.

The official took out the leaves one by one, rubbing them between his hands and smelling them, “You’ve gathered these quite meticulously, haven’t you? “You don’t strike me as wicked—why steal government property?” “Father loves tobacco down to his bones…” “Filial piety won’t sway the law. Pitiful as it is—a fine it must be.”

“Mr. Official, I will not do it again, please have mercy…”

“Who’s to say?”

Suggestively, the official locked eyes with Man in a piercing gaze. This Monopoly Bureau official—nicknamed “Demon”—had clearly been stirred by base desires while walking behind her earlier. The young woman’s toned physique, the supple sway of her hips, pale bare feet in straw sandals, sun-kissed nape draped with loose strands—this fresh ripe fruit before him must have awakened an urge to seize and consume it whole.

“You from Taniguchi—would you rather avoid that fine?”

With a lip-smacking tone, he approached Man. Triangular eyes shone lewdly.

“Yes, I don’t want that.” “Shall I let it slide for you?” “Please.” “But I can’t just let it go for free.” “You don’t really think you can get away with all this for free, do you?” “What must I do to make this right?” “Hmm… How about we settle this the simplest way? …Right? That’d work, wouldn’t it?”

Man had finally understood what the man was after. She jerked back.

“I don’t want that.” “Don’t want to? Oh ho? You’ve done such a fine deed, and now you don’t want me to wipe your slate clean? You’re not even a virgin anymore. Everyone else goes along with it, you know. That’s the smart thing to do.”

Even as he spoke, the black-clad giant’s body entangled the petite Man as if wrapping her in a furoshiki cloth. Man resisted fiercely but was overpowered by the man’s strong arms. She became completely immobilized. The man’s doburoku-reeking breath drew near her face. Man was thrown onto the earthen floor on her back and pinned down with terrifying force.

Once before, Man had experienced this same kind of ordeal.

It was the evening of this summer's Bon dance. In the remote, mountain-girded hamlet, the Obon festival was the only occasion when young men and women could truly spread their wings. The Bon dance was held at Nakazō Temple in Kakinosaka, a hamlet famous for its thriving sericulture. The Taniguchi family’s ancestral graves were also at this temple. Zensuke, their father, liked to bring his children to this temple, have them stand before their ancestors' graves, and tell them old stories. The weathered gravestones, so ancient their era was beyond reckoning, were chipped and broken in countless places—so extensively that their original forms were barely discernible. The characters were barely legible.

However, Zensuke, “Look here, see this crest.” he said, pointing to the top of the gravestone with his gnarled finger.

“There’s nothing there.”

When the children said that, Zensuke began to speak proudly.

“You may not see it, but Father can see it plain as day.” “This here’s the Heike crest.” “When them Heike warriors lost at Genpei—what with the Genji huntin’ ’em so fierce-like—they scattered clear ’cross Japan’s mountains, even round these parts.” “Nowadays it’s all cleared up some, but back when I was knee-high, this valley’d spit out ghosts at high noon—Heike stragglers hid here livin’ secret-like for ages.” “First time they found out was durin’ the census—stories ’bout queer samurai still sportin’ topknots deep in them hills. When them officials went lookin’, out pops this sword-totin’ fella askin’, ‘The Genji gone yet?’ So they say.” “Our Taniguchis are Heike stock too.” “We ain’t no common dirt farmers through ’n’ through.”

Man didn’t particularly care whether her ancestors were Heike or not. Father’s boasting was amusing. At times, she felt saddened by how this revealed her father’s decline. However, in the village, this matter was treated as a prestigious affair and stirred up talk, leading to a marriage proposal from the village head’s household—despite him being their second son—insisting they must have Man. The second son had supposedly graduated from university, but Man disliked this arrogant man with his pince-nez. No matter how many times they pressed her forcefully, she refused. Then, on the night of the Bon dance, she was dragged into the cedar grove behind the temple by this man and pinned down. Even with his ashen face, he possessed terrifying strength. At the critical moment, someone carrying a lantern passed by, and she managed to narrowly escape disaster.

When she returned home and reported this to her father, Zensuke said, “You idiot. Things like this will keep happening. Better remember this well,” and taught her women’s self-defense techniques. As the Monopoly Bureau’s “demon” grappled with Man, her father’s words from that time flashed through her mind. Man was already in a frenzy. However, she did not make a sound. She clenched her teeth, her eyes alone blazing with rage. Into Man’s right hand thrust into the man’s crotch poured every ounce of her strength. The man who had let out an unnatural scream turned as pale as radish leaves. After violent convulsions wracked his body, the “demon” went limp and collapsed where he stood.

Man sprang up. She dashed away. Her face burned hotly; her pulse pounded violently. Breathing heavily through her shoulders, she looked and saw the man lying on the dark earthen floor like a felled pine log. He didn’t move.

She cautiously approached. His eyes were twitching, jagged teeth bared, his thick-lipped mouth hung slack. He looked like a badger. Man pressed her ear against the man’s chest. Then she gathered the scattered tobacco leaves around her and put them into the bamboo basket. She took it and left the watermill hut.

In a sky that looked as if viewed from the bottom of a well, pale red evening clouds drifted, and a single kite soared leisurely. There were no houses, nor any human figures in the surrounding area. A lone, high-pitched cry echoed from afar—the call of a fox.

Man came to the waterwheel. She set down the bamboo basket and squatted on the bank of the rapid turning the waterwheel. In the flow of the falling mountain stream, she washed her hands. Then she scooped water with both hands and gulped it down. Her throat had been terribly dry. She could feel the clear, cold water passing from her esophagus to her stomach, “Ah, that’s good.”

The words escaped her before she knew it.

In the faint twilight glow, Man spotted a single dace in the stream right before her eyes. Though the water flowed quite violently, the small fish kept moving its fins ceaselessly against the current, remaining nearly stationary. It advanced little by little. Watching this, Man felt a hush fall over her heart and grew a bit calmer.

Man once again scooped water with both hands, filled her mouth with it, and stood up. She hurried back into the hut.

She went to where the official lay, aimed at his face, and—pfft, pfft—sprayed water twice. Then the man’s face twitched, his gaping mouth snapped shut, and a muffled moan—Ugh…—rose from deep within his throat. Sensing the official was about to move, Man bolted outside. When she took the bamboo basket she had left by the waterwheel, she ran at full speed.

Was she terrified? Sad? Furious? Or perhaps happy? She couldn’t tell. She simply wanted to get home as quickly as possible. She hurried along the mountain stream path without glancing aside. As the wind grew steadily stronger, sweeping across the ripe rice ears, it resembled a lake. Again came that sharp fox’s cry—a piercing shriek—this time right beside her ear.

She crossed many hills. Finally, her home came into view ahead. Under the lamp, the quiet figure of her mother weaving straw sandals came into view, and suddenly, a surge of emotion welled up in Man’s chest. She barely managed to bite her lip and suppress the urge to burst into loud sobs. Tears overflowed, and the light of the lamp ahead swayed unsteadily.

At that moment, the sound of horse hooves came from behind.

“Man-chan”

he called out.

When she turned around, a young man on horseback wearing a narrow-sleeved kimono emerged from a deep bend in the susuki-lined path. “Tokujirō! You scared me!”

“You’re the one who got startled, ain’t ya? “Ain’t no fox.” “…Look here—it’s the mail.”

“Where’s it from?”

“One’s from Brother Rinsuke in Moji, and… this one’s from the Monopoly Bureau.”

“The Monopoly Bureau?”

Man’s heart skipped a beat.

Ōkawa Tokujirō was a postal delivery man. He would deliver by horseback the mail that arrived at the Kakinosaka post office to every last hamlet. At times he handled important items like registered mail and parcels—things that could only be entrusted to someone deemed reliable. In this respect, Tokujirō might well have been called the model youth of the entire village. Moreover, since deliveries couldn’t be halted even for rain, wind, snow or storms, none but those of sturdy build could manage the work. In this regard too, Tokujirō—the yokozuna of grass sumo—proved the most fitting candidate.

“Oh?” Tokujirō peered down from his horse into Man’s face. “Man-chan, been cryin’, haven’t ya?” “Nah, ain’t cried.” “Eyes’re swimmin’ all the same.” “Rare sight—you turnin’ crybaby. Village head’s second son been pickin’ on ya again?” “Who’d let that pince-nose…” “Feel how ya like—Kei-san ain’t given up chasin’ ya.” “Crafty bastard by nature, college-educated schemer to boot—gone sweet on ya past reasonin’. Could hatch anythin’.” “Best keep wary.”

“No matter how he comes at me, I won’t lose.” “Well, if that’s how it is… I s’pose.” From beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat, a sharply defined oblong face—filled with some unspoken emotion—gazed at Man. Though slightly dull, his eyes held a resolute gleam, and his thick black eyebrows were robust.

Man knew well what emotion lingered in Tokujirō’s eyes. And Man herself held certain feelings toward Tokujirō. “Man-chan, you free tonight?” “Uh… got a bit of business tonight.”

Though she had no real business, she couldn’t possibly claim to be unoccupied—not when the watermill hut incident might yet bring consequences. Far from it—Man was jittery with fear, certain that "the demon," who’d now regained his breath, would come chasing after her. “I see. If you’re free tonight, I’d hoped to come by and have a proper talk.” “…What about tomorrow night?” “I don’t know about that either.” “You’re awfully busy these days, ain’t ya? “Someday, make some time for me, will ya?”

“Maybe someday.” Tokujirō clearly showed disappointment at Man’s aloof attitude but nevertheless forced a smile, “Well, another time then.”

he turned his beloved horse’s head around. It was a tall, sturdy chestnut four-year-old horse. “Tokujirō!” With a slightly flustered expression, Man suddenly called out to stop him. “Huh?” “Are you taking the waterwheel at Nanase on your way back?” “That’s right. That’s the only road there is. Is something wrong with that?” “I can’t really say.”

Man spun around and sprang into a run toward home. She came to the cliff below the house and silenced her footsteps. She stealthily climbed the slanted stone steps. To avoid being noticed by her mother, she circled around to the back of the cowshed.

Then, Shun, her beloved dog, came leaping out from the darkness—where had he been hiding? He wagged his tail furiously, snuffled repeatedly, and clung to her.

“Shh, shh!” Startled, she chased after him, but Shun didn’t run away. Having not seen his beloved owner—the one who doted on him most—since daytime, he seemed overjoyed. He pounced on her so boisterously, playfully roughhousing, that she nearly dropped the bamboo basket filled with tobacco leaves.

At the commotion, “Man?” From beneath the lamp, Mother Iwa paused her straw sandal weaving and peered into the front darkness. “Yes.”

she replied reluctantly. “Didn’t you meet Father?” “No.”

“He was up in the mountains, wasn’t he?” “He was at the tobacco field.” “Oh dear, oh dear. Father said he was supposed to be at the charcoal hut, but he went up into the mountains to meet you. Today, since early morning, those foxes have been crying up a storm—he said we can’t have you getting bewitched by them, so…”

“I’m sorry.”

Man went to the cowshed. The dog also followed. The cows, already recognizing Man’s footsteps, butted the plank walls of the shed with their horns and began stamping their hooves. Two calves born last year—parent and child both—were deeply attached to her. They rumbled through their noses. They let out welcoming cries. When she entered the cowshed, Man lit the lamp on the shelf. She put straw into their feed bucket. The cows, parent and child, immediately began eating it.

Man closed the cowshed door and took out two sealed letters from her kimono. Straining her ears and confirming there was no sign of anyone approaching, she broke the seal on her brother Rinsuke’s letter first.

The letter from her brother, who had dropped out in his third year of elementary school, was written in katakana, with every kanji character inserted here and there being false. However, the meaning was clear. "At Kanmon Strait, many foreign ships have been entering—offshore work keeps increasing more than anything—and our group’s looking for young strong workers. I’m waitin’ for you to come out here. You really think spendin’ your whole life buried in some mountain backwater’s smart? Make up your mind and get out here!"

Then came details meticulously recorded in an awkward yet thrilling manner—how at any time his own boss’s Hamao Group would take you in as a room laborer, housing arrangements, wages, the bustling port and town of Moji, the allure of the city—all laid out in writing that made your heart race despite its clumsiness.

Man opened the second sealed letter. The Monopoly Bureau’s letter was also in katakana script, but it contained no incorrect characters and was printed with austere formality. “To the recipient: After deliberation regarding the application submitted previously, we hereby notify you that Taniguchi Man has been approved as a qualified tobacco factory worker and is hereby accepted for employment.” Man, while comparing the two letters over and over, her eyes taking on a somewhat maddened, dreaming gaze, stood frozen in the cowshed. (What should I do?)

Man hesitated.

In the village, there were many who aspired to become Monopoly Bureau tobacco factory workers. Perhaps, for village girls, it was their one and greatest aspiration. However, the qualifications came with numerous cumbersome conditions, making it exceedingly difficult to get hired. Man had struck the golden target. Normally, she would have jumped for joy.

However, Man’s face looked perplexed, her eyebrows furrowed.

―The city.

—Port.

―world of freedom.

―Brazil.

She wanted to escape from her cramped valley hometown into vast open skies. The yearning for roaming and drifting that stirred her youthful blood had long since become an irresistible passion burning in Man’s chest. Wherever one went, there was nothing but cramped mountain valleys that pressed against one’s nose; even if one tried to cultivate rice fields or dry fields, there was no land that stretched beyond five contiguous plots. Mother’s older brother—Man’s uncle—had succeeded as an emigrant to Brazil and was managing a large plantation. There, a farm stretched as far as the eye could see, where one could cultivate freely throughout the seasons—or so it was said. Man’s daydreams soared far beyond the sea, reaching even to Brazil’s vast expanse.

—First, she would go to rely on her brother Rinsuke in Moji Port, build a foothold there, and then head to Brazil.

This was the blueprint of Man’s longing.

Ōkawa Tokujirō’s face surfaced in her mind. She did like this young man who worked at the post office. He was the finest man in the village, she thought. Tokujirō wanted to marry her too. But being an only son, he had to inherit the Ōkawa household and live out his days in this hamlet. He himself was cautious by nature, with no real drive to leave the village. His grandest ambition seemed to be becoming postmaster of Kakinosaka. (I can’t live like that.)

That’s what Man thought.

Outside came footsteps. They stopped before the cowshed. “Man-chan? Hmm?” It was Father Zensuke’s voice. “Yes.” She answered and hastily tucked her brother Rinsuke’s letter into her kimono’s fold.

She opened the hut door. Before Man could move, the dog leaped out. Her tall father, with firewood on his back and a sickle in his hand, stood there. “What’s this? You’ve gone and shut the door…”

“Father, this.” Man handed over the envelope from the Monopoly Bureau. By the lamplight, Zensuke read it, and on his sunburnt face, an expression verging on ecstasy rapidly surfaced.

“Well now, that’s good, eh? “Hooray, hooray!”

So saying, he threw up both hands in a banzai gesture and thumped his daughter’s shoulder. “Man, you must be happy too, eh?” “Yes.” She had no choice but to answer that way.

At the hearthside, the family began a lively evening meal. Zensuke, Iwa, eldest brother Kurasuke and his wife Miki, their three-year-old son Matsuo, younger brother Ushizō, and Man—seven in total. To celebrate Man’s employment, Zensuke heated sweet potato shochu, but suddenly, as if remembering something, “Let me tell you about the Monopoly Bureau—that demon from the substation over at Nanse’s watermill hut…” he began. Man felt her heart somersault inside her chest. Her face flared up crimson. She stared at her father with eyes wide as saucers.

Zensuke, in high spirits, poured himself shochu from the flask while drinking alone. “...Well, seems he finally got tricked by a fox after all.” “That demon bastard was always actin’ all high and mighty.” “‘The folks in this valley’re all dimwitted fools, eh?’” “‘In this civilized age, how could somethin’ as absurd as a fox trickin’ a human even happen?’” “‘I’ll trick the fox myself.’” “...and he was goin’ on like that.” “That time, he was done in by Mr. Fox.” “That’s punishment.”

“That’s good news for ’em… but how in the world did he get tricked like that?” Kurasuke asked—already flushed red as he tilted back shochu from a teacup. “I’m just goin’ off what I heard—don’t know the full story—but accordin’ to Mr.Takejū of Takakado，here’s how it went：He was passin’ by Nanse’s watermill—” “Then from inside the hut came a groaning sound—low and guttural—and somethin’ crawled out through the entrance.” “He seems to’ve been startled，but bein’ a gutsy sort，he held out his lantern and peered right in.”

“So was that the Monopoly Bureau man, then?”

Mother Iwa leaned forward.

“That’s right. I don’t know what happened exactly, but he turned all listless-like. Even when the master called out to him, he didn’t answer—just staggered to his feet, fell down a few times, then went swaying along the riverbank like some drunkard, they say.”

“Which way?”

Man asked in a tense voice.

“Toward Kakinosaka.” “Even if he’d been tricked by a fox, he still seemed to know the direction back to the substation.” “They say his clothes were covered in mud, but he didn’t seem to notice even that.” “Wasn’t he carrying his bag?” “Bag? “I hadn’t heard about that till now,” he said, but suddenly, suspiciously, “Man-chan—how come you know the demon was carryin’ a bag?” “Oh, it’s nothing… It’s just that the official always carries a black bag, so I wondered what happened to it, that’s all…”

Man answered flusteredly.

Man did not tell her father about the incident at the watermill hut. She told no one. On the night of the Bon dance, when she had nearly been assaulted by the village head’s second son, she had immediately confided in her father—yet today, though she had once again faced the same ordeal, she kept this hidden.

During Obon, her father had told her, “Such things will keep happening from now on. Remember this well.” Given that she had executed the women’s self-defense techniques exactly as taught—her father having instructed her during Obon for such future incidents—she could have triumphantly reported her success. Yet Man kept silent. Inadvertently, she had managed to protect herself from danger—yet the method had plunged the pure and single-minded young girl into intense shame. Far from reporting triumphantly, she feared having the truth discovered. Man had gained a new secret.

However, another kind of peculiar strength had taken root in the depths of Man’s heart.

Even a woman—if she fights with all her might—can do work that holds its own against any man’s.

It was a heart-swelling awareness and confidence.

A week or so passed.

The village’s tobacco factory opening ceremony was held grandly. Despite being an impoverished hamlet, they had a habit of making any event extravagant, and this factory opening day was like a festival uproar.

“Such an honor, I tell ya.” “With this, I can die content any day now.”

The village head struck his balding head and said this with complete sincerity. The fact that a government-designated institution had been established in this remote mountain village—still without electric lights—might have been the crowning achievement of the village head’s life.

“Mr. Village Head, I’m every bit as pleased as you are—down to the last drop!”

The one who said that was Mr. Takejū of Takakado.

Even though it was called a tobacco factory, it was merely a remodeled warehouse belonging to Takejū, the village’s major landowner. Since they only handled the initial processing of shredding tobacco leaves and had just sixteen female workers, this setup sufficed adequately.

“Mr. Village Head, Mr. Takejū—on account of this occasion, I’ve had three years added to my lifespan. Mighty grateful to you both.”

Taniguchi Zensuke’s words, too, were no empty courtesy. Not only had his daughter Man been hired, but she had also been appointed forewoman.

On the day of the opening ceremony, the young dispatch staff member from the Monopoly Bureau who had come from Hiroshima also gave a beaming greeting. “The fact that we have managed to reach this point is due to the fervent dedication of Mr. Village Head and the members of nearby communities. I am certain that the outstanding female workers who have been selected this time will undoubtedly produce results surpassing all expectations.” “Particularly, we place exceedingly great expectations on the activities of Ms. Taniguchi Man, who has assumed the responsible position of forewoman… Today, it is truly regrettable that Mr. Matsutomi Gohachiro, our local station officer, cannot attend; however, he has been confined to bed since suddenly suffering from his chronic stomach spasms one week ago while investigating and exposing illicit tobacco leaves that had been concealed in the Nanase watermill hut…”

A thunderous burst of laughter erupted through the hall. The young official, who had been delivering his speech with such pride, couldn’t comprehend why they were laughing at him and assumed a slightly sullen expression, “The said gentleman is a man of unparalleled skill and integrity, and while he has been guiding you all daily, his excessive dedication to his duties has today led him to encounter a hardship nearing martyrdom…” Once again, the hall buzzed with odd laughter. They had been deferential to the official, but none could contain their amusement.

The only one who couldn't laugh was Man. She sat at the head of the sixteen female workers' seats arranged in the center, her face burning crimson red, unable to lift her head. "Man-san... Hehe..."

Kin, who was right behind her, poked Man near the waist with her finger and gave a meaningful, suppressed laugh. Kin, too, had been hired as a female factory worker. Man felt a chill as if an icy sickle had sliced across her waist. A wave of dizziness washed over her. “Seems like nobody knows the real story, but I know everything.”

Kin’s shadow-laden laugh had clearly said as much. From then on, Man commuted daily to the Takakado tobacco factory. Though her heart seethed with turmoil, outwardly she seemed cheerfully absorbed in this new work.

“Man-chan really is different, I tell you.”

Mr. Takejū was also greatly pleased with her work performance. Every day, he praised her to her face.

“Not at all, sir, I’m not satisfied yet.”

“Making three cups of first-grade leaves a day—why, you work better than a machine, I tell you.” “Even with fifth-grade leaves, there are those who can’t manage three cups a day, I tell you…”

Tobacco leaves were divided into good parts and bad parts, categorized from first-grade to fifth-grade. Shredding them was one thing, but producing even one cup (1 kan 600 me) of first-grade leaves in a day was quite a feat. Man produced exactly three cups of it. If it was fifth-grade leaves being roughly shredded, there were those who could make about six cups. The wage per cup: three to four sen. “Man-chan, I hear you’re going to become Mr. Village Head’s Kei’s bride.”

One day at the factory, when Mr. Takejū said this to her, she was shocked. Upon inquiring, it turned out that both Man’s hiring at the tobacco factory and her appointment as forewoman had all been due to the influence and connections of the second son. Man stood dumbfounded, nausea rising in her throat.

Keizō began visiting the Taniguchi household nearly every night. With a smirking voice yet threateningly, he pressed Zensuke. “If I were to say a word, Man-chan would get fired from the factory even today.” “Really, it’s all thanks to me.” Zensuke did not answer, his face as if he’d bitten into something bitter. He smoked furiously with his hatchet-shaped pipe. Iwa, too, wordlessly wove straw sandals.

On a day when rain drizzled down, seeing a man enter through the factory entrance, Man let her hands slip unthinkingly. She cut her finger with the kitchen knife. “Well now, aren’t you working hard?” It was him—the “demon.” As ever, the hulking man in his black high-collared uniform, black briefcase, and black hat walked straight toward Man with a fixed smile. Tittering broke out among the female workers. As Man stood rigidly silent, her left thumb spurting blood clamped between her lips, the official—

“Did you hurt yourself? Let’s see.” Feigning kindness, he thrust out his florid face. His breath stank of home-brewed liquor. “It’s nothing at all.” “That so?” He nodded with venomous satisfaction before surveying the female workers at their tasks. “Well now! Quite the exhibition of model young ladies we’ve got here.” Shaking his entire frame, he loosed a belly laugh ripe with insinuation.

Man clenched her teeth. When the demon had demanded her body in the watermill hut, promising to erase her crime, she remembered his words: “Everyone does that, you know.” Were there others among these female workers who had fallen prey to the demon’s clutches? The officials had established that peasants would silently endure their grievances. They may have been surprised by Man’s exception. However, far from repenting his wrongdoing, the demon seemed to stubbornly begin targeting Man anew.

Then, several days later, Tokujirō once again delivered registered mail from the Monopoly Bureau to Man. It was an order that read: "Pay the minor fine of 2 yen and 50 sen for violation of the Monopoly Law."

Matsutomi Gohachiro, the resident official, came to visit the Taniguchi household. Staring sideways at Man, “Zensuke-san, I hear the fine has come?” “It has come.” “So your dutiful daughter’s filial devotion has come back to bite you, eh?” “But hey, Zensuke-san—there just might be a way to get outta payin’ this fine, y’know.” “Don’t need it. We’ll pay.” “We’ll pay it.” “Putting on such a tough act won’t do you any good.” “The government’s not heartless, you know. Why not take advantage of their generosity?” “There’s a convenient method, you know.” “The minor fine itself isn’t much, but it’ll leave a criminal record—and worst of all, you’ll have to go all the way to Okayama Court to pay the fine.”

“We’ll go.” “Defying the authorities—and yet it’s not like there’s any gain in it for you.” The “demon” sneered and stood up. He walked away with long strides, leisurely. “Father, I’m sorry.” “Man-chan, oh, there’s no need to worry.” “Father knows well.”

Man burst into tears and collapsed.

Zensuke set out for Okayama to pay the fine. Two yen and fifty sen was the minimum amount for a minor fine, but going to pay it was no small ordeal. It was nothing short of a major journey. From the deep mountains of Hiroshima, he crossed valleys and traversed mountains, spending several nights along the way before finally reaching a place with railway tracks and boarding a steam train. Upon arriving in Okayama City and paying the minor fine at the court, he retraced the same route back. Having spent several times the amount of the fine in expenses, Zensuke returned to the village on the thirteenth day after leaving home.

Zensuke showed no sign of weariness, but he neatly wrapped his beloved hatchet-shaped tobacco pipe, tobacco tray, tobacco pouch, and other items in oiled paper and stuffed them into the storage compartment beneath the family altar. Iwa made a strange face, “Goodness, Pa – what in tarnation’ve you gone and done? “You’ve gone and stashed away your precious tobacco…” “It’s because I smoke tobacco that Man-chan worries herself into doing things like committing crimes." “As of today, I’ve quit for good.”

Tears welled up in Man’s eyes again. Despite all this, she continued attending the tobacco factory with a heavy heart—until one blustery evening at dusk when Man saw Ōkawa Tokujirō and Kin conversing intimately beside Nanase watermill hut. From Kannon Hall’s shadow, she fixed her gaze. Though too distant to make out their words, there they stood—shoulders pressed together—laughing boisterously about something. A jealousy beyond anything she’d ever known—inexplicable, overwhelming—flooded Man’s chest until it threatened to burst.

(What the...?) Huh, huh—something between a laugh and a sob welled up from the depths of her chest. The two figures looked like foxes and tanuki.

The clear stream scattered through the faint twilight as the waterwheel turned at a slow speed.

Then, several days later, her figure vanished from this valley-bottom village.

Meiji 35, late autumn.

Taniguchi Man, nineteen years old.

Man’s Departure

“Fine weather we’re having. The castle’s lookin’ so clear today.” “Even if the weather’s fine over there, on our end it’s downpours, gales, and tempests.” “That bad, is it? Kintarō.” “Even if things are dire, someone like you—a blacksmith’s son—wouldn’t understand, though. If they don’t take these mandarin oranges loaded on the cart today at our askin’ price from the wholesaler, Dad says we’ll go bankrupt.” “Hmm...” “So he’s tellin’ me to go negotiate. My brother’s a smooth talker, but since he’s always gettin’ swindled by the wholesalers, he won’t do it. They’re always sendin’ me—the youngest—to handle the tough negotiations.”

“’Course you are.” “Your old man’s scheme—I get it too, see.” “I’ll charge in an’ see what breaks. But Dad says if it goes smooth, I can hit Dōgo’s baths for some fun on the way back.” “When that happens, take me with ya.” “Yeah… but what kinda hell’s gonna come from this…?”

Against a sky so vividly, deeply blue it stung the eyes, Matsuyama Castle’s main keep stood out in sharp relief. In the center of the town, Castle Mountain—towering at around 130 meters—was entirely cloaked in abundant trees, resembling a verdant protuberance. The white castle at the summit resembled a stylish bowler hat.

A single carriage traveled along the highway threading through mandarin orange hills, with Matsuyama Castle visible in the distance. The carriage was loaded with mandarin orange boxes stacked in several layers, and on top of the frontmost boxes sat two youths, side by side.

The man wearing a straw hat with a wide brim skillfully guided the horse forward with the reins and whip held in both hands, advancing the carriage. He was the one called Kinbō; his build was sturdy and his shoulders broad. His rounded face was sunburned, but his sturdy arms protruding from his rolled-up shirt sleeves were so white they gleamed.

The other youth was stubby, dark-skinned, and wretched-looking. The hunting cap he wore was grimy as if stewed in filth and riddled with holes.

Both were youths from this village cloaked in mandarin orange hills. The name of this hamlet from which the carriage had departed was Aza Yoshifuji, Shiomimura Village, Onsen District, Ehime Prefecture.

Along a winding, needlessly snaking road, the carriage advanced toward Matsuyama City. This highway, called “Nanamagari” (“Seven Bends”), was said to have been deliberately wound into twists and turns long ago so that from the castle’s tenshukaku—its central keep—any approaching enemy forces could be spotted no matter which path they took. “Kinbō, your sister-in-law—still not working out?” “No way around it—she’s just no good. “She’s just getting meaner by the day. “I don’t mind her working me to the bone, but hearing her badmouth my brother like that—it breaks me. “‘You need to watch out for Kintarō—that one’s scheming to take over the Tamai family, even though he’s the youngest.’ “...she says things like that. “If someone gives her five sen for errands, she claims she gave ten to my brother, and if she gets ten sen for a haircut, she tells people she handed out fifteen.”

“Is that so?” “Hey.” “Sei-chan.”

Kintarō thought of something and made his eyes shine.

“Yeah.” “I’ve got a lifelong favor to ask of you.” Seishichi the blacksmith was known for being good-natured and slow-witted. Kintarō would always tease him, saying, “You’re the type who gets whacked on the head in the morning and goes ‘Ouch’ come evening.” And so, even now, as his close friend spoke with a tense expression and tone about having a lifelong favor to ask, he maintained an easygoing face, his expression unchanging, “What’s that? “Hey.”

was all he replied in a drawn-out voice. He kept picking his nose. "I was wonderin' if you could make me a key."

“What kinda key?”

“That’s… kinda… what I don’t know…?” “Can’t make a key if I don’t know what kinda key it is.” “Sei-chan—since it’s you, I’ll lay it bare.” “Actually, there’s this chest where my brother and his wife always keep their money.” “The key to that chest’s held by the sister-in-law.” “I’m sayin’ I want a key just like that one.” “You plannin’ to steal the money from the chest, huh?” “No, it ain’t stealin’.” “It’s borrowin’.” “So you’re gonna open the chest and borrow it quiet-like?” “That’s right.”

“If you’re borrowin’, I can make you a key.” “How’d you go about makin’ the same key?” “Smear ink on the keyhole there, press some hanshi paper against it, and bring me back the imprint.” “Got it. Thanks a bunch.” Though [Seishichi] was slow-witted, Kintarō trusted his craftsmanship. Whether it was horseshoes, carriage axles, or shears used for pruning citrus trees, Seishichi put such foolishly meticulous care into his work that his products ended up several times sturdier and longer-lasting than those from other blacksmiths. Without a doubt, he would craft a perfect duplicate key that fit the chest.

Before long, the carriage entered Matsuyama City. Old houses retaining traces of the castle town stood everywhere, and from rooms with latticed windows came the clack-clack of looms weaving Iyo-kasuri fabric.

They came to the front of a fruit wholesaler in Kayamachi and halted the carriage. ※ (A symbol representing the shop’s name—a horizontally reversed “Γ” combined with “<甚”)—a store that dealt exclusively in Iyo mandarins. Passing through the shop curtain, Kintarō entered. In the dimness hung the sweetly fragrant aroma of fruit.

In the hushed shop’s accounting counter, the shopkeeper’s wife sat alone, reading a magazine through her reading glasses, but peered past its pages toward the front. “Who might that be?” she asked, looking up.

“Tamai of Yoshifuji.” “Ah, it’s Kin-san.” “Just wait a moment.” “My husband’s been waitin’ for you to come for a while now.” “I’ll go call him right away, so…” As he passed by the shopkeeper’s wife, the owner appeared. A small-statured, pale-complexioned middle-aged man, but one renowned as a shrewd merchant. In the depths of his goblet-shaped eyes lay a cunning, murky glint.

Immediately, negotiations began. At the shop entranceway, between the two men who had taken their seats, an abacus was placed. The Tamai household’s fate hinged on whether this deal succeeded or failed—as Kintarō considered the grave responsibility his father had entrusted to him by sending him here, he couldn’t help but feel tense. After flipping up four beads from below on the abacus, he fixed his gaze on ※’s expression.

With his arms crossed and an air of implication, ※ smirked smugly. Typically, price negotiations would be settled in a flash, but for some reason, ※ wasn’t responding. He didn’t even seem particularly interested in the price Kintarō had indicated with the abacus beads.

Kintarō was growing a little impatient.

“How about this price?” Even so, he remained silent, so— “I can’t go a single sen lower than this. Hurry up and settle this—hand over the money.”

He raised his voice slightly and pressed him. He glared at him.

To be honest, Kintarō was feeling slightly flustered inside. This had gone south, I thought. This was a losing battle. He knew ※'s usual tactics well and had devised a strategy accordingly, yet the situation felt completely different. If we started with four, ※ would counter with one. If they haggled over that and settled on three, he'd consider it a major success.

However, ※—who would normally snap three beads back with a swift, calculated motion when four were set—remained utterly silent, showing no reaction at all. Not only that, but he was wearing a strangely meaningful smile.

Kintarō felt slightly uneasy. This only made him grow more irritated, until—as if he were being chased—his voice rose to a shout: “Mr. ※, let’s settle this like men!”

“Now, now,” the other man finally said. “Kin-san—no need to rush now.” “I’m not in a hurry, but I can’t say I admire all this dawdling.”

“Kin-san.” ※ calmly said, “Kin-san—do you truly need that much money?”

“I do.”

“But that price is downright unreasonable now.” “Isn’t it always you, Mr. ※, who’s being downright unreasonable? Do you know they call you ‘Mountain Slayer’ behind your back?” “That’s neither here nor there... But Kin-san—is Tamai truly so desperate without that sum?”

“We’ll be ruined. We’ll go bankrupt.”

“Then let’s do it this way.” “We’re a business too—we can’t just sit back and take a huge loss.” “If we take your price, we’ll go under.” “So, a deal where Tamai gets saved and we don’t take a loss would be best—Kin-san, what do you say?” “Can such a sweet deal really work?” “It might be possible… depending on your decision…” With that, ※—for the first time—animatedly made his eyes gleam and leaned slightly forward.

“My decision?…” He didn’t understand. “Look, Kin-san—let’s speak plainly.” “You refuse by all means to consent to becoming the Kuroishi family’s adopted son—but change your mind and go.” “That would resolve everything neatly and sensibly.” “Since Kuroishi will become my relative, if you arrange the adoption, I’ll give a reward.” “I’ll pay you that as payment for these rotten mandarins.” “It’d be a favorable settlement for all three parties, see.”

Kintarō stood speechless. He remained dumbfounded. This was an ambush he'd never foreseen. (I've been had.)

He bit his lip and held his breath. “An offer this good doesn’t come around often, I tell ya.” As if declaring victory, ※ grinned smugly and pressed for an answer.

The proposal from the Kuroishi family to adopt Kintarō had been a long-standing matter. Kuroishi Yukisaku, head of the household, was counted among Shiomimura Village’s foremost wealthy men, yet he had only one child. That child was a daughter—a woman as large as a sumo wrestler and, to compound matters, remarkably unattractive. They absolutely needed to adopt a son-in-law, but no suitable candidates came forward. There were indeed men willing to overlook the woman’s appearance for the sake of wealth, but Kuroishi found such prospects unacceptable. They sought a man who was physically sturdy, competent at labor, of decent character as a man, dutiful toward parents, and kind to their daughter. This symbolic white-feathered arrow came to point at Kintarō, third son of the Tamai family.

“Even if you search the whole village, there’s not a single man besides you, Kin-san, who fits the bill.”

Kuroishi Yukisaku said this. Despite having suffered a stroke that left his body somewhat disabled, he himself had come to the Tamai family home time and again. Father Ushihachi and his eldest son Ushitarō were not entirely unmoved by the other party’s vast wealth, “What do you say, Kinbō? Go to Kuroishi, make Yasubō your wife, and become the wealthiest man in the village?” they said and tried to persuade him, but “Even if I die, I won’t go.”

Kintarō's answer remained an adamant refusal. From the mayor, influential figures, business associates, officials, police, friends—from every direction—they persistently tried to persuade him, but Kintarō's resolve remained unshaken. Ordinarily, Sugi, his sister-in-law, who treated Kintarō as a nuisance,

“You’re a damn fool,” she sneered. “Where in this wide world d’you find such ripe fruit fallin’ free? If I wore your sandals, I’d snatch up Ito and fly there ’fore dawn broke.” Her words lashed at her brother-in-law’s spineless ways. Word spread that Kuroishi’s lone daughter Yasu pitched fits too—“Won’t take none but Kin-san!”—her shrill refrains echoing through the village lanes. Kintarō stood trapped. “Now Kin-san,” pressed ※—that shopkeep whose emblem bore a flipped Γ fused with “甚”—leaning in like a crow scenting carrion.

“You said earlier you’d decide like a man, didn’t ya?” “That’s what this here’s about.” “C’mon, let’s seal the deal proper-like, shall we?” “I get it.” “If I go be Kuroishi’s adopted son, you’ll take all them mandarins at four—that’s the deal?” “That’s right.” “Four—no hagglin’, cash on the barrelhead—that what you’re sayin’?” “That’s right.” “Fine.” “Let’s shake on it.”

“Right,” ※ said, leaping to his feet. “I know I’m bein’ a nag, but you’re agreein’ to the Kuroishi adoption, yeah?” “I accept.” “Much obliged.” “See now, Kin-san’s always been a reasonable man.” “This settles things smooth as silk for all three parties, I’d say.”

After that, Kintarō was made to write a written pledge stating, “I shall without fail enter the Kuroishi family as their adopted son.” He received the payment for the mandarins from ※, who was smirking smugly with satisfaction, and dejectedly left the store.

Kintarō and Seishichi boarded the empty carriage and went to Dōgo Onsen. The hot spring town was connected to Matsuyama. Seishichi the blacksmith had been watching the negotiations unfold with concern but was shocked when his friend agreed to become the Kuroishi family’s adopted son—something he’d so vehemently opposed. In the front of the carriage, sitting shoulder to shoulder, he asked with a suspicious look, “Kinbō, you sure ’bout this?”

“Yeah, yeah. No matter how you put it, there ain’t no other way. To tide over the family’s crisis, there ain’t no other way but this one move.” “Even if you say that, adoption’s a lifelong matter, you know.”

“Leave me alone. I’ve got some kinda plan.” “That so?” “So, Sei-chan—about that duplicate key for the chest of drawers I asked you to make when we came here—you don’t need to make it anymore.” “It’s become unnecessary.” “Tonight let’s blow it all in the hot spring town.” “To hell with everything.” “Stick with me!” “Well I’ll go along... but honest truth? No tellin’ what you’ll do next.” “Here’s your tobacco money too... There.”

“Right.” Kintarō had calculated that if he demanded four from ※—the shop marked with a reversed “Γ” combined with “甚”—and settled for two as planned, with three being a grand success, his money belt now bulged with cash. From within it, he grabbed a portion using abacus-style calculation and pressed it into Seishichi’s palm.

At the entrance to Yu-machi, which had been turned into a park, there was a small antique shop. It was a trinket shop of no particular distinction.

When he stopped the carriage, Kintarō strode resolutely into the shop.

“Oh, Mr. Kin, come in!”

A red-nosed, bald-headed old man came out. His mouth was as large as a wooden temple drum. “Since t’other day—said I’d take that Sukehiro dagger once I got th’cash—hand ’er over now.” “Made yerself a pretty penny there, eh?” “Sparrow’s tears.” “Mandarins this year—every Tom ’n’ Dick’s losin’ their shirts—still our Mr. Kin comes through!”

He brought out from the back a single dagger wrapped in a purple cloth bag. Upon receiving it, he drew the blade from its sheath, inspected it carefully, and paid the money. He left the antique shop. “At last—finally got my hands on what I’ve been wanting all this time.”

Seishichi, who knew of Kintarō's fondness for blades, offered congratulatory words. They left their carriage at an acquaintance's fruit shop and went to the public bathhouse. Though there were several bathing areas, they entered the large tub called Kami no Yu. When Kintarō submerged himself up to his neck in the blue-stagnant, slimy water, he went limp with a peculiar weariness. Closing his eyes in the white steam gave him a dreamlike sensation. It was an unpleasant dream. His head felt heavy; his mouth held a faint bitterness.

To his ears, right beside him, “Brother.” An unfamiliar voice reached him. He opened his eyes. It was the man who had been submerged alone under the faucet this whole time—close-cropped hair, bluish-black complexion adorned with full-body tattoos, sharp-eyed.

“Me?” Kintarō asked back, but immediately realized this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this man.

Earlier, before descending to the bath, he had sipped bancha tea and nibbled on salted rice crackers while chatting loudly with Seishichi in the second-floor changing room of the large hall. At that moment, no more than a dozen feet away, a man lay sprawled out, having stripped off his yukata to bare his torso. It had to be that man. He recognized the Hannya and giant serpent tattoos that densely covered his emaciated, exposed body. He was around forty.

The two of them chattered away, grabbing at whatever topics came to hand—citrus harvests, ※ (the shop marked with a reversed “Γ” combined with “甚”), swords, jōruri ballads, Kuroishi Yasu—letting their idle talk flow freely. In the end, “It’s fine to splurge tonight, but since you’re carrying so much important cash, you’d better wrap things up early and head back.”

To Seishichi, who had spoken so loudly, Kintarō suddenly pinched his knee in warning. He had noticed the tattooed man beside them glaring and listening intently.

However, even when Kintarō signaled him with another meaningful look, the thick-headed Seishichi still didn’t grasp it,

“What’re ya doin’, actin’ so reckless? That hurt! Twistin’ my leg with your strength like that—how’m I s’posed to take it?” With a resentful gaze, he looked at his friend. Kintarō was unbearably frustrated, but— “Sei, you plannin’ to perform ‘Sanshō Hanshichi’ at this year’s guardian shrine festival?”

he changed the subject. “Nah, I’m thinkin’ of doin’ *The Tenth Chapter of Taikōki* instead… But damn, that hurts.” “It’s turned all blue.” “Why in the world’d you go and do such a terrible thing…” As Seishichi continued to mutter such things under his breath, the strange man who had been lying down sprang up in one swift motion. He stripped off his yukata, hung a hand towel around his neck, and hurried down the stairs toward the bath. Kintarō admonished Seishichi, “Enough with the money talk. Stop it.” After a while, they both stripped naked and descended into the bath. Then, there he was—the man from earlier. He may have known they had bought tickets for Kami no Yu and been lying in wait.

In the wide stone bathtub, there were only three customers. “Brother, you’ve got such a pretty body there.” The close-cropped man kept the folded hand towel on his head as he glided toward Kintarō. “What’s there to say? I’m just a dirt farmer—no different from mud.” Kintarō answered with an unavoidable wry smile. “No, that ain’t it. “Truth now—you’re fair-skinned through and through, skin finer than rice paper. “Mine ain’t fit to compare. “Get that body tattooed proper-like—hell’s bells—you’d make one righteous masterpiece.”

“Don’t be absurd! For a farmer’s son to get tattoos…”

“Brother—what year were you born?” “Dragon.”

“Dragon? Hoh—that’s a prime zodiac.” “Born in the Year of the Snake myself—inked this serpent here—but you? Dragon’d suit you down to the bone.” “Once carved proper? You’ll make folks swoon.” “Mine’s just mangled scratchwork though…”

The man grabbed Kintarō’s arm. With the manner of a doctor examining a patient, he kept stroking and kneading his arms and shoulders with bony fingertips. He circled around to his back, looked him over, gave a thoughtful “Hmm,” and nodded as if satisfied. Kintarō let the man have his way. Seishichi, creeped out, repeatedly signaled with his eyes not to engage with the man and pinched Kintarō’s buttocks under the water.

Eventually, the suspicious man said something strange, as if a doctor who had finished his diagnosis were delivering a verdict.

“You’ve got an impressive build. If I were a woman, I’d be head over heels for you. What a waste on a farmer. Get yourself a dragon tattoo, and I guarantee you’ll become a boss like Ōmaeda Eizaburō.”

That this man was not from the area was clear from his speech or his demeanor. At Dōgo Onsen, it wasn’t unusual to find outsiders, since many travelers came there to bathe. However, even Kintarō—who often came to the bathhouse town—had never before encountered such a man: one who spoke in pure Edo-period speech and bore full-body tattoos. Kintarō felt a surge of curiosity and found himself in a teasing mood. “Can even a dirt farmer’s son become a boss?”

“Sure you can.” “Actually, I like chivalrous outlaws too.” “While reading kōdan books—I’ve thought about wanting to become a boss like Shimizu no Jirōchō or Kunisada Chūji.” “...I’ve had thoughts like that.” “Ain’t no way, Brother—that’s dead wrong thinkin’.” “Why’s that?” “Jirōchō and Chūji—th’ones like that—they’re no damn good.” “The dregs of the chivalrous outlaw world.” “Those who peddle violence are no damn good.” “A truly good boss doesn’t pick fights.” “So when it comes to Ōmaeda Eizaburō—he’s somethin’ else.”

“I don’t know this Ōmaeda Eizaburō.” “Exactly. ‘Cause they don’t go around cuttin’ and slashin’, they never make it into kōdan ballads or naniwa-bushi recitations.” “All those lousy yakuza types are just flashy show-offs.”

Kintarō had initially found this man unsettling, but he was beginning to feel a certain interest and familiarity toward him.

“Boss.”

he tentatively called out. The man burst into a clucking, chicken-like laugh—*keh keh keh*—and... “I ain’t no boss.” “Then…” “Third-tier underling.” “...But you got some business, huh?”

“How do I go about becoming a boss?” “Well now...” “Can’t put it in one word.” “...Brother, you up for tryin’ somethin’?” “Tryin’ what?” “This here.”

The man made a gesture of throwing dice with his right hand. However, Kintarō did not understand what it meant. "What's that for?" "Hah! Brother—still wet behind the ears, ain'tcha? Chōhan," he said, clucking his tongue. "Gamblin'." "I've never tried it." "How 'bout it then?" The man's eyes gleamed like river stones at dusk. "Join us for bon tonight? Four-five buddies comin'. Gonna be wild."

Seishichi thought the villain had finally shown his true colors. He pinched Kintarō’s buttocks harder than before.

Kintarō flicked the hand away in the hot water and then—

“Mr. Sanshita—please let me join your group tonight.”

he said.

“Sure thing, sure thing. Bring that brother of yours and come along—the two of you.” He then explained in detail the location and time where the bon-gambling mat would be laid out. Suddenly exclaiming, “Ah, I’ve soaked too long and gotten dizzy,” he hurriedly left Kami no Yu—like an otter leaping from water. In the billowing white steam, the fearsome Hannya mask tattooed on his back vanished swiftly, leaving an eerie atmosphere that lingered briefly.

“Kinbō, you should quit this.” “No problem, no problem. Ain’t nothin’ I won’t try—if I don’t know it, I gotta try it. It’s all part of learnin’.” “That so?”

Kintarō scrubbed his pale body vigorously with a hand towel, his eyes acquiring a distant gaze.

―Port.

―Land of Freedom. ―China Continent.

Kintarō’s desire to cross over to China had been no mere two- or three-year fancy. The suffocation of those cramped village squabbles endlessly repeating themselves—their sheer idiocy. Even famed as an Iyo mandarin producer, its lands stretched no wider than a cat’s brow. Before Kintarō’s eyes now spread an orchard vast enough to swallow horizons, lush with fruits ripening through every season.

First, I'll make my way to some port—build a foundation there—then cross over to the continent.

The unrestrainable blood of youth had already transformed his longing for freedom into a seething passion for wandering and drifting. Within Kintarō’s fantasies— —Dragon. Suddenly, a strange legendary creature burst forth violently. (I’ll become a dragon and ascend to the heavens.)

In one corner of the bath trough was a faucet from which hot water gushed out ceaselessly in an abundant stream. The spout was a bronze-carved dragon. Though he'd never noticed it before, Kintarō now felt the dragon was posing some enigmatic riddle to him—speaking directly to him. (That freak gambler's spouting such nonsense.) When I mocked him, he actually took it seriously. Who the hell would ever become some gang boss?! Don't give me that tattoo bullshit. (I'll become a dragon—ride clouds and wind—soar across the open sky.)

From Kintarō's large eyes blazed a fierce glint akin to madness.

After leaving the bathhouse, he ate udon and went to the Shikokuya Inn the tattooed man had told him about. He postponed any reckless spending for later. The inn stood at the heart of the pleasure quarter, serving both as an upscale restaurant and a rented banquet hall.

The aforementioned man came out to the entrance to greet them. He guided them to the inner tatami room where bon gambling was underway. The moment the sliding door opened, Kintarō let out an involuntary sound of mild surprise. This was the first time he had seen such a spectacle. Having heard that four or five companions would gather in the bath trough, he had assumed it would be a small, covert gambling session held in a cramped room. However, what he saw now was exactly like a banquet hall.

In the center of the thirty-tatami-mat hall, approximately forty guests were lined up in two neat rows facing each other. Between the rows, a long straw mat was laid out. It seemed to have started quite early, and a murderous tension could be felt swelling through the gathering. A sweltering miasma of body heat hung in the air. But that wasn’t the only thing that surprised Kintarō. Not only were there five or six women among the gamblers, but among the male customers, the number of familiar faces was not limited to just two or three.

The tattooed man gazed at Kintarō, who was looking around restlessly, with a satisfied air. “Bro, this is some lavish setup, ain’t it? “There’s all kinds of games out there, but this here’s your basic odds and evens.” “In this town, you’ll see plenty of respectable gentlemen too.” “It’s the kind of thing even a complete amateur can pick up right away.” “You just pick odds or evens and bet however much you like.” “Bro, which one are you going with?” “Which one do you mean?”

“Odds? “Evens?” Even Kintarō knew that much—that even numbers on the dice were odds (*chō*) and odd numbers were evens (*han*). “Hmm... which one’s better, I wonder...?” “Nine evens (*han*) and twelve odds (*chō*)—you see, when you combine the numbers from two dice, that makes three more combinations for odds than evens.” “Kintarō,” Seishichi whispered from beside him, tugging at his sleeve, “go with odds.” “No matter how much, the one with more’s better.” “I’ll go with evens.”

“I’ll go with evens,” said Kintarō.

He inserted himself into the evens row and sat down.

“Well, well,” several people greeted him.

Several people greeted him. The Iyo-kasuri cloth merchant, fishmonger, retired pawnbroker, lumber dealer—merchants who usually wore hanten jackets and work aprons to toil diligently in their shops—now sat with eyes ablaze, feverishly absorbed in gambling. At this sight, Kintarō felt an uncanny disorientation. Among those in the odds row, he even discovered the face marked with [reversed ‘Γ’ <甚], the shop emblem.

A portly fifty-year-old man appeared to be the boss. In the center of the odds row, he had set up a folding chair and was leisurely puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette. The one handling both the middle tray and dice shaking was a young woman. Her ginkgo-leaf bun lay slightly disheveled, stray hairs hanging against her flushed, elongated face—but what caught Kintarō's eye was the beautiful tattoo on her right arm where she'd rolled up her sleeve. The design showed large peonies with several butterflies fluttering around them, though the peony blossoms themselves were colored in such vivid crimson that it seared the eyes.

When all odds and evens bets had been placed,

“Game on.” The woman announced in a rounded voice, slamming her pale hand over the dice basket with a swift motion. The two dice rattled sharply before falling silent. Kintarō found himself overwhelmed by her unsettling allure—a quality he’d never encountered in any woman before. This creature before him existed outside every category he knew.

As he stared in fascination, the gaze of the woman—who had been surveying the gathering with her hand still resting on the dice basket—shifted to him. Kintarō flustered and suddenly turned red. The woman’s eyes also came to rest on Kintarō and ceased moving. Kintarō was seated two places to the right of the woman. To the woman’s eyes as well, Kintarō’s fidgety, country bumpkin-like demeanor must have appeared thoroughly amateurish. gently, in a tone one might use to admonish a younger brother,

“Brother, have you placed your bet?” she said. “No… not yet…”

Taken aback by the unexpected address, Kintarō answered in surprise. “It’s not too late to start now．Place your bet．There’s sure to be someone on the odds side to take it since...”

“I’ll bet.”

Somehow slipping into a vacant state of mind, he grabbed a single bill from his wallet. He extended it onto the mat in front. “Oh… ten yen,” the woman exclaimed with exaggerated surprise. “A wild boar’s come charging in from the young man on evens. On the odds side—would anyone care to match this?” With that, she surveyed the gathering. “Call.”

The one who said this without a moment’s delay and likewise produced a ten-yen note was [reversed ‘Γ’ <甚], the shop emblem.

Kintarō and [reversed ‘Γ’ <甚], the shop emblem, faced each other and exchanged a peculiar smile unintelligible to others.

“Game on.”

Once more, the woman said this and briskly lifted the dice basket. “Evens.”

Noisily, the gathering stirred for a moment. The woman gathered all the losing odds bets and distributed them according to the evens bet amounts. He couldn’t grasp how the vigorish had been deducted, but Kintarō’s ten-yen bet received an eight-yen payout. “Brother, looks like luck’s on your side.” The middle tray woman rolled two dice in her palm and smiled at Kintarō. Her teeth were beautiful. “Thanks to you, I managed a fluke win.”

Suddenly unable to find a retort, he blurted out such an incongruous reply. And then, he turned red all the way to the roots of his ears. A burst of laughter erupted like a mocking cheer. After that, the games continued several more times.

By the fourth or fifth round, Kintarō had already suppressed his breathing—alternately placing and withholding bets while increasing and decreasing the amounts.

He lost track of time. Ding, ding, ding, ding...

Suddenly noticing the clock’s sound, he looked at the pillar clock. Eleven o'clock. Startled, he stood up. “Wait, this won’t do. Gotta get back—Father’ll be worried.” “Cutting out with your winnings, eh?” The tattooed man approached, laughing, and said. “Since my home’s far off, I’ll be taking my leave.”

“Is that so.” “Then come again.” “We’ve been at it every night for about a week now.” “Bro, you’ve raked in a fortune tonight—watch yourself on the way back.” “Yes, thank you for having me.” Kintarō’s money belt had swollen up like a pregnant belly. On top of that, he tucked Sukesada’s dagger into it.

With Seishichi, the two of them once again rode an empty carriage and returned. He stopped squandering money. The moon was bright. In the winter night sky, Matsuyama Castle loomed, and the scent of some kind of flower drifted all along the highway.

That year came to an end.

During the New Year pine-decorating period, the Kuroishi family held an auspicious ceremony to adopt Kintarō as their heir with a kind of madness-tinged extravagance. The more lavish and costly the ceremony became, the thicker grew the chains binding the adopted son—such was their unspoken logic.

It was a day of falling snow.

“You’re quite the filial son, aren’t you.” Not only had they rid themselves of misfortune, but they’d also secured a financial safety net—being able to withdraw funds from the adoptive household in emergencies—so Sugi, his sister-in-law, was overjoyed. Suddenly, they began treating Kintarō without condescension. To Seishichi the blacksmith, his friend’s reasoning simply didn’t add up. Since he had declared “I’d rather die than go to the Kuroishi family,” once he had money, it seemed he could just quit. The Tamai family, staking their fate on the brink of dissolution or preservation, collided with the cunning ※ (a reversed “Γ” symbol denoting a wholesaler’s shop). If he were to be adopted into another family—they fell for a tactic akin to fraud. He reluctantly consented. However, on his way back, he happened to join a dice game and won a great victory. More money than he had received from ※ (a reversed “Γ” symbol denoting a wholesaler’s shop) had found its way into his pocket.

“Kinbō, how ’bout returnin’ the money to ※ and quittin’ the Kuroishi adoption?” Even though he had given that warning, “It’s not about the money. “A man doesn’t break a promise once made.”

Kintarō merely said this with displeasure.

The one who was pleased was Yasu. Because her long-cherished wish had been fulfilled, she blatantly broke into a grin on her unattractive face and laughed uproariously at even the most trivial things. Her level of intelligence was also equivalent to that of a third-grade elementary student.

However, that too was but a fleeting moment. A bizarre conflict unfolded between Yasu and Kintarō. It began, at first, within the bedroom. Kintarō always slept alone and absolutely refused to engage with Yasu. No matter how much Yasu demanded, he would not comply.

Yasu started crying. “Kin-san, why won’t you show me any affection?” “I came as an adopted son, but I didn’t come here to be your husband.” “If you came as an adopted son, doesn’t that make me your bride by default?” “I promised to go as an adopted son, but I never promised to become your husband.” “Oh, I see…” Yasu glared at him with eyes brimming with anger and suspicion. “You’re just after the money too, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want a single penny of your damn fortune.” “Then why did you come here?” “So I’m tellin’ you—I came ’cause I promised to be adopted, ain’t I?”

Their argument was a futile back-and-forth, going nowhere.

Yasu, unable to endure any longer, lunged at Kintarō. With the large woman’s inhuman strength, the off-guard Kintarō was seized. He was pinned down. Yasu’s body burned like fire. Kintarō finally managed to shove off the passion-crazed woman and fled outside. This became their nightly ritual. Kintarō began avoiding home. When he went to Dōgo Onsen, he wouldn’t return for three or four days. There were multiple times he got drunk and wound up in police custody.

As a natural consequence, Kintarō's debauchery became the talk of the village.

The village head who had mediated the adoption summoned Kintarō.

“Kin-san, you’re crossing a line. What in the world possessed you to act so recklessly?” “No matter what I do—if I stay home, Yasu’ll kill me.” The mere thought of Yasu—that ugly, simple-minded giant of a woman—glaring with wild eyes as she charged at him filled Kintarō with shuddering, self-destructive despair. The Kuroishi household was Kurojō Jigoku—the Black Rope Hell. “Kin-san, you’ve got some woman you’ve gotten involved with in Dōgo, haven’t you?”

“There’s no such thing.” “Won’t you confide in me? Even the Kuroishi—well, there’s no helping it now. If you’d just take Yasu as your bride—they say they’ll get that woman out and settle her properly as your mistress, see…” “There really isn’t anything like that.”

Even after that, Kintarō’s misconduct only escalated, so finally, in April, he was formally divorced. Since he had been enduring staying at the Kuroishi household out of obligation to his father Uhatchi, his brother Utarō, and the village head who had mediated the adoption, for Kintarō, this was an unexpected blessing.

When he returned to the Tamai household, his father and brother said nothing, but Suki, his sister-in-law, “You damn idiot!”

And so, she exploited and abused Kintarō several times more than before. A lawsuit was filed by the Kuroishi family. Defamation, marriage fraud, embezzlement, property damage, trespassing, claims for damages, violent acts, assault, forgery of seals and private documents, violation of chastity—every conceivable charge was boisterously piled upon Kintarō.

Kintarō gave a wry smile. “I won’t say anything more.” “But I’ve never laid a single finger on Yasu-bō’s body.” “As for violent acts—the one whose chastity was nearly violated was me.”

He clarified only that point.

The Kuroishi family’s revenge took various forms. It gradually grew more malicious.

This surrounding rural area, influenced by eastern Shikoku’s Awa Tokushima region, had a thriving jōruri tradition. In Yoshifuji as well, there was a troupe called “Onsen-za” with splendid costumes and puppets, and there were farmers who played the shamisen and worked the puppet heads with one hand. Even though Kintarō had been regarded as a young storyteller, when festival days came, no one would play the shamisen for him, nor was there anyone to work the puppets.

One day, on his way back from cherry blossom viewing, a single gunshot echoed through the spring air. The bullet grazed Kintarō’s right ear and flew off. Firing blank guns to chase away birds flocking to peck at fruit was permitted. Kintarō pressed the blood gushing from his ear, bit his lip, and made a forlorn face.

One day at dusk, Kintarō appeared at the front of Seishichi the blacksmith’s shop. “Sei-chan, turns out I need that duplicate key I asked you for some time ago after all. I’m counting on you.”

“Got it.”

Seishichi, who had been forging horseshoes, approached Kintarō and brought his mouth close to his ear. “Kinbō, I know exactly who shot you with that gun.” “Enough—just leave me be.” “It’s the Kuroishi—they’re saying they’ll make an Inugami possess you.”

“They’re a damn persistent bunch.” “They’ve had that scrawny mutt Kuro buried in their storehouse for four days now—starving him.” “Normally they’d drive out the Inugami after a week or so, but this time they’re stretching it to ten days to make your torment all the harsher, from what I hear.”

“Let them do as they damn well please.”

They buried a dog completely in the ground and left it without food for a long time. When they saw it on the brink of starvation, they presented a feast before its eyes. The dog couldn't stand wanting to eat it. However, the master tauntingly displayed it before the dog and ordered, "If you want this, first possess so-and-so." The Inugami, now a vengeful spirit, burrowed into the target's body and moved about as fleshy lumps. The pain was unbearable—an eerie curse method passed down in this region since ancient times.

Kintarō waited for Seishichi to make the key. It was a full week after the request that Seishichi—working with absurd meticulousness—finally crafted a key based on an imprint of the keyhole pressed onto hanshi paper with ink. “Finally got it done, I tell ya… Now then—still no sign o’ that Inugami?”

“I’ve been waiting, but it hasn’t shown up at all. Why don’t you go fetch it yourself?” “Why don’t you go fetch it yourself?” The next time they met, Seishichi laughed uproariously, clutching his sides. “Looks like that Inugami finally starved to death after all!” Shortly after May began, his older brother and sister-in-law departed on a pilgrimage to Ise. There was no opportunity but this moment. Kintarō inserted the duplicate key Seishichi had made into the chest’s keyhole. It fit perfectly. When he opened it, banknotes, copper coins, and silver coins lay jumbled inside. There was about seven hundred yen. Abruptly, he took roughly two hundred yen from the pile and thrust it into his pocket. However, Kintarō knew this money represented what his father had scraped together through great hardship after selling off the mountain.

Kintarō took out the money he had once put in. He kept only thirty yen. And wrote a promissory note stating, “I hereby humbly borrow the sum of thirty yen,” which he left there. If he didn’t leave it like this, his sister-in-law would surely claim, "Kinbō stole three hundred yen!" Moreover, Kintarō had every intention of returning this money someday without fail. Since bundling spare clothes in a furoshiki would make him stand out, he layered six garments on his body. He left the house under the pretense of just going out for a bit. Sweat began dripping steadily, and he felt as if he were soaking in the waters of Dōgo Onsen.

From then on, he was no longer seen in this village.

Meiji 36 (1903), early summer.

Tamai Kintarō, twenty-four years old.

Part 1

Man and Woman

Moji Port.

Over the summit of Fūshi Mountain, the sound of a strong wind passing through could be heard like the roar of the sea. The 210th day was approaching; this might have been its harbinger. In the distance, through the lulls in the wind, a steam whistle sounded. In the office of Hamao-gumi, which overlooked the coal storage yard under the pier just ahead, lights glowed brightly. In the inner room, a great many figures moved about, and still more came streaming in. Eventually, their numbers reached seventy or eighty. About twenty women were mixed in among them.

With his back against the soot-blackened pillar, a giant of a man scrutinized each person who entered while making marks with red ink in what appeared to be a large ledger. He was a dark-skinned, buck-toothed man in his forties with a narrow forehead and a close-cropped chestnut-burr haircut who stood over six feet tall. Over his flannel shirt he wore a short coat dyed with “Hamao-gumi Assistant Manager.” His eyes were sharp. “Seems they’ve all gathered now,” he said. “Three slackers ain’t shown, but this’ll do. …Shinkō—you go tell the boss: ‘Everyone’s here now. Come out please.’” He jabbed his chin toward the door. “…Get to it.”

“Aye.” A sturdy-looking man of about twenty-three or twenty-four—also clad in a short coat and called Shinkō—nimbly pushed his way through the densely packed stevedores and went out.

Soon, Hamao Ichizō appeared. He came to the pillar and stood rigidly. Of average build and height, his shoulders were squared as though clad in stiff ceremonial robes, his face—elongated like a gourd—unnervingly pale. Thick blue veins resembling earthworms crawled across his forehead, twitching restlessly. When the assembly fell silent, Hamao began speaking with a grave expression.

“The reason I’ve gathered you all tonight is because a matter of life and death for the Hamao Group has arisen.” “Since most of you ain’t scholars, you might not know—‘fuchin’ means sink or swim. Will the Hamao Group float up or go under?” “Will Hamao Ichizō keep his honor or lose it?... We’ve fought tooth and nail till now, but if we botch tomorrow’s India Maru cargo job, I’m finished in Moji.” “That means the Hamao Group dissolves—you’ll all be beggars on the streets.... You get me?”

The assembly was silent.

“Well? You understand what the Boss is saying, don’t you?” The giant Deputy scanned the assembly with hawk-like eyes and barked, “We understand.” About ten voices answered.

“The opponent is our sworn enemy—the Ōmura Group.” Hamao glared at the spot as if Ōmura himself stood there and declared, “We absolutely cannot lose. So for tomorrow’s cargo handling, we’re changing up our usual rotation—only sending thirty solid men.” “The selection’s been decided based on daily work records after consulting Bōshin here.” “Winning’d settle things clean—no, you’d damn well better win—but if by some cursed chance you lose, pick a fight then and there. Beat ’em bloody and save my face.… Now then, Bōshin—read the names.”

“Right.” The giant of a man spread open the ledger. “Listen up.… Ōishi Ryōzō, Horibe Yasutarō, Koyamada Shōsaburō, Ōhara Gengo, Taniguchi Rinsuke, Mori Shin’nosuke, Tamai Kintarō… For the women: Niwa Fumie, Ishikawa Tatsu, Taniguchi Man, Inoue Tomoko…” When the roll call ended, the assembly buzzed restlessly for a while. However, this selection had disregarded personal wishes and opinions from the very start. It was an authoritative command—those chosen for dispatch weren’t allowed to voice any objections.

Among those who had not been chosen, “Boss, please—I want to join them too.”

A man stepped forward to volunteer. “No, no,” roared the giant of a man. “A drunkard like you—even if you’re strong in brawls—a slacker has no right. “If Hisamatsu joins, it’ll throw off the whole work plan.”

Then he turned toward Hamao Ichizō, “Boss, looks like everything’s sorted…” “Good.” Hamao nodded with satisfaction, “Now then—I’m counting on you all.” “This’s when you repay what you owe—that’s what makes us human.” “Tomorrow starts early—no staying up tonight.” “Quit the booze and gambling—get to bed.” “No whoring either.” “That’s what wrecks next day’s work worst.”

“What about being with our wives? Is that forbidden too?” At this remark, the assembly erupted in laughter. “Even with your wife—if you quarrel and end up splitting, that’d be worse—so keep it brief.” Another wave of knowing chuckles spread through the crowd. “Then,” barked the Deputy, “we’ll rouse you at three tomorrow morning.” “Assemble at the shore by four.” “Understood?”

“Aye,” several of them answered. “Tamai.” “Yes.”

Kintarō, who had been at the back of the gathering, answered and rose to his knees. “You’re a rookie, but I’ve specially included you in tomorrow’s crew.” “You ought to be grateful.” “Now stay behind—there’s something to discuss.” “What’s this about?” “That comes later.” “But I promised a friend we’d see moving pictures...” “No exceptions.” “Didn’t I just forbid late nights?” “Remain.”

“Right…”

Helplessly scratching his head, Kintarō sank back into the gathering. When dismissal was announced, the dockworkers noisily scattered away. Five or six executives and Kintarō remained.

The wind passing over Fūshi Mountain's peak seemed to grow even stronger. A ten-night-old moon rose over the mountain's shoulder. Hazily veiled beneath an umbrella of haze, a faint seven-colored rainbow—halo-like in its beauty—hung in the sky.

In small groups, turning into black shadows, the dockworkers made their way home. Among them were Taniguchi Rinsuke and Man, mixed in with the others. Walking shoulder to shoulder, the siblings did not speak. Their footsteps were heavy. Behind them came a toot, too-oot—the blare of a trumpet. A single rickshaw with a lantern attached passed by energetically alongside them. “Brother, isn’t that the Boss?” “Yeah, he’s off to Omekake-san’s place now.”

The two walked in silence once more. As they walked along the canal, the lights of distant tenements came into view. Someone was doing laundry by the well. “Brother.” While lost in thought and walking with heavy steps, Man looked up.

“Huh?” “Being a woman’s such a raw deal.” “What’s this ‘raw deal’?” “From the start, we’ve been set on a different level than men. It’s all just grunt work…” “Well, that’s just how it is. It’s been that way since old times.” “Why’s it like this? That’s what I find strange. No—it’s worse than strange. Even dockworkers are like that, right? When men get full pay, women get six-tenths. Sure, maybe women can’t match men’s work sometimes—but there’s men who can’t do half what we do. Still, wages stay fixed like they’re carved in stone. It’s unfair.”

“Saying that won’t make a difference.” “That’s the issue.” “Even if it’s wrong or anything else, you just keep pushing through like it’s nothing—is that what you call a man’s right?” “Wouldn’t say it’s exactly a right…” “So you do think it’s a right.” “Even the Boss does it.” “He keeps Omekake-san as his mistress right under Goryō-san’s nose—you saw him rush over in that rickshaw earlier.” “They say keeping one or two mistresses proves your manhood, while men without any get laughed at.” “That being treated as normal—that’s what’s wrong.”

“Even if you call it wrong… that’s just how things are…” “Hmph—Brother, if you had the money, you’d take a mistress too, wouldn’t you?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” Rinsuke flinched as his sister’s sharp words turned on him. “Why do you do it?… You’re always bullying Sister-in-law—hitting her every day. It makes me sick with anger.” “And Sister-in-law just acts like it’s normal—sniveling and apologizing all the time.” “If it were me, I’d never put up with it…”

“A man who takes a wife like you’d be risking his life, I tell ya.”

“That’s not true.” “I won’t just swallow down unfairness without a fight.”

Having relied on her brother and come from the mountains of Hiroshima ten months prior, some of the regional accent had faded from Man’s speech.

The lights of the tenements drew near.

The moon within the seven-colored rainbow gradually blurred by the density of the clouds. “Man-san.”

“Yes.” “What do you think of Tamai Kintarō?” “What do I think? I don’t think anything of him. Men are all the same—every last one. I hate them all.” “That bastard gets under my skin.” “He just arrived recently, yet he’s already earning three sen more than me.” “And tonight they made him stay late again…” Man shot a glance at her brother’s profile as he grumbled. Her eyes held pure contempt.

“Another fight tomorrow? Damn it all.” Rinsuke’s voice rasped with bitter frustration.

They returned to the tenement.

The first rooster crowed. The sound of flapping disturbed the still-dark air of three o'clock in the morning.

A giant man carrying a lantern moved through the tenement’s narrow alley as if running, knocking on each door one by one and rousing the occupants. “It’s time! Get up!” The quiet tenement suddenly began to stir—doors creaking open, water being drawn, fires crackling to life, shouts echoing, footsteps pounding. The hulking deputy with a headband tied at the back reached one doorway and suddenly went pale. “What the hell? You’re telling me that’s true?”

He shouted in a panicked voice, as though on the brink of collapse from sheer despair.

“It’s true.” The bleary-eyed man, shrinking his neck as if expecting to be struck at any moment, answered timidly.

“Damn bastards—they’ve gone and run off?”

The deputy groaned. “We all slept here together last night.” “There were definitely six of us—we laid out futons and got under the mosquito net.” “And yet now when you came to wake us up, Deputy, I was the only one here…” “You idiot!” Just as expected, an iron rake-like slap came flying through the air, sending a gust of wind. The middle-aged laborer, who seemed ill, fell as easily as a shogi piece. “You didn’t notice five men sneaking off? Are you made of lead?” “…Come to think of it, last night, Tamai was acting strange.”

The deputy ground his teeth. There were six unmarried men in this room. It had a six-tatami space, a four-and-a-half-tatami area, and an attached kitchen where the men cooked for themselves. Three of these six had been selected the previous night. Tamai Kintarō was among them, but when the Deputy came to rouse them as arranged, five of the six men had vanished. (That Tamai bastard must have talked them into running off.)

The previous night, after leaving Kintarō behind with the order "If a fight breaks out tomorrow, you take command," Kintarō had flatly refused, saying "I'm no good at fighting." Not only that, he'd added "I hate fights—if one starts, I'll run away." Still, he'd firmly promised to go to the site. The Deputy reached peak panic. On impulse, he revised the roster and separately roused three laborers who hadn't been selected the night before.

Man had been renting a room in her brother Rinsuke’s house. It was a four-and-a-half-tatami room partitioned by sliding doors, but sufficient for a woman alone. Moreover, even though it was small, having a room entirely to herself was something she had never experienced in her life. She put on her work clothes and hurried to the assembly point at the pier’s beach with Rinsuke. “Hey, Man—seems that Tamai bastard’s cut and run.”

“Hmph.” Man answered with a nonchalant face, but there was a faint hint of unease in her expression. At the assembly area, figures of people and lanterns flickered while voices clamored shrilly. “Hey! Hurry! Hurry! Omura-gumi’s transport boats are already rowing out! We’re falling behind! Run!” It appeared the enemy had seized the initiative. “Get aboard! Hurry!”

The hulking deputy now looked like a madman. His strategy had been calculated on the assumption that if they assembled at four o'clock and started rowing, they could outmaneuver the Omura-gumi. However, when they reached the beach, they could already see Omura-gumi's transport boats—loaded with workers and tools—rowing across the dark sea toward the India Maru.

“What are you dawdling around for?” “You idiots!” The deputy too had realized the fool was himself, so he hurled that frustration at his men through roars and curses. Creak-creak—the sound of enemy transport boat oars came mocking across the water. In the dark Kanmon Strait where wind-whipped waves churned, several steamships floated. The one showing a green sidelight as marker was likely the India Maru.

Finally, when the laborers had boarded the transport boats, the tool manager came running up with a look of sheer panic on his face. “Bōshin, we’ve got big trouble!” “What’s wrong?” “The small transport boat loaded with tools is missing!” “What the—?” The deputy sprang up like a coiled spring and grabbed the tool manager by the shoulders. Though unclear in the darkness of night, they could see the color drain from his face as he began to tremble. It was a paralyzing shock.

“Did you search properly?” “No matter how much we search, we can’t find it.” “Ugh...” He growled. In the deputy’s simple mind—where nothing but miscalculations had sent every plan awry—the only countermeasure that reflexively arose was violence. His frenzy granted him a twisted sort of courage. “Hey, everyone” And he glared down at his men with an almost regal bearing.

“The time has come for our decisive battle with Omura-gumi!” “Our ships launched late, and our crucial tools have vanished somewhere.” “They might’ve been stolen by the enemy.” “This won’t work for the job anymore.” “If that’s how it is, we’ll charge into Omura-gumi’s worksite and wreck their operation! I won’t be satisfied till we do!” “Everyone, steady yourselves.” “Push through.” “…Right—start rowing!” With three sculls raised high, the transport boat pulled away from shore. A bizarre mix of numbness and exhilaration gripped the dockworkers. Through the dark waves, the boat drove onward—rowing fiercely toward the India Maru.

“Man, it’s dangerous—get back!”

To her brother’s words, Man did not respond. “Put her to starboard!” As the India Maru drew near, the deputy shouted. The starboard side was Omura-gumi’s territory. Yet on the port side, something peculiar was unfolding. Along the hull where the fuel hatch lay open, several work platforms hung suspended. Upon them stood four or five shadowy figures. Unbeknownst to all, preparations had been completed in advance—now they only awaited the transport boat’s arrival to begin work immediately.

“Hurry on over here! I’ve already got everything set up!” The one shouting this while swinging a lantern high from the deck of the India Maru was Tamai Kintarō. The deputy, realizing this, shot upright at the transport boat’s bow. His face gaped like a man bewitched by foxes. “Get that boat in quick! Start work now!”

Kintarō was still shouting. "I see." The deputy nodded so forcefully it seemed his head might fall off. He had finally grasped the truth of the situation. "Alright, maneuver the boat around. Change course to port!"

The transport boat that had been heading to starboard suddenly veered course. With the three sculls suddenly bursting into vigorous motion, the boat charged toward the India Maru at full speed.

“I knew it—Kintarō-san really is something else.” Taka, a female dockworker, murmured with a mesmerized look.

“Huh,” one of the laborers said, “Seems like even if she gets elbowed fifty times over, she still won’t give up.” “I’ll make him mine someday—just you wait!” “Next March, you mean?”

At those words, bright laughter rose within the boat. The relief of having avoided a fight dispelled the laborers’ gloom and tension. “Hey, Taka-san, treat me to fifty sen. I’ll get you Kintarō-san!” At the stern, someone teased, and once again, raucous laughter rippled through. Man alone did not join in the laughter, staring unblinkingly at the figure of Kintarō standing on the deck of the India Maru.

In the vast darkness, Kintarō’s figure in his work coat—illuminated by the lantern light—appeared to Man’s eyes as something almost divine. The sea wind stung her wide-open eyes until finally, Man blinked once. An eighty-ton barge loaded with coal was moored alongside the 2,200-ton *India Maru*. When they rowed the transport boat up to that barge, the dockworkers scattered and leapt aboard.

“Thank you, Tamai.”

The hulking deputy stood on the edge of the barge and called up to the deck of the *India Maru* from below. “Deputy, that don’t matter.” “Get to your position now.” “Omura-gumi are still hanging their shelves!” “Alright, they’re here… Everyone, move out!” The dockworkers swiftly took up their preassigned positions. Kintarō descended from the deck via the rope. He stood on the third tier of the six-tier shelf. With a faint smile,

“C’mon, c’mon!” As if keeping rhythm, he moved both hands up and down. Alongside the steamship’s hull, it looked as though a peculiar tiered platform had been constructed. Planks one ken in length and widening toward the bottom were suspended by ropes in six tiers, with two burly dockworkers standing on each level in place of beautiful ornamental dolls. The laborers called “coal-shovelers” inside the barge used crow’s claw tools to fill round baskets approximately one shaku three sun in diameter with coal. These were swiftly pushed upward from below, one by one, by the shelf-standing laborers. This was Tengu-style cargo handling.

Vigorous work commenced. “I’m stunned, Tamai!” The deputy standing on the upper tier above Kintarō spoke while sending up baskets. “I’m sorry.” “No need to apologize.” “This is top-class meritorious service!” “Even so, there was a moment when I thought we were done for!” “I didn’t have time to inform you beforehand, Deputy…” “Give me a break.” “Until just now, I’d been dead certain you were the one who’d stabbed us in the back.” “When I went out to the shore, there weren’t any small transport boats loaded with tools…”

“This morning after waking up—I realized it too,” “Hearing that first rooster crow—‘This won’t do,’” “‘If we don’t get there first and make arrangements… Omura-gumi’d beat us.’ So thinkin’ that—in a panic—I roused four others from our room an’ left around two.”

“That’s something I didn’t notice either.” “With this, we’ve already won!” “I’ll talk to the boss and get him to take you under his wing.” “No, there’s no need for that.” Along the bleak tiered structure, round baskets filled with coal steadily rose. It was like two escalators. When they reached the deck, the coal was thrown into the furnace mouths by the transferrers’ hands, and the empty baskets were tossed down into the barge. Through this swift cycle, the coal in the barge visibly diminished.

Man was part of the "coal-shoveling" group. A woman’s strength wasn’t enough for shelf-standing work. The baskets—called ba-isuke from the local corruption of "basket"—were being used. While her colleagues filled one ba-isuke, Man invariably filled three. She was like a precise machine. "C’mon, c’mon!"

While keeping rhythm, Kintarō looked down into the barge from above. Those eyes were fixed on Man.

“Everyone, give it your all! Tilt the damn ship!” “Tilt the damn ship!” The Deputy was already ecstatic with certainty of victory. Getting carried away, he barked commands. Since they were loading fuel coal from both sides, if the balance was disrupted, the ship would list. The ship’s crew pleaded not to let it list, but the laborers, burning with competitive pride and determination, paid no heed to the vessel’s distress. Moreover, since this was a cargo-handling operation that staked their very survival against their archrival Omura-gumi, the Hamao Group exerted more than double their usual horsepower.

“Hey, hey—I’m begging you, don’t tilt the ship!”

The chief engineer came out and shouted, but gradually, the India Maru began tilting toward port side. “Tilt it further!”

The Deputy was brimming with self-satisfaction.

When it tilted, the shelves on the tilted side became shallower, making the work easier. Conversely, on the side that had been tilted, the gunwale rose higher, further slowing the cargo handling.

The Omura-gumi on the starboard side were also desperate, but the outcome had already been decided. As the eastern sky began faintly whitening, all of Omura-gumi’s laborers came leaping up onto the deck. When the Hamao Group’s hulking deputy saw this, he shouted “Cheeky bastards!” and made his men charge onto the deck.

“Don’t fight!” “Don’t fight!” Kintarō desperately shouted, but it was too late. It was unclear who had started it, but in an instant, a full-blown brawl erupted. The marked coats of the Hamao Group and Omura-gumi became entangled, and the mass of humans and voices intertwined into a farcical symphony across the India Maru’s deck. The weapons were grappling hooks, shovels, six-foot staffs, *ba-isuke* baskets, bare hands, and more.

Roars, screams, and laughter shook the air of the dawn harbor and intermingled. “Stop fightin’!” “Stop fightin’!”

Kintarō kept shouting while darting about with a kerosene lantern swinging from his waist.

Several times, he was chased by Omura-gumi members wielding six-foot staffs and grappling hooks, but he swiftly hid behind the ship’s bridge or smokestacks. However, on one of those occasions, as he crouched at the base of a ventilation pipe, someone savagely struck the crown of his head from behind. It seemed someone had struck down with a shovel flattened against the thin iron plate, which let out a sharp ping, and Kintarō staggered with dizziness before collapsing right there. Someone splashed cold water on his face, reviving him. Lying on his back, he shook his head with a shiver and wiped his wet face with his hand. He swiftly sprang up.

Man, who had blown the water she held in her mouth onto Kintarō’s face, hid herself in the shadow of a pipe, so he did not catch sight of her. “Damn!” The bug of anger sent Kintarō leaping up. His well-defined large eyes blazed fiercely. Kintarō hocked spit twice into both palms. Then, tucking his thumbs inward and clenching his fists, he fiercely leaped into the heart of the melee.

The captain of the India Maru, along with his crew members, emerged. “Calm down, calm down!”

They desperately shouted and tried to intervene, but it had no effect.

Kintarō went wild. Driven by his innate brute strength, reckless guts, agility honed since childhood leaping like Tarzan from mountain to mountain and tree to tree, a smattering of judo training, mastery of forty-eight techniques from his days rising to ōzeki in amateur sumo—and above all, a fury akin to sorrow, inexplicable and overwhelming—Kintarō hurled every enemy who came at him onto the deck. He threw several men from the high gunwale into the sea.

The hulking deputy of the Hamao Group was being throttled at the throat by an Omura-gumi man just as massive, who had pinned him down. His triangular eyes rolled wildly as he let out a feeble, wheezing voice that seemed ready to give out any moment.

Kintarō saw this but felt no urge to help. He leaned against the smokestack, bit his lip, and wiped his sweat.

An enemy stealthily sneaked up on Kintarō. Brandishing a grappling hook, he launched an attack. Kintarō did not notice. Had he been struck by that six-bladed grappling hook, it might have cost him his life. However, just before launching his attack, the man tripped over a wire and collapsed in a heap at Kintarō’s feet. Man had pushed him.

Kintarō grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, dragged him to the gunwale, and threw him into the sea.

Kintarō glared at Man. "You're a woman—don't interfere!"

With that shout, he spun around and plunged back into the chaotic fray.

Amid the chaotic battlefield where the two forces clashed, a thick whip of water suddenly lashed down. The bosun began dousing them with pump water from atop the mast ladder. A fierce spray of water struck the brawling men with sharp splats.

The water police station’s launch approached, sounding its whistle. “The cops are here!”

Someone shouted.

That voice resembled a magic broom. The laborers from both groups—soaked to the bone and tangled in their brawl—were swept off the deck by that single shout. Not one remained. In an eyeblink, the dockworkers transferred to the transport boats. The rack hanging from the ship’s side had been severed at its top. Once they’d swiftly loaded tools and injured men aboard, the two transport boats pulled away from the India Maru’s flank. They began rowing shoreward at full speed.

“We’re quick and skilled at running away, ain’t we.” “Cops are the one thing I can’t handle.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it—we shoulda just handled this quickly from the start.” The retreat was so swift and orderly that even they themselves found it comical, and the dockworkers burst into laughter. This too was the result of their skill. This was nothing but proof that in this port, such brawls were as commonplace as daily meals.

Only the injured wore sullen faces. Despite the brawl's ferocity, there were no serious injuries. They tore hand towels and shirts to administer first aid. The hulking deputy lay at the boat's bottom with a pallid face, as lifeless as a corpse.

In the eastern sky toward Dan-no-ura, the sun rose. It was crimson. Within clouds that had hung dull since last night, it showed a crisp outline.

Kintarō sat at the bow, his face sullen as he hugged his knees. The crown of his head struck by the shovel throbbed, and every joint in his body ached. Kintarō was unbearably furious. (I thought if we just won the job there’d be no need for a fight—went ahead and made arrangements—but win or lose, still ends in a damn brawl?)

It all felt unbearably absurd.

In Kintarō’s eyes was reflected the figure of Taniguchi Man sitting right beside him.

Man took out shredded tobacco from her hemp pouch and smoked it with a short pipe. She lit the bowl with a match. Clamping the mouthpiece between her lips, she took a light draw—poof—and the flame flared up brightly. Puffing out her chest slightly, she exhaled a plume of smoke with a whoosh. She looked thoroughly absorbed in savoring it.

Kintarō was in an unusual state of mind,

“Man-san,” he called out.

“Yes?” “You’re a tobacco fiend, huh?”

At those words, Man suddenly flushed. "Here, have a puff."

When Kintarō said that to her, Man silently held out the pipe and tobacco pouch. With unskilled hands, Kintarō packed the shredded tobacco, lit it, took a puff, and coughed violently. In his eyes, the crimson sun spun wildly. The cough sent pain shooting through the wound on his crown. Tears welled up.

Husband and Wife

Even though it was midday, the tenement was still and silent. Today was a day off work, but there was no one in any of the houses. Two or three chickens were pecking at feed.

At the well in the center of the tenement, basking under the blazing autumn sun, Man and her brother Rinsuke’s wife Chie were talking.

The victory in the India Maru cargo handling greatly satisfied Hamao Ichizō. As for the brawl, though it remained unclear which side had won, since the Omura-gumi had instigated it, the Hamao Group faced no repercussions. Hamao was overjoyed to have survived on the brink of ruin. That day, he took all his subordinates out on an excursion. By then, the celebratory drinking party in the precincts of Wakasugi Shrine overlooking Dan-no-ura was in full swing.

Chie sat before a washbasin, her movements laborious as she focused intently on laundry. On her back, she had a two-year-old boy tied with an obi sash, while her belly—now in its ninth month—seemed to make breathing difficult with every movement. From time to time, she heaved her shoulders in a deep sigh. The five-year-old elder girl peered into the bucket where Man was washing a cat, her face filled with worry. The cat that had fallen into the muddy ditch remained docile as Man handled it freely. However, the bluish-black mud that had seeped into the fine fur wouldn’t come off no matter how much she scrubbed with soap. It reeked terribly.

“Auntie, will the kitty die?” The girl was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t worry. “It won’t die.” “But if I hadn’t noticed just a bit sooner, it might’ve become a Buddha, you know.”

“That’s good.” “It really was a close call.” Chie said with a laugh, “Man-san, you’re such a cat lover at heart.” “If it’s an animal, I like anything, you know.” “How many cats are there now?” “Eight. But Mii’s belly’s gotten big again—we’ll have about three more soon.” “Hmm…” Chie gave a strangely lonely, knowing smile. “It’s only the children that keep increasing. Cats and humans both… If you count the soon-to-be-born kittens and human children in the house, it’ll be a family of seventeen.”

“Mii’s belly looks much bigger than last time—do you think she’ll have about five this time?” “I might be having twins too…” “Oh…” The two exchanged glances, but neither laughed this time.

An odd silence settled. "Sister-in-law." Man's expression had turned serious. "What is it?" "There's something I just can't figure out..." "What sort of thing?" "I'm sorry for saying something like this... it's about you and your husband." "'Something strange,' you mean?" "I've been in your care ever since coming from Hiroshima, and maybe you'll get mad at me for this... but you and Brother—you fight every day... such fierce marital fights... so why... why don't you ever split up...?"

Chie lowered her eyes and continued doing the laundry. On her thin, elongated face, lifeless, disheveled hair hung down, swaying in the faint breeze.

Man wrapped the washed cat in her front apron and held it, "I bet there’ll be another fight tonight." “Every time Brother comes home drunk from drinking out, he’s staggering drunk and bullies you.” "He rages." "He tears shoji screens and fusuma sliding doors." "He smashes rice bowls." "He smashes the lamp chimney." “And come morning—you repair what’s been broken in those fights or buy new replacements.” “He breaks them again.” “And buy them again.” “There’s no end to it.” “It looks like you’re working just to mend your marital fights.” "But even though they get along so badly, they don’t try to separate… and children just keep being born one after another…"

Chie looked up, laughing, “You’re still young, Man-san. Marriage is such a strange thing. You’ll understand someday.” “Do you think so?… If I ever took a husband, I’d never put up with abuse like Brother’s.” “What would you do, Man-san?”

“If it were me, I would’ve left ages ago.… You’re so patient, aren’t you? Even when Brother got involved with that strange woman this spring, you didn’t try to leave him. I won’t stand for men who keep women outside their wives.” “I pray you find the finest husband in all three provinces, Man-san.”

Chie spoke in a somber tone that seemed to commiserate with young Man's worldly ignorance. This sentiment was partly fueled by envy, yet at the same time carried a nostalgic sorrow as she reflected on her own maiden years when she too had possessed that same single-minded resolve.

(However,) Chie thought. (Man-san was different from us somehow. Unlike how we had easily yielded to life’s pressures and customs—Man-san might never bend. This woman possessed something unyielding.)

The cat seemed to have fallen asleep inside Man’s front apron. A low purr rumbled in its throat.

Man's eyes became ones that looked into the distance.

“I’ve been quite off in my plans,” “Since Brother Rinsuke kept sending me letters urging me on, I took the plunge and left the countryside—but with things like this, who knows when I’ll ever get to Brazil.” “I thought I’d save up, put together travel funds, find a ship to America… but dockworker wages are so low. Even if I endure and finally manage to save a little, Brother just borrows it…” “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault.” “It’s because Brother’s worthless…”

Sitting down on the granite well curb, Man took out her tobacco pouch from her pocket. With an absentminded expression, she stuffed the cut tobacco into her pipe and lit it with a match. She took a puff,

“Ah, delicious.”

she muttered involuntarily. “Smooth as it goes down.” “Well now… miss.” While blushing bashfully, Man was about to pack her second pipeful when wooden clogs clattered from the depths of the alley. Tamai Kintarō, his face flushed and dressed in a kimono, approached carrying a boxed meal. Man was flustered but had no time to hide her tobacco. (Who cares?) she sulked petulantly. She put the tobacco pipe packed with a second serving into her mouth and tried to strike a match.

“Wait.” “Wait.” Kintarō, who had come beside her, pressed down on Man’s right hand holding the matchstick. [He] placed the boxed meal on the well curb, “Allow me to light it for you.”

Grinning, he rummaged through his belly band and pulled out a peculiar object.

It was a small metal box, flat and rectangular, measuring about one and a half sun by one sun. It shone silver, but that appeared to be plating. When he pressed the bump with his thumb to find where the mechanism was, the lid snapped open with a click. At the same time, a flame had been lit on the exposed wick inside. It reeked of kerosene. “Here.”

When the mechanical flame was offered to her, Man, feeling her heartbeat, brought the pipe's mouthpiece closer while keeping it between her lips. After sucking in the flame, her face flared up bright red. Her ears burned crimson all the way to their tips. “Man-san, this here’s what they call a pocket lamp,” “I got this from the chief officer on a steamship that sails to America, but I’ll give it to you.” “Since I don’t smoke tobacco, I’ve no use for it.”

“No, I don’t need it.” “Don’t stand on ceremony—go on and take it.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony—go on and take it,” said Chie. “To tell the truth,” said Kintarō cheerfully, “I don’t like women who smoke tobacco. But after hearing from Rinsuke-san how you came to take up tobacco, I suddenly took a liking to you. That’s why I got it in mind to give you this pocket lamp.” Man grew concerned about how her brother Rinsuke had related the story.

For her father Zensuke, who loved tobacco, she evaded even the Monopoly Bureau’s watchful eyes to gather leaves and prepare cut tobacco for him. To let her father smoke, Man would first draw in the flame herself before passing him the pipe. When this became routine, it started bitter and harsh enough to choke her, but as she grew accustomed, the tobacco gradually developed a flavor worth savoring. What she’d done out of duty—lighting those first puffs—eventually turned into a private pleasure.

However, when they were discovered by the Monopoly Bureau and ordered to pay a fine, Father Zensuke quit tobacco completely and for good. But by that time, Man had already become unable to forget its taste.

(Did Brother explain it properly to Kintarō-san like that?) Man couldn't endure her anxiety about her unreliable brother. But she no longer hesitated,

“In that case, I’ll take it.” And she accepted the unusual ignition device. “Mr. Tamai, how is my husband doing?” Chie asked.

“They’re still makin’ a right ruckus over there. Rinsuke-san was dancin’ round in his loincloth, proper chuffed with himself. Just felt like a damn fool sittin’ there alone, so I snuck out. Hamao’s boss keeps yammerin’ nonsense anyhow... and there was somethin’ I wanted to say to you too, Man-san.” “I’ll be off then. You two take your time talkin’ proper.” “Nah now, ma’am—ain’t no secret business here.”

Kintarō frantically tried to stop her, but Chie gathered the laundry, took the girl’s hand, and went off toward the back of the tenement. Kintarō gave a wry smile but, “Reckon I shouldn’t have stayed after all.”

Having said that, he turned toward Man.

Man stood stiffly at a distance, her posture rigid. (If he tries anything funny, I won’t stand for it.)

That’s what she was thinking.

“I’ll hear you out.”

“You’re actin’ awfully stiff there.” “…Ah, that’s fine.” “Let’s have a straight talk.… Man-san, you plannin’ to stay with this Hamao Group forever?”

The question was too abrupt; she couldn’t form a reply. “I heard from Rinsuke-san you joined the Hamao Group near last year’s end.” “Been about ten months now.” “You’re the senior here.” “I’m just this summer’s greenhorn.” “But I’ve grown sick of stayin’ with this Hamao Group.” “Might as well speak plain.” “I’ve lost all patience with Hamao oyakata.”

Man stared unblinkingly at Kintarō’s face as he spoke haltingly in a heavy tone. “I like work, and I hate doin’ things half-assed, so no matter how trivial the job, I’ve always given it my all.” “So after I first came here, they started givin’ us five mon each before long, and I was grateful for that. But then, when I watched close-like, everythin’ about how Boss Hamao runs things just don’t sit right with me.” “Just when I was thinkin’ this ain’t no place to stick around, this India Maru business happened.” “That’s why I’ve made up my mind to cut ties clean.”

Man felt as though her chest were being squeezed. “If we lose at cargo handling, pick a fight—I was appalled by that.” “But somehow since we saved Hamao Group’s face this time, now they want to make me Deputy.” “When I said ‘No thank you,’ they claimed they’d give me a reward for my work.” “Offering one of three Mekake posts.” “…That’s what they said.” “When I refused that too—‘We’ll grant any request,’ they insisted.” “‘We’ll hear anything,’ the boss declared—” “‘Then let me quit.’ When I said that… they wouldn’t allow it.” “But I’ve made up my mind.” “I’ll leave this gang tomorrow… Do you think you could understand these feelings of mine?”

“I understand perfectly.” “So… Man-san… you… someone like you… someone capable… it’s a waste for them to rot away in a group like this… How about leaving…?”

Then, at that moment, the entrance to the tenement suddenly erupted into commotion.

Among the clamoring dockworkers who came flooding back were several door planks bearing laid-out people. An uncanny look of terror filled every face. Every single one of them wore faces utterly drained of any drunkenness.

The tenement instantly fell into great chaos.

Mori Shinzō ran toward his house with a panicked expression. Now barefoot, he clutched in both hands the geta whose straps had snapped. Passing by the wellside, “Tamai, don’t eat that bento! You’ll die!”

With that shout, he ran off.

The Deputy, placed on a door plank and gone limp, was carried in by five or six people. Around his mouth clung sticky yellow mucus; his triangular eyes turned white, and his eyebrows were raised taut. Even so, he still seemed to have his vision, for when he noticed Kintarō, “Tamai… Avenge me.” With stiffened lips, he muttered in broken fragments. “What’s wrong? Deputy.” “Deputy.” “They got me… They poisoned me… That Omura bastard—after losin’ the fight, he must’ve hired a caterer to lace the bento with poison… Damn them!”

Man was surprised.

“Shiro! Shiro!”

she screamed like a madwoman.

While Kintarō and Man were talking, the cat that had slipped out from Man’s apron dragged down the bento box placed on the well curb and was eating from it. Having fallen into the mud ditch and apparently starving, it had clawed open the lid and had mostly devoured the squid sashimi, grilled sea bream, kamaboko, and other contents. Man grabbed the cat and violently kicked the bento box.

Even Kintarō was startled,

“That was close. “I meant to bring this as a souvenir for you, Man-san—didn’t even touch it myself—but…”

he let out a long, deep sigh. Though it had been a celebratory feast, it had suddenly transformed into a banquet of death. However—contrary to what the Deputy had claimed—this was no act of revenge by the Ōmura Group. With his simple mind, the Deputy had apparently been unable to conceive of any other possibility. He was carried back to his home, yet still, “Ōmura you villainous scoundrels… When I die, I’ll come back as a ghost and slaughter every last one of you!”

He kept shouting such threats, but before the doctor could arrive, he breathed his last. At this moment, the rampage of the "Shanghai Cholera"—which had plunged all of Moji City into dark terror—was already manifesting signs not only within the Hamao Group but across every district of the city. A person who had woken up feeling refreshed in the morning and been conversing would, by early afternoon, retch four or five times with a sickening gurgle as yellow viscous fluid spewed from their mouth, then die within less than an hour. Even though they didn’t have much stomach pain, when they went to the toilet and had diarrhea, they could no longer move. The dead continued to multiply. There wasn’t even time to determine whether it was suspected cholera or true cholera. The ferocity of it defied description.

In the Hamao Group tenement as well, because nearly thirty patients had appeared, around two hundred fifty people in the vicinity were quarantined. The people from the surrounding area fled. Within the roped-off area, Kintarō and Man were left behind. Man nursed her brother Rinsuke constantly at his bedside after he contracted the disease. She forcibly moved her sister-in-law Chie and the children into the isolation room. Around Man, who kept vigil at her brother’s bedside, eight cats died one after another.

“Chie! Chie!” Rinsuke, his face flushed crimson with fever, called his wife’s name like a delirious incantation. “Brother.”

At that voice, Rinsuke opened his eyes. Seeing his sister’s face, he looked doubtful, “Where’s Chie?” “She’s fine.” “But she ain’t here.” “Why isn’t she here? “Go get her.” “Bring her here!” “No, she can’t come here.” “Sister-in-law’s pregnant body is too precious.” “If she catches the disease, it’ll be disastrous.” “Shut your damn mouth!”

Enraged, Rinsuke glared at Man with eyes full of hatred. He tried to sit up. “Brother… You can’t.” “You demon. I’m on the brink of death, and you won’t even let me see my dear wife?” “No, Brother, you won’t die. You can’t see her now.” “Chie... Chie too. Letting her husband die and acting like she doesn’t care…” Rinsuke ground his teeth with a harsh grating sound, but from his eyes, thick tears spilled out drop by drop. Then he slumped over and let his emaciated face drop heavily onto the pillow. He was barely breathing.

Man fell into a daze. Doubt and fluster suddenly made Man anxious. (What should I do?)

She had thought she’d endured all manner of hardships, yet this was the first time she had witnessed such gruesome human desperation. She had resolved to stay strong-willed, yet now the incomprehensible groans of the human soul were shaking Man’s outlook on life and the order of her daily existence. The voice of that which transcended life itself churned within young Man’s breast. Day after day and night after night, Rinsuke and Chie had done nothing but have marital fights; yet here was this brother who had been a domestic tyrant, now lying on his deathbed and calling out only his wife’s name. Out of single-minded determination not to let the disease spread, she had isolated her sister-in-law, yet he called Man a demon. For a brother who was timid and had always been somewhat deferential toward his sister, these might have been his final words from the bottom of his heart.

Man stood up. “Brother.” She called out, but there was no response. She pressed her ear against his chest. A faint, feeble pulse throbbed. Man filled her mouth with water from the kettle and pfft—sprayed it onto her brother’s face. Rinsuke faintly opened his eyes. Without moving his head, he glared sideways at his sister. Man shuddered. “Brother, I’ll go get Sister-in-law.” “Don’t you die… till then.”

She dashed outside.

In the corner of the kitchen, a mandarin orange box held the corpses of six cats. The whereabouts of the remaining two were unknown. Having caught a glimpse of it, Man bit her lip and dashed toward the isolation room.

The entire tenement was in an uproar. Two horse-drawn carts loaded with coffins were stopped by the wellside. There, Tamai Kintarō was loudly arguing with some city office official wearing a blue armband. “I won’t do it.”

With that, Kintarō shook his arm free from the official’s grip.

A fiftyish official with a cucumber-like face and a walrus mustache barked arrogantly. “That’s not helpful.” “Get those corpses into coffins now!” “Disgusting work.” “This won’t ever get done at this rate. “Hurry up or you’ll catch cholera and die too.” “Even if I get cholera, I won’t obey you. “Disinfecting and coffin duty—that’s the city office’s job. “I’m no municipal lackey!”

Kintarō stood stark naked save for a loincloth. He must have removed his kimono while nursing his sick comrades—the garment would have gotten in the way. His thick-chested frame, all sturdy muscle and fine-pored milky-white skin, seemed to glisten dazzlingly under the autumn sun. The hair covering his chest grew dense. At that moment— “Tamai, what’s wrong?”

With that, Hamao Ichizō arrived. He wore fireman’s garb and a black mask.

The official interjected from the side. "This is disastrous, Hamao-kun. You see—I told this man to put the dead in coffins, but he flat-out refuses to listen." "I see... Tamai," said Hamao, "since the city office seems short-staffed, do me a favor—while you're handling things, could you get the bodies into coffins too?" "Understood." "I'll do it." "If the Boss says so, I'll stuff them in anytime." "Tell me to lick a corpse? I'll lick it clean." "Order me to eat it as a meal? I'll swallow every bite." "But some bureaucrat's command? Who'd bother listening?" "If you're just throwing your weight around? Hell no." "...Right, Shinkō?"

With that, he glanced back at Mori Shinzō beside him.

“That’s right, that’s right.”

Shinzō, too, drowsily nodding off, stuck out his tongue with a flick at the walrus-mustached official. Having watched until that point, Man turned and ran back toward the isolation room. She explained the situation to the police officer standing guard and had Chie released. The police officer absolutely refused to allow the girl and the baby. The two hurried toward the tenement.

Chie, heavy with her full-term belly, was breathing raggedly from her shoulders and abdomen as she— “God… please save Rinsuke… don’t let Rinsuke die…” —and kept shouting frantically. As Man ran, (If I were God, I wouldn’t kill Brother.)

Before she knew it, she too had come to feel like praying. When she came in front of a tenement house, Man found her feet had stopped on their own.

In the room was a stark naked Kintarō. He was straddling the futon, but beneath him lay Taka, the female dockworker, "It hurts... It hurts..." she screamed in a voice that sounded like her throat was tearing. Each time, yellow spittle flew from her mouth. “Taka-san, hang in there.” “Stay still. Don’t you dare thrash around.” “You’ll be healed soon.” Kintarō spoke as if admonishing a child.

“Kintarō-san.” Suddenly quieted, Taka looked up at Kintarō from below. “Hmm?” “I’m happy.”

“What’s wrong?” “I… was going to become your wife, Kintarō-san… Being nursed by you like this as I die… it makes me happy.” “Don’t talk such weak-spirited nonsense.” “You’re not going to die.” “You’re not going to die.” “I’m… fine with dying now.” “Don’t die. Don’t die.” “Hold me tight…” “Is this all right?” Kintarō, from atop the futon, wrapped Taka in his arms and held her tight.

Man had been hiding in the shadows, but she could bear to watch no longer. Again, she ran. While Man stood still, Chie had apparently already returned to Rinsuke’s side, for there was no sign of her. Man had been threatened by Taka twice before. “Man-san, Kintarō-san is mine.” “If you lay a hand on him, you can consider yourself dead.” Taka had been threatening not just Man but all the unmarried female dockworkers in the Hamao Group in that manner. She must have been deeply in love with Kintarō. That Taka was on the verge of death.

Man recalled the various scenes from the isolation room. Many couples had been separated, and while some prayed for their spouses' safety, there were husbands and wives who blustered, "That bastard getting cholera's a godsend—better off dead than alive!" Man found herself utterly overwhelmed.

When she arrived home, Man found herself rooted to the spot at the entrance. Her legs refused to budge. Her brother had transformed completely from earlier and was now full of energy. Though still lying down, he gripped Chie’s hand, his sunken eyes gleaming eerily as he shouted something in an animated tone. Though his slurred words were unclear, to Man’s ears they rang unmistakably: “Who’d ever die and leave you behind?” “Who’d ever die and abandon Shizuko, Matsukichi, and the child about to be born?”

she heard. He kept repeating it monotonously, like a Buddhist sutra. Man stood rooted at the entrance, feeling as though she’d been thrown by a brutal shoulder toss. Bleakly, she couldn’t help but keenly feel her own powerlessness.

The "Shanghai Cholera" disturbance that had plunged people into the abyss of terror and dread continued for over half a month thereafter. The Hamao Group too lost nearly twenty members, beginning with their giant deputy. Taniguchi Rinsuke barely survived, but Taka died. Municipal officials with blue armbands arrived and summoned Tamai Kintarō and Mori Shinzō. “You two are covered in cholera germs.” “Under no circumstances are you to leave.”

And so, the two were confined.

In a corner of the tenement, a one-ken-square shack was erected. It was a barracks barely sufficient to keep out rain and dew. There was a door, but a lock had been placed on it from the outside, with officials holding the key. On both sides were one-foot square windows serving both for ventilation and lighting. There was also a waste disposal hole. Inside this box, the two were ordered to remain in seclusion for one week. “After one week passes, we’ll conduct an inspection. If even a single germ remains, we’ll extend your isolation by another week.”

The blue-armbanded municipal health department official briskly declared this and left with great swagger. “Those damn officials... Getting their posthumous revenge, the bastards!” Shinzō was fuming with anger. Kintarō laughed and “Shin, come on, don’t get so angry. They even went out of their way to build us a brand-new house. It’s just perfect for resting up, I tell ya. At this point, sleeping’s our only move. Let’s stock up on a year’s worth of sleep while we’re at it.”

“Now that you mention it… guess that’s how ’tis…”

With that, Shinzō reluctantly improved his mood.

Inside the box, their bizarre new life began. Within just two days, Shinzō, who had grown bored out of his mind, proposed, “This shack’s nothing. Let’s bust out and make a run for it,” but Kintarō calmed him down, saying, “That’d just cause trouble for others.”

The three daily meals were delivered by Man. The prisoners in the cage kept demanding extravagant side dishes and at times even ordered sake. While sipping slowly, they spent the day inside playing shogi. “Man-san, tonight we’ll have sukiyaki.” they would say things like that. Man laughed and put in a charcoal brazier, a pot, sugar, soy sauce, a fan, beef, green onions, tofu—everything needed for sukiyaki. “Just like lords,” she remarked.

In their carefree life of living and eating, the two men in the box grew plump day by day.

However, it still differed from a lord's opulence. On rainy days, droplets dripped from the ceiling; on windy days, the entire shack swayed as though it might blow away at any moment. Beneath the floorboards, crickets and ground beetles chirped. The nights had already turned cold. When they extinguished the lamp to sleep, stray dogs prowled around the shack and howled ceaselessly. The moonlight too felt icy. In the dead of night, waking to find oneself surrounded by what seemed like ghosts of cholera victims prowling about made everything eerily unsettling.

“Let me give you some flowers.” One day, using a one-shō sake bottle as a vase, Man inserted a large bundle of chrysanthemums through the small window. “Well, well.” Kintarō took them,

"They bloomed in my home's garden. If they wither, I'll replace them again for you." "I won't be here by the time these flowers wilt."

The overpowering fragrance of fresh chrysanthemums filled the one-tsubo cubic space until it was suffocatingly dense. Not only that, but it flowed out from the two small windows and permeated every corner of the dilapidated tenement.

In the narrow box where they slept wrapped in a single futon, Kintarō and Shinzō's friendship rapidly took root and solidified. The two swore a brotherhood pact. Though they were the same age, Kintarō became the senior brother. "Shin, once they let us outta this box, I'm plannin' to quit the Hamao Group right quick..." "I'm thinkin' the same. "What a shitty boss." "Even during this cholera mess, he only showed his face once—didn't even come near us, just kept suckin' up to Mekake." "Seems he's usin' his wife dyin' of cholera as an excuse to move his mistress into the house." "Well, that's his business—but while us gang members are sufferin' like dogs, he don't send no doctors or nurses." "Even where folks died, he acts like it's a bother and leaves 'em to rot." "If the boss had any spine, we wouldn't be stuck in this damn box a whole week.""

“Ah well, that’s fine,” said Kintarō. “Got me a bit of a plan—let’s head to Hikoshima together.” “Yeah,” Shinzō replied. “Wherever Kintarō-san’s goin’, I’ll follow.”

Eventually, the two made a promise to cross over to the Chinese mainland together.

One day, Man came again, laughing from outside the small window,

“Here’s the newspaper.” When they looked, there in the local red newspaper was a massive headline proclaiming “The Two Mysterious Invincible Men Unscathed Amidst a Sea of Cholera,” alongside photographs of Kintarō and Shinzō displayed side by side. “First time since I was born—bein’ in what you call a newspaper.” The two humble dockworkers felt strangely, unbearably self-conscious. The box they couldn’t step out of still grew unbearably lonely, so they’d hold drinking bouts—clapping hands and singing songs.

On the eighth day, they were finally released. Kintarō went straight to Taniguchi Rinsuke’s house. When told Man was in the backyard, he turned toward it. As he opened the fence, chrysanthemum fragrance struck his nostrils.

Man was squatting at the base of the persimmon tree, crying. On fresh mounds of earth stood two small grave markers fashioned from kamaboko boards, thin trails of incense smoke drifting upward. "They're the cats' graves. This one here is for a married couple of cats, so I set them apart and offered flowers." When she saw Kintarō, Man said that and wailed loudly again, her hands hanging limp at her sides. Bare and penniless.

“Hey, that woman—we never see her kind round these parts. Where’s she from?” “A Western-dressed high-collar beauty like that—I ain’t seen one even once all year.” “And two of ’em to boot!” “Like somethin’ outta them Western moving pictures, eh?” “Should I holler at ’em?” “Quit yer yappin’. Since when do high-collar misses bother with gonzos like us?”

Across the sea, Ganryū-jima appeared small and compact, like an island in a bonsai tray. Apparently snapped by the ferocious 220th-day storm that had recently ravaged northern Kyushu, a lone pine tree at the center of the island’s hill now lay toppled over, its octopus-like roots exposed.

At the base of that pine tree, two women sat on a spread handkerchief. Both wore similar white dresses with black gloves, holding parasols—one pink and the other green. Their gazes fixed on Enmeiji Lighthouse in Kokura across the Kanmon Strait; now and then they would glance at each other and burst into uproarious laughter.

Beside them stood a middle-aged man in thick work clothes, repeatedly gesturing as he pointed in various directions while moving his mouth—he seemed to be explaining the local scenery and historical sites. Since Enmeiji Temple housed Miyamoto Musashi's grave, he might have been expounding on Musashi's duel with Sasaki Kojirō at Ganryū-jima. The small transport boat that had brought the three of them lay moored at the shore, where the boatman fished to pass the time while waiting.

“What do you suppose that woman is?”

Driven by curiosity, the dockworkers continued to deliberate eagerly, but none could correctly guess their true identities. “Maybe some important guest has come again to our boss’s place.” “They must be that person’s companions.”

That observation seemed somewhat accurate.

It was lunchtime at the Hikoshima Coal Yard.

Hikoshima was separated from Shimonoseki by just a single river but had a completely different atmosphere from the city area. Everywhere there were mountains of stored coal, with dockworkers transferring it or loading it onto barges clustered here and there. Though its etymology remains unclear, in this region both dockworkers and land-based laborers are collectively called "Gonzō."

Among seventeen or eighteen dockworkers eating their lunchboxes, Taniguchi Man sat among them. There were five or six women; next to Man, a female dockworker named Matsuno Kikue—about three years her senior—was hurriedly shoveling down barley rice soaked in bancha tea from a square cedar lunchbox. Kikue, not minding the grains of rice stuck to her cheek, gazed toward Ganryū-jima and muttered: “Man-san, there’s all kinds of classes among people.” “Just think—you’ve got gonzos like us blackened by coal dust, then there’s those women pure white in shiny Western clothes.”

“So what? Quit your pitiful talk! We ain’t gonna stay gonzos forever!”

At those fierce words, Kikue was startled and looked at Man.

At this moment, Mori Shinzō, while stuffing his mouth with a rice ball, suddenly said gravely, lowering his voice: "Hey, everyone! Watch out!"

“What’re you goin’ on about?”

An old dockworker asked in a dull, heavy tone. “I just now suddenly realized. Those women might be Russian spies.”

No one responded. Suddenly their expressions shifted to ones of tense unfamiliarity as they stared anew at the women on Ganryū-jima. The Western-dressed ladies were laughing themselves breathless over some unknown amusement, shoulders knocking together as they doubled over.

In Man's eyes as she watched this, a light akin to contempt mingled with feelings of indignation. “And there’s no mistake,” Shinzō declared with absolute conviction. “There’s talk these days that Russia’s been hiring Japanese women left and right as spies. October eighth was s’posed to be their withdrawal date from Manchuria, but instead they’re marchin’ troops further south by the day. They’re laughin’ at Japan now—got their sights set on war. But after what happened in the Sino-Japanese War, they’re playin’ it cautious—scoutin’ out Japan’s defenses. And usin’ women to do it too. Just t’other day they caught a Russian spy woman in Nagasaki—those ones over there reek of suspicion same way.”

“Come to think of it, there’s no reason women need go all the way to Ganryū-jima just to sightsee round Kanmon Strait.”

The old dockworker also expressed agreement with Shinzō’s opinion. The storm clouds between Japan and Russia were finally signaling imminent crisis. Within the country, pro-war arguments and anti-war arguments were raging. No sooner had the National Youth Comrades Association—boasting thirty-seven thousand members—submitted a memorial advocating the chastisement of Russia to Prime Minister Katsura than an incident occurred where three anti-war advocates—Sakai Toshihiko, Uchimura Kanzō, and Kōtoku Shūsui—left the *Yorozu Chōhō* newspaper, stirring up even the Kanmon region. Japanese in Port Arthur had begun withdrawing, and there were those who had returned to this region,

"Russia's building no great fortifications at Port Arthur. War can't be avoided no matter what."

they declared definitively.

The dockworkers of the Yamashita-gumi also could not remain indifferent to this critical national event. Still, they continued to discuss the mysterious women of Ganryū-jima in hushed tones.

From inside the duty station emerged the deputy of the Yamashita-gumi. "Is Tamai not here?" "He isn’t here," Shinzō answered. "Where’d he go?" "Well, he ate his meal and went out somewhere… Couldn’t he be playing shogi in the meal allowance room again?" "He’s quite the shogi enthusiast." "There was urgent business, but…" Having said that, he pinched his long chin in apparent perplexity before noticing Man. "Man-san—I hear you’re marrying Tamai." "Tamai mentioned it himself, but…"

“That’s a lie.” “Who would ever…?”

“Is that so?” “…A lie?”

Shinzō adopted a scheming expression and tugged at the deputy’s sleeve. “Deputy, where are those modern-dressed women from?” “If you keep talking like that, nothing good’ll come of it,” he said sharply. “It’s Mr. Yoshida Isokichi of Wakamatsu—he’s on the rise these days—who’s come bringing guests with him.”

Shinzō turned pale.

“Speaking of which,” said the Deputy with a look of sudden recollection, “Mori, there was business with you too.” “What is it?” “Since last night, Boss Yoshida Isokichi of Wakamatsu and other bosses from Shimonoseki, Kokura, Hakata, and Beppu have been visiting our boss’s place—staying overnight and enjoying themselves.” “They wrapped things up this morning, see, and now they’re having their farewell lunch.” “The bosses from Hakata and Beppu will be returning from Moji on the two o’clock train.”

“So, what’s this business you have with me?” “Boss Yoshida Isokichi says—he’s heard there are two young men in this group by the names of Tamai Kintarō and Mori Shinzō—and he wants to meet them.”

“Why on earth…?”

“Consider it an honor.” “Why would Mr. Yoshida specifically mention Tamai and my name…?” Shinzō felt uneasy, having just called the women Yoshida Isokichi brought along Russian spies.

The deputy, having no way of knowing such things, said, "You know, that Shanghai cholera outbreak we had a while back—you two were in the papers then, weren’t you? In that sea of cholera germs, completely naked and yet you didn’t catch it—Boss Yoshida heard about that, see, and now he says he wants to meet you." "Hmm," said Shinzō, "so that’s what this is about. Boss Yoshida’s got some peculiar tastes, huh."

“Hey.” The deputy tapped Shinzō’s shoulder with his finger, wearing a servile smile. “I’m jealous. You’ve got luck turning your way now.” “After reading the papers, Mr. Yoshida took a real shine to your story—went and asked around at the Hamao Group in Moji about you.” “Then when he heard you’d left Hamao and joined our Yamashita-gumi here on Hikoshima, he started insisting—‘Gotta meet ’em today no matter what.’” “Looking to apologize, is he?”

“Don’t spout such nonsense.” “You’ll be cursed.” “For Boss Yoshida—who’s all the rage these days—to specifically request a meeting... No, more than that—to ask our boss to arrange an audience—isn’t that the height of good fortune?” “He must want to take you on as subordinates, I tell you.”

“I’ll try asking Tamai for his opinion too.” “What opinion would you need?” “Whether Tamai will agree to meet him or not…” “You’re one for spouting nonsense, aren’t ya? When Boss Yoshida says he wants a meetin’, and our boss went and promised him an audience—like there’s any choice in it! Listen sharp—find Tamai and tell him: ‘Boss Yoshida’s treatin’ us to fugu tonight. Get to the boss’s house through the back door by four,’ he said.”

The dark-skinned, impatient Deputy left those words behind and briskly turned back toward the duty room.

Shinzō glanced back at Man beside him with a perplexed expression. “This is troublesome... Man-san, what should we do?” “Stop it. It’s pointless. Even Kintarō-san definitely won’t say he’ll go, I tell you.” A small transport boat carrying two modern-dressed beauties returned from the direction of Ganryū Island. The path leading from the pier to Yamashita Matsuji’s residence ran along the canal and did not pass through this coal storage yard.

However, the Western-dressed women—who had leapt onto the pier from the small transport boat like two cranes—began circling toward the coal storage yard. “Hey, the Russian spies are coming this way!” One dockworker laughed while poking Shinzō in the backside.

Shinzō was flustered. “Don’t call them Russian spies.” “Mistakes do happen sometimes.” “I retract what I said earlier about them being Russian spies.”

“Even so, that might’ve already reached those modern-dressed beauties’ ears.” “Don’t spout such nonsense. They’re over two hundred meters away—how could they hear us?” As they argued, the two women drew near where the dockworkers clustered. Their purposeful strides suggested urgent business. Carried by the tailwind, the cloying reek of perfume and face powder arrived before they did. “My, everyone’s keeping busy.” The guide Atsushio halted to address the laborers—a pallid man with a honeyed voice who served as Yamashita-gumi’s doorman, mockingly called “Professor” for his unctuous manner.

“Well, Professor’s keeping busy too, I see...” Someone said this in a mocking, jester-like manner, which prompted snickering laughter to ripple through the group.

“You there—a moment.”

The woman holding the pink parasol came right before Man and called out brashly. Man was startled, “Yes…?” “You’ve got somethin’ unusual there, I hear—why don’t you show it to me?”

“What is it?” “Oh, this little machine you hold—flares up with a light when you press it.” “When smoking tobacco through your kiseru pipe, you use this instead of matches to light it, ain’t that right?” “It’s a pocket lamp.”

Shinzō said to Man from beside her. Man took out the pocket lamp from the hemp bag hanging at her waist. "Is this what you mean?"

The woman took it and, fiddling with the silver case like a child, showed it to her companion.

Both were around twenty-two or twenty-three years old, with similarly round faces. The woman with the pink parasol had downturned outer corners of her eyes and thin lips, giving her a frivolous and brazen appearance, while the woman with the green parasol had a rounded face, coolness around her eyes, tightly set lips, and an air of composure about her. The large mole at the lower right of her lips looked like an insect had come to rest there. It was oddly alluring. The women had apparently been watching from aboard the small transport boat with curious eyes as Man used a peculiar ignition device to smoke her tobacco.

“You there,” said the woman with the pink parasol after trying to light it several times, “hand it over to me, won’t you?” “No, that’s…” “It ain’t free. I’ll pay you plenty for it.” “Even if I took the money...” “Two yen, how ’bout it? You lot wouldn’t make fifty sen in a day’s work, ain’t that right? Two yen’s a fortune... Well then, three yen.” “No.”

The woman with the pink parasol lifted the corners of her eyes like a fox, her face betraying contempt. “You paupers… You’ve never even held three yen in your hands once, have you? Just shut up and hand it over—you’d be better off.”

“I won’t hand it over.” “Please give it back.” “Well then, five yen—how about it?”

She still seemed reluctant to let go. Later, lighters became so commonplace they might as well have been swept away with the trash, but back then, they were the rarest of rarities. Because a mere female dockworker had it, the Western-clad women must have thought it far more fitting for someone like themselves to use. They might have thought they had the right to it. “Excuse me,” Shinzō interjected from beside them, “but she wouldn’t part with that even for fifty yen.” “It’s something she received from a good person—a precious item.”

“Shin-san—what are you…?”

Man was startled, blushed, and then sharply pinched Shinzō’s knee. “Hmph.” The woman with the pink parasol spoke with increasing spite: “A present from your lover boy, is it? “Even paupers think they can fall in love like proper adults, eh? “Oh right, right—here, take it back then. “What’s that awful stench? Oh, must be a man’s stink. “Ew, disgusting!”

With a plop, she threw the pocket lamp into the coal.

“Kimika-san, come on—let’s go.” “Ridiculous.” “There’s no point dealing with such a stubborn fool.” The woman with the pink parasol puffed out her cheeks in anger, kicked up black coal dust with her boots, and strode briskly toward the pier.

Man wordlessly picked up the pocket lamp. Biting her lips, she wiped away the grime with her handkerchief.

The woman with the green parasol, called Kimika, came to Man’s side. “You shouldn’t let it bother you now. She’s got such a temper, but her heart’s truly kind-hearted,” she said as if offering an excuse for her companion’s behavior, urging her guide Atsushio along before departing.

Kikue murmured as if to herself, “Man-san, you’re not one for greed, are you? They offered five yen—you should’ve sold it.” “Five yen—even if we worked an entire year, we could never save up that much.” “What kinda heartless thing’re you sayin’?” “Just you wait—I’ll smack ten yen, a hundred yen right into the faces of people like that!” Man’s eyes gleamed with an eerie, fierce light. Yet those dark, striking eyes were faintly wet with tears.

From the direction of the Meshiburo Room, Tamai Kintarō returned, scratching his head. “Lost, lost. “I’m just off my game today. “Jinkō had me at a two-stone handicap and still threw me four times with standing throws.”

“Kintarō-san.”

Shinzō relayed Yoshida Isokichi’s message in full—that after seeing the newspaper reports about the cholera uproar, he was inviting the two of them to dinner that evening.

“What should we do? I don’t want to…” “Let’s go. I’ve heard of Mr. Yoshida Isokichi. I want to see what kind of boss he is. You can’t know anything unless you go and face ’em head-on.” Kintarō’s voice was brimming with energy.

That night, the banquet continued well into the small hours.

Yamashita Matsuji was a coal cargo handling contractor who enjoyed gambling and maintained extensive connections with influential figures across all of Kyushu in that sphere, not just locally. At the Yamashita residence, large-scale gambling sessions were held roughly once each season. This appeared to be that autumn's gathering. The feast consisted of fugu sashimi and chiri hot pot. There were about twenty people in total, including five or six women. Through Boss Yoshida's introduction, Kintarō and Shinzō were specially included in the gathering.

Kintarō entered through the back entrance. The moment he slid open the fusuma door to the tatami room, he froze—his heart pounded hard enough to shake his ribs. His eyes went wide. (No... It's not her.) He muttered to himself, feeling both deflated and relieved at once. Among the women seated at the gathering, he'd mistaken one with a black collar and hair styled in a ginkgo-leaf twist. Her profile matched perfectly with that woman from Shikokuya at Dōgo Onsen—the one with peony-and-butterfly tattoos who'd handled chūbon dice and tsubofuri cup-shaking with such flair, who'd called out to him with that honeyed smile. But when she turned full face, she looked nothing like her.

(Not her—thank god.)

The position that woman from back then—the one who had left such an impression—occupied in Kintarō’s heart was inexplicable. It wasn’t any particular emotion worth singling out—merely a memory of a flower glimpsed in passing—yet even while forgotten, like an image once imprinted on a photographic plate, its entirety hadn’t faded away. However, in that flower—beyond its seductive allure—he sensed something akin to a dangerous poison, and Kintarō had not been thinking that he wanted to meet that woman again. So when he realized with a start that the woman who had made his heart pound was someone else entirely, he felt a certain sense of relief.

At the gathering sat two women in white Western-style dresses. Tamai Kintarō and Shinzō sat in the lowest seats, hunching their shoulders.

Leaning against the main pillar with his arms crossed, the one sharply scanning the gathering with a hawk’s gaze was unmistakably Yoshida Isokichi. A Yūki-dyed black lined haori, a white silk crepe obi thick as a rope, and beneath cropped hair—a long, hard-bitten face with an air of unyielding resolve. His eyebrows were taut, his lips slightly pointed and thin. On both sides of Yoshida sat men no less ferocious than he was. (The yakuza were acting all high and mighty.)

As if pushing back against the oppressive atmosphere, Kintarō muttered inwardly. Yoshida Isokichi whispered something to Yamashita Matsuji. Yamashita kept bowing deferentially. “Hey! Tamai! Mori!” “Yes.”

“Boss Yoshida says to come over here.” “He’s offering you a spot in his crew, I hear.” Kintarō and Shinzō moved to face Yoshida and resettled themselves. “So it’s you two.” Yoshida tightened his crossed arms and fixed gaze, staring silently at them. “Tamai, was it?” “How old are you?” “Twenty-four.” “Twenty-four?... Ah, Dragon year then.” “Young.” “All ahead of you.” “And you...”

Since Yoshida seemed unable to recall the name, Yamashita interjected from beside them, “Mori Shinzō,” offering clarification. “Ah—Mori.” “And you…?” “Twenty-four.”

“Same age as Tamai, huh? Both Dragons, eh? Dragon’s the dragon—feisty bunch you are. I was born in Keiō 3—a Rabbit myself. Thirty-seven now. A Rabbit can’t match two Dragon lords like you.” Yoshida boomed out a laugh. But the truth was—even if two green pups like you came at me together, you’d be no match. To Kintarō’s ears, that booming laughter might as well have shouted it aloud.

"Well, make sure you remember their faces."

Yoshida introduced the trusted-looking subordinates flanking him on either side, then—

“Well, how about it? Tamai and Mori—if you’re ever inclined, come to Wakamatsu anytime and take off your sandals at my house.”

he added. “Otsuta, serve the cups.” At Yoshida’s words, the woman with the ginkgo-leaf chignon—whom Kintarō had earlier mistaken for someone from Dōgo—approached holding a sake flask and crawled forward. “Brother,” she said, offering him a cup. Kintarō accepted it but— “I have something to say to Boss Yoshida.” “Yes?” “This cup—it’s not the boss-subordinate pledge kind, is it?”

“You can take it that way if you like.” “No, in that case, I won’t accept it. Let me think on it a while longer. If it’s just plain sake, I’ll gladly drink.” “Mighty strict about the code of honor, ain’t ya. Drink however ya like then.” Yoshida laughed carefreely, yet something unpleasant flickered across his face. Perhaps this marked the moment these two men had set forth on their fated path to become lifelong archenemies.

As the sake circulated, the gathering grew lively, but when Yoshida Isokichi began a story, the group suddenly quieted and leaned in to listen.

Kintarō had missed the beginning of it but gathered this was Yoshida’s war story—some clash from three or four years back. Though soused, Yoshida held his liquor steady, crimson face glowing with theatrical relish as he acted out the tale with broad gestures. “That night came down in sheets—thunder growling like a gut-sick bear,” he began, Kansai drawl thickening with each clause. “Perfect cover for a proper ambush, mind you.” “See, this Ezaki Mitsuyoshi—still runs hundreds of lackeys today—was at his worst back then. Had the gall to send me a challenge scroll on Empire Day! ‘Let’s settle this proper,’ it said.” “So we struck first—me and these eight mad dogs here.” He jerked a thumb at his crew. “Tomoda Kizō! Ōtani Gōichi! We hit ’em at witching hour when their ranks were thin.” “Bastards jumped like scalded cats but stood ready enough—bamboo spears, hunting rifles, pistols…” Yoshida’s hands mimed each weapon. “Sickles! Deba knives! Whole arsenal laid out neat.” “Storm howling fit to flay skin off bone—we’re creeping through that wet dark when boom! Boom! Goes off ahead.” He slammed a palm on the tabletop, making cups jump. “Think they’re shooting? Nah! Ezaki’s boys cracking open a fresh four-to barrel!” “That flashy shitheel—swilled more than a brewery rat—but mark this: every scrap he started? Brand-new barrel each time.” Yoshida leaned back, grin sharp as a tanto blade. “Man knew how to rouse spirits before spilling blood.”

“They say he never paid for that sake, you know.”

Tomoda Kizō interjected from the side.

He was a man of average build, with a swarthy complexion and narrow eyes that glinted deep within like a kite’s. He spoke in a woman-like voice. From beneath his rolled-up sleeves and exposed chest, one could see that his entire body was covered in tattoos. His face bore several scars. He seemed to be Yoshida Isokichi’s top subordinate.

“Seems so.” Yoshida laughed boisterously. “When the liquor store comes to collect—‘You need money? Fine, I’ll pay you.’ ‘Do you want a long one or a short one?’... That’s how he’d threaten them, they say.” “What happened with the fight story?”

Someone pressed impatiently. “Yeah, the brawl goes without saying. “A great victory.” "For one thing, our spirit was on a whole different level." “Ezaki’s side might’ve had numbers, but they were nothing but a motley crew.” “We’ve got men here each worth a thousand on the battlefield—take this Tomoda fella, might sound like a woman with that gentle voice of his, but he’s a wild warrior who’d give Kunisada Chūji or the Shimizu brothers a run for their money. That night alone, who knows how many enemies he cut down!” “Compared to us,” Tomoda Kizō said, “Ogin-san’s performance was splendid.”

“Right, right—I really wish I could’ve shown you all how Ogin fought that day.” “Is Ogin-san a woman?”

Mori Shinzō asked. “You folks don’t know anything, huh? Right now in Wakamatsu, when they say ‘Dotera-baasan,’ they’re talking about a full-fledged female yakuza. Even though they call her ‘old woman,’ she’s not elderly at all. She’s thirty-five or thirty-six—in the prime of womanhood. Also, she’s not wearing a dotera coat or anything. Because she’s built like a sumo wrestler—imposingly solid—that’s how everyone came to call her ‘Dotera-baasan’ eventually. But back when we fought Ezaki, she wasn’t fat like she is now—she was nimble. In the midst of the chaotic clash between both forces, she went around distributing bullets to our allies…”

The grandiose and raucous account of the brawl dragged on and on. Yoshida Isokichi’s face wore an almost entranced expression. Kintarō finally cut in.

“Mr. Boss Yoshida, I would like to ask you something.” “What’s this?” “I’ve been listening to your story all this time, but the Boss hasn’t appeared at all. What were you doing then?” “Me? I don’t go to brawls. I stayed home.” “I don’t go to brawls.” “I stayed home.” Upon hearing this, disappointment and disdain surfaced simultaneously in Kintarō’s eyes. Yoshida Isokichi remained utterly indifferent to such reactions from greenhorns,

“From Meiji-machi all the way to Honmachi 3-chome district—through bamboo-whipping thunderclaps—a literal rain of blood fell, I tell you! As for how brutal it got? This Tomoda’s prized white-sheathed sword ended up notched like a saw’s teeth!” “To make matters worse, it got bent like a candy stick—he ended up snatching some enemy’s blade and fighting on with that!” “After all, we were all battle-hardened fighters who knew our tactics—never feared their numbers!” “And then…”

And still, he continued recounting with relish the bloody brawl tale that had launched him as a boss.

Eventually, as the police intervened, the subordinates temporarily went into hiding in the countryside. Yoshida never once left his house, so they paid no mind. This was due to mediation efforts by town elders and influential figures, resulting in such a major brawl being hushed up. Only Yoshida Isokichi’s reputation grew significantly. Following this turmoil, in addition to the regular police force, a military police garrison was established in Wakamatsu. From there, Yoshida’s story—

“Tamai, Mori—you two haven’t suffered enough yet.”

From these words, his account shifted to tales of youthful hardships. There was no predicting when it might end.

“I was a riverboatman,” “From around sixteen, I became a boatman—went through hell itself.” “Summers were bearable, but winters? Pure torment.” “We’d plant water poles along the shallows of the Onga River, tie up the boats with ropes.” “A bitter wind’d come slicing through,” “Snow falling thick,” “I’d spread straw mats over coal cargo and sleep wrapped in one red blanket.” “Kids these days, all bundled up whining ‘It’s cold’? Damn laughable.” “Even back then, never once said I was cold.”

From being a riverboatman, he went to Osaka intending to become a sumo wrestler. Donning a loincloth, he toured regional circuits. This was during the years when the Sanyo Line hadn't yet been fully completed—in midwinter's chill, wearing nothing but a single yukata against bare skin, he trudged behind a large cart loaded with touring gear, pushing it along. Afterward, he came to Wakamatsu but rode the turbulent winds of the Sino-Japanese War across to Korea. "I've done my share of Gonzo work too," he said. "But over in Korea, those Chinese dockhands swaggered about something fierce—got right under my skin—so one day at the shipyard, I chucked two or three of 'em into the sea." He snorted. "Then their damn consulate went crying with some official protest to our embassy."

Yoshida Isokichi shook with laughter, his whole body quaking. “And then...” After finishing his account of subsequent exploits, “A man starts with nothing—especially men! Strength and guts—that’s all that matters. … Tamai, Mori—you get me?”

With that, Yoshida squared his shoulders and struck his thick chest hard with his right fist—a heavy thud resonating through the air. Shrouded in tobacco smoke, Kintarō wore a look that seemed both comprehending and bewildered as he gave no reply. —Starting from nothing. That single phrase alone made sense to him in his own way.

The next day, at nearly the same hour, two incidents occurred.

Expulsion

By the pier overlooking Ganryū Island, Man smoked tobacco while watching people fish. It was lunch break. The one fishing was the proprietor of Hikoshima's Nandemo-ya General Store—still far from fifty yet completely bald, his scalp shining orange. A fishing fanatic, he left the store to his wife, which meant their marital squabbles never ceased. Though they fought, it always ended in the wife's one-sided victory, so the Nandemo-ya had become famous as a henpecked household.

Man teased him. "My brother Rinsuke and his wife are your exact opposites, aren't they? With them, the husband struts around like a crowing rooster, but you at Nandemo-ya are a proper henpecked husband. Pull yourself together!" "Even if you say that, the world's full of henpecked husbands, you know. Now now—letting the wife win might be for the best." "With such slovenly behavior, how do you expect to get anywhere? You'd do well to watch and learn."

“Heh heh heh...”

Nandemo-ya stared at Man’s face and laughed in a peculiar way,

“Well now, if Man-san were to become a bride, her husband’d turn into one fierce henpecked man…?” “Long as my husband doesn’t do anything unreasonable, I mean to be a quiet, proper wife.” “Come to think of it,” Nandemo-ya piped up suddenly, “ain’t you and Tamai-san fixin’ to wed?”

“Who’s saying such things?” “Kintarō-san was the one who said it.” “He’s making fun of me. He’s been going around telling people whatever he likes, hasn’t he? I heard it from Bōshin-san too. Hmph—what do I care if he went and decided that on his own?” “That’s how it is? I thought maybe you’d already worked something out between yourselves, you know. So I thought if you two got hitched, with both of you being so headstrong, you’d end up as a pair of pecking roosters—neither one henpecked, you know.”

“I’ve got no intention of becoming some dockworker’s wife. I’ve got plenty else to think about. And I’ve never once thought about wanting to get married.” “Ain’t too soon though…” “It’s not about being early or late.”

In the quiet autumn sea, with his line cast and waiting for fish to bite, Nandemo-ya occasionally glanced sideways at Man.

The unadorned work clothes with hand guards and gaiters made Man look crisp and capable. The vigor brimming within her youth—some indefinable force—lent her a vibrant radiance. There was a mysterious allure in how Man held her kiseru pipe, the swell of her cheeks as she savored the tobacco's flavor, and the shifting hues of her eyes. Though she'd never once considered cosmetics, she seemed adorned by something uncanny.

“Got one! Got one!” Nandemo-ya hurriedly raised his rod—another small pufferfish.

At that moment, from behind—

“You’re Taniguchi Man?”

A rough voice rang out.

When she turned around, four or five ruffian-like men with sinister faces stood there. They surrounded Man. Man, startled, stood up. She hurriedly extinguished the lit cigarette she had been smoking with her work apron. Just as he had caught a fish, suddenly, ruffians appeared, causing the timid Nandemo-ya to fall flat on his backside. Trembling, he began to scoot backward on both hands, staying exactly where he was. The discarded Higan pufferfish, throwing a tantrum, swelled up perfectly round and flopped about wildly in the coal dust.

“Hey—cut that out.” When Man tried to put her kiseru and pocket lamp into the hemp sack, an even taller man with a jutting chin and crew cut—his face an unhealthy eggplant hue—grabbed her right hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Man shook off her hand. “Hand over that pocket lamp.” “No.” Man hurriedly stuffed the hemp sack, kiseru, and lighter all together into her clothes and pressed them down from above with both hands. Her two firmly rounded breasts swelled visibly beneath the Kurume-mochi work clothes, rising and falling faintly. “What a cheeky little miss we’ve got here. Quit your yappin’ and hand it over quiet-like—better for you that way. ...Take a gander at this. Four fine gentlemen here all gathered up—gone outta our way to come collect that pocket lamp from you. Still fixin’ to put up a fight, are ya?”

Like a snake that had spotted a frog, the eggplant-colored man licked his lips, his eyes gleaming sharply. As if this were their cue, the other three men each struck intimidating poses, their eyes rolling unnaturally in their sockets. With four of them intimidating her like this, they seemed to calculate that even without laying a hand on her, the young girl would turn pale, start trembling, and inevitably hand over the pocket lamp. Man quickly realized why they had come.

(That fashionable beauty must have sent them.) Even after having thrown away the pocket lamp and stormed off with a parting threat—she must have wanted it desperately after all. She must have sent yakuza thugs after me, but sending four men to deal with a lone woman seemed absurdly excessive. At the scene, there were male dockworkers around, and since Shinzō had said things like "That pocket lamp came from a proper gentleman," this might have been a precaution against unforeseen circumstances. However, Man had left the scene to watch the fishing and was all alone, which for the plunderers turned out to be an unexpected boon.

“C’mon, hand it over, hand it over.” With that, the eggplant-colored man jerked his long chin.

Man was pale, but she was not trembling. She must have bitten her lip, hesitated for an instant, but then thrust her right hand into her clothes and took out the pocket lamp. “Ain’t you a clever little miss. Well then, hand it over here.” When the long-jawed man sneered those words, Man’s right hand shot upward—the pocket lamp arcing through the air before plunging into the distant sea.

Against the blue sky, a small silver-glinting object drew an arc and disappeared with a plop onto the waves. “Damn you!”

The four ruffians stood dumbfounded, but the eggplant-colored man, as if snapping back to his senses, began to rage—baring his yellow, jagged teeth caked with plaque like a monkey’s. “Why’d you go an’ throw it in the damn sea?” “I didn’t want to make you all out to be thieves.” “You think we’re thieves?…” “If you forcibly take somethin’ I got, that’s robbery, ain’t it? So I threw it away. Once I threw it away, it wasn’t mine no more. Please dive into the sea an’ retrieve it.”

“You bastard! Spoutin’ such outrageous nonsense!” The eggplant-colored fist flew toward Man’s cheek. But his palm cut through empty air, and the man staggered into one of his comrades. “Thinkin’ I’ll go easy ’cause you’re just some girl? Gettin’ too big for your britches…”

The four ruffians all attacked Man at once. Man had become a rat in a bag. However, after scuffling for only a short while, the crew-cut eggplant-colored man let out a strange groan and then folded up like a lantern, collapsing limply to the ground. His complexion turned the color of radish leaves, his eyes, mouth, and jaw all twisted, until finally he lay stretched out on the ground with drool dripping down. “Hey! What’s gotten into ya?” The other three, startled, lifted up their boss who had gone limp.

By then, Man’s figure was nowhere to be seen. “Was he killed?” The three men frantically checked every inch of the collapsed man’s body but found no wounds anywhere. There was no blood either. Yet the man’s breathing grew faint as a dying insect’s.

One of them went down to the pier, soaked a hand towel in seawater, and came back. He squeezed it out and wet the unconscious man’s face. After several repetitions of this, he finally seemed to regain consciousness. The three men handled and carried the large man by his arms and legs, and departed toward the Yamashita Group office.

Behind the office was the meal-fee dormitory. It was lodging for single dockworkers. Originally a cement warehouse converted with nothing but tatami mats laid down, it spanned about thirty mats. Partitioned three-to-one between male and female dockworkers, its kitchen held three large five-shō pots lined in a row. By the window overlooking the sea, wearing headbands while playing shogi, were Tamai Kintarō and Yamaguchi Jinpachi. The two had impatiently awaited lunch break to bring out the shogi board. Jinpachi—nicknamed Noro Jin ("Slow Jin")—stood unmatched in Hikoshima at shogi; even with a two-piece handicap, Kintarō couldn't best him. His stubborn competitiveness made him attack more fiercely with each loss—only to lose again. He remained locked in struggle.

“Hey, Kintarō-san! What’s that?” Jinpachi pointed at the idlers—unfamiliar faces on this island—as three men carried one past the window, but Kintarō merely glanced their way. “Just some worthless fight, I reckon.” With that, he turned his resigned gaze back to his king piece, now cornered and on the brink of defeat.

Seated among the coal, Shinnojo Mori was loudly explaining the events of the previous night to his comrades. Lunchtime always turned into these roundtable discussions. Some, exhausted, would stretch out on the coal, but most spent their hour-long break in lively banter. Being dockworkers through and through, their conversations naturally followed the standard pattern—starting with “sake, gambling, and women” before shifting to recent gossip—fleeting chatter that evaporated with the moment. But today’s talk of “sake, gambling, and women” differed slightly from their usual tedious routine.

A gangplank had been laid from the coal storage wharf to the moored barge. Today, while loading the barge, even Karasu—the boatman of that vessel nicknamed "Crow"—had uncharacteristically joined their discussion group. Karasu always said things like, "Your stories are trash—no roots, no leaves, no truth to 'em. Listenin' just wastes your time," while drinking shōchū alone. But today, uninvited, he'd lumbered up the gangplank with his bulky frame and come ashore.

“What’s this now? You kicked Boss Yoshida Isokichi?” Suddenly reeking of shōchū, he shouted those words and thudded down onto the coal pile.

Shinnojo was startled. “Nobody’s sayin’ I kicked Yoshida-san. Don’t go twistin’ what you hear.” “But I’ve been hearin’ y’all talkin’ up on the boat ’bout how last night you turned down Boss Yoshida’s sake cup, ain’t that right?” “I didn’t say it like that. You’re so damn impulsive—jumpin’ to conclusions like that. Makes things difficult.” “I came runnin’ ’cause I heard you young punks kicked Boss Yoshida—the hottest name in town right now. Didn’t ya kick him?”

“Somehow, old man, your way of putting things is rough around the edges. ‘Kicked? Refused?’ That’s not how it was. That’s not it. Tamai said—‘If it’s just regular sake, I’ll gladly accept it. But if it’s the boss-subordinate cup, please give me a little more time to consider.’ …That’s all he said.” “Look here. See? That’s what refusing his cup amounts to—kicking him back. What a damn fool. If it were me, I’d gladly have him make me his subordinate. You lot let your big chance slip away.”

“Now, Mr. Crow,” an old dockworker interjected from the side, “don’t go buttin’ in from outta nowhere and messin’ things up when—” “We were just gettin’ to the good part here!” Shinnojo, relieved by the intervention, cleared his throat once with a composed expression, “So then, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi thrust a challenge letter at Mr. Yoshida, sparking a major brawl…”

he continued his story. Just as the sword of Yoshida Isokichi's top subordinate, Tomoda Kizō, had become notched like a saw's teeth, footsteps sounded and five or six unfamiliar idlers appeared. A short but sharp-eyed man— "Hey, chatty buddy over there—mind steppin' over here for a sec?" And then, a lanky, limping man grabbed Shinnojo's arm. Shinnojo was taken behind the tool warehouse.

Bamboo baskets, shovels, crowbars, and such were piled up, and a single anchor covered in red rust lay discarded like an octopus with its legs severed. A sparrow that had been perched atop them startled at the clamorous approach of the crowd and flew off toward the sea. When they stopped, Shinnojo asked: “Do you have business with me?” He looked slightly older than his years. Though sturdy in build, he had an oval face with fair complexion and regular features—hot-tempered and stubborn by nature, yet possessing an unexpected gentleness that made him avoid confrontations. Thus when the idlers seized him, he resolved from the start to use his usual agility to watch for an opening and escape.

“You think we’d call you here for nothing?” And the man was already squared up for a fight. “What business could you possibly have…?” “So I hear you called the Boss’s companion a Russian spy?”

Shinnojo flinched. "No, that's—" "That's a load of crap!"

By that time, one of the men behind him had already kicked Shinnojo in the back. Caught off guard, he staggered, and the five men all swarmed Shinnojo at once. They punched. They jabbed. They kicked. They choked. When Shinnojo collapsed, they indiscriminately trampled him with their geta and setta—whether face, head, chest, belly, or limbs—they made no distinction.

Shinnojo bled from his nose, became covered in wounds, and collapsed. "Serves you right!" The thugs, still not done with Shinnojo—who lay unconscious and splayed out limply—spat on him and kicked mud at him before marching triumphantly back toward the guardhouse. Inside the meshibeya room, Kintarō kept groaning under his breath. The king had barely escaped being cornered near the privy when he carelessly walked into a rook check.

"The more you thrash about, the worse it gets," Slow Shichibei sneered, twisting his hatchet-shaped tobacco pipe between calloused fingers. Money rode on this shogi match – enough to keep both men's eyes riveted to the board. Kintarō hunched lower, battered but unyielding. He wouldn't call a halt – not with his pride stinging worse than yesterday's bruises. His gaze darted between captured pieces and the battlefield before him, seeking that one move that might yet turn the tide. "Proper Edokko'd have tossed their tiles by now," Slow Shichibei prodded, smoke curling from his grin. Mid-taunt, his rheumy eyes flicked toward the grimy window –

“Kintarō-san, looks like another fight’s broken out.” He pointed toward the guardhouse with his tobacco pipe. Kintarō glanced briefly in that direction but immediately lowered his eyes back to the board. “Leave it. Don’t waste your time on those fight-crazy thugs.” “Kintarō-san! Kintarō-san! Look at this! That’s Shin-san from the Mori!” Hearing Shinnojo’s name, Kintarō raised his face again. He peered through the glass. When he realized the bloodied man being carried by comrades was his close friend, Shinnojo cried out and sprang up. He bolted outside. The shogi board flipped over, pieces scattering.

Then, about ten minutes later, Kintarō, his face flushed with anger, was hurrying toward Boss Yamashita's residence. (No matter how powerful Boss Yoshida may be, I won't forgive this cruelty.) The fury had been shaking his entire body ever since he saw the pitiful state of his subordinate Shinnojo being carried into the hospital. Though Shinnojo remained barely conscious and unable to speak, Kintarō thought there was no need to ask why. Last night's refusal of the boss-subordinate cup exchange had clearly planted seeds of resentment, making Yoshida send his underlings. They must have come to the coal yard looking for him, and when he wasn't there, made Shinnojo their sole target. Kintarō was certain of it.

(He's not acting like a man.) He always hid in the shadows, making his underlings dance to his tune. That was no way for a proper Boss to behave. Kintarō ground his teeth, seething with anger, contempt, and hatred. He passed through coal storage yards stacked like black mountains and reached the town's edge. From there, he could see the second-story roof of the Yamashita residence and the ginkgo tree in its garden. As he hurried forward,

“Kintarō-san! Kintarō-san!” he was called to a halt.

When he looked back, the owner of Nandemo-ya was frantically rushing out from his store. His orange-tinged bald head glinting in the sun, he caught up to Kintarō, panting heavily, “Kintarō-san, I need to talk to you.” “I’ll hear about it later. I’ve got urgent business to take care of...” “Where are you off to?” “I’m going to meet Boss Yoshida Isokichi.”

“Then you’d better listen to what I have to say. It’s not completely unrelated, you know…” “Your stories drag on too long, old man.” “No—a minute… Thirty seconds’ll do.”

Kintarō, realizing this was no trivial matter, stepped beneath the eaves of Nandemo-ya’s shop, its wares cluttered haphazardly. The Nandemo-ya Owner, considerate of his wife putting their baby to sleep in the back room, recounted in a nervous whisper the incident that had occurred by the pier during lunch break, tersely summarizing it. The story of Man’s peril doubled Kintarō’s anger.

“Got it.”

With that, he practically burst outside, his face twisted in fury.

He passed through the gate of the Yamashita residence along the black wall of burnt cedar planks. Unlike last night, he did not go through the back door but made his way to the front entrance. “Pardon me.”

After requesting an audience three times, the smirking gatekeeper known as "Sensei" appeared wearing a thick work jacket and standing rigidly. "Who do we have here? Kintarō-san. If you've got business, go around to the back entrance." "I request an audience. Please inform Boss Yoshida that Tamai Kintarō—the Cholera-stricken one—has come requesting to meet him." "What's your business with Boss Yoshida?" "That is something I will explain directly when I have the honor of meeting him."

"Sensei" looked at Kintarō with a bewildered expression but reluctantly withdrew. Before long, he reappeared. “The boss says he’ll see you.” “Follow me.” Guided by "Sensei," he turned down several corridors. Boss Yamashita was nowhere to be seen, but the guests from the previous night’s banquet had gathered in small groups throughout various rooms. There were groups playing hanafuda cards and others hosting drinking parties with women.

When they came to the detached room at the end of the corridor, Sensei, standing outside the sliding door, “Boss Yoshida, I’ve brought Tamai.”

“I see. Come in.”

When Sensei slid open the fusuma door, Kintarō started. Immediately feeling utterly foolish, he blushed crimson - he'd mistaken the woman in the room for that woman from Dōgo yet again. The masseuse working on Yoshida Isokichi's hips wore her hair in a ginkgo-leaf twist with a black collar, her profile angled sideways toward Kintarō in a way that tricked his eyes once more. Such resemblance between two women's features seemed improbable - or perhaps what proved strange was Kintarō himself, reconstructing from memory with such precision a woman he'd encountered just once.

Yoshida, remaining prone with his stomach to the floor, grinned and—

“Well, Mr. Tamai. You’ve come.” “No need to stand on ceremony—come on in.” “Pardon the intrusion.”

Kintarō entered the six-tatami room and knelt formally in seiza. “No need to be so stiff—make yourself comfortable. “My apologies for last night. “Good of you to come.” “I haven’t come for social calls.” “You’re putting on quite the act there—what’s eating you?” “I’ve come to speak with Boss Yoshida. “Would you kindly sit up?” “Dunno what this’s about,” he said, staying prone, “but I’m bone-weary—you’ll have to stomach me like this. “Might sit up though…depends what you’ve got.”

“In that case, please listen as you are.” Kintarō suppressed the churning anger rising in his chest and gulped down a dry swallow. “Shinzō Morishin’nosuke was carried to the hospital half-dead.” “Well, now...” “…So—what in blazes happened?” “Because he was jumped by a mob.” “Who by?” Kintarō glared at Yoshida’s face—feigning ignorance—with a glare sharp as spearpoints, “Are you asking me that, Boss?”

“You gotta ask ’bout things you don’t know—that’s all.”

He had said this casually, but Yoshida—seeming to notice something—stopped the masseuse’s hands with a “Hold on a moment, Otsuta,” then heaved himself up. He wore a brown-collared meisen-silk tanzen. “Mr. Tamai.”

In a formal tone, Yoshida said.

“Huh...?” “Understood. “You’ve got the wrong idea here.” “You think I ordered Shinzō’s injury.” “I know nothing about it.” “That’ll become clear in time.” “But that you thought I ordered it—that’s my own failing.” “Don’t know the details, but if my men did it, I’ll take responsibility.” “My apologies.” “I’ll make a proper apology later—for now, let this suffice.”

Yoshida said this and gave a slight bow. Kintarō felt deflated. He went blank for an instant. Gradually, a blushing feeling welled up within him, and sitting there became painful. "I must apologize. Once I’ve said that much, my business here is concluded."

Yoshida raised both hands, “Now, Mr. Tamai— wait a moment. There’s still more…”

Yoshida tried to stop him, but he fled out into the hallway. With a flustered gait that differed from the composed steps he’d taken when entering briskly, he passed through the suspicious gazes of the guests and reached the front entrance. (What an idiot I am) He regretted his rashness. Without properly verifying the circumstances, he had acted single-mindedly, driven by desperation; now he had been made painfully aware of how unreliable youthful impulsiveness could be. (This won’t do.) Even as he chastised himself, Kintarō was intensely tormented by regret and frustration over what felt like an irreparable mistake.

(I acted too hastily and jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry.) Why couldn't he voice this plainly? Yoshida had—regarding matters unknown to himself—apologized for his subordinates' actions with a "My apologies," bowing his head before a mere dockworker. Hadn't he? Kintarō felt cowed by this Yoshida Isokichi—distinct from the arbitrary version he'd constructed since last night. He'd meant to bring up Taniguchi Man, but circumstances had prevented it. Not mentioning her proved wiser. There was no conceivable reason Yoshida Isokichi would deploy subordinates to confiscate something like a pocket lamp.

Kintarō's legs grew heavy. Gradually enveloped in a strange unease as the surroundings turned dusky and dark, he walked on, biting his lips. (Becoming a dragon and ascending to heaven—such matters aren't for the likes of me. No—I must burrow into the earth instead.) With tears pricking his eyes, he berated himself harshly. He returned to the Meshibeya Room.

No one was there. It was filled with echoing emptiness. Earlier, when he had rushed out upon hearing of Shinzō's accident, the shogi pieces he had kicked aside remained scattered where they lay.

Kintarō sat down there and quietly gathered the shogi pieces. He picked up the rook, turned it over to gaze at the dragon character, then placed it with a click at the center of the shogi board, as if composing his mind. Kintarō pulled the willow trunk in the corner of the room closer. This was all his property. He removed the lid, lifted the haphazardly packed clothes, and thrust his hand into the bottom. (Huh?) He assumed a suspicious look. Suddenly flustered, he frantically stirred through the contents.

“It’s gone.”

He paled and muttered. The Sukehiro dagger he had purchased in Dōgo Hot Spring Town—when he fled his hometown, wherever he wandered, he had always carried it on his person without fail.

(Was it stolen?) When times were bad, bad things piled up. He had thought to calm his troubled mind by gazing at the beautiful blade of his Sukehiro dagger, but it was no use—and so Kintarō grew all the more dejected. “Kintarō,” said Noro Shichibei, appearing as if he’d been there all along, “that dagger of yours? Ah—Man-san said she was borrowin’ it and took it with her.” “What? Man-san took my dagger?”

Kintarō was dumbfounded. "When I was lyin' here all by myself, Man-san came in—looked everywhere for ya, Kintarō-san, but couldn't find hide nor hair of ya." "She meant to ask proper-like to borrow it, but since ya weren't around, had no choice." "Said she needed it sudden-like, so took it along." "You be my witness." "...Well, she said as much and fished it out from that trunk there, took it with her."

Kintarō stood up.

He went to check the coal storage yard. Everyone had already begun their afternoon work.

There was no need to search—Man’s figure came into view. Holding a crowbar and working with a pickaxe, her brisk manner showed not the slightest difference from usual.

Kintarō felt as if he'd been tricked by a fox. When Man noticed Kintarō's figure, she put down the crowbar and came running over. She lowered her voice,

“Kintarō-san, I borrowed your dagger while you were away.” “I thought Yoshida’s men might come to attack, so…” “Where’s the dagger?” “I’ve hidden it in the coal.” He looked where she pointed, but there was nothing but black coal—he couldn’t see a thing. Since she had removed her work apron, she must have wrapped it in that and buried it there. (This woman—if those ruffians come for revenge, she intends to draw her sword and fight.)

Kintarō looked again at Man's youthful face—still bearing traces of innocence—with eyes wide in surprise. (A woman like this—I want her as my wife.) (This might be a woman's dragon.) A vision of a male dragon and a female dragon, side by side in harmony, parting the black clouds as they vigorously ascended to heaven, appeared vividly before Kintarō's eyes. Kintarō, who had been sunk in gloom thinking of nothing but that dismal dragon burrowing into the earth, felt his spirits lift slightly, heartened by Man's valor. However, with words,

“Man-san, as a woman, you’d do better not to stir up trouble,” he admonished. “Even so, I can’t just let sparks land on me without brushing them off.” “Well, if ruffians come, run away. “…I’m going to Mori’s place for a bit.”

Kintarō left the coal storage yard.

The dockworkers referred to it as a "hospital," but in reality, it was a small pediatric clinic. Dr. Matsuno specialized in children, but with no other doctors nearby, his clinic had unwittingly become more like an emergency ward as dockworkers began bringing in their injured.

He passed through the carbolic-smelling corridor and went to Shinzō’s room. Having encountered a young substitute physician, he inquired about his condition. There were about twenty-three wounds, but they were all superficial—merely showy—so his life wasn’t in danger. Upon hearing this, he felt relieved.

He opened the door to the hospital room. Kintarō stood frozen for a moment, still gripping the doorknob. The first thing that caught his eye was a bright white garment, making him think it was a nurse—but no, it was one of the Western-style dressed, modern beauties he had seen the day before. “Welcome, Mr. Tamai.”

The woman called out to him. “Hello.”

He answered reluctantly, but Kintarō couldn't grasp what this was about. His tone came out brusque, almost angry. It felt like someone had tossed an ill-matched bouquet of lilies into that grimy room. The woman's round, slightly jowly face held calm eyes, yet carried an air of dejection that made her seem nervous. The prominent mole at the lower right of her lips lent an eerie allure to her features. Kintarō remembered now—this woman's name was Kimika, a detail recalled from last night's encounter. At the bedside lay a bonnet, green parasol, and pair of black silk gloves.

“How’re you holding up, Shinzō?” Mori Shinzō—swathed in bandages like a mended broken doll—turned his plaster-covered face painfully toward his friend. “Thought I was done for.” “Humans’re scarier than cholera any day.” “I’m truly sorry,” said Kimika, her beautiful face wearing an apology that seemed ready to dissolve into air. “Don’t even know what to say... Had no idea any of this’d happen.” “Didn’t know a thing about it, yet here we are.” “When Mr. Mori called me a Russian spy—said someone from your group came about that—well, I don’t mind none.” “Then those underlings went and did this terrible thing to Mr. Mori here... All ‘loyalty’ this and ‘duty’ that—just useless fuss! Boss Yoshida heard the story from Mr. Tamai, so he sent me with condolences.” “It’s not much, but here’s the ointment money he insisted on.”

“I don’t need that kind of money.” “Don’t mock me.” Shinzō spoke as though spitting out the words, his face contorted with pain. “Ms. Kimika, I understand completely.” “We gratefully accept Boss Yoshida’s kind gesture and will hold onto it.” “Hey, Kintarō! Don’t you take that filthy money!” “Just leave it to me.” Kintarō said this and accepted a thick condolence envelope from Kimika, its front boldly inscribed in sumi ink with “Get Well Wishes.”

“Well then, I’ll take my leave. Do take care.” Kimika gathered her parasol, hat and gloves, bowed politely to Shinzō too, and left the room. For some time afterward, an indescribably sweet fragrance lingered in the air. It seemed almost a shame when it finally faded. “Can’t even tell where the enemy’s lurking,” Kintarō muttered as he sank into the chair, his tone heavy with contemplation. Someone from the Yamashita Group must have informed on Shinzō for that careless slip about “Russian spies.”

(The world is a difficult place.)

As Kintarō pondered the complexity of human relationships—their connections, bonds, and such; the "enemies" existing both outside and within; youth's beauty and peril; and the path stretching ahead for him to walk—various thoughts arose in his broad chest, lips pressed tightly together.

Several days had passed. It seemed another upheaval might occur, but unexpectedly, there was calm—as if a typhoon had swept through and gone. Had Yoshida Isokichi withdrawn from Hikoshima Island, taking every last one of his underlings with him? Yet the events on this island could truly be called historic. The roots of calamity and their consequences would sink deeper and spread farther than anyone had imagined.

Autumn rain fell. It made the coal glisten black and dyed green the pines smuggled from Ganryū-jima as if reviving them. When it cleared, each day saw both the sky and the sea deepen their blue.

One evening, on his way back from visiting Shinzō at Matsuno Hospital, Kintarō was called out by Man beside the tool warehouse. “What’s this, Man-san? You need somethin’?”

“Over here.”

Kintarō went to the side of the anchor where Man, in her everyday clothes, stood. Dusk had already fallen, and the wind from the hazy sea was cold. The ships and the opposite shore of Moji were studded with lights, and steam whistles occasionally shook the air of the strait.

“Kintarō-san.” “Mm.” “This is troubling.” “What is?” “Seems you’ve been telling folks we’ll marry. But even if you decided that yourself, I’ll have none of it.” “That so? Troubles you?” “Shouldn’t it? It’s downright bothersome.” “You think…? I never went spreading word myself. When people say—‘Why not take a wife and settle down, Tamai-san?’ or offer to find me some nice bride—each time I answer: ‘No thanks. If I took a wife, I’d want someone like Ms. Taniguchi Man.’ That’s all. Words twist when passed through others’ mouths. Claiming we’ll wed—I’d never do such. But does speaking my true mind trouble you so?”

“It certainly is a bother.” “Does it trouble you?” “It does trouble me.” “I see. “That was my fault.” “I like you, and I thought maybe you might have some feelings for me too—that’s why I spoke carelessly.” “Cut me some slack.” “I won’t say it again.” “……Was this what you wanted to talk to me about?” “Yes.” “In that case, it’s as I just said. ……Goodbye.”

Kintarō turned sharply on his heel and strode briskly toward the mess hall. In Man's eyes as she watched his retreating back, an uncharacteristic glimmer of flustered bewilderment lingered. With dinnertime approaching, both the mess hall and married couples' tenements stood ready to begin their meals. In Man's dark eyes—normally blazing with fierce longing for Brazil's vast horizons—there now seeped an unusual softness yearning for domesticity.

Several more days passed. Kintarō, unable to defeat "Noro Shichibei" no matter what he tried, grew increasingly desperate and challenged him day after day. But he always ended up the loser. Today, during lunch break, as he played shogi, Noro Shichibei wore a somewhat tense expression unlike his usual self,

“Kintarō-san.” "Huh?" he looked up.

“Our boss is apparently in a real bad mood with you.” “Why’s that?”

“Some time ago, you barged into Boss Yoshida’s place to negotiate.” “About that—Tamai went over my head and met directly with Boss Yoshida himself. What an insolent bastard.” “Made me lose face.” “...That’s what he’s been roaring about—apparently furious.” “Hmm…” Then, after they made a few more moves: “Kintarō-san.” “Huh?” “They say you’re marrying Ms. Man from the Taniguchi family.”

“Who said that?” “Man-san said it herself.” This wasn’t the first time Kintarō had heard this. For the past two or three days, wherever he went, he was told that. The reason being, Man had apparently been going around telling everyone she met that she would “become Mr. Kintarō’s wife.” Yet despite this, whenever Man encountered Kintarō, she would coldly turn her face away and pass by without saying a word.

Kintarō gave a wry smile. (What a strange woman.)

That evening, when he went to visit Shinzō, Kimika was there. She seemed to have been coming every day. She had abandoned her flashy Western attire for a plain style resembling simple everyday garments. Nowhere were there any bonnets, silk gloves, parasols or such things. (Something felt off.)

Kintarō intuited. The relationship between Shinzō and Kimika was not ordinary. That's right—he realized.

Shinzō, whose bandages were nearly all removed by now, had become able to sit up in bed. When he saw his friend, he beamed,

“Congratulations,” he said.

Kintarō blinked his eyes, “What for?” “So I hear it’s finally been decided you’ll hold a wedding ceremony with Man-san.”

“Who’d say such a thing?” “Man-san came to visit me earlier and told me that.”

Kimika smiled from beside him. "You're the one who threw that pocket lamp into the sea and pitted the gamblers against each other to win, aren't you? How fascinating. There's no couple more perfectly matched than you two." "Kintarō-san," Shinzō interjected, "hold off on the wedding until I'm out of this hospital, will ya?"

Once things had come to this point, matters moved swiftly.

"Nandemo-ya" volunteered to act as the mediator, and Tamai Kintarō and Taniguchi Man were married. In Hikoshima's Deshimachi, they rented a small house and established their first household together.

It had a four-and-a-half-mat room, a three-mat room, plus a kitchen and toilet. A dilapidated house with its roof and walls caved in, tatami mats frayed, ceiling full of holes—when night fell, rats, spiders, and fleas worked tirelessly. The newlywed home embodied utter desolation. The only freshness came from Kintarō and Man's spirits.

“At last… we’re together.” “Heh heh…” Facing each other and exchanging strange, knowing smiles, their hearts seemed to nod in firm mutual understanding of the destiny binding them together through this union.

As Mori Shinzō had said, "You two were set to become husband and wife from before you were even born." Both Kintarō and Man had been feeling exactly that way. The man had left the countryside of Shikoku. The woman had left the mountain depths of Hiroshima. Both had departed of their own volition, yet conversely, it was akin to having been exiled. The meeting of those two did not feel like mere coincidence. A sense of destiny—as though two thick ropes stretched from a single point had relentlessly tugged them both to the same place—filled Kintarō’s breast and occupied Man’s heart.

Needless to say, neither of them had the slightest intention of ending their lives on this small island while working as dockworkers. Their nighttime conversations were ambitious in scope. “I mean to cross over to the Chinese mainland someday and make my mark.” When Kintarō said this, “I want to go to Brazil and run a large farmstead.”

Man said that, her eyes shining. The composition of their youthful dreams differed - his pointing west toward China, hers east toward Brazil - yet their shared longing to wander like clouds adrift bound them together. Both felt satisfied they'd found good companions for life's arduous road ahead. If their dreams were healthy, then their bodies were healthy. They went out together to the city of Shimonoseki and purchased household goods. If they bought everything at once, there’d be no enjoyment left, so they purchased items one by one, starting with makeshift necessities. That said, their impoverished life meant they couldn't even afford a single chest of drawers—they only acquired the bare minimum essentials for survival: pots, kettles, buckets, water jars, rice-washing tubs, dining tables, chopsticks, teapots, and such. Even the futon in which the newlywed couple curled up to sleep had been borrowed from Nandemo-ya.

Even so, when he hung the nameplate he had personally inscribed with “Tamai Kintarō” on the front of their ramshackle house, he felt like the master of a household. Kintarō had not even completed elementary school satisfactorily, but he wrote characters that were distinctive—sturdy and thick-stroked. “Fine work there!” Nandemo-ya, impressed by the characters on the nameplate, came requesting a signboard for his own shop.

However, their new household lasted barely two weeks. Claiming to have received orders from Yamashita Matsuji, the deputy came.

“You need to leave the Yamashita Group immediately.” “The boss had been patient until now, but you’ve made him lose face with Boss Yoshida.” “Get out of Hikoshima at once.” “Understood.” Kintarō answered. He had never intended to argue.

When the deputy left, Man said: “Kintarō-san, let’s leave right now.” “No need to hurry,” Kintarō replied. “I should talk with Shinzō first.” “I won’t stay another minute in this place now,” she countered. “And Shin-san’s gone—when I checked the mess hall this morning, they said he left yesterday for Beppu Hot Springs and won’t return for half a month.” Kintarō shook his head grimly. “With Kimika then? Fine if he’s healing wounds, but getting mixed up with her? Poor judgment.” His voice hardened. “She’s connected—not to Yoshida Isokichi himself, but some loudmouth relative’s second woman. Nothing good there. I meant to warn him...”

“When a beauty tempts them, men turn fragile as clay, don’t they? You’re no different, are you Kintarō-san?” “Quit spouting nonsense.” “Who can say…? Take another woman besides me, and I’ll have none of it.” “You’re the one who better not take some fancy man!” The young couple burst into guffaws, playacting their first lovers’ spat.

Following Man's opinion, they decided to depart immediately. Though Nandemo-ya and Noro Shichibei were shocked, they felt somewhat relieved to see that Kintarō and Man showed no particular signs of sorrow. The two being expelled from the island instead appeared positively brimming with courage.

The sinister Yamashita Matsuji did not show his face from beginning to end. However, it appeared some directive had been issued within the group, for when Kintarō and Man left the island, not a single comrade came to see them off. Only Nandemo-ya and Noro Shichibei had come to the pier. They loaded their household goods onto the barge. Noro Shichibei rowed the scull. Nandemo-ya gave them two thin, cracker-like futons that Kintarō and his wife had been sleeping on as a farewell gift.

Over the Kanmon Strait, leaden clouds hung low, their reflections darkening the oppressive waves that churned restlessly. “Farewell, and stay well.” Nandemo-ya’s bleary eyes swam with tears. They passed Ganryū Island and moored their barge at Moji’s wharf. To Noro Shichibei—who now pulled at the scull to return alone to Hikoshima—Kintarō declared: “Next time we meet, I’ll have mastered shogi enough to thrash you proper!”

Kintarō declared boldly.

They went to Moji Station intending to go to Tobata. They were in trouble. The train fare was seventeen sen per person, but they only had thirty sen. Four sen short. At that time, one shō of rice cost twelve sen.

“Let’s walk,” Man said. “Yeah, no help for it,” Kintarō replied. They divided up the futon, willow baskets, cloth bundles, pots, kettles, rice-washing bucket, teapot and other belongings between them, strapped them to their bodies, and walked along the coastal road looking like beggars. It was a journey of about ten miles.

Their future was bleak.

November 1903.

Tamai Kintarō, twenty-four years old. Taniguchi Man, twenty years old.

Flower of Adversity

About two years passed.

The Russo-Japanese War ended in Japan's victory. In Northern Kyushu near Tsushima, the gunfire of the Battle of the Japan Sea could be heard like distant thunder.

An incident occurred where surviving soldiers from the annihilated Baltic Fleet came ashore in boats near the coast, leading to a bizarre commotion as farmers and fishermen brandished hoes, sickles, oars, and other implements. Day after day, the clamor of extra editions raced energetically through towns and villages. “It seems like we’re winning this war after all.” "For a small country like Japan to take on a big nation like Russia and come this far—it’s something else." “Just having a big build doesn’t count for anything. Even small, a sansho pepper packs a pungent bite. What’s justice got to do with winning?”

“Even so, when Port Arthur wouldn’t fall no matter how much they attacked it, we were sweating bullets.”

“If Japan wins, the port’ll boom. We’ll be rolling in it then… right, Bōshin?” When called out to, Kintarō stopped the hand that had been keeping the ledger. “Did you say something?” “If Russia loses, the port’ll boom and we’ll strike it rich—that’s what I said. What do you think, Bōshin?”

“Well, buds’ll sprout, I reckon.” Kintarō answered reluctantly, but the bud in his broad chest wasn’t some puny shoot limited to this port—it was a grander bud that had taken root in the Chinese mainland, stretching skyward and spreading without end. *The time’s finally drawing near—when I’ll cross over to that continent I’ve sworn to reach.* Kintarō’s eyes fixed on the distant horizon. On both collars of his marked happi coat, the characters for *Nagata Group* stood dyed in bold, with *Assistant Foreman* stamped in red above them. The title *Bōshin* for assistant foreman apparently came from the steamship term “boatswain” gone crooked through dialect, meaning someone who tended a labor gang’s affairs. Even as Bōshin stayed at heart just another dockhand, Kintarō had ground through two years of struggle to claw his way up to managing a whole crew.

Two years earlier, when he and his wife had been driven from Hikoshima and embarked on their wandering journey,

“No matter where we went, there was never a boss we could truly respect.” They reminisced. Starting from nothing—the only strength they could rely on was their own bodies. If they had money, they would have long since crossed over to China or Brazil. If not, they might have started some kind of business. If they had education, there might have been a different path to walk. Being uneducated and penniless, their only capital was their young, robust bodies, and labor became the sole means of survival. Kintarō and his wife worked their bodies to dust.

"Nandemo-ya" said, "Well, go on and see," and wrote them a letter of introduction. In Tobata's Nagata Group, they had apparently settled down for two years.

The early autumn wind swept over the bridge of the two-thousand-ton Kōyasan Maru. Many of the dockworkers who had finished their lunchtime bento boxes lay sprawled across decks and barges, dozing through the afternoon lull. Having completed his ledger entries, Kintarō leaned over the bridge deck's railing and shouted down to the transport barge moored far below.

“Hey, Man!”

Man raised her face and smiled up from below. “Catchin’ any?……” “Look at this haul!”

Man held up a small basket containing about ten crabs. When sardine heads were placed in a round net framed with wire and an empty soda bottle served as a weight to sink it, crabs would get caught. “Thanks to you, I don’t have to buy side dishes every day.” “If we could catch rice along with them, that’d be even better, though.” As they bantered and laughed from above and below, a dockworker named Kakusuke—lying on his back along the barge’s gunwale—glared at them resentfully from the corner of his eye.

It wasn't as if he'd been named after his facial shape, but Kakusuke's face was nearly square. His complexion held a bluish-black cast, cheekbones jutting outward, lips grotesquely thick. The patchy growth of his beard gave the impression of a soiled cleaning rag. He must have been several years past forty. Stupidity, malice, and cruelty lay bare across his features - a face that might have belonged to any common criminal. (That impudent newcomer...) Those milky, clouded eyes declared it plainly.

Hirao Kakusuke had been part of the Nagata Group for over five years. By seniority, he should have become assistant foreman, but he was overtaken in no time by Tamai Kintarō, a newcomer. Kakusuke hated Kintarō and resented Boss Nagata Mokuji.

Kintarō leaned against the deck and gazed out over the harbor.

The scenery of Dōkai Bay differed markedly in character from that of the Kanmon Strait.

The huge gourd-shaped inlet was surrounded by the three towns of Tobata, Yawata, and Wakamatsu, with the two islands of Nakajima and Kuzushima floating within it. The mountains encircling this bay—Adachiyama in Kokura, Hobashira-yama in Yawata, Kōtō-zan in Wakamatsu—stood guard as smokestacks from factories large and small rose in dense clusters around them, chief among them those of the Yawata Steel Works smothering the sky with coal smoke. From every ship crowding the harbor and train racing along its shores surged a dynamic clamor rising from their very foundations.

(This port is alive)

Kintarō felt Dōkai Bay's vigorous pulse directly touching his heart through the deck, sensing a strange allure in this scenery. Yet when his gaze shifted toward Wakamatsu, his face twisted into a scowl. (Wakamatsu's nothing but trouble. That place crawls with gangs—Boss Yoshida Isokichi's crew, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi's lot, Tomoda Kizō's bunch, even that hag Dotera. Not fit for visiting nor living.)

Kintarō felt a strong aversion to Wakamatsu. "Kintarō-san." When he heard his name and looked up, Kakusuke—who should have been lying on the barge's gunwale—now stood beside him. "What is it, Kaku-san?" Kintarō knew full well that Kakusuke had long harbored ill will toward him, but saw no particular need for caution. Wearing a cunning smile on his hideous face, Kakusuke said: "I've got a favor to ask." "What sort of favor?"

“Don’t make me an outcast.” “No one’s making you an outcast, Kaku-san. That’s just you being resentful.” “You pushed me aside and became assistant foreman ’cause I’m weak—I ain’t arguin’ that no more. But in the Nagata Group, I’m senior—I won’t be left outta social gatherings.” “I don’t follow your meaning. Speak plain.” “This Union Group autumn trip—ain’t y’all goin’ to Musashi Hot Springs?”

“It appears so.” “Then get me in on it.” “Even if I wanted to help, I’m just a low-ranking member—this is beyond my authority.” “Our Boss is a drunken lecher and a good-for-nothing—it’s enough to drive you mad! He neglects the group’s vital work, does nothing but drink himself senseless, and holes up at Mekake’s place day and night. Doesn’t give a damn about us—hasn’t even spared us a thought! And now this outing—leaving me out? That shit-stained bastard!”

When Kakusuke got angry, his face turned into that of a monster.

Kintarō suppressed his unpleasant feelings, "You mustn't speak that way." "Boss Nagata is a decent man." “There, see? That’s just it. “You’ve been favored and, young as you are, were promoted to assistant foreman—can’t say that’s wrong.” “Ah, whatever—that’s fine by me.” "If you take me along on this outing, I’ll save face." “If they exclude me—me, Kaku of the Nagata Group, who’s had a name here since the old days—I won’t be able to walk through this port with my head held high.”

“This is troublesome…” “No need to get all worked up. If you’re gonna be modest, I’ll go instead. Ain’t showin’ that much respect fair game?” Kakusuke was pushy.

From the stern of the lower barge, Man looked up at the bridge with a worried face. Though she didn't know what was happening, she could tell her husband was being harassed by some troublemaker and looked troubled.

Man was frustrated. Kintarō was strong yet had a timid side, and she had come to understand this,

(Why does he bother engaging with every little thing Kakusuke says?) she wondered, her frustration mounting into irritation. That night, when Man heard from Kintarō about Kakusuke’s proposal, she burst out laughing. “What is this? Did you really agree to that? Why do you owe Kakusuke any obligation? No matter what happens, you must go.”

and she strongly urged him to go to Musashi Hot Springs.

Of course, Man had no way of knowing what extraordinary events would occur at that destination.

Unfortunately, it rained on the day of the outing. However, it was a windless rain that fell gently like spring showers, moistening everything—a drizzle that could not be said not to add to the journey’s atmosphere.

Tobata Station was quiet. The main line of the Kyushu Railway had opened, and Tobata Town gained its station about three years prior; its population had not yet reached even three thousand. Yet as a town on Dokai Bay handling the Chikuhō Coalfield’s output, modern coal-loading machinery installed by the Railway Ministry stood towering along the coast like giant iron insects, drenched in autumn rain. The mooring quay for hoist cranes at Makiyama was also under construction and nearing completion.

Gazing at these structures shrouded in the rainy haze, Ōba Haruyoshi glanced at Kintarō beside him, “With coal driving it, the port will only grow more prosperous. “It’ll be number one in Japan before long,” he said with an Ebisu-like face. “So it seems...” Kintarō had given that reply, but his mind was elsewhere. He had been restlessly looking around the station front with anxious eyes.

Ōba Haruyoshi noticed this and, “Are you waiting for Nagata?”

“Yes.” “Leave him be.”

His tone was bitter and resigned. His earlier Ebisu-like face had transformed into Shōki’s demon-quelling visage. “But he was definitely supposed to come…” “That fool doesn’t need to come.” “No—today, unless he comes no matter what…” For Kintarō, the absence of his boss Nagata Mokuji was a far more critical issue at present than the port becoming the best in Japan. Nagata’s recent misconduct had come to be seen as intolerable even among his peers. If he were to miss today’s outing where the Union Group bosses gathered, he could be deemed ignorant of social obligations, putting his standing in jeopardy. Kintarō was beside himself with worry.

Before long, a station attendant clad in a raincoat emerged into the square in front of the station, a large handbell dangling from his hand. Swinging it vigorously and producing clang after clang, he began shouting, “The train is departing... The train is departing.” Five minutes remained. As Kintarō continued to fret, the figure of Man hastening around the street corner ahead came into view, clutching a bamboo umbrella. Finally arriving at the station, she was panting heavily.

“What’s wrong?” “You,” Man said, pulling her husband into the shadows, “be careful. Kakusuke-san apparently boarded this train from Kokura—he says he’ll push you off somewhere along the way.” “Hmm,” Kintarō’s eyes glinted briefly, “but more importantly—do you know if the boss hasn’t come?” “He’s probably drinking himself silly again at Mekake’s place, isn’t he? There’s no helping it… What’s so good about that woman, I wonder…?”

Man’s face twisted in vexation, as though she were grinding her teeth.

Just as the train was about to depart, a rickshaw came dashing toward the station with frantic shouts of “Hey there! Hey there!”—the driver’s cries sounding almost desperate. From the face of the rickshaw puller wearing a domed straw hat, rain and sweat mingled together streamed down in rivulets, white steam rising from them.

When the hood was lifted, Nagata Mokuji and Saku of Mekake were riding together inside. Nagata, dead drunk, had become boneless like a sea cucumber and lay facedown on Saku’s lap with almost no consciousness remaining. "Boss, pull yourself together." Kintarō hoisted Nagata onto his back. On the sturdy Kintarō’s broad shoulders, the small-statured Nagata’s body rode lightly, like a cement sack. “Ah, we made it in time. Thank goodness.”

Saku, also drenched in sweat, paid the rickshaw driver while muttering in relief.

The train entered the platform. “Boss Ōba, could you have them hold the train for a moment? I’ll go buy the tickets.” Kintarō went to the ticket office window. He stated their destination and handed over the money.

When he noticed, Saku was standing right behind him, clinging close. She seemed intent on buying tickets. "Saku-san, you needn't come along." "I'm tending to the boss."

“No—if I’m not by his side, the master would be no different from an infant…”

Man, from beside them, snapped impatiently— “What business does someone like Mekake-san have going where bosses gather?” “If you push your way in like that, you’ll only make Boss Nagata look foolish on purpose.” Slumped over Kintarō’s shoulder through this commotion, Nagata Mokuji kept mumbling incoherently under his breath. Drool trailed down the sheer silk summer kimono Kintarō wore. Though his words remained indistinct, he seemed to call Saku’s name several times.

They exited through the ticket gate and boarded the train. The passengers watched this commotion, wondering what was happening. The stationmaster blew his whistle shrilly—three sharp blasts—and raised his hand. It seemed they had waited less than a minute for Nagata and Kintarō to board at Ōba Haruyoshi's request—the local power broker. After the train started moving, Saku hurriedly jumped aboard.

The passenger car was sparse. After laying Nagata across two seats, Saku came over. He reluctantly left him in her care. “I’m sorry, Boss Ōba.” Saku said this with her neck drawn in and hesitant manner, but Ōba Haruyoshi made no reply, his face looking as though he had sipped bitter tea. However, Saku—with an attitude that didn’t care what others thought—drew near Nagata, tending to and nursing him. Though she had once been a geisha, there was now not a trace of that former showiness or allure about her—if anything, she seemed plain, more like a nurse.

The Kyūshū Main Line and Chikuhō Line intersected at Orio Station. Those traveling from Wakamatsu to Hakata, Kumamoto, and other destinations transferred here. These passengers came pouring into the train that had stopped at Orio in a boisterous rush. Kintarō stared dumbfoundedly at the new passengers, blinking his eyes. “Hey there, Boss Ōba!” “Well now, everyone’s gathered together...” The union bosses exchanged these greetings with Ōba Haruyoshi one after another.

“Old Mokuji’s still a hopeless drunk as ever, ain’t he?”

and then spotted Kintarō, "Nagata's Daikoku Deputy’s here too. I’ve been thinkin’ I’d like to have a proper go with you sometime." remarked one of them. Kintarō exchanged greetings with each in turn, but he couldn’t help being staggered by the excursion group’s garish, rowdy, uninhibited, alluring, and downright slovenly state.

The train departed Orio Station and continued running through the still-pouring rain. The area along the railway line was a sea of rice paddies stretching out like green tatami mats. The comical faces of scarecrows flew past outside the window one after another. Nagata Mokuji, having woken up, swayed as he stood. Accompanied by Saku, "Well, esteemed bosses!"

With a slurred tongue, he shouted and pushed his way into the new group of companions. There, the drinking had already become a full-blown revelry. It was pandemonium incarnate. They paid no heed to disturbing other passengers, acting as though they were holding a banquet in some high-class restaurant's grand hall. Nearly twenty companions were thoroughly drunk, and Nagata Mokuji’s drunken state didn’t stand out in the slightest. They roared with laughter ceaselessly. What made Kintarō narrow his eyes was how over half the bosses had women clinging to them—one per man. All appeared to be regular companions—mistresses, geisha, prostitutes, or café waitresses—without a single wife-like figure among them.

“What’s this? Is Nagata’s Daikoku still a bachelor? You don’t look like some country bumpkin who’d turn it down—here, make do with this one for now.” There was even a boss who, after saying such things, shoved a woman who appeared to be a café waitress onto Kintarō. The train roared as it crossed the long iron bridge. Kintarō gazed at the vast river surface hazy with rain and muttered.

(Onga River... this river course...)

It was the shipment of coal by riverboat along the Onga River that gave rise to what became known as the riverside temperament. This took form as a code of chivalry championed by men like Yoshida Isokichi, spreading across northern Kyushu. The so-called bosses were no exception, but even the coal dockworkers differed from ordinary laborers, carrying an air of gamblers, yakuza, and wandering knights.

While holding a cup, Kintarō's eyes gleamed with renewed resolve. (Whatever world I encounter, I must not refuse it. I must confront it head-on and overcome this.) There was only moving forward, he thought. Since leaving his hometown, he had drifted from place to place. He came to Moji and joined the Hamao Group, crossed to Shimonoseki for the Yamashita Group, and now was with Tobata's Nagata Group—as new worlds unfolded, new acquaintances formed. These were all mountains, passes, and peaks to be traversed on the path where he would become a dragon ascending to the heavens.

(Do not turn back. Just forward.)

Kintarō raised his eyebrows.

The train passed Hakata and arrived at Futsukaichi Station.

The disembarked group headed to Musashi Hot Springs by horse-drawn railway carriage through the still-pouring rain.

They secured lodging at Tsukushi-kan. After changing into yukata and taking baths first, dusk fell, but the rain showed no sign of letting up. In the town, rows of willow trees swayed in the wind, while in the distance, the dark peak of Mount Hōman rising behind Dazaifu blended with the low clouds.

“Everyone, let’s split up and do as we please.” Boss Tanaka Mitsunori, acting as excursion leader, said. Needless to say, the rowdy bunch who had been acting arbitrarily from the start naturally split into three groups when night fell—those who would “drink,” those who would “gamble,” and those who would “patronize.”

However, it wasn’t that they were all complete reprobates from the start—there were also bosses gathered in the hall facing the garden, having serious discussions.

Ōba Haruyoshi spoke haltingly in a grave tone. “The Union needs to get its act together, or else the Cooperative Group will take all our work. After all, we’re up against Tomoda Kizō—Yoshida Isokichi’s top man here.” “…The problem is, when push comes to shove, they resort to brute force. It’s a real nuisance.” “If they come barging into port work with dossu daggers too, it’ll be unbearable.” “Hey, Tamai.” And then, as Kintarō was playing shogi with his deputy colleagues on the engawa veranda, a cup in hand, Ōba Haruyoshi turned his face toward him.

“Huh…?”

When he turned around, “Nagata Mokuji’s got his head in the clouds—completely useless.” “Tamai, down the line we’ll need solid young men like you to protect the Union.” “Oh, I couldn’t possibly…” Kintarō recoiled in surprise. At that moment, zori sandals clattered in the corridor and a sliding door rasped open. A young woman peered in, “The dice are rolling. If you’d follow me, honored bosses.”

She appeared to be guiding the "gambling" group. Kintarō fixed his gaze. The area was dimly lit, and though he couldn't clearly discern the woman's face, his chest had already begun pounding and surging. Her hair in a ginkgo-leaf twist, black collar, oval face—facing directly forward, there had been no mistaking her. To Kintarō, she remained an enigma—a woman whose full form would materialize whenever needed, though they'd met just once in Dōgo two years prior. In Hikoshima, he'd twice been startled by women whose profiles resembled hers, but this time it was unquestionably the genuine article.

The woman didn’t seem to have noticed Kintarō yet. She knelt formally, placing three fingers on the floor, “The Chrysanthemum Room on the second floor.” she said in a mellow voice. “Tamai, want to go check it out?” At Ōba Haruyoshi’s voice saying this as he stood, Kintarō too rose unsteadily to his feet.

They went along the corridor. In the night garden, the bamboo grove rustled under the assault of the rain. Frogs croaked with voices like crunching winter cherries. The sound of the garden pond.

When they came to the restroom at the corner, Ōba Haruyoshi—seeming to need to urinate—said “Just a moment,” slid open the door, and entered.

When they assumed their waiting positions, the gazes of the woman guiding them ahead and Kintarō met. "It's been some time." At Kintarō's words, the woman with her hair in a ginkgo twist looked at the young man's face with bewilderment. A dim electric light glowed. "Have you forgotten? We met once before—at Dōgo Hot Spring's 'Shikokuya,' if you recall..." "Ah, that time..." The woman too seemed to finally recognize him, her eyes sharpening as she scrutinized Kintarō anew.

Kintarō’s face burned so hot that his ears turned red, but his mood had calmed somewhat.

“It’s been about three years since then.” “I haven’t forgotten. …So you’ve become so distinguished…” It might have been flattery, but there was no denying that Kintarō—who back then had been a country peasant from Shikoku, every bit the rural bumpkin—had, over these past three years, shed some of the mud and grime that once clung to him. The gleam in his eyes was different now. Come to think of it, the woman had changed as well. Compared to the youthful firmness of that time, she now exuded nothing but an uncanny, decadently overripe aura. In her solidly plump frame—the slight underbite of her thick lips, her narrow bluish eyes, her plump double-chinned jaw—there brimmed a sensuality that made hearts race. The Hakata obi cinching her Genroku-patterned summer kimono acted like a diffuser spraying out the eerie energy that overflowed from her entire being. Her bare feet—toes elegantly arched in red-corded zori sandals casually slipped on—were beautiful.

The woman suddenly came alive, her narrow eyes glinting as she approached Kintarō, “What a coincidence—to meet you in a place like this after three whole years have passed.” “But I truly did think of you from time to time.” “I can’t forget the impression you made at Shikokuya.” “You were an amateur… It seemed your first time too… Yet to show such a dazzling winning streak—in all my years in the yakuza world, I’d never seen anyone like that before.” “The professionals were all ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ with such dumbstruck faces—it was priceless.” “With half the usual stakes, you won cleanly without once faltering… Hohohoho… Afterwards, the Kantō bosses went—‘What was that?’” “‘Putting on that amateur act while playing demon slayer, aren’t you?’” “……They said things like that.” “……But it was just that one time.” “To think we’d meet again in a place like this…”

Ōba Haruyoshi exited the restroom and was washing his hands when he said, "What’s this? Getting cozy with that woman over there?" "You’re full of surprises," he laughed.

he laughed.

They went to the Chrysanthemum Room on the second floor. Since not all guests had gathered, the dice game had yet to begin. When about twenty people had assembled, it commenced. By now, Kintarō was no longer startled by such atmospheres. The woman with the ginkgo-leaf twist had positioned herself at the center of one half, evidently to conduct the dice game, so Kintarō moved to the even side. He stared wide-eyed at her supple hands manipulating the bamboo pot. “The game.” It had been three years since Kintarō last heard that mellifluous voice. When she rolled up her right sleeve, a splendid tattoo of peonies and butterflies emerged.

The woman placed two dice into the bamboo dice pot, then flipped them over sharply with her pale hand. The dice clattered and settled. Foxes, raccoon dogs, monkeys, wolves, tigers—the guests focused their various eyes, all betting on momentary wins and losses, upon the woman’s hands. She lifted the bamboo dice pot with force. “Even.” At the woman’s voice, a commotion of mingled cries of joy and despair arose among the gathering.

The guests were all travelers from various regions who had gathered at the hot spring, and only five or six faces from the Union Group bosses could be seen.

It seemed there were more people in the "drinking" and "spending" groups than in the "gambling" one. However, many of the other guests were coal mine owners, civil engineering contractors, and labor contractors, and the betting stakes were substantial. Even the usually mild-mannered Ōba Haruyoshi was betting bold sums. Though Kintarō was merely an assistant foreman and not the type to partake in such gentlemen's gambling, Boss Ōba had provided him with capital, allowing him to make bold bets. After seven or eight rounds had passed, Kintarō noticed something strange.

It was only natural that the woman with the ginkgo-leaf twist, having devoted herself single-mindedly to the gambling life, had honed her skills even further in the three years since their last encounter. But as Kintarō watched her deft hands manipulate the dice pot, he suddenly sensed something shadowy at work in her movements—a subtle imperfection in her craft. Then,

“The game.” Yet even in the woman’s resonant voice as she surveyed the gathering, and in her eyes, there lingered something artificial—a hint of deception. Kintarō stiffened, his spear-sharp eyes glaring at the woman’s hands. His intuition had not been wrong. Startled into motion, he rose in a fluster. Hesitation was impossible. “You there—dice handler.”

He called out to the woman. “Me?” “That’s right. Excuse me, but could you step out into the hallway for a moment…” Amidst the suspicious gazes of the entire gathering, the two stepped out into the hallway.

The rain was growing fiercer, and somewhere deep in the bamboo grove, the sound of water roared like a waterfall.

“Is there something you need from me?…”

“Miss, please replace the bamboo dice pot. No cheating. It’s a good thing I noticed, but if the other guests found out, it would cause real trouble. There are some quite particular bosses here.” The woman didn’t press further.

“Understood.” With a pale face, she uttered just a single word, spun around, and returned to the gambling mat.

At first, sensing something was off, he thought they might be using rigged dice. However, when he examined the metal basin closely, he realized that part of the bamboo dice pot had been cleverly disguised, allowing the numbers on the dice inside to be read from the outside. The woman and her accomplices had been making enormous winnings by exploiting this. When Kintarō returned to his seat, Ōba Haruyoshi, who had been sitting beside him, smirked and whispered in a thin voice. “I was thinkin’ of exposin’ their scam right here in front of everyone… But Tamai, you’ve got some decency in ya after all.”

They had spent about an hour at the gambling mat, but having grown tired of betting, Ōba Haruyoshi and Kintarō switched over to drinking. The game had been moderate, neither a significant loss nor gain. The "drinking" group had gathered in the large hall downstairs called the Pine Room. The twelve or thirteen Union Group members, joined by the women they had brought and local geishas, were creating a rowdy uproar. “Hey, Nagata’s Daikoku! Where’d you run off to? Tonight I ain’t leavin’ till I drink you under the table!”

Several bosses hurled similar words at Kintarō one after another. Cups flew like hail. Nagata Mokuji had Saku rest his head on her lap and lay stretched out as if dead. Kintarō was called “Nagata’s Daikoku” because it meant he was the mainstay of the Nagata Group. The Nagata Group would collapse without Tamai Kintarō—that had become common knowledge.

“Let me pour you a drink.” A woman’s alluring voice sounded from beside him. When he turned around, there stood the woman with the ginkgo-leaf twist from the gambling den—he hadn’t noticed her approach—holding out a sake flask with a smile. “I grew tired, so I slipped away from the gambling mat.” “May I stay here and keep you company for a while?” “That’s quite all right.”

Kintarō took his cup and let the woman pour for him. He drank it down in one gulp, then offered the cup to the woman. The woman handled the sake with practiced ease as well.

“It really has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Kintarō was quite drunk. He felt somehow as if he were in a dream. "You're Tamai Kintarō-san, aren't you?" "I heard." "I was saved thanks to you." "As thanks, I'll pour your drinks." "Let's take our time drinking tonight." "There are various things I want to talk about..." "...I'm called Kyōko." "Please call me Okyō."

The woman leaned limply against Kintarō and drew close. A scent like osmanthus flowers—sensuality that clawed at the nerves, temptingly—pleasantly tickled Kintarō’s nose. “Okyō-san? “...That’s a fine name.” Kintarō offered an uncharacteristic compliment. “And who might your companions be?”

“They’re bosses from Kitakyūshū.” “There are all sorts of bosses, you know.” “They’re coal bosses.” “Do they own coal mines?” "Nah, they’re Bosses who load the coal from those mines onto ships at the port." "Mitsui, Mitsubishi, Yasukawa, Kaijima, Aso, Furukawa… There are plenty of wealthy coal mines like those in the Chikuhō Coalfield." "That coal gets transported by steam trains and riverboats to Dōkai Bay." "It’s loaded onto steam trains and sailing ships at Wakamatsu Port and sent off to the Kansai region." "The ones taking on that loading work are the Bosses." “See—Boss Ōba Haruyoshi over there, Boss Tanaka Mitsunori—those Bosses are contractors who’ve formed what’s called the Union Group.”

“Are you one of their subordinates, Mr. Kintarō?” “Nah, I’m a subordinate’s subordinate.” “The Union Group’s got what they call foremen.” “They’re like subcontractors, s’pose.” “They hire dockworkers themselves, bring barges and all their gear to handle the site work... That fella sleepin’ on a woman’s lap over there’s Foreman Nagata Mokuji—my boss... And the one dancin’ round in his loincloth yonder’s Foreman Boss Andō...”

“Mr. Kintarō, you’ll become a proper Boss yourself someday, won’t you?” “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Kintarō’s enunciation gradually grew slurred. The gathering descended into a chaotic melee of men and women, making Kintarō and Okyō’s figures—chatting intimately while passing the cup back and forth—not particularly stand out. Not a soul paid them any mind.

Far from it—the demented, decadent atmosphere grew even more oppressive as the night wore on.

With sweet words and Okyō's skillful cup-filling, Kintarō's eyes grew bleary with intoxication. In his hazy, mist-covered gaze, the lightly powdered Okyō appeared bewitchingly alluring like a phantom woman.

“Kintarō-san, I wanted to see you.” “From our first meeting at Dōgo, I never forgot about you.” “I always thought we’d meet again someday.” “I’m happy we met today.” “So am I.” Such nonsensical words spilled forth as naturally as breath. “Now, let me pour.”

“Okyō-san.” “Yes?” “You said earlier you had something to tell me, didn’t you?” “That can wait until we’ve had more to drink.” The sake cup shuttled back and forth between them like a weaver’s shuttle. Kintarō could hold his liquor well enough, but Okyō’s capacity was astonishing. Though they drank equally, the man sank into unconsciousness from overindulgence while the woman grew paler and sharper. Perhaps she avoided drunkenness because she harbored ulterior motives.

“How can I lose to some woman? …Don’t look down on me.” Kintarō, who had been tediously repeating such sore loser’s excuses, finally collapsed in a drunken stupor.… How much time had passed?

Suddenly waking up, Kintarō looked around restlessly. A profound silence enveloped everything. The earlier revelry, his Union Group comrades, the great hall—all had vanished without trace, leaving him alone lying in a six-tatami room. The electric light at the center of the latticed ceiling glared harshly. His eyeballs ached, his head throbbed dully—he still seemed drunk. A wind chime hung in the transom rang faintly. Outside, the sound of rain mixed with frog croaks could be heard.

Since he couldn’t make sense of his situation at all, he began to wonder if he was dreaming when— “Are you awake?”

Startled by the voice, he turned around. Okyō was sitting there. She was at the left shoulder of Kintarō, who lay on his back. When Kintarō turned around to see what she had been doing, he placed the brush he’d been holding onto a small desk beside him. When viewed from below, the curve of her jaw appeared fuller still, and across the peaks of her white forehead, a faint sheen of sweat had formed. Okyō wore a mysterious smile,

“Kintarō-san, wake up and look in the mirror,” she said.

“Mirror?”

Thinking this was a strange thing to say, Kintarō—drunk and struggling against his lead-heavy upper body—finally managed to sit up, letting out an involuntary cry. He raised his eyebrows, threw open his acorn-round eyes wide, and glared into the large mirror stand before him. When had he been stripped bare? Both his exposed arms now bore resplendent tattoos—left and right alike. Looking closer: on his left arm coiled an ascending dragon parting black clouds with its face turned skyward; on his right sprawled a descending dragon snout-first toward earth. Both creatures possessed fiercely blazing eyes that glittered enormous, resilient whiskers stretching long, jutting horns, taut scales rippling across their forms, flame-like tails lashing behind them, and crimson-dyed serpentine underbellies—all rendered with terrifying vitality. Each gripped a sacred jewel in its forelimbs.

They stood out vividly in deep blue against Kintarō's fine-pored, gleaming white skin. "Kintarō-san, how do you find it?" Too stunned to reply, Kintarō rubbed his arms alternately with both hands. He repeatedly compared his living flesh to the reflections in the mirror. He immediately understood these arm tattoos weren't carved but painted with brushwork. Finally coming to his senses, Kintarō turned toward the woman.

“Okyō-san, did you draw these?” “That’s right. “Does it please you?…”

Kintarō growled. He looked at Okyō’s face anew.

“This one too—I did it myself.”

With that, Okyō suddenly rolled up her kimono's right sleeve to the shoulder in one swift motion. Exposing an arm adorned with a peony-and-butterfly tattoo, she pressed it flush against Kintarō's left arm. "You mean you did this yourself?" "I'm the one who tattooed it." "You can do tattoos?" "I can tattoo."

Kintarō recalled his memories from Dōgo Onsen. When he and Seishichi the blacksmith had gone to Kami no Yu together, they met a young man covered entirely in hannya mask tattoos. It was meeting that third-rate gambler that had led him to know Okyō.

Okyō’s background remained unknown. It was clear that as a young woman she had navigated the dangerous world of gamblers and outlaws, but what history she carried or which boss's backing she enjoyed remained utterly unclear. She seemed like a traveling swindler preying on provincial gentlemen at hot springs, yet her considerable tattooing skills suggested that might be her true profession. Now he remembered hearing tales of a vengeful female tattoo artist. But whether that meant this Okyō, he couldn’t say. To Kintarō at least, she remained an enigma. And though he’d once sensed dangerous poison in her, now he found himself steeped in this venom yet drifting through some strangely pleasant dream.

When he asked about the man covered head to toe in tattoos, “Ah, Hannya no Gorō... Well, what about him?” “He’s a drifter—goes wherever the wind blows. Who knows where he’s roaming now?” Okyō dismissed it as unimportant. Their tattooed arms lay side by side in the mirror. Kintarō’s ascending dragon seemed poised to devour Okyō’s peony blossom. The living warmth from her soft arm seeped into his skin, stirring an unfamiliar sensation within him.

In the distance, the sound of a shamisen being plucked could be heard.

Love and Hate

When the rain that had fallen for four or five days finally cleared, the lingering heat—as if summer had come roaring back—left people listless. The evening cicadas seemed disoriented while aburazemi cicadas sang in the woods. Man had laid out a straw mat on the dirt floor and was weaving sandals. The iron kettle on the kitchen charcoal stove hissed steadily. On the dining table sat a neatly arranged dinner—a pot of simmered sardines that Kintarō loved, grilled eggplant, tofu soup—with a one-go tokkuri beside them. Bowls, plates, and chopsticks—each set for two—stood ready so they could sit down to eat together the moment her husband returned. One cat lay on Man's lap while five or six others were scattered about.

By the time she started weaving the third pair of straw sandals, outside was growing dark. "I wonder if he's not coming home again today..." Man looked out at the twilight and murmured with something like a sigh. The sound of geta reached her ears. (He's back.)

Her heart fluttering, she stood up to find Yone, Boss Nagata's wife, appearing at the entrance. She held the hand of an eight-year-old boy named Shigejihei. Though Yone was several years past thirty, her perpetually timid obedience and unassuming nature never failed to exasperate Man. She always seemed frightened of something, her manner fidgety and nervous. "Miss... Please do come in..."

Man, who had thought it was her husband, was disappointed, but with a nonchalant face, she led Yone into the house.

Yone was looking around the house, but “Kintarō-san still isn’t back yet?” “No, he hasn’t returned.” “How strange…” “What about the Boss?” “Mine hasn’t come home either—but that’s nothing unusual for him.” “When he goes out with some woman, it’s common enough for him to vanish like a spent bullet for a week or ten days.” “But Kintarō-san not returning even five days after that union trip—that’s odd.” “There’s nothing to be done, Miss.” “I’ve made my peace with it.” “A man’s work demands social connections—I can bear a wife’s loneliness.” “If he fawned over his wife and neglected his duties, he couldn’t walk through this world with pride.”

“Well, I know that—Boss Ōba and Boss Tanaka’s Union Group outing crews all came back two or three days ago.” “The only ones who ain’t back are mine and Kintarō-san.”

"I understand," she said. "Tamai is protecting Boss Nagata. He’s devoted to the boss..." "But Miss Saku should be handling that protection..." "He can’t very well leave it to a woman and stay away," she replied. "He’ll come back once he’s finished accompanying the boss... Miss, how about some coarse tea?" "Yes, thank you."

Yone drank her tea, talked for about ten minutes, and left. It was nothing but complaints about her husband’s debauchery and grumbling about the mistress.

That night too, Man slept alone. After becoming deputy, he had been assigned a slightly larger house. Even so, it was an old, dilapidated house with two rooms—a six-tatami and a four-and-a-half-tatami space—located in a corner of a tenement where room servants lived. Still, it was far superior to their house in Hikoshima.

Late at night, Man woke to a strange noise. The sound of the back door being forced open—then, with stealthy footsteps, someone approached the six-tatami room where Man slept. Man listened intently. Perhaps the moon was out, for the house was dimly lit by light from the front. In the faint light, she could see the bedside clock. Wondering what time it was, she brought her face closer—then, as if to say there was no need for that, it chimed "ching" once, striking one o'clock. Outside, the wind was blowing.

The footsteps reached the base of the sliding door and came to a halt. He seemed to be holding his breath as he peered inside. Man lay face down in the futon, "Is that you?" she called out. She thought her husband might have returned. Kintarō, who had a playful streak, would often sneak in late at night to startle Man. This was his way of masking embarrassment, but tonight—perhaps feeling guilty after five days away—he might have quietly slipped in.

“Is that you?” she said again. With a rattling, flustered motion, the sliding door flew open. A hooded man in workman’s clothes burst in chaotically, like a broken wind-up doll, jerking into the room.

Man was startled and sat bolt upright on top of the futon. Still sitting up, she hurriedly threw her kimono on over her sleepwear. “Who are you?” “Burglar-san here—now, don’t make a fuss.”

In his right hand, he held a deba cleaver. He thrust it in front of Man’s nose. In the moonlight’s harsh glare, the thick blade of the stout weapon gleamed dully white. From the cleaver, Man caught the scent of iron and fish. However, upon closer inspection, the cleaver was vibrating incessantly, just like an electric massager. In other words, as the thief’s entire body trembled violently, the cleaver moved along with him. The thief remained restless throughout, unable to settle down, his eyes darting around nervously. Barefoot in tabi socks, he kept shifting his feet, never staying still for a moment. The one making a commotion was the thief himself.

Man had been momentarily startled, but upon observing the burglar's state, she soon regained her composure. Kintarō, who had come home slightly drunk, had once startled Man in this same manner. However, the burglar before her eyes had a frail build that bore no resemblance to her husband, and his voice held no menace. It was a hoarse, trembling voice. He was estimated to be past fifty years of age.

“Do you need money?”

“O-of course!... I... I n-need money, s-so I... I broke in.”

“Right now, I don’t have any money here. My husband took off with the wallet on his trip, and... I haven’t had any work these past few days either...” “D-don’t lie! H-hurry... g-give me the money!” “Is it really that urgent?” “No matter what, I-I need it.” “How troublesome.” Man tilted her head slightly but said, “In that case, wait about ten minutes. I’ll go borrow some for you.”

“Don’t try anything funny.” “Have a smoke and relax while you wait.” Man stood up, left those words behind, and exited through the back door. She hurried through the utterly silent late-night streets, pulling her collar tight against her neck. The nearly full moon shone brightly enough that she didn’t feel particularly lonely. Her mountain village hometown had been far more desolate. Yet this moonlit stillness—devoid of sound or human presence—somehow evoked memories of her hometown valley, stirring an abrupt pang of nostalgia within Man. A dog’s distant bark echoed in her ears like the cry of a fox.

(I wonder how everyone is doing.) Her father’s face, her mother’s face, her younger brother’s face, and then Ōkawa Tokujirō’s face floated into her mind. I wonder if Tokuyan is still delivering mail on horseback? Deep within Man’s chest, something prickled and throbbed.

It was about one and a half chō to Nagata Mokuji’s house.

Man went around to [the] backdoor and knocked.

Yone came out to the kitchen's glass door, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “Man-san... Is that you?” “Yes.”

“What’s brought you here at this hour?” Yone opened the door.

"Is Master here?" "He still hasn't come back." "Sis, I'm sorry to ask, but could you lend me ten yen right away?" "What on earth... at this hour, so suddenly...?" "I'll explain tomorrow. I'm in a hurry. Please."

“Is that so?”

Yone looked suspicious but nodded and retreated inside. Before long, she reappeared with ten one-yen bills neatly arranged. “Since it’s you, Man-san, there must be no mistake. I’ll hear the details tomorrow.” “Thank you very much.”

Upon receiving it, she hurried home as though running. The autumn night air was cold, seeping into the nape of her neck. The moon hung like a chunk of ice.

When she returned home, a fierce battle was unfolding inside the house. The thief waved a deba knife as he fought with the cats. Of the seven felines, several brave and loyal ones confronted the suspicious intruder—their fur bristling, teeth bared, growling as they stood their ground. Crouched low in fear, the thief could only flail his kitchen knife while shooing them away with frantic "Shoo! Shoo!" cries. At the sight of Man's figure, the cats fell silent. They meowed plaintively and pressed close to her.

“I’ve borrowed it for you……Here.”

Man presented ten one-yen bills. The thief was clumsily counting them with trembling hands, but then fell silent as if deep in thought. He was sniffling back snot. Eventually, he raised his face.

“I-I don’t need this much.” “Six yen would be enough.” “I’ll return four yen.”

“It’s fine—go ahead and take it all.” “Nah, six yen’s enough. If you’ve gone and borrowed it, you’ll have to pay it back again anyway.” “‘Cause when that time comes, it’ll be hard for you—so I’m giving back the extra.” “I see.” “Thanks a bunch. “Well, I’ll be off then…” “Wait. “If you go wandering outside at this hour, you’ll look suspicious.” “The officers were making their rounds earlier too.” “I’ll walk you there.” Man, accompanied by the thief, stepped out into the moonlit streets once more.

“Which direction are you heading?” “Well, any direction’s fine… maybe I’ll head toward the station.” At the corner leading to the station, they encountered a policeman. He held a lantern. He strode over brusquely. “Hey! You there!” Man looked at his face,

“Mr. Yasuki, it’s me.” “Oh, Mrs. Tamai? Where are you off to at this hour?” "A relative came to visit—we got hungry, so I thought we’d go get some udon..." Noticing the late-night udon stall’s lantern at the street corner, Man had impulsively offered that excuse.

“I see. Autumn nights do make you hungry.” “Go on then.”

Because the policeman was walking in the same direction, she had no choice but to stop by the late-night udon stall. The policeman went on his way, swinging his lantern and making his saber and boots clatter noisily. “Mr. Atariya, two bowls of fried tofu udon, please.”

The udon shop owner was also an acquaintance. “Mrs. Tamai? You’re late,” he said. “Was just thinkin’ of closin’ up.” “Isn’t one o’clock too early? You usually stay open past two…” “Damn gangsters causin’ trouble,” he grumbled. “Why?”

“That bastard Kakusuke just took all my earnings.” “After stuffing himself full, that damn good-for-nothing.” “This makes four times now.” “You should tell the police.” “If I did that, I wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.” “This town’s rotten to the core, I tell ya.” “Can’t run a decent business here no more.” “The yakuza strut around like they own the place, and these days even thieves are multiplying.” “I’m done for from tomorrow on.” “They’ve cleaned me out—might have to turn thief myself.”

After handing two bowls of kitsune udon to Man and another man, the late-night udon vendor kept complaining bitterly.

“Mr. Atariya.”

"Right 'ere!" "Why don'tcha use this fer yer capital?"

Man took out the two one-yen bills she had received back from the thief from her obi. “Oh no, I’ve already caused you trouble, ma’am...”

“I don’t mind. We help each other in hard times.”

“I see… Well then…”

Atariya received them with hesitant reverence. He was a small-framed, fair-skinned old man over sixty who seemed meek.

He was a small-framed, fair-skinned old man over sixty who seemed meek. "By the way," the udon vendor suddenly lowered his voice as if wary of being overheard, "Kakusuke was dead drunk earlier—even if Tamai Kintarō wants to die peacefully on his tatami, the wholesalers won’t let it happen that easily. ...He was sayin' somethin' like that. Anythin' changed on your end?" “He’s just jealous, isn’t he?” “I split from the Nagata Group. That bald old fool ain’t got no future left. Said he’s gonna become an underling for Wakamatsu’s ‘Dotera Granny.’ ...He was sayin’ stuff like that too.” “That bald old fool ain’t got no future left.” “He’s gonna become an underling for Wakamatsu’s ‘Dotera Granny.’” “…He was sayin’ stuff like that too.”

The thief was eating udon facing away to avoid having his face illuminated by the stall’s lantern.

The dog barked again in a fox-like voice.

The next morning, as Man was gathering the cats to feed them, Nagata Yone came carrying her son on her back.

The veranda was lively. The cats' feast consisted of leftovers from the meal she had prepared for Kintarō the previous day. Man's devoted efforts toward her husband had, over these five days, transformed into daily service to the cats. Seven plates for seven cats. "Good morning, Man-san."

“Good morning.” "My, looks like the cats are blooming like flowers here!" “You really do dote on those cats, Man-san.” “They say childless folks lavish care on animals—seems true after all.” “But you two being so healthy—how come no baby’s come yet?” “Still no signs?” “None.” “How strange...” “Hasn’t it been two years since you wed?”

“It’s a blessing no child’s been born.” “In a poor household like ours, we couldn’t possibly raise one.” “Oh now—they say even if one mouth goes hungry, two can manage somehow. Raising your own child’d be easier than keeping seven cats, you know.”

Nagata Yone set Mokujihira down on the veranda where the cats had gathered and sat down herself.

Refreshing morning light streamed abundantly onto the veranda. A steamship whistle sounded from the direction of the harbor. “By the way, what in the world happened last night?”

“A thief broke in, is what happened.”

“Thief?” Yone’s acorn-round eyes bulged. She glanced around with a creeped-out look, as if the thief might still be hiding nearby.

Man laughed, “I went to your place to borrow the money for the thief.” “What’s that?” Yone was aghast. “Such a foolish thing…”

“It’s true. Last night’s thief seemed like an honest person.” “What kind of nonsense are you spouting? Would an honest person ever resort to thievery? He’s a bad person.” “No, I didn’t think that thief was a bad person. He must’ve been someone driven to steal for the first time. He must’ve been truly driven to desperation. Without six yen, he either had to flee under cover of darkness or face life or death... Driven to such desperation, he must’ve resolved to steal. So I decided to try and get the money for him, which is why I went to borrow it from you.”

“What a ridiculous story,” Yone scoffed. “There’s those who’d borrow money for a thief, sure—but a thief who sits around blushing while waiting for you to return? That’s still a thief through and through. Didn’t it occur to you he might’ve brought the cops? Never heard such nonsense in my life.” “Sis.” Man held out two silver coins. “Here’s your change.” “Change? You gave six yen to that thief from ten—how’s there two left?” “The night-sobbing udon vendor Atariya-san got robbed too. I gave him the rest.”

“What a generous lass you are.”

Yone wore an expression of utter exasperation.

Then another two days passed, but still, Kintarō had not returned.

During Kintarō's absence, on days when cargo work needed doing, Man managed the group's affairs with brisk efficiency, resolved to fulfill the responsibilities that fell to Kintarō as deputy leader. During early morning cargo operations, she would rise alone in the desolate predawn hours to rouse the group's dockworkers, taking charge of both planning the work and seeing it through to completion. Yet there inevitably arose matters beyond a woman's strength. At such times she would grow irritated—a mingling of pity and frustration— (What's he doing out there? If the boss weren't so useless, I wouldn't get dragged into this. He should just quit coddling that layabout and haul himself home already...)

And so she pinned all the blame on their boss and resented Nagata Mokuji.

Matsukawa Genshū, who served as sub-deputy under Kintarō, had a face covered in pockmarks resembling ammonites and was called "Six-Zero Gen" by his comrades. Rokuzoro referred to the configuration of two six pips aligned on dice. Genshū was also a petty gambler. Yet he proved diligent in his work and shared a rapport with Kintarō. Thirty years old.

He said to Man,

“Man-san, you don’t need to worry,” he said, as was his habit. “I’ll handle things until Kin-san gets back. I won’t do anything to disgrace Kin-san’s reputation.” “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. If Kakusuke’s gone, there ain’t a soul left in this group who’d think of ousting Kin-san. Nah, that ain’t all. With the boss bein’ like that, most folks in the Nagata Group already see Kin-san as their real leader in their hearts.”

“Thanks.” “There’s been strange rumors goin’ around lately. Apparently, the Union’s sayin’ Boss Nagata’s methods are so rotten, they’re gonna demote him. Thanks to Kin-san bein’ here, our worksite’s better than other groups’, but with the boss bein’ such a mess, seems there’s folks sayin’ they oughta disband the Nagata Group. Even if they say it’s all within the Union’s own ranks, there’s ambitious folks among us contractors—we can’t let our guard down. If the group were to disband, it’d be a big problem.”

"If only he'd come back sooner. What a thoughtless boss we have." Man could not help but single-mindedly resent Nagata Mokuji.

The following night, as Man laid out a straw mat on the dirt floor and was weaving straw sandals as usual,

“Are y’in?”

From the entrance came a woman’s voice in Osaka dialect, requesting to be let in. When Man stood up to go,

“Man-san, it’s been a while, eh?” “Oh, Ms. Kimika!”

Man, too, was surprised. Two years had passed since they had last parted in Hikoshima.

The day before Kintarō and his wife were expelled from Hikoshima, Shinzō and Kimika had reportedly gone to Beppu Hot Springs. After that, they vanished without a trace—no matter whom one asked, nobody knew anything about them. The couple must have whispered countless times during their pillow talk, "I wonder what became of Shinzō." "What about Shinzō?" When she ushered Kimika inside, those were the first words that sprang from Man's lips.

“Mr. Shinzō is in Fukuoka Prison.” “Prison?”

“Hmm.” “Actually, that’s why I came to ask… Mr. Tamai?” “My husband’s been away traveling for some time now… But why would Shinzō be in prison again?...”

What she wanted to know, above all else, was that matter. The Kimika who had once dazzled Man and the others as a fashionably Western-dressed beauty in Hikoshima was nowhere to be found now. Every aspect of her now embodied pure Japanese style, like the proprietress of an upscale traditional restaurant. Her wig-styled coiffure retained its chicness, while the pale nape visible beneath her black collar glistened with dew-like freshness. Though her round, slightly jowled face had always carried composure, two years had layered it with newfound gravity. This weight manifested as boldness in her bearing. Only the mole beneath the right corner of her lips remained unchanged from before.

While sipping the coarse tea Man had poured and served, Kimika looked around the house. "Haven't you had a baby yet?" "Not yet." "I've had one."

“Oh!” Man gazed at Kimika with surprise. “You don’t look like a mother.” “She’s already two.” “Shin-san’s child?” “That’s right.” “Since she’s my daughter, I named her Yurika.” “If she takes after you and Shin-san, she must be adorable.” “That’s true.” “So why did Shin-san end up in prison?” “For what crime?...” “Murder.” “Oh my—a murder charge?”

“Well, that’s how it is. If I don’t speak of the shame, you won’t understand, so I’ll lay it all out, but…” With that, Kimika began recounting what had happened since Hikoshima. As Man listened, the words Kintarō had muttered with a grave expression on the day they were driven out of the island came back to her.

“Shinzō’s being thoughtless too, huh. Kimika’s someone... seems to be the second woman of some troublesome guy in Yoshida Isokichi’s inner circle, but anyway, she’s no good.”

That prophecy had come true. Kimika had indeed been the second woman of "that troublesome man," though he wasn't part of Yoshida Isokichi's inner circle. He was a Shimonoseki power broker - a construction contractor infamously called Mamushi-Ichi. This Mamushi-Ichi had caught wind of Shinzō and Kimika going to Beppu, rushed there to kill Shinzō, only to end up dead himself instead. From the start, Shinzō had harbored no murderous intent - it was a desperate act when cornered, with some element of self-defense that lightened his sentence. What began as Kimika pitying Shinzō Morishita - who'd been left half-dead over something as petty as being called a "Russian spy" - visiting him out of sympathy, gradually twisted into affection that spiraled into murder.

“Shin-san made me swear—‘Don’t ever tell Tamai about this.’... Since he was so insistent, I’d kept it hidden till now. But there’s several matters come up where I absolutely need his advice—that’s why I’ve come troubling you.” “What’s this consultation you want from me?...”

“Mr. Shinzō will be out of prison in four or five days.” “Though his sentence isn’t finished yet, they’re granting him parole for good behavior.” “So we wanted Mr. Tamai to be his guarantor.” “Shinzō-san refused—we’d kept it hidden until now—but once he’s back in the world, he still wants to become Mr. Tamai Kintarō’s junior and handle everything properly.” “‘If you could bring Brother along to visit me in prison just once...’ he said.”

“I’d be glad to, and Kintarō will go meet him too.” “So Shin-san—after he gets out, does he have any work lined up?”

“Oh, that’s all settled already, you see. “For that matter too, we’ll need Mr. Tamai’s help, but there’s an old patron of mine who’s taken pity on us and agreed to generously hand over a little restaurant. “Shinzō-san’s all fired up about it too—says ‘That’s the way,’ you see—and I’m thinking of taking in five or six geisha and running a geisha house there myself.”

“Where would that be?” “Wakamatsu, you see.”

“Wakamatsu?” Man's face clouded slightly. As a town teeming with troublesome bosses—starting with Yoshida Isokichi, Tomoda Kizō, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, and Doteraba-basan—along with fixers and numerous yakuza gangs, her husband Kintarō had been avoiding Wakamatsu, and Man similarly regarded it as if it were a jungle inhabited by wild beasts.

Kimika had no way of understanding such things, so with a face alight with hope and vitality, “Mr. Shinzō said he wants to get into the entertainment business too,” she continued. “Though truth be told, I don’t know much about it myself—but he made a friend in prison, this fellow from Wakamatsu way or such, and they got along so famously that he insists Mr. Tamai must meet him once we’re out. Wants them to become sworn brothers, he says.”

“What’s his name?” “He called himself Kumamaru Toraichi.” “What a fearsome name.”

The two exchanged glances and giggled. "But you, Man-san—far from being scary, you’re so kind… As Shinzō-san put it—like a white mouse, fair-skinned and petite, a gentle soul." "That’s how he put it." "Prisons—y’know, you’d think they’re full of nothing but bad folks, but everyone there’s actually decent people." "It’s those swaggering around in the outside world who’ve got way more bad folks among ’em." “……He was saying things like that too.”

Kimika’s stories were all cheerful. Man’s feelings of joy for Shinzō and Kimika’s new life together remained unchanged. Despite this, an unfathomable unease welled up in Man’s heart, and a faint yet peculiar palpitation began to pound. In a jungle teeming with sharp-fanged beasts where Shinzō Morishita planned to open a traditional restaurant and entertainment business—and the connection this venture had to her husband Kintarō... Man’s premonition and foresight did not seem to be mere illusions conjured from emptiness.

Kimika wrote down her Wakamatsu address, asking that Man contact Kintarō as soon as he returned, left a gift of sea urchins, and hurried off with brisk steps.

The next morning, as she was doing laundry, a messenger from Ōba Haruyoshi arrived. He was an old man named Yasukichi, the gardener. In a hurried tone, “Man-san, come to Boss Haruyoshi’s house shortly. There’s something important he absolutely needs to discuss with you.”

Man quickly changed into a kimono and left the house with old man Yasukichi. The Ōba residence stood on Makiyama's elevated plateau. Backed by dense woods and encircled by towering moso bamboo groves, there sat a modest white-walled house. Sparrows chattered ceaselessly.

When they arrived at the Ōba residence, Matsukawa Genshū, the deputy boss, was already there. It seemed he too had been summoned by messenger.

Haruyoshi was waiting for the two in the storeroom’s tatami room. Silently serving tea, sweets, and tobacco, he suddenly spoke in an angry tone, “Something big’s happened.” he began. “What’s this about?” Rokuzōro no Gen, startled, pinched his long, ammonite-shaped jaw. “Tokyo. Police boxes and streetcars are being burned down one after another. A national rally against the peace treaty was held in Hibiya, they’re storming ministers’ homes—the capital’s in complete chaos. Finally, they’ve imposed martial law, I tell you. That’s only natural. After waging such a massive war and being subjected to this humiliating diplomacy, how could the people possibly stay silent? I’d even want to join in the arson attacks myself, I tell you.”

“Is today’s business about that matter?” “Of course not—no matter how furious I am, there’s no way I could go help torch Tokyo. Truth is, while Tokyo matters, we’ve got our own crisis brewing here. That’s why I called you in. Tomorrow the NYK Line’s Panama Maru docks. We’ve got to load a thousand tons of cargo coal—massive job. This is Union turf with Nagata Group on watch, but Tomoda Kizō’s crew’s scheming to snatch it. Rumor says Dotera-baba’s thugs might crash the site. They shouldn’t dare play rough, but with that lawless mob—who knows what tricks they’ll pull? If Tamai were here, we’d sleep easy... But whatever’s happened, he still ain’t back...”

“Boss, I’m sorry.” Man felt her shoulders hunch inward. “But Boss Nagata’s gone too far. With him not returning, those loyal to him are getting dragged into—” “Since the boss hasn’t come back, those who care for him are being pulled along...” “Nagata returned the night before last. I asked about Tamai, but he claims not to know.” Man’s heart seemed to flip over inside her chest. Thump-thump—violent palpitations hammered through her body.

(Could he have been killed by Kakusuke?) Atariya the Night-Crying Udon Seller had been talking—Kakusuke’s words, that even if Tamai wanted to die on the tatami, the wholesalers wouldn’t allow it, came back to her with terrifying clarity. Ōba Haruyoshi knew that Kintarō had been associating with a suspicious woman tattooed with peonies and butterflies, but he never mentioned it. “Well then,” he said, earnestly reiterating the Panama Maru cargo operation’s importance before dismissing them.

Carrying a disordered, heavy heart, Man returned home.

Then there was someone inside the house. Thinking it might be her husband, she hurried in. “Man-chan,”

It was Ōkawa Tokujirō from the mountain depths of their hometown. “Oh, Toki-yan!”

At this, even Man was surprised. “I’ve finally found you!” Tokujirō’s face beamed with joy as he said, “You have no idea how much I searched. “Ever since I ran away from home wanting to see you, Man-chan, I’ve wandered all over northern Kyushu till my legs turned to stumps.” “Thank heavens, thank heavens.” “Well don’t just stand there—come inside.” Man led Tokujirō into the six-mat room. Seven cats stared at the unfamiliar man with wary eyes.

Tokujirō was wearing a postal worker’s high-collared uniform. He had always worn this uniform while mounted on a horse, delivering mail across valleys, hills, and mountain passes. Even though they were meeting for the first time in four years, as she looked at Tokujirō, she couldn’t shake the illusion that his beloved four-year-old horse might be tethered outside. His skin was sunburned, but he retained the same robust strength from years past; his thick, rugged eyebrows and the knobby fingers of his large hands still carried the scent of their home valley. “Where should I begin…?”

With eyes filled with four years of emotion, Tokujirō looked at Man—transformed from the girl he once knew. In Tokujirō's eyes, Man was no longer the peasant girl from four years past—the one who had rolled tobacco leaves, fed cattle, and burned charcoal in that sun-starved valley. Though the wildness hadn't vanished from Man's face, there was no denying that something unknown to Tokujirō had added new hues and a certain refinement to her. It had become a strange kind of pressure that weighed upon Tokujirō. In the mountain depths of Hiroshima, he had never felt such a thing from Man. All the more so, Tokujirō found himself increasingly losing his composure, his mood growing edgier as if being chased—he could do nothing to stop it.

“Are your father and mother doing well?” Even Man’s perfectly natural question grated on his nerves,

“They’re doin’ fine.” he answered angrily,

“Man-chan, you’re one hell of a woman,” he said, every pretense stripped away now, his voice thick with resentment. This was the explosive moment—four years of pent-up longing and frustration pouring out. “Ever since you vanished from the countryside, you heartless woman—you’ll never know how goddamn lonely I’ve been.” “I meant to marry you—truly believed you were set on becoming my wife.” “When Kei-yan, the village head’s second son, came courtin’ you so fierce-like—I thought you never once refused him ‘cause of me.” “Then you flee the village without so much as a word to me...”

Tokujirō’s excitement made his words come in fragments. Man was taken aback by the sudden confession. She stiffened, looked down, and heard her old flame’s voice like thunderclaps in her ears. Tokujirō wore a desperate expression. He leaned forward. “Anything’s fine. Even startin’ now’s fine. Marry me. That’s the only reason I left the village. No matter how much them villagers think ’bout me or talk shit, long as I can be your husband, I’ll die content.”

“Toki-yan, you bringing up such an impossible thing now, after all this time…”

Tokujirō's knee, edging closer, pressed tightly against Man's kneecap. However, Man did not attempt to pull away. The excited Tokujirō took her hand. Man let it happen. “An impossible thing?... Now, after all this time?...” “That's not it.” “Ain’t nothin’ impossible ‘bout that.” “Even startin’ now ain’t too late.” “Let’s become husband and wife right now.” “I kept waitin’, thinkin’ even if you left the village once, you’d surely come back.” “Well, it’s not like we ever made any formal marriage promise or anything.” “But we both should’ve known it in our hearts already.” “Right, Man-chan? That’s how it was, ain’t it?”

“You liar, Toki-yan.” “You two-timer.” “What’d you do with Kin-san, huh?” Trying to voice sarcasm, she unintentionally slipped into her hometown dialect.

“Kin-brat?” “Oh right. You were all cozy with Kin-san, but when it came to me, you couldn’t be bothered…”

In Man’s eyes, the scene of the watermill at dusk appeared vividly. On the embankment where pampas grass plumes shimmered along the stream, Tokujirō and Kin sat shoulder to shoulder, conversing intimately about something. They laughed with genuine delight, their mirth ringing out. The pair looked like a fox and raccoon dog together. At that moment—(So that was how it had been)—she felt herself cast aside, and through the jealousy she first tasted then, her resolve to abandon the village solidified.

Tokujirō took on an astonished expression, “Nothin’ like that! “What could there possibly be between Kin-brat and me? “Well, we were friends, so we talked sometimes. “We’d meet by the watermill and laugh about how that Monopoly Bureau ‘demon’ got tricked by a fox. “But if we’re friends, ain’t that kind of thing just natural? “Man-chan, are you just pickin’ faults with me ’cause you dislike me? “I’m serious, you know. “Kin-bō was married off over two years ago to the third son of Master Buijū from Takakado. I’ve never thought about any woman other than Man-bō. He’d left the village behind—post office and all. “Please become my wife.”

“Toki-yan, don’t you realize I’ve already become someone’s wife?” “I went to visit Brother Rinsuke in Moji and asked about where you’d gone.” “At that time, I was told you’d been lured away by some strange man named Tamai Kintarō and crossed over to Hikoshima Island in Shimonoseki.” “But I didn’t hear you’d become Tamai’s wife.” “I’ve become that strange man’s wife.” “Anyway, he’s just some gambling longshoreman with tattoos—a thug, right?”

“Tattoos? He’d never do something so foolish.” “None of that matters. Break it off with that man. You ain’t even properly registered with him, are you?” “We’re not officially registered, but…” “Do you have any children?” “I can’t.”

“Then there’s nothin’ to it. Man-chan, I’m beggin’ you.”

“Wait.”

Man brushed off Tokujirō’s hand and picked up the tobacco pipe beside her. With calm hands, she packed the tobacco cuttings and quietly took a puff. Tokujirō’s eyes glistened eerily, and large beads of greasy sweat oozed across his forehead.

Man hollowed her cheeks and inhaled the smoke deeply, then thrust out her chest and exhaled it with a "Hoo." She banged the kiseru's bowl against the brazier's edge and knocked out the embers.

“Toki-yan.” “Huh?”

“Wait until Tamai Kintarō returns.” “When’s he coming back?” “I don’t know.” “Where’s he gone off to?”

"About a week ago, he went to a place called Musashi Hot Springs in Futsukaichi."

“Oh, so that’s how it is. If he went to the hot springs and hasn’t come back in a week, he’s definitely there getting cozy with some whorish hot spring women. You should cut ties with that man right away.” “I might cut him off, but regardless, wait until he returns. Ask Tamai yourself—if Tamai says it’s fine for me to become your wife, then I will.” “Forget all that complicated stuff—let’s just get out of this house right now, the two of us.”

"You impossible blockhead!"

Her tone was sharp. Two or three cats, startled, leapt up. Ōkawa Tokujirō too, with a suddenness as though he’d been slapped across the cheek, took on a bewildered expression. Even before this, he had felt strangely oppressed, but that rebuking voice completely crushed Tokujirō.

Tokujirō suddenly lost his words, deeply lowered his head, and looked down.

Man smoked another cigarette in silence.

Tokujirō raised his head with a dejected expression. “Man-chan, I’ll wait for that Tamai Kintarō fellow to come back.” he said in a weak voice. Then, at last, the two of them regained the calm of hometown acquaintances meeting after long separation and animated their conversation with stories of the village since their parting.

Even when the day ended and night fell, Kintarō did not return.

Tokujirō ended up staying.

Man decided to sleep in the six-tatami room and the guest in the four-and-a-half-tatami one, but there were no futons. The rice cracker futon that "Nandemo-ya" had given them as a farewell gift when they were expelled from Hikoshima had seen years pass by, its padding replaced multiple times and its outer fabric re-covered. There were only two layers—upper and lower—and their household finances still weren’t sufficient to make guest futons. “Toki-yan, wrap yourself up in this and sleep.”

Man handed the thicker futon mattress to Tokujirō.

"Nah, I don't need no futon. "It ain't cold. "I'll sleep rough." "The night gets cold—you'll catch a chill. “Here, wrap yourself in this.” "But I told you I don't need it..." The two were mid-argument over the futon when—CLATTER! BANG!—the shoji door burst open violently enough to shake the house. When Man and Tokujirō whirled around in surprise, Kintarō stood rigidly framed in the room’s entrance.

Kintarō glared with acorn-round eyes, bit his lower lip with his upper teeth, and stripped off his upper garments. In his right hand he gripped a dagger, while on his left arm—from shoulder to bicep—an ascending dragon tattoo stood out vividly in indigo. "I found your lover!" "I'll cut both of you down." "Sit there!" At Kintarō's ferocious glare, Tokujirō involuntarily dropped to his knees on the tatami. He sat. Man stared blankly, her eyes darting back and forth. Her gaze fixed on Kintarō's left arm. More than wanting to dispel her husband's misunderstanding or anger, what concerned her most was the mysterious pattern now etched on his arm—something she had never seen before.

From the glass chimney of the hanging lamp, a large moth had been fluttering restlessly since earlier. Each time it beat its wings, it scattered fine golden dust, but now it flew toward Kintarō and alighted on his left arm. In that instant, the moth vanished. Man started, her eyes widening to saucers. On her husband's arm, the dragon ascending through clouds with blazing eyes appeared to snap up the moth in one gulp. This phantom-like vision threw her into disarray. The husband she'd known intimately for two years now seemed transformed into a stranger—a bizarre delusion that drew from her a shuddering sigh.

"What on earth happened to that tattoo? When, where, and who gave it to you?" Such an obvious question—when she saw Kintarō standing there with that terrifying expression of rage—simply refused to leave her lips. Nor did any urge to defend herself against his suspicions about Tokujirō arise within Man.

The joy of seeing her long-awaited husband, the anger, the sadness—all tangled together, (Hmph—who knows where he'd been wandering till this hour? To come barging in and call me an adulteress—the nerve of this man!) In her heart, she clung to that contrary stubbornness.

When Man noticed the dagger gripped in Kintarō’s right hand, she furrowed her brows in suspicion. It was the Sukehiro dagger her husband treasured like his very soul. Two years ago on Hikoshima Island, she had borrowed it without permission from Kintarō’s willow trunk to prepare for troublemakers' attacks. Even after their marriage, he would occasionally take it out for maintenance, so Man had become familiar with every detail of its blade texture, shape, and patina. (That dagger was supposed to be in the paulownia chest at home...?)

If that were true, then her husband hadn't come bursting in immediately upon returning home. Had he watched for a while, then quietly taken the dagger from the chest before sliding open the shoji? Tokujirō sat in seiza, pressing his clenched fists onto his thighs as he stared fixedly at Kintarō in silence. It seemed he wasn't acting out of fear, but rather trying to discern the true nature of this strange man. (Is this my rival in love?)

Man had said he didn't have any tattoos, but here was this flashy tattooed ruffian after all—Tokujirō's eyes blazed with scorn and hatred as he took up a fighting stance. He had no weapon, but was confident in the strength and techniques that had earned him the yokozuna rank in village sumo wrestling. Tokujirō's thick dark eyebrows twitched and writhed. Kintarō stood blocking the way, watching them both, then slowly opened his mouth.

“'Tis always the husband who knows last—that’s what folk used to say.” “I put my trust in you alone, Man... And see what sprouts when I’m gone but a moment?” “A woman’s heart’s a frightful thing.” “Women are demons through and through.” (What rot you’re spewing—men make fiercer demons by half!)

Man thought as much but didn’t voice it.

Kintarō crossed his arms. The dagger in his right hand moved to his left arm, and the dragon appeared to be gripping it in its jaws. “Man… adulterer,” he said, glaring alternately at the two of them, “you’ve got luck on your side. By rights, the proper way to deal with adulterers is to lay you both out here and cut you down tonight, but I’ll postpone that just for now.” “Tomorrow night.” “Because there’s work I must finish before then, no matter what. ……Man—on my way back from my trip, I stopped by Boss Ōba’s place to apologize and heard about the Panama Maru cargo job.” “Boss Ōba was absolutely delighted that I’d made it back in time for this job—‘I’m counting on you,’ he said, taking my hand.” “I was happy too, thinking I’d returned at just the right time.” “This job concerns the Nagata Group—no, the entire United Group’s survival. No matter what happens, we’ve got to see it through, I tell you.” “When I return from a trip to find you with a lover, my guts churn with rage—but if we botch tomorrow’s Panama Maru job, my honor as a man won’t stand.” “We’ll settle all matters after the Panama Maru job.” “……Man, you understand?”

Man stared sharply at her husband’s face and, without a word, gave one large nod. At that moment, she blinked for the first time. Kintarō looked up at the hanging lamp and muttered to himself, “Tomorrow’s job won’t end quietly, I tell you. “Since Doteraba-baa’s gang might try to interfere, we can’t do this the usual way. “Behind Doteraba-baa stands Tomoda Kizō. “Tomoda’s plotting to seize control of every job in this port by force from the ground up. “What’s worse—while I was away, Kakusuke turned traitor and joined Doteraba-baa’s gang. That complicates things even more, I tell you. “Kakusuke knows my methods—he might try to outflank me. “So this time…we’ll have to outflank their outflanking. …Man”

Surely, Kintarō's intense eyes pierced Man once more.

Man remained silent, her attention fixed on her husband’s lips.

“You—go rouse everyone in the quarters right now. “Assemble at Shinkawa Quay at two AM. Row the large barge out beyond the lighthouse and have it ready to await the Panama Maru’s arrival. “I’ve already coordinated everything with Deputy Boss Genkichi. “Once you’ve briefed Kogata, go to Master Nagata’s house, cook sixty breakfast portions on the spot, and deliver them to the Panama Maru. “By then, the ship should’ve made port. “……Hey, adulterer—I’d take even a cat’s help right now, I tell you.” “Though with seven cats in our house, not a one’s worth a damn. “You’re pitching in too.”

Valley of Human Bonds In the Nagata family kitchen stood two three-shō kettles, permanently installed. As with any foreman's household—where preparing fifty to a hundred boxed meals for night shifts, dawn shifts, or distant cargo operations was no rarity—their cooking facilities remained ever at the ready.

Under Man's instructions, the freshly steamed rice was rapidly formed into rice balls. Three large rice balls and five thick slices of takuan pickled daikon constituted one portion, each wrapped in bamboo sheaths and then in old newspaper. As soon as they were ready, they were swiftly packed into baskets. With Nagata Yone joining them, the four female dockworkers remained wholly absorbed in preparing boxed meals. "Miss Toki."

Then Man called out to one of the women. “Yes?” “I’m sorry to ask, but could you make a quick run to the sake shop? Tell them to deliver two five-shō barrels immediately to Nagata.”

“That’s one to, right?” “I’ll be on my way.” As Toki exited through the gate, a boyish-looking man wearing a Nagata Group happi coat entered through the same entrance in passing. This was Taniguchi Shunji, affectionately nicknamed “Middle Schooler.” “Are the boxed meals ready yet?”

“They’ll be ready soon. Will you take them when they’re ready, Shun?”

Man doted on "Middle Schooler" because he closely resembled her younger brother Gyūzō back home. "Yes, I'll take them." Shunji sat down on the doorframe and noisily gulped water from the kettle placed there, his throat making audible swallowing sounds. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he turned toward Man who was slicing takuan pickled daikon. “Tamai’s sis.” “Huh?” "I just came from Shinkawa Quay, and Boss Ōba was out at the docks, I tell you."

“Boss Ōba?……”

“There was someone with a Union Group lantern at the pier—when I wondered who it might be, it turned out to be Boss Ōba himself, I tell you.” “That’s trouble!” Man suddenly stood up, startled. “Once the sake arrives, have Shun take it along with the meals.” After leaving these instructions with Nagata Yone, she rushed outside in a flurry. In her right hand gripped a bow-shaped paper lantern emblazoned with “Nagata Group.”

The chill of autumn night air stabbed into her chest like a thrusting hand. The moon hung dim and blurred. Man pulled her collar tight with her left hand, pressed that arm against the swell of her breasts, and quickened her pace. She passed by the Night Crying Udon’s “Atariya.”

“Mrs. Tamai, thank you for the other day. How about a hot bowl?”

Ignoring even Atariya's words, she quickened her pace further. In the depths of a narrow alleyway behind the train station was located Nagata Mokuji's mistress's residence. She banged repeatedly on the lattice door. "Telegram! Telegram!" O-Saku appeared wearing a red underkimono. Her hair was disheveled. "Please tell Boss Nagata to return with me immediately. Out of concern for the Panama Maru job, even Great Boss Ōba himself has come to oversee things. Tamai and the others've already rowed out as far as the lighthouse offshore. How do you expect us to manage when the one person we need—Boss Nagata—isn't even here?"

Saku, having withdrawn once, soon reappeared. She had thrown a haori jacket over her underkimono. She had also swept up her disheveled hair.

“The master simply won’t wake up.” “Is he dead?” “No, he isn’t dead, but…” “If he’s not dead, there’s no reason he can’t wake up! Did you really even try to wake him?” “I tried calling out to him quite a bit, but... he was just so terribly drunk...”

“Excuse me.”

Man placed the lantern on the entryway step, removed her sandals, and strode briskly into the inner rooms. The house was narrow, so Nagata Mokuji’s futon where he lay sleeping came into view immediately. The room was pallid. The mantle of the ceiling gas lamp made the white fabric net glow brightly yet dully, as if breathing. A foul odor like rancid food assaulted her nostrils. A vermilion-lacquered box pillow with peeling paint lay beside Nagata Mokuji’s Billiken-shaped bald head, while the half-naked middle-aged man sprawled facedown in grotesque contortion—limbs twisted like gnarled roots—snored with the rasp of a saw being sharpened.

To Man, the boss's figure appeared like a corpse dragged from its coffin in a graveyard illuminated by will-o'-the-wisps. Yet what she felt wasn't eeriness or fear, but an indescribable desolation, sorrow, and loneliness—a frustration with nowhere to vent itself that left her seething. And that fury was directed not so much at the boss himself as at Saku, and with even greater intensity. (This woman—this poisonous blossom—had destroyed their good boss.)

Man felt intense hatred toward Saku's deceptively demure appearance. "Boss... Boss Nagata." She knelt and shook his shoulders. Nagata stopped snoring and emitted a faint groan, but showed no signs of waking. "He's completely exhausted... Please just leave him be..."

Without answering Saku, Man took the water pitcher by the pillow. After rolling Nagata onto his back, she took water into her mouth and sprayed it—Bwuuh!—across the boss’s face. After being doused with cold water twice, Nagata finally opened his eyes. “Boss.” “O-Saku?” His voice was slurred. “It’s me. “I’m Tamai’s Man. “Do you understand?” “I do… but why’d you come here, Man?”

“I’ve come to retrieve you, Boss.” “Come back with me right now.” “The Nagata Group’s collapsing.” “Great Boss Ōba himself is at the night work site—he’s made plans if you don’t show for tonight’s cargo handling.” “...That’s what he declared.” “Boss—do you truly not care if the Nagata Group falls?” “What counts more—the Nagata Group or your Miss Saku?” “Weighing all your men against one kept woman—which’ll you choose?” “Which one’s dearer to you?”

Whether Man's words had pierced through even his numbed nerves to their core, Nagata Mokuji muttered deliriously like someone talking in their sleep, "Important... It's important," as he sat up on the futon. "Will you be leaving now?" Saku observed that her unsteady master still appeared unreliable. "Of course we are."

In place of the boss, Man snapped back in response. Man took clothes from the clothes chest and dressed the boss. She made the boneless Nagata Mokuji stand and dressed him as if he were a helpless child: undergarment, kimono, haori, even tightening his obi. She brushed away Saku's attempting hand and wouldn't let her handle anything.

She dragged him to the entryway and led him out. “Master, shall I call a rickshaw?” At Saku’s fawning voice, Man clicked her tongue impatiently— “Do we need a rickshaw? We don’t have time for such leisurely nonsense.” The bow-handled lantern placed in the entryway was out.

Saku brought matches and tried to light the flame. Man pulled the lantern away. “I don’t need your fire.” “Tonight’s a moonlit night—our footing’s bright enough.” In a fit of anger, she left those reckless words hanging and stormed out of the mistress’s house. Then, pulling Nagata Mokuji by the hand through hazy moonlit streets, Man saw distant lights from the Nagata house—shadows of people bustling to prepare boxed meals—and suddenly her chest ached as tears streamed down in torrents.

Because Nagata was limp and unsteady, stumbling and falling repeatedly, Man hoisted the boss onto her back. He was light as a papier-mâché figure. Fresh tears streamed down once more, (He was such a good boss...) And then—everything since that day two years prior, when they had come relying on Nagata Mokuji with a letter of introduction from *Nandemo-ya*—swiftly and dizzyingly flashed through Man’s mind like a magic lantern spinning wildly.

"Wherever I went, there was never a boss I could truly respect." When he was in Moji and Shimonoseki, Kintarō would often reminisce like this, as if it were a catchphrase. He had given up on both Hamao Ichizō and Yamashita Matsuji, deciding they weren't bosses worth following. The reason that Kintarō had settled down with the Nagata Group for two full years was ultimately because he had been drawn to Nagata Mokuji’s character.

When the two of them, looking like beggars after being expelled from Hikoshima, arrived in Tobata with darkened spirits and scarcely any hope left, Nagata Mokuji welcomed them warmly and cared for them with devotion surpassing even familial bonds. That kindness seeped into Kintarō and his wife’s very bones. They worked themselves to the bone for two years—but then, starting around half a year ago, Nagata Mokuji had transformed completely.

(What's so great about that woman? I wonder.) (Why does a man rot away for that woman's sake? I wonder.) Man couldn't fathom it. And through that incomprehensible frustration, exasperation, and irritation, she simply found herself growing intensely angry. With her face still wet with tears, Man returned to the Nagata house. Nagata Mokuji had fallen asleep on her back at some point, looking quite comfortable.

The light of the lighthouse at the tip of the breakwater rotated slowly, streaking glimmers across the night’s canvas. The hazy moon cast faint illumination over the sea, leaving the barge’s movements unimpeded. Above Yahata, blast furnace fires from the steelworks reflected crimson in the sky like an endless conflagration. Those celestial flames flickered as though breathing. The wind carried winter’s bite. “What time d’you reckon it is?” Someone had posed the question, but none among them owned a timepiece.

“That’s five o’clock,” someone declared definitively. “How could you tell?” “Anyōji Temple’s bell was ringing.”

When they heeded this and strained their ears, the lingering reverberations of a bell faintly resonated through the depths of the predawn air. Anyōji Temple in Wakamatsu was an old and historic temple of the Jōdo sect. At five each morning, it unfailingly struck its timekeeping bell. The bell tower stood at the tip of a high bluff overlooking the entire town, allowing its sound to carry wide and far. Even so, reaching beyond the harbor to offshore lighthouse waters proved difficult—likely due to the west wind.

“Five o'clock?” Kintarō muttered suspiciously from where he sat at the bow. “The Panama Maru’s late. Was supposed to enter port past four...” “Bōshin, it’s better if we’re a bit late,” a worker said. “Less dangerous once it gets brighter.” “True enough,” Kintarō conceded. “But the darkness hides our strategy from them.” “That bastard Kakusuke’s inhuman,” another spat. Kintarō’s voice turned tactical. “The mooring ship’s at buoy three. He’s definitely rowed his barge out there already—waiting to ambush us. They’d never guess we’ve come all the way past the lighthouse.” A grim chuckle escaped him. “Kakusuke thinks today’s cargo run will prove his loyalty to Old Lady Doteraba. Instead, he’ll get the shock of his life.”

“Old Lady Doteraba seems like a fierce one, huh.” “When she marks someone for death, she stands behind them and raises her right hand as the signal.” “Then the underlings cut that man down.” “I’ve heard those kinds of tales before.” “They’re all just thinking of killing people like they’re chopping daikon or eggplant—it’s a real problem.” “Bōshin, you’d better be careful too.”

“I hate fights, so I won’t get myself killed. If it looks like I’m about to get cut down, I’ll go with the thirty-sixth plan—run like hell.” A burst of laughter rose at Kintarō’s words.

Wakamatsu Harbor was calm, but this far out, the waves ran high. White spray rose along the breakwater. In the dark sea directly beneath the lighthouse floated two large barges, their sides glowing with a pale blue bioluminescence as they waited for the Panama Maru to enter port.

One barge carried Kintarō, while the other bore "Rokuzoro no Gen" as their respective commanders. Other than the glow of lit tobacco, no other lights were on.

In the stern of the ship where Kintarō rode, Ōkawa Tokujirō squatted hugging his knees. He had removed his post office uniform and wore borrowed dockworker's work clothes. Alongside the Nagata Group's regular dockworkers, several unaffiliated vagrant dockworkers called "bazoku" had mingled in, making Tokujirō appear as one of them, with none paying him particular heed. Tokujirō's focus remained fixed solely on Tamai Kintarō's words and movements.

“It’s here! It’s here!”

A voice called out from Matsukawa Genshū's ship. They all turned in unison to look out to sea. Against the backdrop of Rokuren Island, a steamship approached, lit with red on the left, green on the right, and a white navigation light on its mast. On the hazy dark sea, the black hull studded with lights appeared phantom-like. The Panama Maru bellowed a deep, resonant roar with a heavy reverberation, belched white steam, and sounded its arrival whistle. “Alright, row!”

With that, Kintarō, who had stood up at the bow, shouted in a spirited voice. Both ships set up two oars each and began rowing, not toward the Panama Maru, but with their bows pointed toward the harbor.

The barges, which had been waiting wearily, suddenly surged with vitality.

As it approached the harbor entrance, the steamship reduced speed. Even so, it would soon catch up to the human-rowed barges. Up close, the Panama Maru's massive form, resembling a building, approached. Kintarō lit the bow-handled lantern. Matsukawa Genshū also followed suit. About ten lanterns bearing the three characters of "Nagata Group" suddenly cast their light upon the sea like flowers in bloom. Creak, creak, the oarlocks cried out. The two barges, spaced about eighteen meters apart, were being rowed toward the harbor with all their might. Between them, the Panama Maru that had finally caught up now steered its bow into the gap.

“Pull alongside the main ship!” At Kintarō’s command, the barges ran parallel to the Panama Maru while steadily closing in on the steamship’s hull. The wake churned up by the massive vessel suddenly became turbulent crosswaves that violently rocked the barges. Had an untrained hand been at the oar, it would have lifted from the water—but these were oarsmen with hardened arms. As if drawn by some magnetic force, the barges neared the steamship’s crimson underbelly. “Look out!”

Already, those aboard the Panama Maru had recognized the two small boats with lit lanterns in their path, and from the deck, the crew members were shouting. Waving red lanterns, “We’re going to collide!” “You’ll sink!” “Get away!”

they were all shouting things like. Kintarō, planted firmly at the bow, had been swinging the lantern in wide, circular arcs. As the steamship’s prow passed between the two barges, he handed it to a dockworker beside him. He grabbed one of the prepared ropes. At its tip was attached an anchor-like hook.

“Heave!” With a low shout that seemed to rise from his gut, he hurled the rope toward the steamship’s deck. It was a display of thoroughly mastered skill. The rope flew across to the deck, its hook clanging loudly as it caught on the railing. “Alright!” Kintarō nodded firmly with a look of deep satisfaction. The rope’s lower end was secured to the barge’s bow. As the line stretched taut at an angle, the barge matched the steamship’s speed and surged forward.

Kintarō grasped the rope. After testing it with several pulls, he released his feet from the barge. He climbed up along the rope with fluid ease. He moved like a monkey. Tokujirō stared wide-eyed, fixated on Kintarō's movements. (If that man fell into the sea... how amusing that'd be.) A spiteful impulse surged through Tokujirō's heart. (If he dropped dead down there... even better...)

Had one probed the depths of his heart, they might have found such devilish inclinations. ―A love rival― He hated him. The affection he harbored for Man had so far exceeded normal bounds that toward the man monopolizing her, feelings of jealousy and hatred welled up—enough to make him gnash his teeth. This resentment toward Man lured Ōkawa Tokujirō, once a model youth, into hellish realms of wrathful ambition. (If that man were gone, Man-bō would be mine.)

Blind romantic egoism made Tokujirō harbor such unscrupulous expectations. Despite Tokujirō’s desperate wish, Kintarō did not fall into the sea. Nimbly scaling the rope until he reached the railing, he lightly vaulted over the gunwale and vanished onto the deck. In less than three minutes, he reappeared on deck. Leaning out from the railing toward the barge below, “Get the shelf rigging up now!”

he shouted. Making arrangements for manual cargo handling at the ship’s side while underway was an exceptional measure. First, it was dangerous, and there had never been any precedent for it before. However, Kintarō, who had boarded the ship, seemed to have obtained their understanding in a short time. This too appeared to be a result of the negotiations, as the ship’s speed decreased even further.

From the moment of departure, thorough preparations had been made, so at Kintarō’s command, the dockworkers began moving with swift precision. Kintarō hung a rope ladder over the ship’s side. Using that, about three men climbed up to the deck. Ropes and planks were swiftly maneuvered, and before their eyes, a six-tiered platform took shape along the third hatch's flank. It was not only the starboard side—the port side was the same. Commanding the portside was Six-Zero Gen.

“Seems like it worked out after all.” Kintarō and Genzō exchanged relieved smiles, their expressions finally relaxing.

By the time preparations were complete and the Panama Maru passed alongside Nakano Island—lying at the entrance to Dōkai Bay—the eastern sky began to pale, and the harbor too emerged hazily in dawn's faint light. "Mr. Tamai, you remain as vigorous as ever." The voice came from the bridge—the captain's. They had known each other since Moji, having met repeatedly during cargo operations. "I've no other skills to speak of. This inherited health from my parents is my only asset."

“No need for modesty. I was genuinely surprised this time. Unorthodox methods. Only someone as reckless as you could manage this. This goes beyond mere physical stamina.” “It wasn’t my doing—those harbor troublemakers forced our hand.” “Quite right. These pests stirring up the port are becoming a real nuisance. We’re left holding the short straw here. They treat these ships like their personal battlegrounds... You won’t let things turn violent again today, will you?”

“As for me, I don’t intend to start any fights, but…”

The third buoy approached through the twilight gloom. Though viewed from afar, two large barges could clearly be seen moored around the buoy. Dozens of lanterns bearing the characters "Tomoda" clustered across two spots on the dark water like spiny luminous hedgehogs—an unmistakable sight. “Just as I’d figured.” Kintarō laughed mirthlessly at the garish display of threatening lights.

“They’re trying to intimidate us using Tomoda Kizō’s name.”

Genzō also smiled bitterly, his eyes taking on a wary glint.

“Let’s light our lanterns too.” “That’s fine.” At their signal, all of the Nagata Group’s bow-shaped lanterns were lit. Four men stood on each tier of both flanks. With six tiers and twenty-four lanterns, it resembled a lantern-decked festival float. The Panama Maru looked magnificent—like a castle fortress with its main gate and rear entrance guarded by soldiers. From atop the tenshukaku keep, sounding a deep conch-like whistle, the ship was guided by the pilot’s steam launch toward Buoy No. 3.

This solemnly ostentatious festival of dawn lights could be witnessed from anywhere around the harbor. From all directions, thousands of curious gazes were focused on Buoy No. 3. As the Panama Maru could be seen passing alongside Nakano Island, several coal-laden barges, towed by a tugboat, began advancing toward the main vessel from beneath the railway pier on the Wakamatsu side. The Panama Maru was moored to the buoy.

A Tomoda faction barge rowed up to the Nagata Group's barge. At the bow stood Hirao Kakusuke, rigidly holding a lantern aloft. "Is Nagata Mokuji here?"

When the sides of the two barges touched, Kakusuke bellowed. On his grotesque square face—resembling a soiled rag—sinister, cunning eyes gleamed. Kintarō descended from the deck along the catwalks and came face to face with Kakusuke. "Mr. Kakusuke, do you have business here?"

“I’ve got no business with you. Bring out Boss Nagata.” “Since I’m the one in charge here, any work matters get discussed with me.” “Know your place—scram.” “Nagata Group business stays between bosses.” “That logic doesn’t hold water, Mr. Kakusuke.” “How’s that?” “You’re neither Tomoda-san nor Dotera-baasan yourself.” “Or maybe those barge hands belong to the Hirao Group now?”

Hirao Kakusuke, at a loss for a response, rolled his eyes wildly. Being not particularly intelligent, he would immediately be rendered speechless when confronted with logical arguments. "If I'm considered a lower-ranking member," "then by that same measure, so are you." "That being the case, we lower-ranking members should be able to settle this between ourselves."

Kintarō said in a quiet tone. “Fine then, let’s talk. Tamai, take all of Nagata’s young men and clear out of here right now. We’ve properly secured the agreement to handle the Panama Maru’s cargo ourselves. Trying to take a share of that? That’s beyond shameless. Get lost!” “An agreement?... With whom?...” “Your boss—Nagata Mokuji.” Kintarō retorted mockingly, “That’s a strange thing to hear. If some outsider were making wild promises, I could understand—but why would Boss Nagata himself ever hand over his own crucial work to strangers? Unless he’s lost his mind…”

“Bwahahaha! So you call yourself his subordinate and haven’t even noticed Nagata’s gone mad? Tamai! That Nagata who favors you—he’s selling you all out!” “Even if you spin such preposterous claims, nobody will truly bite. Don’t meddle with proper work—withdraw now, if you please.” “Bwahahaha!”

And with that, Kakusuke bellowed with laughter again. He looked thoroughly satisfied with himself.

The gazes of friend and foe were sharply focused on the two men. “Tamai, it’s your side that needs to withdraw. No matter how much you argue, you won’t trust me—so I’ll show you proof.”

Kakusuke fumbled through the pocket of his workman's apron and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it, smoothed out the creases with his calloused palm, slapped it once, then shoved it under Kintarō's nose. "Look at this." Kintarō accepted the blue-lined paper and read its contents. It was a transfer deed. "Regarding the cargo handling of 1,000 tons of coal to be loaded onto the Panama Maru scheduled for next arrival—in exchange for the monetary sum received this day, we hereby transfer said operations to you without discrepancy, and prepare this written pledge for future reference." Followed by Nagata Mokuji's signature and seal.

The text was another matter, but the signature’s handwriting—though messy—was unmistakably Nagata’s. The seal was also his registered one. (Again? Did they get me?) Damn it— Kintarō bit his lip. There had been several similar incidents before. At that time, they had been too minor to warrant concern, but Nagata Mokuji should have remained sufficiently vigilant. Lately, he had been showing signs of alcohol-induced rage, and his memories from drunken stupors were almost entirely lost. Taking advantage of this opening, a plot was hatched. In this scheme, Saku had been used. The ignorant Saku—needing money—easily fell into their trap and made Nagata Mokuji sign and stamp various documents. Naive Nagata would listen to whatever Saku said.

(This transfer deed must also have been executed by exploiting the Boss's drunkenness through Saku.) Kintarō felt as if a hot lump of lead had been thrust into his throat, but outwardly maintained a composed demeanor. "This doesn't look like the Boss's handwriting to me," he declared boldly.

“Then bring out Nagata himself—that’s what I said! Does someone who never shows their face at the worksite deserve to be called boss?” “Mr. Kakusuke, the boss is right here.” At the woman’s voice, heads turned to find Man and Nagata Mokuji standing in the small barge—no one had noticed their arrival. Taniguchi Shunji—the “Middle Schooler”—was also on board, with breakfast bento boxes and two five-shō barrels stacked beside him.

“I see,” Kakusuke said resentfully. “What perfect timing. “...Mr. Nagata, take a look at this deed. “You wrote this yourself—you can’t possibly mistake your own hand.”

Nagata Mokuji, now somewhat sobered up, wore a work coat bearing the characters for "Nagata Group" with "Foreman" inscribed above them—unusual work attire he hadn’t worn in ages. He seemed unable to comprehend why Kakusuke wore a Tomoda-emblazoned coat aboard the enemy vessel. Rubbing his bleary eyes repeatedly, he asked, “Kakusuke, when’d you join Tomoda’s crew?” “You think I’d stay forever under a layabout boss like you? No future there—I cut ties myself.” Kakusuke spat out the words like coal dust. “...Ain’t worth breathin’ over. Just check that damn document and pull your crew out already.”

“What’s this document?” “Here.”

Kintarō passed the transfer deed to Nagata. Kintarō thought the boss had come at the worst possible moment, but there was nothing to be done about it. If Nagata acknowledged it, things would take a serious turn. He never imagined Kakusuke would be in possession of something like the boss's transfer deed. Nor had he ever dreamed that the boss—who hadn't shown his face at the worksite in days—would appear in the middle of negotiations. It was one surprise after another. Yet here, in full view of everyone, he couldn't resort to slyly coaching the boss.

Nagata Mokuji spread out the pale blue-ruled paper with both hands and read it with a suspicious look. He held the document up to the paling morning light, as if to examine it by transparency, raised it high toward the sky, and tilted his head slightly. "What's this now? Some strange business..."

he muttered.

Hearing this, Kintarō felt relieved.

Kakusuke’s face grew rigid and square, his cloudy triangular eyes glaring— “What’re you callin’ strange?!” “You approved it proper yourself—signed and stamped it clear as day!” “Why’d I stamp fool paper like this?” “Too late for dumb acts now. That writin’ and seal’s yours sure as sunrise.” “I ain’t wrote nor stamped no fool document. Hand and mark’s forged neat enough, I’ll give ’em that.”

Nagata Mokuji had absolutely no recollection of it. In reality, he had signed and stamped it with Saku’s assistance while in a drunken stupor that had robbed him of all awareness. He had already used up the money he received as a deposit. However, not even a fragment of that remained in his memory, so his gentle eyes gradually took on a hue of suspicion, and he began to grow angry. “Kakusuke, are you even human? “To think you’d forge such a false document and then turn around and kick mud at your own boss who showed you kindness…”

“I thought it might come to this.”

Kintarō, having said that, swiftly snatched the document from Nagata’s hands and tore it to shreds. He ripped it into minuscule pieces—paying particular attention to obliterate every trace of signatures and seals—until nothing remained but fragments. “What the hell’re you doin’?!”

Startled, Kakusuke let out a strangled cry and lunged forward, but someone restrained him with a left hand. “The recklessness is on your side. If you’re a true worker, quit these tricks and act more like a man.” With that, he scattered the paper fragments into the sea like hail. The thin, fragile washi paper dissolved away like snow falling into water. “Damn it... Grrr...”

Kakusuke groaned. He convulsed and began to tremble. His grotesque face transformed into that of a monster, and his bared jagged teeth clattered noisily. He had been glaring at Kintarō with eyes full of hatred, but suddenly whirled around, pushed through the paper lanterns, and retreated to the stern of his own barge. Knowing full well Kintarō’s physical strength, Kakusuke himself was all too aware that facing him head-on held no prospect of victory.

Kakusuke stood at the stern and suddenly puffed out his chest in a show of bravado, arching his back— “Crush those Nagata Group bastards!” he screamed. The dockworkers bearing Tomoda lanterns stirred restlessly, showing signs of surging toward the Nagata Group’s barge. “Don’t lay a hand on them.” Standing at the bow, Kintarō turned around and addressed his group members in a calm tone. Had this been some deserted field, a full-blown brawl might have erupted. But there were far too many spectators. It was a pageant at the heart of Dōkai Bay—a vast, garish open-air stage. Moreover, this was no sudden accident; the tense atmosphere had been sensed long beforehand.

Moreover, the stage setup—large props and small mechanisms arranged around the Third Buoy—had been far too ostentatious. Both barges blazed with paper lanterns, so even as Kintarō and Kakusuke argued, the water police launch had already reached the buoy. The vessel brimmed with officers, their hat straps fastened tight as they clustered together. The coal consignee Asō's boat had arrived too, its ship officers and site supervisors watching intently to see how events would unfold here.

At Kakusuke’s command, just as the Tomoda faction began to move, a large contingent of officers from the police launch leaped onto the barges and formed a barrier between the two groups. “Don’t get in the way! Move! Move!” Kakusuke, having flown into a rage, could no longer distinguish friend from foe. He howled like a madman. However, at that moment, the Tomoda faction, obstructed by the police officers, had lost their freedom of action. In the end, the Tomoda faction had no choice but to withdraw, and the two barges were towed back to the Wakamatsu side by the police launch on the water.

Kakusuke, rendered speechless by despair and rage, could only mutter deliriously,

“You’ll pay for this. “Just you wait and see.” He could do nothing but repeat those words over and over. “Begin the cargo handling immediately.”

Asō's ship officer said to Kintarō in a relieved manner.

“Let’s proceed.” Kintarō looked deeply troubled. “No, it’s thanks to you this was settled safely.” “Thank you.” “For a moment there, I thought things would turn disastrous.” “Forging fake transfer documents to steal jobs... What vile scoundrels.” “But... thank goodness.” “Thank goodness.” For Kintarō, there was no sense of victorious elation—only a guilt that weighed heavily on his spirit. “Tamai! Get to work now!”

Nagata Mokuji beamed with joy and triumph as he urged Kintarō on.

Man too, "You should start right away, if you would..."

She gazed at her gloomy-looking husband with a puzzled expression and peered into his face. There was something glimmering in his eyes. Realizing they were tears, Man caught her breath. In that instant, she couldn't comprehend what those tears meant. "You...?" What's wrong?—she thought to herself as she approached Kintarō.

“Alright, let’s get to work.” As if avoiding Man, Kintarō spun around, raised his right hand high, and shouted. Without showing his face to Man, he climbed along the ropes lining the ship’s rail and with monkey-like agility leaped onto the Panama Maru’s high deck in the blink of an eye. The cargo handling began briskly.

Ōkawa Tokujirō, unaccustomed to this type of labor, worked the shovel inside the barge. His task was filling baskets with coal using a scoop – work typically done by women. But being originally a farmer with strength, he quickly mastered the technique and soon worked at triple their efficiency. Yet Tokujirō's true focus lay elsewhere. His mind brimmed with every gesture and word he'd witnessed from his romantic rival up to that moment.

Tokujirō felt suffocated. It did not come from physical overexertion but clearly stemmed from mental confusion. (Tamai Kintarō... seems a bit different from the drunkard, gambler, ruffian I’d imagined him to be.) For Tokujirō, it would have been far better had the man monopolizing Man been an ugly, lazy, incompetent yakuza with absolutely no redeeming qualities. The previous night, when Kintarō had suddenly appeared while Man was engaged in a back-and-forth over bedding, bared his tattooed skin, and declared, "I’ll cut you down," he hadn’t felt the slightest fear of him. However, now that he had witnessed from start to finish what that ruffian had done, Tokujirō was gradually developing a sense of fear toward Kintarō.

(That detestable rival.) To steel himself, Tokujirō forced an inward mutter. The jealousy remained. Yet his contempt and hatred had somehow retreated into shadow. Still, he wouldn't relinquish Man, (No matter what, I'll make Man-chan mine.) Tokujirō's body stiffened with resolve. He stole a glance toward Man. There she worked in the same barge, crow's claw in hand, shoveling coal with dutiful strokes. Her earnest labor showed no thought for him - every ounce of her being poured into supporting Tamai Kintarō's crucial endeavor.

Man would occasionally wipe her sweat, pause her work, and look up at Kintarō on the deck. As for Tokujirō, she didn’t so much as glance his way. Kintarō, having removed his work coat, had his arms bared on both sides of his navy blue apron with a bowl-shaped emblem. The ascending dragon leaping on his left arm rose vividly in the morning light, its eyes gleaming as if brandishing the baton of command over the cargo operation. “Here we go. Come on!”

Kintarō's voice rang out energetically. (That man said he'd settle things with me and Man after the Panama Maru job, but will he really cut me down?)

That matter suddenly began to worry Tokujirō. “Now that’s an unusual cargo operation.”

The captain and the company's ship officer were watching admiringly.

In ordinary cargo coal handling operations, platforms were not hung along the ship's side. Constructing tiered platforms and performing overhead hauling operations had been limited to fuel coal handling. By hanging these platforms today specifically, they employed a strategy to outwit the enemy. Indeed, having rowed out as far as the lighthouse offshore and hung the platforms despite the danger, they had prevented any enemy interference. For cargo coal, workers customarily laid long planks from barge to ship, climbing up and down them to load divided carrying baskets. Following Kintarō's desperate measure, two cargo-handling methods were being used simultaneously that day. This required more manpower but nearly doubled operational efficiency.

The thousand-ton job could not be completed in a single day and finally concluded on the third day after it began. During this period, vigilance against sabotage had been thoroughly maintained, but there were no unsettling moves from Tomoda Kizō, the Dotera-baasan, or Hirao Kakusuke. The silence was almost eerily unsettling. Perhaps the problem had grown too large, leading the police to intervene. Delighted that the Panama Maru cargo operation had concluded without incident, Ōba Haruyoshi invited Nagata Mokuji, Kintarō, Matsukawa Genjū, Man, and seven or eight other key subordinates to his residence.

"If Tamai hadn't been here, who knows what would've happened." "Tamai isn't just for the Nagata Group—he's the pillar of the Union Group!" Ōba said this and effusively praised Kintarō.

However, Kintarō maintained an inexplicably stern expression throughout, appearing deeply gloomy.

From this banquet, Nagata Mokuji vanished without anyone noticing.

Kintarō also invited around ten companions to his home, including "Six-Zero" Genjū. He threw a modest sukiyaki banquet as a token of appreciation. "Thanks to all of you working so hard, we somehow managed to get through safely. Truly, thank you." Kintarō said this and turned toward Ōkawa Tokujirō, who sat among them, “Thanks for your hard work. Here’s a drink for you too.”

and offered him a cup. “Kin-san.” Then Genjū—his ammonite-shaped face now crimson—lowered his voice slightly. “What’s this about?” “Someone spotted Kakusuke with a bandage on his right pinky,” he said. “That fresh dressing reeks of carbolic acid—must’ve lopped off the tip over this botched job and apologized to Dotera-baasan or Tomoda.” “Hunh—” “That bastard,” cut in Taniguchi Shunji—the “Middle Schooler”—“doesn’t know when to stop hacking at his fingers.” “Left pinky gone at the tip, ring finger too.” “Soon every digit’ll be stubs past the first joint—hands like gnarly ginger roots!”

At those words, the whole group burst into laughter, but Tokujirō couldn’t grasp what it meant. With a blank look, “What possible reason could someone have for goin’ and cutting off their fingers like that?” Genjū said, “When you mess up, you cut off a finger to beg for forgiveness.” “What counts as a blunder?” “For example—like this time—failin’ to secure our jobs, gettin’ caught cheatin’ at gambling dens, doin’ somethin’ that shames the boss, campaignin’ for elections and makin’ the candidate lose… or gettin’ caught as an adulterer…”

“Even... adultery too?” “That’s right.” Tokujirō made a startled expression and looked at Kintarō. He looked at Man. He looked back and forth between their faces, comparing them. “Bwa-ha-ha-ha!”

And Kintarō burst out laughing. Tokujirō felt a chill. “Our guest from Hiroshima’s making a face like he’s the one who got caught playing around, I see. “Or did you sneak into someone’s bed back home and come running here to escape?” “No such thing! “I ain’t the type to do that sorta thing!”

“In that case, there’s no need to be so jumpy. You don’t have the face of an adulterer. You seem earnest and work well… So then, what will you do now?”

Tokujirō's eyes darted back and forth. He had no idea what was going on. Man had understood everything from the start. (His usual comedic act.) Kintarō had burst in during their heated exchange around the futon with Tokujirō—the exaggerated clatter of the shoji door being thrown open, Sukehiro's short sword that should have remained at home, the theatrically delivered line about catching an adulterer, his eyes rolled back in forced exaggeration. Though he trusted Man completely, not harboring even a speck of doubt about her fidelity, this entire performance aimed to deflect questions about his tattoo. Yes, Man had seen through it all since that very night.

Suppressing her giggles, she waited to hear how Tokujirō would respond.

Tokujirō thought for a short while, then raised his face and spoke in a decisive tone. “Please let me stay in this group. Please make me your retainer, Mr. Tamai. I’ll work as hard as I can.” They sang, they danced—lively and pleasant—making merry late into the night before the comrades finally withdrew. Ōkawa Tokujirō was to be put up in the single men’s meal-provided lodgings, and “Six-Zero Gen” took him back.

Amid the disarray of cups and plates left after the feast, Kintarō and Man found themselves alone, facing each other with dazed expressions as though half a year had passed since their last meeting. From the night of Kintarō's return onward, pressed by the relentless cargo work for the Panama Maru, the couple had found not a single moment to speak leisurely.

Amid the scattered remnants of an unexpected feast, seven cats busied themselves in their respective corners. "Man, you must be exhausted?" At Kintarō's considerate words, Man felt her chest constrict with emotion— "No, you're the one who's exhausted." She reached for the tobacco pipe. Packing the cut tobacco into the bowl, she lit it with practiced ease, took a brief draw to ensure it caught, then passed it to her husband. Wordlessly accepting it, Kintarō savored the smoke while gazing up at moths dancing around the lamp chimney—when suddenly, from both eyes, tears the size of Ramune marbles began spilling forth in an unbroken stream.

Man was startled, “You…?” The memory of her husband’s strange tears she had seen at the Panama Maru site came flooding back to Man’s eyes. Kintarō, just as his wife had done earlier, silently packed tobacco shreds into the pipe’s bowl, lit it, took a single puff, and returned the pipe to Man. “I’m no good.”

And, biting his lip, he muttered. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s working out.” “You… at work too, it looked like you were crying…?” “I wasn’t crying. “Frustration… pity… feeling like a damn fool… shame… I got so pissed I tried laughing it off, but somehow water just started pouring from my eyes. “I called Kakusuke a fraud, but I’m ten times worse. “With things like this, forget becoming a dragon soaring to heaven—I’ll be lucky to crawl along some valley floor. “If that happens… I’ll disappear.”

Kintarō hugged his knees with a melancholy air. —Dragon.

When those words were spoken, Man recalled her husband’s tattoo that she had forgotten in the commotion. “You.” “Hmm?” “What happened to your tattoo?” “This?” Kintarō bared one arm. With the palm of his right hand, as if caressing it, he stroked over the dragon two or three times. Under the lamplight, the blue ink shone with a radiant beauty. “Who did you have tattoo it for you?” “When I went to Musashi Hot Springs with the bosses, I happened to meet a skilled tattoo artist. When he saw my skin, he said he absolutely had to tattoo it. I also wanted to have him tattoo me, so we went together to Hakata. It took a week just for this.”

Kintarō feared Man would discover his secret with Okyō. Deep in his chest, something throbbed. It had been a possessed week, a dreamlike week. Though Kintarō hadn't wanted to keep secrets from Man, this thing—like fate's unrelenting yoke—refused to release him once it had taken hold.

That night, after getting dead drunk, he had dragon designs drawn on both arms by Okyō and was shocked. When Kintarō pressed Okyō’s right arm adorned with peonies and butterflies against his own left arm bearing a rising dragon and gazed at their reflection in the mirror, he found himself spellbound as if hypnotized, overwhelmed by her bewitching allure. “Well, Kintarō-san, isn’t it beautiful?” Okyō stroked the man’s arm and whispered in a sweet voice. “Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

Kintarō thought the same. "How about it? Instead of just a drawing, why don't you get it properly tattooed?" "Yeah..."

“A body like yours was made for tattoos, Kintarō-san.” “I’ve tattooed countless people over the years, but never seen skin as beautiful as yours.” “It makes me weak in the knees just looking at it.” “Leaving this canvas bare would be criminal.” “Mr. Hannya Gorō used to say the same thing...” “Go on, let me ink you.” “What finer emblem could a man want?”

“Okyō-san.” “Yes.” “Will you be the one to do the tattooing?”

“Of course I will. Do you think I’d let anyone else do it?” “Alright, I’ll have you do it.” The tattoo that would later become a lifelong curse—something he would ultimately regret beyond redemption—was something Kintarō now resolved to etch into his flesh with intoxicated determination. “Impressive.” Okyō dramatically raised her voice in admiration, letting slip a self-satisfied smirk.

The following morning, while it was still dark, the two figures disappeared from Musashi Hot Springs.

In a tastefully appointed room of a teahouse facing the Nakagawa River that flowed through Hakata City, by Haruyoshi Bridge, the two began their strange new life. First, they would start with his left arm—the ascending dragon was to be tattooed there. Wherever she traveled, Okyō apparently carried a full set of tools with her. Okyō did not draw preliminary sketches. She began tattooing directly onto the blank canvas of his arm. In her right hand she held several komachi needles clustered together; in her left, a brush soaked in ink. As she pierced the skin with the needles, she simultaneously applied the pigment. It was masterful work—the technique of a seasoned professional.

On Kintarō's blank white arm, the dragon's eyeballs, nose, horns, and whiskers emerged one after another. Kintarō endured the stinging pain.

Okyō laughed, “Does it hurt?” “Nothin’—feels good, like a tickle.” “The arm’s the least painful spot, you know. When it’s the buttocks or lower back, the faint-hearted shed tears.” When the needle reached the dragon’s upper limb, Kintarō,

“Wait a moment.”

“Wait a moment,” he said, stopping Okyō’s hand. “What’s wrong?” “What’s that limb holding?” “It’s the sacred jewel. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” “I’d like ya to draw chrysanthemum flowers.” “Chrysanthemums? “That’s odd.”

Though she said this with suspicion, Okyō did as told, making the dragon’s limb clutch a large bundle of chrysanthemums.

When night fell, the knowing-faced maid, with practiced elegance, laid out a single futon and two pillows before departing.

Startled, Kintarō chased after the maid all the way into the hallway. “Hey, Miss.”

“What is it?” “If you don’t lay out two futons, I’ll be in trouble.” “How ridiculous you’re being.” “Enough of this nonsense.” “Keep this up and Okyō-san will scold you.” “No good, no good. “Absolutely two!” “Don’t care, don’t care.” “Hey! Wait! Wait!” As their heated exchange continued, Okyō emerged upon hearing the commotion. She doubled over laughing. “This isn’t funny!” Ignoring Kintarō’s sulky protest, Okyō kept laughing as she instructed the maid to prepare two futons.

Even at night, the tattooing work continued.

When instructed about the timing, Kintarō entered the bath. The water had been kept boiling all day specifically for the tattooing. When he immersed himself in the hot water, he experienced pain greater than that of being pricked by needles. His arm went numb, throbbing as if about to tear off. However, unless he bathed, the true colors would not emerge.

When it came time to sleep, Kintarō had a hard time of it. He made his preparations while Okyō was away at the bath. He gathered the two futons the maid had laid out to opposite ends of the six-tatami mat room and spread them as far apart as possible. Still anxious even then, he erected a two-panel gilded screen that was in the room between them.

Having emerged from the bath, Okyō began to laugh, “Kintarō-san, what’s this ward for?” “It’s a charm against evil spirits.” “Are there evil spirits here?”

“There are.”

“What kind of evil spirits?” “A nasty kind of demon.” “You’re such a strange man.” Okyō’s narrow eyes, which had been laughing, transformed into a seductive glance filled with complex emotions.

There was no doubt Okyō's interest in Kintarō had grown beyond mere fascination with his tattoo. Vaguely sensing this himself, Kintarō had drawn a boundary line.

However, in a cramped six-tatami-mat room where a young man and woman stayed together, whether there was one futon or two made no difference. The screen fortress served no purpose whatsoever. When Kintarō was asleep, Okyō would come flying at him, jolting him awake. Okyō wore a scarlet crepe underkimono with a white collar. From her hair pinned beneath the wig rose a thick aroma of hair oil, while the sensual scent mingling white powder and perfume tickled Kintarō’s nostrils.

Kintarō’s heart pounded, “Okyō-san, what’s wrong?” “It’s a mouse!” “Mice! I can’t stand them!”

Saying this, she clung to Kintarō.

Startled, Kintarō pushed Okyō away and stood up. He paced restlessly around the room, “Where’s that mouse? I’m not scared of mice or anything… Shoo! Shoo!” With wild gestures, he shouted. There was no sign of any mouse. Just when they had finally settled down to sleep separately, she would cry “A gecko!” and come crawling over to Kintarō’s side again. Finally, the night came to an end.

The night had passed without incident, but Kintarō found himself drained in an unusual way. At breakfast, Okyō seemed listless. "Okyō-san, what's the matter?" "Just now... when I thought about it, I felt utterly wretched. "There's not a single man who can truly stand by me. "In the end, a woman must depend on a man, mustn't she?" Though Okyō's eyes appeared to glisten with tears as she spoke earnestly, Kintarō rebuffed this inwardly—

(What're you going on about? What man would pass up a woman like you? Men are crawling all over you - admirers by the dozen. Black strings, red strings, blue strings... you're tangled in 'em all.)

He had been thinking such things. However, he kept these thoughts to himself,

“Okyō-san,” “Yes?”

"I'm a live-in servant with a master to attend to, and work responsibilities too—I can't stay away from home long. I need you to finish up quick as you can..." "Hehe, isn't this really about rushing back to your wife?" "Wife? She's... whatever." "Who knows...?"

Okyō had apparently given up, seeing that no matter how she tried, Kintarō wouldn’t take the bait. “Generally speaking, according to standard practice, you must abstain from sexual relations until the tattoo is completed." “If the skin sags or becomes greasy, the finished work will look unsightly..." Saying such things, she endeavored to lower Kintarō’s guard. It appeared she had resolved to employ a long-term strategy of deep scheming.

The work continued day and night. Days passed—two, three, five. On Kintarō’s left arm, a magnificent ascending dragon was being completed day by day. Okyō appeared to be pouring every ounce of her being into the work. Signs of exhaustion began to appear on her lushly beautiful face.

However, the danger had increased.

No matter how much they endured, when a young man and woman lived together alone in one room, things did not proceed by rigid rules. Even for Kintarō, who had burned the inexplicable image of longing into the dry plate of his heart for three years since Dōgo, there existed factors that might collapse at any moment. At times, he would be suddenly tempted by a devilish impulse, experiencing moments of anguish.

The life of pressing their faces together and keeping their naked bodies in constant contact day and night became suffocating and terrifying for Kintarō. Then, on the night when only one arm had been completed, he seized a moment of Okyō's inattention and escaped the inn. Kintarō— (I won't tell Man about Okyō.) Yes, I’ve made up my mind. While brushing away Okyō’s phantom that loomed over him like a weight, Kintarō showed Man the chrysanthemum bouquet grasped in the dragon’s forelimb.

“This chrysanthemum—I remembered you from our Moji days, so I had it specially added. During the Shanghai cholera scare, when Shinzō Mori and I were confined, I can’t forget how you put chrysanthemum flowers in the box for me.”

Even after hearing this, Man—who had never been fond of tattoos—wore a suspicious, displeased expression.

The Russo-Japanese War came to an end, and on October 16th, the Imperial Rescript on the Restoration of Peace was reissued.

In Tokyo Bay, it was decided that a grand naval review would be held, and the Combined Fleet, led by Commander-in-Chief Tōgō, passed through the Kanmon Strait. The northern Kyushu region was completely covered in Hinomaru flags for this occasion, and the roaring cheers welcoming the victorious troops literally thundered to the heavens and shook the earth.

Kintarō and his wife also went to Moji to see the sights, carrying flags. At that moment, amidst the crowd, he unexpectedly encountered an old comrade from his Hamao Group days. “Oh! Well, Kin-san, this is a rare sight. "I haven’t seen you in ages—weren’t you off at the war?” “I was exempted from the Class A draft lottery.” Through the man's account, Kintarō learned that their former boss Hamao Ichizō—having hatched a money-making scheme and deployed to Manchuria as a labor corps commander—had been struck by a stray bullet during the Battle of Mukden and killed in action.

In defeated Russia, revolutionary turmoil erupted. In Moscow, newspapers reported that revolutionary party members had clashed with government forces, resulting in tens of thousands of casualties.

That winter, Northern Kyushu was buried under heavy snow. Amid that heavy snow, when the new year arrived, Dokai Bay grew turbulent, and a revolution broke out even within the coal-loading union.

On a day when peony-like snowflakes fell ceaselessly atop the already piled snow, Kintarō was summoned to Ōba Haruyoshi’s residence. “Kintarō… I’ve an urgent matter to discuss…” Ōba Haruyoshi’s words carried a meaningful air from the very beginning. Kintarō’s expression tensed as he looked up at the great boss’s face. “I accept.” “There’s something I must have you decide upon—no alternatives remain. I want to entrust this to you, counting on your manhood.”

“What kind of matter is this?”

“I want you to take over the Nagata Group.”

Kintarō was so startled he couldn't respond at once. He hung his head low. He bit his lip, swallowed hard, then muttered, "That is something I cannot do." he answered. "That you'd say that—I'd already grasped as much." "For one as devoted to the master as you, this stands to reason." "But Tamai—the critical moment is now." "Chew it over proper and think again."

Ōba Haruyoshi, who had been sitting with his arms crossed, leaned forward on one knee. He intensified his tone further. “There’s no one but you who can save us from this crisis right now. “Thanks to our victory, we’ve got clear projections for increased work at the port—it’ll get busier from here on out. But now there’s another worry on top of that. “With Yoshida Isokichi’s forces backing them, Tomita Kizō’s faction is making concrete plans to run wild. “They failed with the Panama Maru last time, but who knows what methods they’ll try next. “This isn’t Russia we’re talking about, but blood might soon rain down on this port. “When that happens, our union can’t stand a chance with its current lineup. “That’s why the board meeting decided on major reforms, I tell you. “At that meeting, the first target of criticism was the Nagata Group. “No—Nagata Mokuji himself, I tell you.”

Kintarō kept his head down, lightly biting his lower lip, utterly perplexed. Ōba Haruyoshi’s voice grew even more fervent.

“Dealing with Nagata Mokuji isn’t something we’ve just started considering now.” “Our patience has snapped—that’s where we are.” “For the union’s cohesion, there’s simply no alternative.” “Tamai, demoting the Nagata Group’s standing—that’s already been settled, I tell you.”

Mrs. Ōba entered, carrying a tray with tea utensils. She sat at the long brazier and poured hot tea from the copper kettle.

Ōba Haruyoshi owed half of his current standing to his wife’s domestic support—or so the rumors claimed—and she was indeed a spirited, resourceful woman. Though nearing fifty, her complexion retained a girlish freshness.

“Mr. Kintarō, some barley tea.” “Thank you.”

Through the glass of the high-waisted shoji screens, soundless snow fell in swirling profusion, its patterns resembling splashed-dye cloth. “Tamai.” “Yes.”

“The crux of my request lies here. If the Nagata Group gets demoted in rank, they’ll naturally disband. Even if Nagata himself comes out fine, his men will be left destitute. But if you take over the leadership, not only will the men be secure—the whole union will gain real steel in its spine.” “I can’t possibly sit in my boss’s vacated seat.”

“I understand your feelings well.” “But that’ll end up saving Nagata too, you know.” “Restoring Nagata’s name is absolutely impossible now.” “The board members—if Tamai Kintarō becomes leader and hangs the Tamai Group’s nameplate, they’ll recognize Nagata’s old cargo handling rights... That’s their position... Come on, Tamai, decide.” “I’m bowing my head to ask this.” Having said this, Ōba Haruyoshi uncrossed his arms, placed both hands on his knees, and gave a slight bow.

Kintarō was astonished, "Great Boss, what are you doing?" “Tamai, I’ve long wanted you to become not just part of the Nagata Group but the central pillar of our union.” “I may have overstepped my bounds, but I’ve already arranged everything to hang the Tamai Group’s nameplate after removing Nagata’s.” “Then I want you to fully commit to managing operations—I’ve even rented a house for you.” “It’s a modest two-story place that can house about ten young men.” “I want you to move there.”

“Where is this house you mentioned?”

Mrs. Ōba inquired. “It’s in Shin-Nakamachi in Wakamatsu.” “You see, the main coal handling in Dōkai Bay happens at Wakamatsu Port—workers can’t be considered proper unless they’re based in Wakamatsu.” “This Tobata place is inconvenient in every way.” “The union office is on the Wakamatsu side too, and... Come on, Tamai, do this for us.” “I’m at a loss.”

“Wakamatsu’s crawling with meddlesome types—does that scare you?” “It’s not that I’m scared or anything…” “Then go.” “In Wakamatsu, hang the Tamai Group’s nameplate and become a respectable man—I ask this of you.” “Kintarō-san, I ask this of you as well.”

"I’ll return home, discuss it with my wife, and then give you my answer." Kintarō returned home with heavy footsteps, covered in large, fluffy snowflakes.

Kintarō and his wife pressed their foreheads together, heaving sighs of despair. "What in the world should we do...?" "What a predicament..." In the port world，securing work rights and hanging one's group nameplate carried honor akin to hitting a golden bullseye. This very prize fueled bloody clashes between ambitious men day and night. Yet Kintarō—who harbored no ambition，no craving，nor lifted a finger campaigning—found group leadership rights tumbling into his lap like manna from heaven. Any ordinary soul would've scrambled to seize this windfall，this mammoth rice cake cascading from fortune's shelf. But for Kintarō，this feast of fate brought only anguish.

From the pillow talk of husband and wife, the grand dreams of their youth had still not faded. “I’ll cross over to the Chinese mainland someday and make my mark there.” “Fortunately, with the victory in the Russo-Japanese War, I can now fully demonstrate my abilities, and…” “As for me, it’s still Brazil.” “Managing a large farm would be wonderful.” The fact that the two of them had worked together as dockhands, joining their strength, could be said to be precisely because they possessed those lofty aspirations. However, the complex and delicate realities of human life relentlessly pulled the two in directions they never could have anticipated. A powerful yoke of fate wrenched the two toward the very direction they were striving to avoid. Moreover, their very temperaments seemed destined to plunge them inexorably into a valley of human emotions, sinking so deeply that climbing back out would prove nearly impossible.

——Wakamatsu.

Both Kintarō and Man had regarded Wakamatsu as a jungle teeming with wild beasts—a place to avoid, neither somewhere to visit nor reside—yet now, buffeted by fate's tempest, the twist of circumstance forcing them to put down roots in that very Wakamatsu was drawing near. "This is troublesome..." "What should we do...?"

Nagata Mokuji arrived in a huff to visit the utterly perplexed Kintarō couple. He was utterly dejected. “Tamai, I’m counting on you to take over after me.” “To demote me after I’ve served the Union Group for so long—it tears my guts out.” “Normally I’d bite my tongue and die right in front of the office out of spite—but since you’re taking over, I’ll put up with it.” “If it were some outsider doing it, I wouldn’t stomach this.”

“Boss, I refuse.” “Do this for me. If you don’t do it, it’s simply that others will take the work from us.”

Starting with Genjū of Six-Zero, even the members of the Nagata Group made earnest requests to Kintarō.

Matsukawa Genjū said.

“Kintarō-san, we’re all glad to become your men.” “Everyone says they’d gladly lay down their lives for you.” “Hang the Tamai Group’s nameplate and become our boss!”

Kintarō finally made up his mind. Man, too, agreed. Kintarō and his wife moved to Wakamatsu.

From the wall of the Union Group's office, the faded "Nagata Group" nameplate was removed, and a brand-new "Tamai Group" nameplate was hung.

That day was February 19th of Meiji 39.

Kintarō, twenty-seven years old. On the morning of that memorable day, Man said to her husband, "I might be pregnant." As she spoke, her face flushed crimson.

Seven Enemies

“It’s a fight!” “It’s a fight!”

Someone ran past the outside of the curtain, shouting as they went.

“Where could they be fighting, I wonder?” Kakusuke murmured.

“Let it be. Nothing unusual about that. Fights are part and parcel of flower viewing—just another one of the sights. A flower viewing without a fight doesn’t count as proper flower viewing. Enough about that—I’ll sing! You geishas, play the shamisen!” Shimamura Gin said this, filled a teacup to the brim with sake, and downed it in one gulp.

Gin—called "Doteraba Hag" by all while her real name lay forgotten—sat upon a red felt carpet atop her camp stool, already looking thoroughly enraptured. She wore a sleeveless dotera coat resembling a chanchanko—the very garment that had earned her nickname—along with white tabi socks. She had an imposing physique like that of a female sumo wrestler. Her complexion was dusky, her face brimming with an indomitable spirit that seemed both keen and expansive, her thread-thin eyes holding an uncanny gleam. Several cherry blossom petals rested on her large round chignon.

The grounds of Konpira Shrine, which commanded a sweeping view of Kitakyushu centered around Wakamatsu Bay below, were a riot of cherry blossoms in full bloom, with flower-viewing banquets spread throughout beneath a clear spring sky.

“Doteraba Hag” and her entourage of about fourteen or fifteen subordinates had been raising hell since morning. About five geishas were also seated at the gathering, attending to the guests. At Gin’s command, two geishas picked up their shamisens. One of them, “What song will you grace us with?” “The Iso Bushi... That’s a good one.”

The female boss narrowed her already slit-like eyes and began to sing. To those who don't know Wakamatsu's sights, Wakamatsu's specialties—I want to share them. From Konpirayama to Misaki Mountain, Viewing the pier, Oka Steam goes, peee…

As if by prior arrangement, the train running across the railway pier below let out a sharp "peee!" whistle, setting off a burst of applause and laughter. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Kakusuke." “Do something.” Her speech had a masculine edge, but her voice was a shrill, piercing shriek. “I’ll do it.”

Kakusuke, also drunk, said this and straightened his posture. His square, hideous face had turned Bengal red. On the hands resting on his knees, the left little finger, ring finger, and right little finger—all lacked anything beyond the second joint. They were like thick logs. “I don’t need the shamisen. It’s a Russo-Japanese War word-chain song. Behold how each word’s last character becomes the next word’s beginning!”

“Enough with the lecture.” “Then—” Kakusuke tilted his face upward and chanted: “Japan’s General Nogi returns victorious—sparrow leads to white-eye bird leads to Russia the barbarian land leads to Kropotkin leads to golden orb leads to Makarov leads to loincloth leads to tightened—” “Hold it!” The female boss laughed. “You couldn’t tighten a loincloth even if you tried! Always bumbling about and getting humiliated by Tamai in public…” “I’ll kill Tamai Kintarō for sure. Just you wait and see.”

Okyō’s eyes, there among the geishas, gleamed uncannily at those words.

“Isn’t the Tamai Group here today?” “They’re here. Just the executives—‘Six-Zero’ Genjū and five or six others—are sneaking around behind the shrine.” “Kintarō?” “He might’ve come later, but when I saw them, it was just his underlings.” “Tamai Kintarō’s got some nerve. Slithering into our Wakamatsu turf like that and trying to make moves…”

“Doteraba Hag” spoke hatefully. She rolled up her sleeves and gulped sake. Kakusuke too showed no less hatred toward Kintarō, “Hmph! Even if that bastard comes to Wakamatsu tryin’ to rise up, the wholesalers won’t let it slide.” “If yer so eager to die on yer tatami mats, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” “The Tamai Group’s gone and put Konpira-san’s same emblem on their happi coats.” “Impudent bastards.” “Since his name’s Kintarō, they stuck the ‘kin’ character inside a circle.” “Blasphemous, I tell ya.” “Get carried away like that… Anyone with half a conscience’d show some respect before the gods!”

“Do they have even one sharp-witted underling?” “There aren’t any decent ones. With a fool like Six-Zero Genjū as their deputy, you can imagine what the rest are like. Ōkawa Tokujirō—some country postman—apparently had shady dealings with Kintarō’s wife Man back in their hometown days. Mark my words—a lovers’ quarrel will break out any day now. I’ve even heard rumors Kintarō caught him in the act of adultery.”

“So Tamai’s keepin’ quiet about it?” “That bastard’s so lovestruck over Man he’s turned into a proper country bumpkin. If it were me, even if my woman took a lover, I wouldn’t just swallow my pride and cry myself to sleep.” “With that ogre-fish face o’ yours snagged on a nail, you think you’re fit to be lovin’ any woman?” The whole crew roared at her words. Kakusuke pouted like a scolded child.

“What else?” “Taniguchi Rinsuke—who they say is Man’s brother—came here from Moji with his wife and child in tow relying on them, but this guy’s all talk and a complete coward.” “When Tamai Kintarō hung out his shingle for the Tamai Group in Wakamatsu, seems like besides the old Nagata Group underlings, all sorts of riffraff started crawling out of the woodwork from everywhere.” “From Kintarō’s hometown in Shikoku came this blockhead blacksmith named Seishichi to handle tool management, and from Hikoshima in Shimonoseki came this utter dimwit nicknamed ‘Noro Jinn’—ridiculously strong at shogi but utterly useless at work—and then…”

When Kakusuke spoke of them, the Tamai Group came across as nothing but a band of utterly incompetent good-for-nothings. Okyō suppressed her laughter and listened with feigned innocence.

“I’ve heard Mitsui Bussan intends to grant Tamai a share in the fuel supply contracts this time… Have you caught wind of this?” “I’ve heard the same.” “It appears to be true.”

“If outsiders waltz into our turf and gobble up all the prime cuts, doesn’t that make fools of everyone here?” “Just leave it to me.” Kakusuke nodded with swaggering confidence as he spoke, clenching his stubby-fingered fists and thumping his barrel chest. Shimamura Gin swayed upright like a listing ship.

“Enough of this dreary talk. “Let’s get this rowdy party started! “...Geishas! Why aren’t you dancing?” She barked like a commander rallying troops. Then she began singing “For Those Who Don’t Know Wakamatsu’s Sights,” her movements syncing with the shamisen’s rhythm as she started dancing. Her obese frame belied the fluidity of her limbs’ motions. This physical contradiction seemed to whisper secrets about the “Doteraba Hag’s” former life.

The underlings all stood up. The three geishas joined in, forming a circle. Loudly and cheerfully dancing, they circled round and round inside the red and white checkered curtain.

Okyō, too, was among the dancers in the line. (She’s even more formidable a lady boss than I’d heard.) She secretly marveled inwardly at Gin’s bold and fearsome demeanor as a female boss. Even Okyō, a woman who had navigated the rough-and-tumble world of gamblers and gangsters, had never encountered a female boss like Gin anywhere she’d been. There were others called female outlaws, but this was her first time encountering a woman like the "Doteraba Hag"—neither clearly man nor woman, who thought nothing of killing people, with relentless cruelty.

(Mr. Kintarō might be killed.)

That anxiety welled up within her.

Okyō was working as a geisha under the same professional name “Okyō” registered with the Wakamatsu Kenban. Having resolved on a long-term strategy against Kintarō—the man who had slipped away from her at the Hakata geisha house—she had come to Wakamatsu. Upon hearing that Morishin Shinzō, recently returned from prison, and Kimika were seeking an experienced geisha skilled in shamisen and dance for their newly established okiya called Asuka, she had herself contracted there. Though not financially desperate—she could have paid her own way—she deliberately took on debt to conceal her identity. Shinzō and Kimika both exclaimed “We’ve landed a fine geisha!” and were utterly delighted. Neither knew anything yet about her connection to Kintarō.

Today, knowing that the hanami guests included the "Doteraba Hag," she had volunteered to come. As for Gin, it was simply a matter of ordering five geisha to attend with hanami incense sticks; she didn’t pay any particular attention to Okyō.

“Ah, I need to piss,” Gin declared. “Geishas! Lend me your shoulders!” Still swaying from dancing, she pulled Okyō and a young geisha named Some toward her. She drew them tightly against her sides, thick arms looping around their shoulders and necks like constricting ropes. Leaning her full weight on them with unsteady steps, she staggered out beyond the checkered curtain. “Careful now,” Okyō warned.

As Okyō supported Gin’s body, which was on the verge of collapsing, “You think a little sake’s enough to make this Doteraba Hag keel over?” With that, the female yakuza boss shook her entire body and roared with laughter.

Behind Konpira Shrine stood a makeshift communal toilet. The location formed a cliff edge. With three hundred stone steps leading down, anyone falling from there would certainly die. Suddenly, wicked intent surged through Okyō's heart. (Should I push her off the cliff while feigning innocence?) (Even if she died, no one would doubt it was just a drunken accident.)

Then, Gin suddenly raised her face and muttered.

“Oh, what the hell’s Tamai up to now? Are they scrappin’ with Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s boys?”

From the grand torii gate to the stone komainu statues, a navy blue curtain bearing the words "Wakamatsu Metalworkers' Association" was stretched across.

At that spot, Kintarō was arguing with four or five idler-like men about something. Though Kintarō spoke gently, the others were spoiling for a fight. Over his kimono, Kintarō wore the Tamai Group's crested workman's coat and carried a one-shō sake flask in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, but he wasn't drunk.

Watching this unfolding situation with apparent concern were members of the Metalworkers' Association. The incident began when Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s underlings arrived at the spot where the metalworkers were having their flower-viewing party,

“This is our turf. You lot, clear out!” This eviction order seemed to spark the incident. Kintarō, who happened to be passing by, could no longer stand idly watching and intervened as mediator.

“This ain’t any of your damn business.” “Scram!” The hulking man with thick glasses barked hatefully.

“I’ll step aside once we’ve settled this properly.” “Settled? It’s already settled! We’re viewing blossoms here—those metalworkers should clear out!” “Is this your property?” “Property? There ain’t no property here!”

“Did you have a prior arrangement?”

“We haven’t done any such thing.” “Then you’re being unreasonable. The metalworkers rented this place through a contract over a week ago. They came at dawn to prepare, and now everyone’s gathered here opening their lunchboxes. What right do you have to drive them out and take over?” “No right needed! We picked this spot ’cause it’s got the best cherry blossoms and view. Stop your yapping and back off if you value your skin.”

“Even if it weren’t for my own sake, the metalworkers would be inconvenienced.” “How about this?” “If there’s truly no other decent spot left, we’ll give up our own place—so how about leaving the metalworkers be...?” “Once we’ve staked out this spot, we’re holding our party here.” “…You cocky meddlesome bastard—never heard of Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, have you?”

As he shouted this, the bespectacled man raised his fist and lunged forward to strike. Because Kintarō dodged, the man staggered, tripped over a stone, and fell with a thud. “That was deliberate!”

Another man shouted at the same moment the remaining thugs lunged at Kintarō. Needless to say, they intended to swarm and beat him. However, Kintarō nimbly darted about, proving difficult to catch. He had no intention of actively confronting them, so he kept evading. However, whenever he did grapple with an opponent, without fail, it was always Ezaki’s underlings who ended up either flipped over, letting out groans, or collapsing flat.

Kintarō restrained the thug and poured sake from the one-shō flask into his mouth. Seeing their bare hands were no match, all five villains drew their daggers. Seeing this, Kintarō took the flask's cord in his mouth and nimbly scaled the trunk of a large cherry tree nearby. In an instant, he perched on a high branch like a monkey. "Hey coward! Get your ass down here!" From below came angry shouts,

“Who’d come down just to get cut? Come now, don’t make such a fuss—have a drink.”

Kintarō, laughing, turned the sake flask upside down and poured its contents over the heads of the ruffians below. A golden waterfall cascaded through the riotously blooming cherry blossoms. The villains were soaked in sake and scattered.

They began picking up stones and hurling them upward. Everyone's aim was off. When a stone found its mark, Kintarō caught it with his sake flask. With a clunk, the falling stones struck the thugs' heads. “It’s a fight! “It’s a fight!”

And already, quite a crowd of onlookers had gathered. And they watched the bizarre fight, roaring with laughter.

The members of the Tamai Group, who had set up a flower-viewing banquet behind the shrine and had been waiting for Kintarō to arrive, finally noticed this. They rushed over. They had no intention of watching the fight or joining in, but when they spotted Kintarō at the very top of the cherry tree, they were stunned.

The young members—Six-Zero Gen, Ōkawa Tokujirō, Slowpoke Jin, tool manager Kiyoshichi, Shintani Katsutarō, and Jō Sanji—appeared in their Tamai Group hanten coats with faces twisted in fury, causing the thugs to falter. Hearing the commotion, several patrolmen arrived. Since they were already poised to flee, Ezaki’s underlings furtively pushed through the crowd and vanished. Kintarō descended from the cherry tree. He was smiling.

With the act concluded, the spectators dispersed.

“Thank you very much. Thanks to you, we were spared.” A middle-aged man who appeared to be an executive of the Metalworkers’ Association expressed his gratitude to Kintarō. Kintarō, while straightening his disheveled kimono, looked oddly bashful and embarrassed,

“Not at all—if anything, I’ve caused you unnecessary concern… But everything’s settled now." “The police came.” “…I must take my leave.” Urging his subordinates on, he departed swiftly—almost fleeing—as they left. There was a young man who continued gazing intently with wide, round eyes at his retreating figure for what seemed an eternity. He appeared not yet twenty—more a boy than a man—a youth with plump cheeks. His fiery eyes remained nailed to Kintarō, as if agreeing with something in his heart, nodding repeatedly all the while.

"An, what're you spacing out for? “We’re restarting the flower viewing.” “Come over here.”

Called out to from inside the navy-blue curtain, he finally spun around as if snapping back to himself. He passed through the curtain and entered inside. “Yasugorō, today you can drink as much as you like.” “I’ll permit it.”

Inoue Hardware Store had established its shopfront on Honmachi Street—the bustling main thoroughfare—and was thriving.

In the still-young breast of Inoue Yasugorō—who would later become Tamai Kintarō's lifelong sworn ally and counterbalance to the Yoshida Isokichi faction—something fierce seemed to ignite at this moment.

The Metalworkers' Association group consisted of about fifty people. With their families and children in tow, it was a lively affair. There were four or five geishas, a small-statured limping jester named Kochōya Mamehachi, and two or three police officers mixed in among them. At one point they had feared the worst, but with everything settled safely, the drinking party began anew in earnest.

“What exactly is this ‘Tamai Group’?” Kintarō, who had only recently arrived in Wakamatsu, was still not well known to the townspeople. “A contractor, perhaps?”

“Still, he was awful young...” “Might be some dockhand from who-knows-where.” “But damn if he didn’t look like an interestin’ young buck.”

As they drank and exchanged such rumors, among them was someone who knew the details well and stepped forward to explain. It was Iba, a ship chandler.

“That’s Tamai Kintarō—he’s just been made foreman of the Union Group.” “He’s always buying tools at my shop, so I know him well.” “They’ve got this tool manager, Mr. Kiyoshichi—used to be a proper blacksmith by trade—and since that’s his real profession, he won’t take a single tool, whether shovels, crowbars, or chain blocks, without inspecting each one first.” “That’s why there’s no danger in their cargo handling on-site.” “Young as he is, everyone who knows Tamai Kintarō says he’s the man who’ll carry the Union Group on his back someday.”

“Even so,” sighed the middle-aged executive, “Wakamatsu will be in trouble if this continues. With violent gangs spreading like this and honest folks getting bullied, no decent business can survive. Mr. Yoshida Isokichi might be an impressive man, but his underlings...” “You’ll start seeing gamblers and thugs becoming town councilors next!”

"For now, things are still all right, but if we were to get universal suffrage, who knows what would come crawling out." “If violent gangs were to seize political power, major calamity would ensue.”

The young Inoue Yasugorō listened silently to the adults' grumbling as he sipped from his sake cup in small draughts. In his firm eyes—where an intellectual light coexisted with passionate fire within those large orbs nicknamed "Goldfish"—there lingered a tense hue as though dreaming of some far distant horizon.

―Politics.

—Politician.

It may have been at this moment that the course of Yasugorō’s life—into which he would pour his entire youth—was decided. He had long been interested in politics and economics, but it was the sense of justice of a sensitive youth that provided the finishing touch to that foundation.

(I will become a politician. And I will eradicate the evil of politics being monopolized by scoundrels.) Yasugorō's heart began burning with hope. The image of Tamai Kintarō he had seen earlier now etched itself clearly in his eyes. Outside the navy-blue curtain, "Doteraba-san" staggered past, glancing back alternately at Okyō and Some, whom she held by the arms,

“Did you see those geishas? If you’re gonna fall for someone, make it Tamai Kintarō. Were I younger, I’d throw myself at him proper. But that was one fool fight he picked. Dangerous opponent, that one. Listen—if Kintarō keeps messing with Kakusuke, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’ll have him dead inside three days. Mark my words.”

It was just as Shimamura Gin had prophesied.

That evening, a rickshaw puller claiming to be a messenger from Ezaki Mitsuyoshi arrived at the Tamai Group’s headquarters in Shin-Nakamachi.

A large public hospital building painted green stood towering in the twilight. At the center of the spire—which blended Meiji-era architectural style with some modern touches—was a white ceramic ornament resembling a spittoon.

The hospital’s side was a temple. In the cemetery, weather-beaten tombstones were lined up in rows, and beneath the ginkgo tree stood a bell tower. Some time ago, when they rowed out in a small boat to the offshore lighthouse for the Panama Maru's cargo operation, the bell toll that Kintarō and his group heard at five in the morning had been struck in this Anyōji Temple's bell tower.

Shin-Nakamachi was a narrow street adjoining this hospital and temple. The Tamai Group was located close enough to the hospital wards that the smell of carbolic acid and the moans of patients could be heard.

It was a hollow two-story building. On the right side of the entrance hung the "Tamai Group Office" signboard; on the left, the "Tamai Kintarō" nameplate—both written in Kintarō's signature bold calligraphy.

“Forgive me.” The middle-aged rickshaw puller who had entered the entranceway looked at the bow-shaped paper lanterns bearing the Tamai Group’s name that were hung in a row along the walls. Then, finding the soft, hushed stillness suspicious, he tilted his head slightly. He raised his voice even louder. “Excuse me. Is there no one here?” At the sound of his voice, Man, who had been weaving straw sandals in the back shed, came out. “What business brings you here?” “Is Mr. Tamai Kintarō here?”

"He isn't here. He went out flower viewing with the young men after noon and hasn't returned yet." "Are you the missus?"

“Yes.” “In that case, you’ll do.” “I was entrusted by Boss Ezaki to deliver this.” The rickshaw puller took out a sealed letter from the belly pouch at his waist. He handed it to Man. She took it, “Do you need a reply?” “Yes, I was told to bring back a reply.” “In that case, I’ll read it now…” Man cut open the seal. On formal document paper, scrawled in thick brushstrokes: “Omitted formalities. On April 8th at midnight, I intend to carry out a raid on your residence. Acknowledge this accordingly. From Ezaki Mitsuyoshi”」

The color drained from Man's face. A faint palpitation began to beat. She bit her lip tightly. However, on the surface, she maintained a calm demeanor, "Understood—please inform Boss Ezaki of that."

she said.

“Then.” With that, he tried to leave— “Oh, Mr. Rickshaw,”

Man called out to stop him. "Is there... still some other business...?" "Wait a moment."

Man entered the back room, searched through the paulownia wood chest, and took out a drawstring pouch. She twisted a ten-sen silver coin into a piece of waste paper. When she came out to the entrance, she said, “For tobacco money or something.”

Saying this, she handed it to the rickshaw puller. Restaurants were slow in the morning; geisha houses followed the same pattern. At Asuka, where they combined breakfast and lunch into one meal, everyone would gather around the dining table typically past noon, after which the cleaning would begin.

With cherry blossom viewers holding second and third parties that typically lasted until one or two in the morning—some groups even making noise until near dawn—the Asuka establishment retired only when the eastern sky was already beginning to lighten.

Kyōko, however, had awakened early. She did not emerge from the futon but lay prone and smoked tobacco. Through the shoji, bright morning light was streaming.

In the six-tatami room, three futons were laid out. All her fellow geishas were still lost in the depths of night's dreams. Their face powder was flaking off, their hair was disheveled, their pillows cast aside—they made for a rather unflattering sight. At night, made up and dressed in formal attire, they were quite beautiful, but seen like this, it was rather disillusioning. (Daylight silences the words spoken at night—I read that in some book.) Kyōko thought of such things, and a wry smile rose to her lips. Then,

(Kintarō-san is so hard to pin down, day or night.) This left her torn between frustration and absurdity.

(But I'll surely make it happen someday.) Kyōko's determination remained unchanged.

Master Morishin Shinnojo habitually lectured the six house geishas as if reciting a mantra.

“After all, the flower and willow world is a world of passion and romance. You can fall for whoever you want, take any man as your patron—I won’t say a word about it. “Just don’t lay a hand on Tamai Kintarō. “Even if you try to seduce him and he responds—when it comes to men and women, there’s no telling when things might take an odd turn. “If any of my house geishas got mixed up with Tamai in some improper way, I couldn’t face Man-san. “I wouldn’t be able to show my face. “I’m begging you—keep Tamai outside all this.”

Proprietress Kimika also never failed to mention it every time she had the chance.

Kyōko, with her strategic planning, would never make a mistake that could be easily detected. Though inwardly driven to distraction by impatience, she endured patiently, simply waiting for the right moment to arrive. Until then, she had carefully avoided appearing before Kintarō without good reason, so he still remained unaware that the formidable Kyōko was staying at his close friend's house.

When mealtime arrived, talk of the previous day's fight at Konpira Shrine naturally surfaced first. Kyōko kept silent, but Somekko—infamous for her talkativeness—recounted the story with added flourishes, complete with animated gestures and imitative motions.

"He's gotten himself mixed up with bad company." Shinnojo wore a worried look.

“Really.” Kimika furrowed her brows. “Kintarō-san’s got such a self-destructive streak. "If it was such a messy situation, he should’ve kept his mouth shut and walked away. Let sleeping dogs lie—isn’t that how it goes? But Kintarō-san can’t do that. Even when he knows damn well a curse’ll come knocking, he can’t stay quiet.”

While they were talking, the apprentice girl—

“Mr. Tamai has come.”

and she came to report.

“Well now, I’ll be off to my teacher’s place.” Kyōko hastily rose to her feet. Kimika looked startled. “What’s happened with your teacher?” “I thought I’d have them review my practice for the spring recital a bit more thoroughly, so...”

“Don’t be absurd,” Kimika retorted. “There’s no need to make such a fuss over that first thing in the morning. My husband’s senior associate is coming now. You still haven’t met him yet, have you? You should meet Tamai Kintarō-san once.” “No,” Kyōko replied, “I care more about perfecting my art than chasing after some man.”

Masking her intentions with laughter, she hurriedly left the room through the kitchen entrance. The unmistakable sound of Kintarō's footsteps was drawing near. "What a strange geisha." “It’s better she doesn’t meet Kintarō-san. Though I don’t know why, Kyōko and Kintarō-san seem like they’d get along.” “It’s fine if they get along, but if they get too close, I’ll feel terrible toward Man-san.” “But Kyōko-san needs to curry favor with the Union Group bosses and company executives, so it’d be good for her to meet them at least once.”

“Well, that’s true, but…” As the couple were having this exchange, Kintarō pushed through the noren curtain from the hallway and entered.

“Oh, isn’t it breakfast time now?”

He smiled and pulled up a folding chair on the other side of the long brazier. He felt as much at ease as if it were his own home. He wore a crested work coat and knee-length trousers. “Kintarō, are you heading to work now? They’ve got the site preparations ready, but…”

"Yeah, about fifty tons of fuel." "They wanted night work done, but we moved it up and got 'em to let us work daytime." "In the evening, I've got business to tend to, see." "By the way, Kintarō—heard you scrapped with Ezaki's underlings yesterday?"

“It wasn’t much of a fight. “More like a sports festival.” “You might not mean anything by it, but they’re rabid dogs over there. “Haven’t Ezaki and his men been fuming about how the Tamai Group’s been climbing in Wakamatsu? You’re just asking for trouble.” “We’re not in the fighting business. “We’re workmen,” he said, “so we don’t waste time on their sort.” “We once heard Boss Yoshida tell about that huge brawl with Ezaki Mitsuyoshi back in Hikoshima. “That violent showdown on a stormy night. “Ezaki may not have the same drive these days, but you’d be a fool not to keep your guard up.”

“Ah, thanks a lot.” “But there’s nothing to worry about.” “Oh, right—speaking of which, I just thought of something and came here.” “I’m about to head to the Union Group now—why don’t you bring out those two swords you bought the other day?” “I hear there’s a highly skilled appraiser here—a direct disciple of the Hon’ami school.” “I’m also thinking of having my Sukesada appraised.” “You were boasting about it, but I can’t believe yours is Bizen-made.” “You’ve been had.” “I’ll have them appraised together with mine, so hand them over to me.”

"I see. In that case, I’ll leave it to you." Since something similar had happened before, Shinnojo brought out two Japanese swords from the back room and casually handed them to Kintarō without any particular suspicion.

The Union Group office was located on Kaigan-dori Street. There stood the Benzaiten Shrine, and the area was commonly referred to as "Benzaiten-hama." The road was barely six feet wide, and when the wind and waves grew fierce, seawater from the bay would spray into the shops. Today, the waves were calm, and the masts of the densely moored sailing ships stood motionless.

Kintarō went around to the back entrance of the office and entrusted the Japanese swords to the custodian. "I'll pick them up on my way back from work," he said. "Stash them somewhere for now." “You’re quite skilled at appraising swords, aren’t you, Mr. Tamai?” asked the custodian. “Is this one also a famous blade?”

“Yeah, it’s a world-famous blade.”

With a laugh, he said this and went out to Benzaiten-hama again. He surveyed the area near the rocky cliff. “Hey, Boss! Over here…” From near the sampan hut, Ōkawa Tokujirō waved his hand and shouted.

Ever since putting up the "Tamai Group" sign, what had become troublesome was how to address Kintarō. In Kobata, there were former colleagues and seniors, as well as friends from his hometown. The old title of "boss" felt awkward, and "gang boss" didn’t suit someone who worked with his hands. "Tamai-san," "Kintarō-san," and "Kin-san" still didn't feel quite right. As a result of their discussions, incorporating Man’s suggestion, they had settled on calling him “Oyaji.” At first, it felt a bit odd, but once they grew accustomed to using it, there was a peculiar familiarity.

Kintarō jumped onto the large cargo boat where everyone was aboard. They had loaded shelf boards and vices early on and had been waiting for Kintarō to arrive.

The cargo boat left the quay. With a gentle handling of the oar, they headed toward the Taisei Maru moored at Buoy No. 2. “Oyaji,” said Six-Zero Gen from the bow, laughing. “Looks like Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s underlings are plannin’ to redo their flower viewin’ today.” “Who’d you hear that from?” “I haven’t heard it myself, but there’s no mistakin’ it. Just now, when Kiyo-chan and I went to buy some rope at Iba’s ship chandler and came up to Benzaiten Street, yesterday’s crew were loadin’ a four-to barrel onto a handcart and draggin’ it off.” "...Hey, Kiyo-chan."

“Yeah,” Seishichi nodded emphatically. “Don’t know how many underlings he’s got, but the plan itself is bold.” “A four-to barrel… Now that’s extravagant!”

“But Ezaki’s famous for not payin’ up." “When you go to collect, he draws his sword—‘Want a long one?’” “How ’bout a short one?” "...and glares at you like this, they say." “That’s rich, ain’t it?” “Why don’t we try that trick ourselves?” “Even if some spineless weaklin’ like you talks tough, there’s no menace to it.” “You’d need to carve two-three scars on that pretty face with a kitchen knife first.” The Kobata crew kept up this banter, bursting into raucous laughter.

Kintarō was silently listening.

That Ezaki Mitsuyoshi would stage a raid tonight remained unknown to anyone else. Only Man and Kintarō as husband and wife knew.

Kintarō recalled what he had heard back in Hikoshima. It was indeed true that Ezaki Mitsuyoshi would always draw the lid from a new four-to barrel when launching raids. As Matsukawa Genjū had said, this was no mere flower-viewing drinking.

After finishing the cargo work on the Taisei Maru and returning home, Kintarō waited for night.

When five o'clock came, the temple bell of Anyōji began to ring. The sound was close. Kintarō took down the wall clock hanging in the entranceway. It was brand new.

“It’s about seven minutes slow.” “This clock hasn’t been off much before, but I reckon the mainspring’s loosened up.” Seeing Man preparing dinner in the kitchen, he said this, sat down, and tightened the screw with a grating sound. After adjusting the time, he didn’t immediately hang it back up. Instead, cradling the clock in both hands as if caressing it, he scrutinized it from every angle. Within the octagonal outer frame was a round dial inscribed with Arabic numerals. The pendulum was gold-plated, and an openwork-carved morning glory bloomed at its shoulder. “Seikosha-made” — the four characters were visible inside the clock.

Taking care not to let the pendulum stop, Kintarō slowly rotated the clock. On the back, he read his own inscription written in thick, bold characters. Shin-Nakamachi Tamai Group Meiji 39, April 2, Acquired This item commemorates the commencement of the contracting business. Purchased from Aichi Clock Shop The sum of four yen and seventy sen.

Business Commencement: February 19

Kintarō smiled. This clock was something they had gone out to buy together, but at the storefront, a quarrel had broken out between the couple. "You, such an expensive clock is too extravagant for us. This cheaper one here will do just fine." "Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a commemoration for the Tamai Group. We’ve got to take the plunge. Anyway, if the child in your belly now turns out to be a boy, we’ll have to make him the successor. If we’d gotten a cheap one, it would’ve broken by then. This one’s an heirloom. I don’t pinch pennies on things like this."

“I’m not saying we should pinch pennies, but… where’s four yen and seventy sen going to come from?” “I’ll work and earn it. That’ll give me even more motivation.” “Madam,” said the Aichi Clock Shop owner with a laugh, “no need to worry. Monthly payments will do. Pay whenever you can—that’s fine too. I’ll sell it to you because I trust Mr. Tamai. Please take it home.”

It was through that kind consideration that they had been able to obtain it.

Kintarō hung the clock on the pillar. “Man, is dinner not ready yet?”

“It’s ready.” “That’s fine now.”

“I see.”

Kintarō went to the ladder stairs leading to the second floor and shouted up from below. "Hey, everyone! Dinner's ready!" “Right away!”

The subordinates who had been on the second floor came clattering down. They had their meal, no different from usual.

Night fell, and time passed—eight, nine, ten o'clock. The houses in the town also extinguished their lights one by one. The only thing that faintly disturbed the quiet night air was the gloomy moans of critically ill patients coming from the hospital.

When eleven o'clock struck, Kintarō turned to Man,

“Place the large basin in the entrance and fill it to the brim with water.”

he commanded.

Man did as she was told. Though she didn't understand what he intended to do, she silently placed the laundry basin where Kintarō had instructed. She filled it five or six bucketfuls of water until it was eighty percent full. "Man." "Yes." "You stay out of this. A woman's got no place sticking her nose into fights." "Yes."

“Hey, you youngsters!”

With that, Kintarō called out toward the second floor. At the landing, Noro Jin poked his head out. He looked sleepy.

“Need something?” “Sorry to ask, but could everyone come down?” “You mean everyone?”

"Yeah, everyone who's here." "Everyone's here." Man had been strictly ordered by Kintarō to keep silent, so she hadn't told anyone. Still, her anxiety had grown unbearable, so she'd asked Matsukawa Genjū, "There's important business tonight—make sure nobody goes out and everyone stays home."

Married couples and workers with families had established homes in the tenements, but only the single laborers—eight in total—were lodging on the second floor of Kintarō’s residence. Genjū, Tokujirō, Seishichi, Jinpachi, Shunji "the Middle Schooler," Matsumoto Shigeo, Shintani Katsutarō, Jō Sanji. Many had already been asleep and came down rubbing their bleary eyes repeatedly.

“What’s this about in the middle of the night?” Tokujirō asked.

“Sorry to trouble you all, but could you put candles in every lantern we’ve got?” After giving that order, he lit the lamp. Then, as if suddenly remembering, “Man, go to Nagata’s and get about ten bottles of ramune.” “Yes.” Man’s face turned pale, but she did not resist a single one of her husband’s words. Carrying a lit bow-shaped paper lantern, she hurried out.

Over fifty bow-shaped paper lanterns—each bearing the Tamai family crest of "Maru ni Tachibana" and the characters for "Tamai Group"—were now fully lit, resembling a garden of light. He had them all arranged in neat rows around the entrance. It was dazzlingly bright. Several cats peered around restlessly, looking puzzled at whatever was happening. Man returned with ramune bottles in a bamboo basket. "Oh, how beautiful." The words slipped from her lips unbidden as she gazed at the lanterns' full naval-style display.

They all drank a bottle of ramune each, but

“Boss, is someone coming?”

Something finally clicked for him, and Genjū asked with a suspicious look. “We’re going to have guests.”

“At this hour of the night?” “Who?”

“Everyone,” Kintarō suddenly said, his face turning solemn. “After midnight tonight, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi will come attacking. I’ll handle them alone. The Tamai Group isn’t in the business of fighting—I don’t want to drag you into a brawl. Go up to the second floor and don’t come back down no matter what. Even if I’m cut down, don’t intervene. Now hurry up and go upstairs.” “That’s absurd!”

Startled, Matsukawa Genjū puffed out his ammonite-like face and leaned forward. The eyes of the other men were glinting too. “Reckless?” “Ain’t that right? You and us—we’ve been one body, one soul since the day we raised the Tamai Group’s banner. We all swore we’d lay down our lives for you without a second thought." “And you didn’t breathe a word to us about taking on Ezaki solo?” “Quit with this formal crap!” “How’re we s’posed to just sit here and watch our Boss get carved up by some two-bit thugs?… Right, boys?”

“That’s right.” “Damn right.”

they chorused in unison.

“I’m grateful you’d say that. Those words alone are enough. I understand your feelings well. But I’m beggin’ you—don’t make me say more. Just go back upstairs. It’s almost time... Hurry, now—hurry up!” Kintarō stood and began driving his men onward. The unyielding severity in Kintarō’s tense expression and manner stifled all protest. The disgruntled subordinates—faces sullen with dissatisfaction—were herded upstairs without resistance. They climbed the steps reluctantly.

Once all eight reluctant subordinates had finished climbing up to the landing, Kintarō removed the ladder steps. They were detachable. Kintarō, with his considerable strength, effortlessly carried them to the wooden floor of the corridor.

“Man.” “Yes.”

“Stay put. Don’t come out.” Man nodded and entered the kitchen. Grabbing a ladle, she removed the lid of the large pot and stirred its contents. Billowing pure white steam rose. When they had moved into this house, they left the rest untouched but remodeled only the kitchen. To host large gatherings and cook boxed meals for night shifts or trips away, they absolutely needed at least three large pots. Now two of them—the three-shō pot and five-shō pot—were boiling furiously. It was paste.

Around ten o'clock, Kintarō saw Man preparing something in the pot, “Are you starting to cook rice now?” Kintarō asked. “No, I need to do some starching, so I thought I’d prepare the paste…” “Hmm.” Man, who had been told by her husband not to get involved in the fight, thought that if the thugs came charging in, she would douse them from head to toe with the boiling paste. Kintarō sat on a folding stool facing directly toward the entrance in front of the water-filled tub. He tied a headband with a hand towel and removed both sleeves of his kimono. In the illumination of the lanterns hung like naval bunting, Kintarō’s robust white skin and vivid blue dragon tattoo stood out starkly.

Kintarō unsheathed the two Japanese swords he had borrowed from Shinzō and immersed them in the water-filled tub. Splash, splash—he washed them. And from time to time, he would glare into the nighttime darkness outside with bulging eyes, as if peering into it. The deathly still midnight air was faintly disturbed only by the sound of water washing swords. Kintarō alternately rolled the two Japanese swords in the tub, occasionally lifting them from the water. He turned the keen blade—still dripping with water droplets—over in his hands, gazing intently at both sides. The surrounding lanterns reflected on the blade’s surface, and within the sword, the flickering light resembled a dance of flames.

(How beautiful...) he thought. He had always loved swords, but he had never had the means to buy the ones he wanted. Finally, when he sold mikan as part of an adoption exchange, he was able to obtain the Sukesada tanto he had long had his eye on in Dōgo Onsen Town. When he fled his hometown, he carefully brought it with him and had cherished it to this day. However, Kintarō loved swords because gazing at their beautiful surfaces would calm his troubled mind - he had never once considered them tools for murder.

On the night he returned from Musashi Hot Springs, he drew that Sukesada and stood blocking the way before Man and Tokujirō. "I've caught the adulterer. I'll cut you down," he said. Yet deep down, he had been stifling laughter - he'd never had any intention of using Sukesada to punish infidelity. Having fully overheard Man and Tokujirō's conversation and confirmed Man's innocence, he'd simply put on one of his trademark theatrical performances.

However, when he came to Wakamatsu, those Japanese swords were actively used for fights and murder. And now he too had fallen into the fate of being caught in that maelstrom. But Kintarō hadn’t wanted to use Sukesada for fighting, so he’d gone to borrow Mori Shinzō’s sword.

(What an absurd thing am I doing?)

Kintarō tore his gaze away from the sword and felt disgusted by the irritating wave of self-mockery that washed over him. He wanted to laugh. But once during the Panama Maru cargo operation, when he had tried to laugh at how pathetic, ridiculous, and embarrassing it all was, tears had streamed from his eyes. Tonight, he felt the same way. (What an utterly ridiculous farce this is.) He came to see himself as a bad comedy actor sitting at the center of a gaudy makeshift stage.

The cat, as if unable to comprehend the strangeness of this scene, watched with suspicious eyes every time Kintarō moved the sword. Beside the tub, another was curled up asleep.

Bored, one of them departing knocked over a single empty Ramune bottle from the forest of standing bottles. At the cla-clatter of that sound, Kintarō stiffened oddly. Until now, strangely enough, he had felt no sense of fear, but suddenly, anxiety gripped him, and his heart began to pound. (Maybe I’ll get killed.)

When that thought struck him, memories of his hometown Matsuyama flashed through his mind like scenes from a rapidly spinning magic lantern. Amid that flow, only Sister-in-law Sugi’s face jutted out large and sudden. Those eyes filled with contempt and hatred were glaring at Kintarō. (That’s right… When I left the village, I should have found some way—even if it was a stretch—to return those thirty yen I took without permission…) That regret made his chest go numb. Ding, ding, ding, ding...

The clock began to strike twelve.

The subordinates who had been driven upstairs weren't merely sitting idle either. They couldn't stay still. They worked busily while keeping silent.

Four or five men descended along the roof to the rear, where Seishichi, the tool keeper, unlocked the shed and retrieved crowbars, shovels, measuring poles, and other implements. They then carried them up from the rear to the second floor. They were weapons.

They set up a ladder and hoisted up around ten small baskets filled with coal using the tengu-style cargo handling method. This task was right up their alley. The pulverized coal they had received for fuel had been stored in the box out back. "When those bastards come in, gouge their eyes out with these," Rokuzero no Gen quietly instructed so Kintarō wouldn't notice.

The combat preparations were complete. They extinguished the lights on the second floor and waited, holding their breath.

Ōkawa Tokujirō's heart was pounding. His mind was thrown into chaos amidst terrifying contradictions. (What if Tamai Kintarō were to be killed...?)

That fantasy was now hell for Tokujirō. Day by day, his growing trust in Kintarō and his unresolved yearning for Man became entangled, binding Tokujirō. That was when, during the Panama Maru incident, he had seen Kintarō scaling the ship’s side like a monkey, climbing up a rope, (If he fell, that would be satisfying. If he fell and died, that would be even better...) The transformation within his heart now stood on entirely different ground from when he had entertained those thoughts.

Now, having come to admire Kintarō, he had never once thought things like "It would be better if he died" or "It would be better if he were killed." On the contrary, he had even gotten so fired up that he wanted to refine himself as a man alongside this truly admirable man. And yet, now, when he found himself at the critical moment as villains came to kill Tamai Kintarō—(What if Tamai Kintarō were gone...?)—such devilish whispers were now rising from the depths of Tokujirō’s heart as if they had been waiting precisely for this moment.

Peering toward the kitchen through the billowing white smoke, he saw Man holding a ladle, her eyes gleaming alertly as she kept watch over the commotion outside.

(Man is prepared to throw her life away and fight for Kintarō's sake.) Under the overwhelming pressure of intimidation, Tokujirō's heart cowered. He was terrified by his own ugly, monstrous heart and selfishness. He felt ashamed. Yet no matter how hard he tried to drive them away, to chase them off,

If Kintarō were gone, I could marry Man. That beautifully wicked thought lurked somewhere in a corner of his heart like a cunning rat.

Kintarō continued rhythmically splashing two Japanese swords in the water of the large tub—chapon, chapon—while periodically glancing toward the entrance. He cupped his hands before him, lowered his stance, and assumed a posture as if peering into the darkness. The lantern light—swollen to near-bursting and filling every corner of the house—illuminated even the road outside, but beyond that realm of radiance, past midnight now, there lingered not a trace of human presence—only profound stillness.

One o'clock struck.

Two o'clock struck.

Three o'clock struck.

The next morning, as usual when Asuka was having a late breakfast, Butterfly-ya Mamehachi the jester came rushing in frantically.

“Commander of the Forest! Commander of the Forest!”

“What is it? Mamehachi, you’re making a racket first thing in the morning.” “It ain’t mornin’ anymore! Besides, how’m I supposed to sit quiet when this ain’t even mornin’ no more?” “What’s happened?” “Happened or not, there’s big trouble brewin’!”

The small-statured, lame, and jovial Mamehachi was panting heavily. He must have run here. “What is it? Hurry up and tell me!” “Commander, your sworn brother Tamai Kintarō’s place is gettin’ raided by Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s whole crew!” “What?!” With that, Shinzō leapt to his feet.

Okyō, Kimika, and Somekko—who had been sitting at the table—turned pale. They set down their chopsticks. "I'll be right back." The fact that Kintarō had come to borrow Japanese swords suddenly pierced Shinzō's mind, and he screamed internally: Damn it! His own carelessness was infuriating.

Mamehachi firmly grasped the sleeve of Shinzō, who was trying to rush outside. With a ripping sound, the seam tore.

“Wait, wait! Commander!” “Commander!” “Let go!”

“Even if you go now, it’s already too late.” “Were they killed?” Startled, his heart somersaulted inside his chest cavity.

“It’s already over, sir.” “What do you mean over?” “Ezaki’s side lost.” “Give me the full details.”

According to Mamehachi’s account, it went like this.

At Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s house in Gotanmachi, they gathered subordinates to raid the Tamai residence. They had been preparing since daytime, even purchasing four-to barrels with ceremonial lids removed for the departure ritual. Though whether they actually paid for this liquor remained unclear. By evening, about thirty men filled the Ezaki residence. They devoured beef sukiyaki for dinner and guzzled sake. Bamboo spears, Japanese swords, and sickles stood arrayed in the tokonoma alcove. As drunkenness took hold, some broke into song, others clapped rhythms, still others swayed in drunken dances.

“Hey, hey, don’t get too sloppy now.” Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, visibly agitated, repeatedly admonished his subordinates.

By the appointed time of twelve o'clock, everyone had decided to take a short nap. At eleven, Ezaki roused them. Then, following the customary style—white headbands tied at the front, rope sashes across their chests, trousers hitched up at the back, straw sandals on their feet—they solemnly carried their weapons and set out in the manner of the Ako ronin’s raid. However, by this time, the Ezaki family had fallen into decline and could truly be called a ragtag mob, with many among them being timid and hesitant. Some were drunk. He had only a few trusted subordinates; the rest were mercenaries. There were also those who had joined half-heartedly, aiming to receive their daily wages and partake in the feast liquor.

Even so, relying on their numbers and putting on a brave front, they emerged onto Shin-Nakamachi through the side road between the deserted hospital and temple. They formed their ranks and surrounded the Tamai residence. The scout went out on reconnaissance. After stealthily making his way to the front of the Tamai Group’s headquarters and returning, he reported to their leader, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi: “Something’s not right here.” He reported.

Even when he sent his most trusted men and found no change in the situation, Ezaki went to see for himself. He couldn't help thinking—Something's off here. The strangeness had crossed into outright eeriness. He had been through countless duels, showdowns, raids, and skirmishes before—but never anything like this. If the enemy had been waiting for their attack—armed and lined up in formation—they could have charged in all at once with matching fighting spirit. Yet the Tamai Group hadn't arranged their formation as ordered.

Over fifty paper lanterns illuminated the entranceway where Kintarō sat utterly alone. On his brawny arms bared to the shoulders, an ascending dragon tattoo glared fiercely, its eyes gleaming as it stood out vividly in blue. Kintarō kept washing the long unsheathed Japanese sword in a large tub's water. Rows of empty Ramune bottles stood beside him while several cats slept nearby. He would occasionally peer toward the front with bulging eyes.

Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’s legs froze at the sheer intensity of it all. Ezaki also knew that Kintarō had dozens of robust subordinates. The question of where and how those subordinates were lying in wait began to feel increasingly eerie. He grew frightened. With their leader in such a state, his subordinates were already growing restless. “Attack!”

And so Ezaki Mitsuyoshi issued the command in a fit of frustrated rage, but not a single soul possessed the courage to charge in. On the contrary, they started to flee. "So, here's how it was—my house being right nearby, you see, I witnessed the whole thing from start to finish."

Shinzō was relieved but lost his fighting spirit, plopping down onto the doorframe with a thud. “Mamehachi, you’re awful. Why didn’t you tell me before the raid?” “That’s impossible, I tell ya. When the Ezaki family was all gathered drinkin’, I never imagined they’d be targetin’ Tamai-san’s place. And I was just thinkin’, ‘Tonight’s gonna leave some poor soul in a sorry state.’ If I’d gone snitchin’ to the cops, they’d’ve killed me later for sure… Then this mornin’, a gambler buddy of mine—one of them mercenaries who went out—spilled everythin’ to me.”

Kimika let out a sigh,

“Really now, Kintarō-san has it rough, does he not. “My late father used to say—‘Once a man steps over the threshold of his house, he should think there are seven enemies waiting.’ “Don’t think you’ll come back… he would say.” “It’s all well and good for Kintarō-san to make a name for himself as a man, but here in Wakamatsu, there aren’t just seven enemies—there’s a whole swarm of a hundred. No matter how many lives you’ve got, they won’t be enough.” “But if they even dare to raise their heads a little—‘They’re getting uppity—just kill ’em.’ …It’s downright reckless.” “This isn’t some stranger’s business.” “When will it come around to our turn…?”

The signs were already there.

Okyō’s taut eyes were shining strangely.

Father and Mother

As evening approached, rain began to fall. In the raw warmth of the hazy spring air, Konpirayama's cherry blossoms blurred into obscurity, while to its right along Takadōyama's summit clustered pines rose like a warship run aground upon the mountaintop. From the port came steam whistles sounding drowsily through the languid air. "I want to go traveling," Kintarō muttered.

Kintarō propped both hands under his head and muttered to himself while lying sprawled out. Today was a day off from work. Until moments before, he had been tending to the sword borrowed from Shinzō. When finished, he lethargically rolled his body onto the veranda corridor facing the backyard.

Man, beside him, was making the baby’s swaddling clothes but stopped her hands as if wearied by this task too. She had repurposed old yukata and underkimono into diapers by resewing them - five or six lay stacked in a pile. She picked up the pipe at her side, took a satisfying puff, then let out a sigh that seemed to rise from her shoulders. "For a rest," she said, "why don’t you go somewhere?"

“It’s no fun alone. “I want to go with you. “Since we got together, we still haven’t gone on what you’d call a honeymoon.” “Hmph, a honeymoon? Such fancy things aren’t for poor laborers like us. “That’s something rich folks do. “And three years have passed—we’ve even got a child now. We’re hardly newlyweds.” “That’s not true. “Till now we worked nonstop—no time off. But if we ask Genkichi from Bōshin to cover things, we could get away five days... maybe a week. “……What do you say? “How about Dōgo Onsen? We’ll treat it as our honeymoon.”

“Well, I do want to go… but…”

Kintarō abruptly sat up. He took Man’s pipe, smoked it himself, and his tone turned somber. "Ever since I ran away from my hometown, I thought, 'To hell with that place.'" "But for some reason, lately I’ve been remembering my hometown like crazy." "I’ve been dreaming about my father and mother." "If some opportunity came up, I was thinking I’d like to go back once."

Man felt the same way. However, she did not voice it aloud.

―Hometown.

No matter how many unpleasant things had happened there, it remained a nostalgic haven of the heart—something one could never forget, as if bound by human destiny.

“So, this time, if you’re willin’, I think we should go back together.” “If you get too big with child, we won’t be able to travel—best go now while we can.” “First off, there’s the matter of the kid’s registration.” “Never thought I’d settle in Wakamatsu, see? Didn’t even bother registerin’ as a resident.” “We’ll be in a fix if we don’t get ’em to make us a branch family now.” “Plus, addin’ the thirty yen I borrowed from my brother to Boss Ōba’s advance—finally scraped it together.” “……Back home there’s this fussy bastard Kuroishi at my old adoptive place… but… we’ll manage somehow. …Hey Man—Dōgo and Matsuyama’re connected, see? Let’s take our sweet time… just us two… soak in them hot springs or somethin’.”

Kintarō had a happy expression.

“We’re gonna have a child. “Me becomin’ a pa, you becomin’ a ma—kinda feels strange, don’t it…” “There’s nothin’ strange ’bout that.” “It’s strange, I tell ya—Shinkō from Mori bein’ father to a three-year-old girl. Feels downright odd… Ours—d’ya think it’ll be a boy? “Or maybe a girl?” “Which’d be better?” “A boy, I reckon…” “I want a girl. “They say ‘first a daughter, then a son’—better havin’ a girl first. “Easier on the mother, see…”

“How do you know things’ll work out so neatly?” “I’m still a man, ain’t I.” “And I’ll shape him into a proper man to take over the Tamai Group.” “By then, the Group’ll be bigger still—times’ll change so much even this lawless Wakamatsu won’t exist no more.” “If Wakamatsu stays crawling with yakuza like now, we’ll end up just as rotten.” “But there’s no helpin’ it.” “I set my resolve when I came to Wakamatsu—I’ll see this through here till the bitter end.” “Ah well—no matter how those gangsters try pushin’ their unreasonable ways, in the end, right’ll surely win out.”

“I think so too.” In both their eyes, a fierce determination welled up.

As they were talking, Shunji "the Middle Schooler," munching away with his mouth stuffed full of baked potato, shouted from the entranceway, "Oyaji! The boss from Asuka's here, I tell ya!"

“I see.” “Show him in here.” “…Then you—go to Nagata’s place and get four or five bottles of ramune for us.” “Yes sir!”

As Shunji was leaving, Shinzō entered. "Hey, you made it. "I was just thinkin’ ’bout headin’ out to return the swords now." "Shin-san, since the other day at our place, there's been a lot..."

Man also greeted him.

"No, you're the one who's had it rough." Shinzō sat down,

"I was shocked—I didn't know a thing! Carelessly lending you those swords... You're really mean, Kin-san." "I didn't tell you 'cause I didn't want you worrying." "It's good it ended safe, but if somethin' had happened... I would've resented you."

"Okay." "Okay." "I'll apologize." Finding it troublesome, Kintarō adopted a non-confrontational strategy.

Man stood up to make tea.

“Kin-san.”

Suddenly, Shinzō sat back up straight and assumed a solemn expression. He wore a tense expression. “Hmm?” “The fight between you and Ezaki has taken a strange turn.” “A strange turn?” “How should I put this? ...Earlier, a messenger from Tomoda Kizō came—he wants to mediate this fight himself, so he’s asking to be allowed to step in. For the reconciliation meeting venue, he wants to borrow Asuka. Boss Yoshida Isokichi might also attend. That’s what he said.”

“Why don’t we just refuse?” “We did refuse once.” “Then they said—‘You aiming to disgrace Tomoda Kizō’s face?’” “If that’s their game, I’ve got a plan.” “When they smear mud on your face, you can’t just swallow it quiet.” “…That’s what they’re saying.” “We’ve done nothing to shame Tomoda’s face or dirty his name… But this ‘face’ business—in our world, it’s like some damn constitution…”

—Face.

A golden pyramid was erected in the world of chivalry and yakuza. Face stood preserved. It did not stand preserved. Out of consideration for face. They disgraced face. They did not disgrace it. Arrogance and pride created a stubborn, unyielding vanity that became a distorted heroism mistaken for masculinity. In realms beyond right and wrong, human pitfalls—always forced out against a backdrop of violence—had persistently intruded. The extent to which people in this region were plagued by this "face" business surpassed all imagination.

Shinzō himself had been chased down by "Mamushi Ichi" when he went to Beppu Hot Springs with Kimika, "You bastard—you ruined my reputation!"

Suddenly confronted with those words, he was slashed at. It could be said Shinzō had committed murder all for the sake of this "face."

Kintarō, too, had often been tormented by "face" in the past. And so, Kintarō now understood well just how perplexed Shinzō was.

“Kin-san, do you not want to make peace with Ezaki Mitsuyoshi?” “I want to get along with everyone.” “I’ll make peace anytime.” “Do you take issue with the mediator’s ‘face’?” “No such thing.” “Then could you bend here and settle things with Ezaki through Tomoda’s mediation?” “Boss Yoshida Isokichi has taken interest in this quarrel too—best not to stir unnecessary trouble.” “You know I’m not forcing anything against your will, right?” “When you live in this town and do business here, you can’t buck against its ways so hard.” “…And if it were my old self, I’d tell ’em to piss off—but now that I’ve become a parent myself…”

Kintarō listened to his close friend's feeble tone with a lonely ache. (Shinkō had changed.)

While fully understanding Shinzō's position and hardships, Kintarō nevertheless felt lonely at this softening of his sworn brother and closest friend. He also felt disheartened. In Wakamatsu, Shinzō had been practically his only friend and a man he'd relied on—yet now this very Shinzō was trying to distance himself. Though he didn't consider it betrayal, Kintarō was suddenly plunged into loneliness, his spirits sinking.

Reactively, in a cheerful tone,

“Understood.” “Understood.” “Alright, agreed.” “Let me know the day and time.” “I’ll go anytime.”

“I see.” “If you’ll do that, I’d be grateful.” “...And take these two swords.” “In return—don’t breathe a word at the reconciliation that you borrowed those blades from me.”

“Understood. Understood. Go home already.”

Shinzō Mori left through the worsening rain, saying he would inform them once the date was decided.

Man, who had brought the bancha, wore a puzzled expression as she “Mr. Shin, is something wrong? You left awfully early...” “You left awfully early...”

“I sent him away.” “Why did you?” “Because I was done.”

Tossing out the words, Kintarō rolled back onto the veranda again. With a resigned expression, he closed his eyes, but as if suddenly struck by a thought, he swiftly sat upright. He grabbed the two Japanese swords beside him in an eagle-like grip and stood up. "Where are you going?" "I'm going to Boss Nagata's place for a bit." As he was slipping on his high geta at the back door, Shunji returned with four or five ramune bottles stuffed inside his coat. The guests had already left. "You all drink this," Kintarō said as he left, then went out holding a bamboo umbrella.

He passed through the rain-shrouded twilight town and went to Nagata's house, which stood no more than two chō away.

Nagata Mokuji, who had been demoted from the Kyōdō Group, used his retirement money to start a ramune manufacturing business. Originally having received a punitive demotion, Nagata was able to secure funding through compassionate Ōba Haruyoshi—who discussed matters with Kintarō—to start a ramune shop on the condition that he part ways with his mistress Saku. Nagata took that opportunity to move to Wakamatsu. And his opening of the business in Shin-Nakamachi district—right under the nose of Tamai-gumi headquarters—stemmed from Kintarō’s desire to stay nearby and look after his former boss.

Out front hung a sign reading “Nagata Soft Drink Manufacturing Plant,” but above the entrance’s lintel dangled an old “Nagata-gumi” lantern. At the factory where the day’s work had ended, four or five employees were packing ramune bottles into boxes or sweeping up shards of broken glass with bamboo brooms. “Excuse me.” “Oh, Tamai. Come on in.” In the living room, with a long brazier between them, the Nagata couple were winding thread. Yone was deftly winding up the bundles of white thread that Mokuji had placed around both his wrists. Each time the thread unraveled, Mokuji flexibly moved his wrists, showing he was quite adept.

Beside them, their son Mojihira watched with interest. When he sat down next to the long brazier, "Boss, I'll give you these swords."

With that, he placed the two swords wrapped in purple cloth before Nagata Mokuji.

“I see. Well, thank you kindly.” Nagata removed the thread and drew the Japanese sword. He looked at the blade many times and was pleased. Compared to before, he seemed much healthier.

Yone brought warmed sake. “Tamai, I hear you’re planning to form a foremen’s union this time—your idea, isn’t it?” “I plan to do so.” “That’s a fine idea.” “But there’s a problem I’m facing, you see. The Kyōdō Group, Mitsui & Co., the Ōtaka Group, and others have agreed to join, but Tomoda Kizō’s Kyōdō Group simply refuses to participate.” “So he does have ulterior motives after all?” “Even within the Kyōdō Group, there are some foremen who wish to join,” Kintarō explained. “But the problem is that Great Boss Tomoda is keeping a tight grip. ‘If you want to join Tamai’s union, go ahead,’ he says. ‘I have plans.’ If he speaks like that, no one will join.”

“Tomoda’s always been like that—he wants to hog all the port work for himself.” “The cargo owners’ll always go for cheaper rates, y’know.” “If he slinks around offering to undercut the agreed wages by two or three sen per ton, even the Kyōdō Group’s regular clients might jump ship to him.” “Exactly.” “We’re already seeing signs of it.” “Just four days back, eight hundred tons of Mitsubishi coal from the Gen’yō Maru that was meant for the union got snatched up by Tomoda’s lot.” “It’s dead wrong for us workers to be fighting over jobs like this.” “Cutting wages that are already pitiful? All that does is line the capitalists’ pockets.” “All my years hauling cargo on the docks—I could never figure why we break our backs sweating, yet never get ahead.” “Turns out it’s ’cause we’re too busy undercutting each other.” “That’s why forming a union’s become non-negotiable.” “But Tomoda’s crew won’t join no matter what.”

“This is quite a predicament.” “On top of that, I heard Tomoda’s been saying this about me—‘That Tamai Kintarō, swaggering around Wakamatsu like he owns the place even though he’s a newcomer. Thinks he’s got grandiose ideas, but he’s just a troublemaker.’” “‘He’s running around claiming he’ll organize something called the Wakamatsu Port Steamship Loading Foremen’s Union, but really he’s scheming to become its president so he can control port operations however he pleases.’” “‘I’ll crush that union!’” “‘I’ll make sure Tamai can’t stay in Wakamatsu.’” “‘……That’s the sort of thing he keeps repeating like a mantra.’” “A contractor should be a representative of the workers, but that man is an enemy of the laborers.” “Frankly, you could even call them government-backed yakuza for the capitalists.”

Kintarō's eyes were burning with irrepressible fury.

Nagata Mokuji disliked troublesome matters and didn't understand such complexities, so he just vaguely,

“This is quite a predicament.”

was all he kept muttering. As for the events of the previous night, the Nagata household appeared completely unaware. "He's still as carefree as ever, that boss," he thought. Originally, the work of a contractor - requiring dockyard roughness, the sharpness to pluck eyes from living horses, even blood-for-blood battles - had been beyond Nagata Mokuji's capabilities. When he switched to an ordinary business selling ramune, he settled into a peaceful demeanor that suited him perfectly.

“Tamai, care for a game of Go?”

he said with a beaming face.

“I don’t know Go. If it’s shogi, I can play a little.”

“I don’t know shogi.” “Go’s more fun, I tell ya.” “If ya don’t know, I’ll teach ya.”

“Please teach me.” “Hey Yone, fetch the Go board.” “Actually, I’ve got business tonight—perhaps next time…” “I see.” “Then next time it’ll be. Tamai, if you’re becoming a proper labor boss and growing the Tamai Group from here on out, you’d best learn Go. A man without hobbies is no better than livestock. Just knowing gambling makes for a miserable life.” “You’re an odd duck for your youth—might even make town council someday.” “Nay, you’ll surely become councilman.” “When that day comes, you’ll need to rub shoulders with bigwigs—Go’ll serve you well then.” “I’ll school you proper. Though come to think of it…”

And suddenly, Nagata Mokuji’s eyes took on a distant, reminiscent look, as though overwhelmed with emotion— "When you and Man came crawling to my place together, looking like beggars hauling their rags—how many years ago was that now...?"

“It’s been about three years since then.” “Three years, you say… That ‘Nandemo-ya’ in Shimonoseki—he’s from our hometown of Naogata, you know. Not exactly sharp, but an honest soul through and through. You two brought that letter from ‘Nandemo-ya,’ so I took you in... But a beggar drifter like you becoming respectable enough to take my place—that much even I never imagined, eh?”

“Everyone’s success is thanks to you, Boss.” “What nonsense! I’ve done nothing worth thanking.” “Look at me—this spineless fool hasn’t helped a soul in his life.” “If anything, Tamai, the fact I can live here in peace now—that’s all your doing. My wife and I thank you every day.” “What are you talking about?” “This barely begins to repay what we owe you.”

After that, they chatted for about ten more minutes before he took his leave of the Nagata household.

He hurried toward his home, listening to the rain fiercely beating against his oil-paper umbrella,

(The Boss’s house had become like a proper home for the first time, I tell ya.)

With a smile welling up inside him, he thought such thoughts. And this train of thought flowed directly into the mysteriously delightful sentiment of imagining the day when they too would have a child.

The next morning, a maid from "Asuka" brought a letter from Shinnosuke Mori. It was a notification letter regarding the date for reconciliation. Kintarō, along with the Kobata crew, had gone out to work and were away.

Man received it.

On the signboard reading "Women’s Hairdressing Shop," a yellow butterfly and a white butterfly were frolicking together, having begun their play some time earlier. Entwined, they soared upward in spirals before descending once more. Between the top of the signboard and a bucket beneath the eaves crouched a large spider that had spun its web and waited for prey to become ensnared. The butterflies continued their heedless play in selfless abandon, occasionally grazing the web's threads. Each time they touched the strands, the spider at the center would dart forward expectantly only to retreat in vexation when no capture occurred, its frustrated withdrawals repeating like clockwork.

“Those butterflies are in danger, aren’t they?” Okyō, who had seemed unable to stop worrying about them for some time now, muttered as if to herself.

Four or five geishas from Asuka had come together to the hairdressing parlor. Okyō was waiting her turn while flipping through a photographic magazine. She intended to have her loose Shimada knot restyled into a ginkgo-leaf twist.

“Someki-san, you’re so fashionable.”

Her friends stared wide-eyed at Someki, who had styled her hair in the 203 Heights fashion. 203 Heights was a mountain where, during the Russo-Japanese War, after an extremely fierce battle, the Japanese military had captured a Russian military position. Hairstyles bearing that name had become popular. In the center of the bangs, they created a lump resembling a turban shell. Someki had specifically chosen this chignon today with an ulterior motive. "Is there some event tonight that has all of you gathered here?" The hairdresser Natsu asked while styling Someki’s hair. She was a woman born in Hakata, around forty years old, spirited, dark-complexioned, with upturned eyebrows.

The three apprentices were also each facing their mirrors, styling hair one by one. Inside the shop, the strong smell of pomade oil hung in the air, punctuated intermittently by the squeak-squeak of hair ties being tightened and the swish-swish of combs running through hair. Someki said eagerly, "A banquet!"

“A banquet ain’t nothing special. But y’all goin’ all out with these fancy hairdos—must be somethin’ real particular, I reckon.” “That’s right, Natsu-san. It’s huge! A proper reconciliation between bosses—happening at our house tonight.” “Between who and who?”

“Boss Tamai Kintarō and Boss Ezaki Mitsuyoshi.” “The mediator will be Boss Tomoda Kizō.” “Since my father’s sworn brothers with Boss Tamai, they made the request through us.” “That’s fine and all, but tonight seems like nearly every boss in Wakamatsu will be gathering.” “Great Boss Yoshida Isokichi himself is coming too—Boss Yamashita Gōichi, Boss Nagai Hisayoshi, Boss Hanada Junzō, Dotera Granny... Then on Boss Tamai’s side there’s Boss Ōba Haruyoshi, Boss Tanaka Mitsunori, Boss Misaki Kunizō...”

“Wow, it’s a Boss Exhibition!” “Well, tonight’s going to be a big night for Asuka.” “But do you really think having so many enemy and ally bosses gathered together will end without any trouble?” “It will go smoothly.” “It’s a reconciliation event to begin with.” “Someki-san, I don’t know what it is, but you look awfully happy.” “There’s someone you want to see, isn’t there?” “You got me,” she said, grinning slyly. “Lately, I’ve been head over heels for Boss Tamai Kintarō.” “With someone like that, I’d endure any hardship.”

Okyō heard this and recalled what had happened at Konpirayama. Dotera Granny leaned on both Okyō and Someki with her arms and said, "If you're going to fall in love, fall for a man like Tamai Kintarō. Were I younger, I'd throw myself at him." However, Okyō knew that Someki hadn't suddenly fallen for him because she'd been stirred up by that comment. Kintarō had been coming and going at Asuka as if it were his own home, so it seemed Someki had taken a liking to him from early on.

Someki had styled her hair in the 203 Heights chignon—a strategy, it seemed—to catch Kintarō’s eye tonight with this modern coiffure. It suited her well again. “Someki-san, wait for me. Let’s go back together.” “Yes.”

And the two of them left O-Natsu’s shop together.

It was such fine weather that one felt a light sweat. The clattering of their geta sandals rang out clear and crisp, as if echoing deep into the azure sky, and somewhere in the air lingered the first whispers of summer. A kite soared leisurely, occasionally crying out with a flute-like voice. “Someki-san, there’s something I want to discuss with you.” “Humor me.”

"Yes." The young Someki regarded Okyō with deference as her senior geisha. She remained compliant.

They passed by the town hall enclosed by a wooden fence and went to Ebisu Shrine. This ancient shrine, steeped in history, had waves from Dōkai Bay reaching up to the base of its stone torii gate, lapping against the stone steps. Within the precincts, towering trees such as Japanese elms, cedars, pines, and camphor trees grew so thick and lush that even at midday, the area felt dim. As a sea deity, it had been deeply revered by fishermen. There was not a soul in sight. "Sis, what is it?"

Amidst the overwhelming quietness around them, Someki asked with an innocent face that belied her unease in the eerie atmosphere.

“It’s not about anything else, but… you need to stop falling for Tamai-san.”

Someki was startled and looked at Okyō. Okyō’s face was sharper than ever, and Someki felt intimidated. However, she too cast aside her usual obedience, “That’s your opinion.” “Though those are your words, Sis, this one thing I can’t comply with.” “I’ve fully considered what Father always says.” “If staying at Asuka means I can’t fulfill this love that’s my life as a woman, then I’m even prepared to leave Asuka... I’d hoped you’d lend me your strength too, Sis Okyō.” “And then for you to tell me to stop...”

“But if you end up in a messy situation with Tamai-san, what will you do about Tomoda-san?” “Of course I’ll cut ties with him.”

“You make it sound so simple…” “That’s how it is.” “Tomoda-san isn’t my only option… I’ve thought for a while it’d be better to leave him someday.” “You can’t.” “It’s not that straightforward.” “Tamai-san and Tomoda-san already clash over everything. What do you think will happen if you throw romantic entanglements into the mix?” “Don’t you see? Because of you, Tomoda-san’s grudge against Tamai-san will burn hotter than ever.”

“Ah, so you’re the one who likes Tamai-san, Sis.”

“That’s right.” she declared. “If that’s how it is, then that’s fine. I’ll compete with you, Sis Okyō.” “I’ll compete with you, Sis Okyō.” Someki made her resolve clear even as her temples flushed. Her irritable temperament made the bulging blue veins at her temples twitch, and her narrow, single-lidded eyes were raised like a fox’s. Okyō, realizing her junior geisha’s resolve was no trifling matter, steeled herself to take drastic measures—there was no other way.

“Someki-san,” she said sharply.

In a strong tone, she called her name again and glared with menacing eyes.

“What now?”

And now, the other party too became defiant. "Do you truly intend to go up against me?" “Absolutely.” “Even if it costs you your life?...” “Without a doubt.”

“Ah ha ha ha!” Suddenly, Okyō burst into laughter in a voice like a man’s. As if the roaring laughter simply would not cease, she writhed her stomach in apparent agony.

Someki bristled, "What's so funny?" "Even if you're my sister, I won't put up with being mocked like this." "Wah hah hah hah...!"

“Sis, I’m leaving now.” “Wait.”

Okyō, having stopped laughing, hurriedly grabbed Someki’s sleeve.

“It’s because you were acting so high-and-mighty that I burst out laughing, Someki-san. What are you saying about risking your life and refusing to back down? You’re just a child. Do you even truly understand what your own words mean? But now that it’s come to this, there’s no helping it. Because I feel sorry for making you go through unnecessary hardship, I’ll tell you everything... Someki-san, Tamai-san and I are already intimately involved.”

“Lies! Lies!” “What do you mean 'lie'? Because it was troublesome, I'd kept this hidden until now. But since you looked likely to meddle, I'm telling you properly.”

“I don’t believe you.” “Sis Okyō, you’ve never even met Tamai-san once, and yet…!”

“Then watch tonight.” “Everything will become clear.” “...Someki-san, who on earth do you think I am?” “I’ve been feigning innocence until now, but shall I reveal my true origins?” “...Behold this.” Okyō glanced around briefly before rolling up her right sleeve. A beautiful tattoo of peonies and butterflies emerged. Since arriving at Asuka, she had never revealed it to anyone.

Someki was utterly astonished. Her face paled as she took two or three steps backward. "When they speak of 'Butterfly Peony Okyō,' that's a name that carried some weight among bosses in Kanto." "The only reason I came to this backwater like Wakamatsu was entirely for Kintarō-san's sake." "Someki-san, if you don't value your life, feel free to keep meddling with Kintarō-san." "And regarding today's matters—my true identity and my connection with Kintarō-san—if you breathe even a word of this to anyone, you should consider your life forfeit."

Someki covered her face with her sleeve and began to sob violently.

That night, a lavish banquet was held at Asuka.

In the fifty-tatami hall, centered around tonight's guests of honor Tamai Kintarō and Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, the city's prominent figures sat in formal formation. Combined from both factions were approximately thirty attendees, fifteen or sixteen geisha, meals served through three formal courses of the finest arrangement, and sake and beer carried to seats in inexhaustible quantities.

“First, tonight’s an auspicious occasion.”

Mori Shinzō, sitting in the seat to his right, said this with a grin, “Yeah, suppose so.”

Kintarō responded curtly, nodding along with an unenthusiastic expression.

To his left sat "Six-Zero" Gen.

“The other side has an awful lot of people, doesn’t it?” said Gen. “They’re tryin’ to intimidate us.” “Boss Yoshida doesn’t seem to be here, does he?” “He said he’d come later or something.” Shinzō, being Kintarō’s junior sworn brother, was seated beside Kintarō today not as the proprietor of Asuka but as an official guest. Mori Shinzō was regarded with wary respect in this town—because he had committed murder. Within yakuza circles, killing someone then returning from prison had become an informal code for gaining prestige. The man Shinzō killed—“Mamushi Ichi”—had been Kanmon-Kitakyushu’s most vicious boss, granting Shinzō a peculiar notoriety. Though normally quiet, his innate short temper made him dangerously unpredictable when provoked—a temperament that gradually became common knowledge,

“If you make him angry, he’ll be a real pain.”

Even those who were never ones to be outdone in making noise regarded him with such eyes. That fact might well have been why they had managed to safely operate Asuka within enemy territory—the domain of the Yoshida Isokichi faction—up until now. Yet now that very "Face" sought to shatter this balance and peace. On Kintarō’s side sat only seven men: Shinzō, Matsukawa Genjū, Ōkawa Tokijirō, Ōba Haruyoshi, Misaki Kunizō, Tanaka Mitsunori. But Tomoda Kizō’s faction claimed the overwhelming majority. Yamashita Gōichi, Nagai Hisayoshi, Ichikawa Yahee, Okabe Teizō, Hanada Junzō, Fujino Seiji, Nagatomi Monta, Shimamura Gin "Dotera-baa"—the Yoshida faction’s Four Heavenly Kings, trusted confidants, closest advisors, and so-called fierce generals—all stood arrayed in full force. This spectacle indeed made for an oppressive demonstration.

What was strange was the Ezaki Mitsuyoshi faction. Though this gathering had originally been announced as a reconciliation between Ezaki and Tamai, here Ezaki was being treated as utterly irrelevant. In the past, he had engaged in a major feud on equal terms with Yoshida Isokichi, but now he was in decline; moreover, in this recent conflict—despite having assembled his fighting force and advancing to the front of the Tamai residence—he had retreated in fear upon seeing Kintarō washing a Japanese sword in a basin, a fact that had become widely known and left him thoroughly despised.

Applause broke out. The opening dance seemed about to begin. The stage curtain opened. At the rear of the stage against a backdrop of five-needle pines stood six performers—local shamisen players, drummers, singers and others—lined up in formation.

In the center, a woman with a ginkgo-leaf hairstyle—a dancer who had been bowing her head—raised her face.

Kintarō was startled. To the accompaniment of shamisen and traditional ballads, Okyō began to dance. Her fresh ginkgo-leaf hairstyle, the trailing hem of her checkered-patterned kimono, the silver fan flickering in her hand, and the motions of her fully ripened body glided soundlessly across the stage with supple grace—every gesture, every sweep of her arms drifting with an indescribably bewitching allure. Her long, narrow eyes, seeming to hold some sorrow, were tinged with blue. To the plum too, spring—

adds its hue, Drawing the first water? The well with a water wheel...

While dancing, Okyō occasionally glanced toward Kintarō and smiled coyly. Kintarō’s dumbfounded expression—his mouth hanging agape as he stared fixedly at her—was so comical she could hardly contain herself. Then Okyō, as if flaunting her beauty, danced even more alluringly while sending lingering, Morse code-like messages toward Kintarō. "It’s been too long, hasn’t it? "I’ve longed to see you since Hakata." "You fled before we could settle that important matter." "But I haven’t given up." "Meet me tonight—after this ends." "You will."

Okyō's coded gaze was clearly conveying that matter to Kintarō.

However, as she danced, something strange flickered through Okyō’s mind.

During the day, two butterflies had been flitting playfully above the signboard of the Women’s Hairdressing Shop; now, as they seemed about to become ensnared in a spider’s web, she felt her heart race with worry. At that time, she had only been concerned about the butterflies’ peril, yet now, as she danced, a vision had arisen in Okyō’s mind—the yellow butterfly as Kintarō and the white butterfly as herself. (Then, what about the spider?...)

Spiders were swarming thickly throughout this gathering—the moment Okyō began entertaining such thoughts, a sudden unease welled up within her, and she felt her limbs grow disordered. Her very pulse began throbbing. “Hey, Tamai.”

Ōba Haruyoshi tugged at Kintarō’s sleeve. "Yes, sir." "That woman dancing over there—isn’t she the one from Musashi Hot Spring in Futsukaichi?" “She does bear a resemblance.” "I had thought the same." “But she appears to be different.” “Is that so? “I can’t help but feel it’s her…?”

For Ōba Haruyoshi, who cared deeply for Kintarō, if this was indeed the woman from Musashi Hot Spring, he knew he needed to stay vigilant. What might pass during travels was one matter—back home, all sorts of complications would arise. Tomoda Kizō gazed at Okyō’s voluptuous beauty with rapt fascination, but upon setting down his cup, he discreetly summoned a maid. “What might this concern?” “That woman—what’s her name as a courtesan?”

“She is called Okyō.” “She’s to my liking. Have her attend me tonight.” “Well…? What should I tell Okyō-san?...”

“There’s this way and that way of doing things—she’s a geisha, isn’t she?”

Someki listened intently, her eyes gleaming.

When Okyō’s *Plum Blossoms in Spring* concluded amidst applause, the gathering immediately became a banquet. The introductions of attendees and reconciliation ceremony had already finished, leaving only an informal drinking party. Sake cups circulated like winged creatures. “Let us commence the talent exhibition. ...Mr. Tamai—you shall perform something.” “I require it.”

Tomoda Kizō said this.

“I’ll do it.”

Kintarō casually stood up, "I'll go get ready," he said, and left the room.

After about five or six minutes, the stage curtain opened with the sound of wooden clappers.

At center stage were two figures—a man and a woman. To the left stood Kintarō, wearing a kamishimo jacket with both hands resting on the lectern as he bowed his head. To the right was Okyō, her gingko-leaf hairstyle visible as she too bowed before placing the thick-necked shamisen in front of her. The one striking the wooden clappers was the barker Kochōya Mamehachi, who delivered his announcement in a shrill, piercing voice. “East and west, east and west! The jōruri piece you have long awaited—‘The Alluring Figure in a Dancing Maiden’s Robe’—shall now be performed! Narrated by Tamai Harushō, shamisen by Okyō! At last, we present ‘The Mikatsu Hanshichi’s Sake Shop Chapter’! For this occasion, our opening address: East and west, east and west!”

Applause.

Kintarō raised his face, and Okyō took up the shamisen. The gazes of the entire gathering, tinged with curiosity, were focused on the pair—yet within that crowd, Tomoda Kizō’s eyes simmered with predatory calculation, Someki’s burned jealous greenfire, and Ōba Haruyoshi’s narrowed in paternal suspicion. Kintarō had loved jōruri since his Shikoku youth—the rough poetry of laborers’ theater that first kindled his gift for swaying crowds. He’d competed in amateur festivals until his calluses matched those from dockwork. He belonged to Onsen-za then. The troupe master dubbed him “Harushō”—Spring Rising—when other apprentices still fumbled their shamisen picks. Through Tobata’s coal dust and Wakamatsu’s nightshifts, he’d practiced lines between cargo tallies. Toyosawa Dansuke taught him how breath could shape mobs as deftly as fists; disciples later gifted him that striped curtain now rolled in some Nagasaki warehouse. Mori Shin’nosuke caught the fever too—hence why Asuka’s backroom hoarded these props: lacquered lectern still smelling of pine rosin, ceremonial jackets folded beneath gambling ledgers.

When Tomoda nominated him to lead off the talent show, he showed no hesitation—immediately deciding to perform jōruri, then conceived the additional idea of having Okyō play the shamisen. Closing both eyes and letting a faint smile drift across his entire face, Kintarō soon began to narrate in a solemn tone, carried by the shamisen's sound. "...Afterwards, the garden's fleeting thoughts—even were one to inscribe them as crow-feather jewels—the world's dreariness bound to a single form, an undissolving thread... such soliloquies repeated..."

Someki recalled what Okyō had said to her in the precincts of Ebisu Shrine. That Okyō and Kintarō were already intimately involved—she hadn't wanted to believe such a thing, yet now, being made to witness firsthand their synchronized breathing on stage, their casual manner of speaking and familiar attitudes toward each other... So it really hadn't been a lie after all. She couldn't help but think. Feelings of despair and jealousy burned in Someki's eyes with blue phosphorescence.

“...Where could Hanshichi-an be now, and in what state… I wonder...” This was the segment Kintarō excelled at most. He spoke rapturously, as if intoxicated. From the moment the curtain opened, Tomoda Kizō had been glaring with his kite-like narrow sharp eyes in an unusual manner, but now he set down the cup he had been licking with evident discomfort.

“Hey! I’ve had enough.” “Stop this lousy jōruri!”

he bellowed. So absorbed in his narration, Kintarō couldn’t properly hear those words, yet he continued shaking his head repeatedly, "Though it is now too late to turn back, if there were no such person as I..." and continued his narration.

“If I tell you to stop, then stop! Miso and shit rot together!” Tomoda Kizō shouted again. “Well, well, that’s quite impressive!” came a voice from the crowd.

From the ranks came a voice of support. Matsukawa Genjū and Ōkawa Tokijirō had been gritting their teeth while listening to Tomoda berate their boss. When this supporter emerged, they turned toward the voice. Yet this came not from their allies in the Union Group, but from Hanada Junzō—someone they had regarded as part of the enemy faction. They had long heard rumors that Hanada served as Yoshida Isokichi’s trusted right-hand man. As fellow members under Yoshida’s banner, he and Tomoda should have been like sworn brothers. That Hanada was now voicing opposition to Tomoda struck Genjū and Tokijirō with faint surprise.

“That’s strange...”

Tokijirō tilted his head and looked at Genjū. However, compared to Tokijirō—who had only recently come from rural Hiroshima—Genjū, seasoned through many such situations, found this development not entirely beyond comprehension. "Even within the same Yoshida family, there's all sorts of factions, you know." "Tomoda Kizō and Hanada Junzō—there must be some tangled history between them."

He brought his mouth close to Tokijirō’s ear and whispered those words softly. Fortunately, neither Tomoda’s jeers nor Hanada’s cheers reached Kintarō’s ears clearly. In good spirits, narrowing his eyes, he continued to narrate. Only Okyō, playing the shamisen, sharpened her eyes at their voices but said nothing, keeping in rhythm with the jōruri.

Hanada Junzō had a plump, fair-skinned build with eyes that held a soft gleam. You’d never guess he’d once been a river boatman. He carried himself with masculine grace like a leading man. Yet considering how Yoshida Isokichi had earnestly recruited Hanada—formerly under Tobata boss Egami Yasaku—to join his ranks, he now carried significant weight as the Yoshida family’s chief strategist. When Hanada’s cheer rose up, Tomoda stopped demanding they halt the performance. With an expression of mounting bitterness, he made Someki beside him pour drink after drink—gulping them down in quick succession.

“……When I think—when I think—if only this garden had perished in last autumn’s suffering, such hardships would not exist.”

Thereupon, Kintarō wept for a time and brought his performance to a close, whereupon a great burst of applause and laughter arose. Kochōya Mamehachi struck his wooden clappers, and the curtain closed. Someki, offering a cup to Tomoda, wore an enigmatic smile, “Master, do you know about Mr. Tamai and Okyō-san?” “What do you mean?” “That they’re involved.” “That’s impossible!” “He seemed quite devoted to Okyō-san, but... well... don’t you think...?”

Tomoda Kizō, his dusky, livid face marked by several prominent scars, had been glaring with kite-sharp eyes, but when he saw Kintarō—who had removed his shoulder garment and returned to the banquet room—he raised his right hand as if waiting and called out.

“Hey! Kintarō, come over here. “There’s something I need to discuss.” When Kintarō came forward, Tomoda forced a smile and offered him a cup. Kintarō obediently accepted it and,

“Truly, I’ve caused you great trouble this time,” he said in greeting.

“Well, good thing the reconciliation wrapped up without a hitch.” “That’s all thanks to our muscle.” “A loudmouth like Ezaki Mitsuyoshi’d never swallow mediation from outsiders.”

“That’s exactly right. Thank you very much.” He downed the returned cup in one gulp. “Now then, Tamai.” “Yes?” “I hear you’re pushing to form a foremen’s union—truth in that?” “I’m determined to see it established…” “Determined?… No call for determination here.” “Been meaning to set you straight since last we met… Your thinking’s gone crooked.” “Need I remind you Wakamatsu’s a coal port? A coal town? That black rock only flows here thanks to mines run by shipping giants—Mitsubishi, Mitsui, Kaijima, Asō.” “Put plain—we eat by their grace.” “This very cup in your hand? Their blessing too… You grasp this, Tamai?”

“You’re exactly right.” “If that’s the case, then isn’t it only natural we must value those very benefactors? Am I wrong?” “You’re not wrong.” “Then, Mr. Tamai—wouldn’t this union movement of yours amount to drawing your bow against our benefactors?” “No—it absolutely doesn’t mean turning against them. We’re fully aware we exist through those shipping companies. But when you see how wretchedly poor the dockworkers laboring on-site are—there must be some unreasonable flaw in the system—that is…”

“Where is this flaw?”

“It’s hard to explain all at once, but ultimately, I believe the wages are simply too low.” “Shipping companies and workers depend on each other—of course, we exist because there are shipping companies. But turn that around, and shipping companies only exist because there are us workers. Yet if the companies grow fat while workers keep scraping by and wasting away—I can’t call that right.” “That’s why we need a union…”

“Are you trying to pick a fight with the shipping companies?” “When you put it that way—I’m at a loss...” “No matter how you phrase it—it amounts to the same thing.” “There’s something wrong with you.” “That’s what they call dangerous ideology.” “Are you any different from a socialist?” “Absolutely not.” “I’m only considering practical matters from my position as a dockworker.” “I can’t stop your union nonsense—but my Kyōdō Group will never join such an ungrateful outfit.”

The variety performances continued. Dotera Granny sang and danced to her signature tune *For Those Unacquainted with Wakamatsu’s Sights*, Ezaki Mitsuyoshi chanted naniwabushi ballads, Ōba Haruyoshi performed the *Kappore* dance, the famously taciturn Okabe Teizō sang a folk ditty in his gravelly voice, and Hanada Junzō executed a sword dance—all accompanied by shamisen and drums, making the gathering so lively that the conversation between Tomoda Kizō and Tamai Kintarō could only be heard by a few people nearby.

Only Mori Shinnosuke, from a separate row slightly apart, strained every fiber of his being to listen—paying rapt attention to their conversation with an air of concern. (If only Kin-san would stop resisting and just compromise...) Though he knew his friend’s temperament well—that stubborn refusal to retreat even if flames rained down or arrows flew when convinced of his righteousness—Shinnosuke found that very inflexibility maddening. There was no need to go out of one’s way to stir up storms on calm plains, he thought. Long ago, during his legendary clash with Ezaki Mitsuyoshi, Tomoda Kizō’s prized white-sheathed sword had become notched like a saw’s teeth and bent like a candy stick—forcing him to seize an enemy blade and fight on with such ferocity that it passed into legend. Nowadays, as a renowned contractor, he no longer acted with youthful recklessness—instead surrounding himself with legions of lawless subordinates. Knowing this full well, there were moments when Kintarō’s peculiar obstinacy struck Shinnosuke as almost childlike.

As Kintarō remained unable to respond to Tomoda’s words, Tomoda said with evident satisfaction,

“Now then, Mr. Tamai—when you first came to this town, you went to pay your respects to Boss Yoshida Isokichi, didn’t you?” “No, I did not pay a visit.” “You’re really out of line here. “You must know Boss Yoshida Isokichi resides in Wakamatsu. Even the mayor or police chief—when newly appointed—they make it their first order of business to pay their respects to Boss Yoshida.” “Moreover, the fact that you—who wish to work in this port—have never once gone to pay your respects violates the code of honor.” “Boss holds you in great favor, I tell you.” “So, Boss himself had offered to attend tonight as well, but come evening, his chronic stomach pain flared up—he sends his regrets and says to give you his best regards.” “Mr. Tamai, you should go pay your respects and express your gratitude to Boss tomorrow or the next day.”

Mori Shinnosuke had been on edge wondering how Kintarō would respond, but when he answered straightforwardly— "I will do so." Mori Shinnosuke felt relieved when he said that. “And another thing, Mr. Tamai—that woman who was playing the shamisen when you recited jōruri earlier… Okyō, was it? Are you close with that geisha? Is that true?” "Nothing of the sort! She merely played the shamisen for me." “I merely had her play the shamisen.”

“I see. Well, that’s fine then. I was thinkin’ of takin’ her to bed tonight myself, so I figured I’d check. Wouldn’t do for us to be crossin’ swords now, would it?” Tomoda Kizō let out a shrill, crow-like laugh in a high-pitched, womanish voice. However, before the banquet had even ended, Kintarō and Okyō had disappeared from Asuka—no one knew where they had gone.

After sunset, Man went into town to shop. Taking the hand of Mitsuko—her older brother Rinsuke’s eldest granddaughter and an eight-year-old—and since the luggage seemed likely to become bulky, she brought along Shunji, the “Middle Schooler,” as an attendant. She bought pencils and writing paper for Mitsuko, who had just started elementary school. When passing by the toy store and seeing how eager Mitsuko looked, Man also bought her a rubber ball.

“You look like you want something too, Shun-chan.” When Man said that with a laugh, Shunji fidgeted,

“Sis, I don’t want anything, but… could you take me to see the play?” “Now? It’s already late.” “Not at all—the timing’s perfect. Just one act—the ‘Tiger Room’ scene—that’d be plenty!” “What’s playing there?” “Watanabe no Tsuna: Demon Subjugation at Rashōmon.” “Ah, so the play that Mr. Shin of Mori was said to be doing—it’s showing now, then.” “That part… where Watanabe no Tsuna gets grabbed by the demon with a crunch at the shikoro of his helmet, gets hoisted up to the heavens slowly—heavily—, and then slices off the demon’s arm with his sword in one clean strike—I never tire of seeing it, no matter how many times!”

“You’ve seen it before?” “I’ve seen it twice.” “Well then, there’s no need to see it three times, is there?” “I’d want to see it three times, five times—every night if I could! That’s fine! Sis—right, Sis, you should definitely go see it too. The actor playing Watanabe no Tsuna—some guy named something-or-other—looks just like Tamai’s father. And what’s more, the demon looks just like Tomoda Kizō!” “You shouldn’t say such things. We’re holding a reconciliation ceremony with Ezaki Mitsuyoshi tonight under Mr. Tomoda’s auspices...”

Although she had said that, Man too came to feel she wanted to see the play at least once, and made her way toward Asakusa-za Theater in Sannai-cho. When she asked Mitsuko for her opinion as well, Mitsuko was overjoyed and agreed to go see the play. Invitation tickets had come from Mori Shinnosuke. A congratulatory gift had also been sent from Kintarō. Shinnosuke, while serving time in Fukuoka Prison, had become acquainted with Kumamaru Toraichi and had been jointly producing this Kansai Young Kabuki Troupe performance. However, on the surface, Mori Shinnosuke’s name had not yet appeared. The reason for this lay in the friction with the Yoshida faction.

Man paid the admission fee. Five sen per person.

The "Tiger Room" was the lowest-class standing area. Audience members watched from outside a wooden fence that enclosed them like a cage. Since opening day, this show had apparently drawn packed houses every day. The second floor and box seats were filled to capacity, and even the "Tiger Room" was crammed full, leaving not an inch of space to spare.

“Mitsuko, come here. I’ll give you a piggyback!”

Shunji said that and lifted Mitsuko onto his shoulders. However, there were too many people, and they simply couldn’t get a proper view. The dialogue and music reached them in broken fragments; all they could catch were fleeting glimpses of the stage’s vibrant colors and movements—they couldn’t make sense of any of it. “Shun-chan, it’s no good. It’s too crowded. Since we have the day off tomorrow, let’s all come back together and try again.”

"Damn it all."

No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't see anything, so they finally gave up and went outside.

“Huh?” Shunji muttered. “Hey, isn’t that the old man?” In the dark street corner, Kintarō and a geisha in a checkered-pattern kimono came into view as they turned. “It does seem that way.” So saying, Man paused for a moment, but when the two figures disappeared around the street corner, she stepped out onto Honmachi Street with an especially composed expression, as if nothing had happened. Many houses had already had their lights extinguished, and the town was dark.

Mitsuko, who had been riding piggyback, had fallen asleep, so Shunji carried her on his back. She stopped by Inoue Hardware Store's storefront. Yasugorō, the son, was trying to close the large shutter. When he saw Man, the shopkeeper came out from the back. "Well now, Mrs. Tamai—out shopping quite late..." "We stopped by the theater and got a bit sidetracked, you see." "...And I was thinking I'd need another three-shō pot..."

“Has it started leaking already?” “No, we’ve been using cast repairs to fix the leaking parts and keep using it, but no matter what, we’re still short one...” “Your business is thriving splendidly.” “Congratulations on starting work with Mitsui Bussan as well.” “This is all thanks to everyone’s kindness.”

“As expected, Mr. Tamai’s the upstanding sort—good fortune circles round him, I tell you.” “Take that Konpirayama cherry blossom viewing—we were entirely indebted to Mr. Tamai’s arrangements.” “At that time, we received far too generous a gift from the Hardware Merchants’ Association through your thoughtful consideration…” “It’s nothing—just a small token of our regard." "We townsfolk always say when we gather—" “‘If someone like Mr. Tamai Kintarō were to run for town council, wouldn’t Wakamatsu improve quite a bit?’”

“That’s out of the question.” "My husband always says—like a mantra—that he hates politics." “That’s precisely why we need those who aren’t eager to run themselves to step forward for council seats.” “Who knows—it’s a real problem when people everyone shuns start throwing their weight around and running for town council just because they’ve got a bit of money.” "I truly want someone like your husband to step into the political world, I tell you." “He’ll surely refuse.”

As he listened to this conversation with his hand still on the large shutter, Inoue Yasugorō’s large, clear eyes—like those of a goldfish—sparkled with something akin to resolve and radiated an intense light. —Politics. —Politicians. And thus, his rage against the social evils that oppressed commoners’ lives and poisoned politics—their eradication—had already become the sole course of this youth’s springtime of life.

(I want to meet Tamai Kintarō once and have a proper talk.) That desire too was growing stronger. Having bought the three-shō pot, Shunji carried it while Man took Mitsuko on her back.

They walked toward the train station. Only at the Station had electric lights been installed early on. There still appeared to be several trains before the last one—in the dark night, only that corner blazed brilliantly, radiating light. The blasts of steam whistles and clanging metallic sounds of coal cars being coupled and uncoupled echoed frequently from within the railway yard. "Hey—isn't that Man?"

She was called from behind. Rinsuke, slightly drunk, approached. Grinning, "Man, didn'tcha see Kin-san earlier? At the corner of Rōmatsu-chō—he was walkin' with some fancy geisha from the Betsubara house." Man replied with a calm face, “I saw him too.” “Oh? …And then?” "What do you mean by 'and then'?" “I don’t get it.”

"I'm the one who doesn't understand. Brother, what are you trying to say?" "Aren't you gonna get jealous?" "Why?"

“Your husband getting cozy with a young, beautiful geisha—doesn’t that bother you at all?” “It doesn’t bother me at all.” “You—before, you said you wouldn’t stand for a husband who keeps women other than his wife.” “...You always said that like a mantra, didn’t you?” “What are you talking about?” “With that narrow way of thinking, Brother, you’ll never rise in the world.” “That belief of mine hasn’t changed even now.” “It hasn’t changed.” “But it’s not like my husband has taken any woman other than me.” “So what if he walked with a geisha?” “Socializing is crucial in men’s work.” “If that’s how it is, then he might go to restaurants or even end up in the pleasure quarters.” “If you went around making a fuss over every little thing like that or got all worked up just because your man was with some woman, you couldn’t be a laborer’s wife.” “I trust my husband, so even if he’s caught in a whirlpool of women, it’s fine.” “He would absolutely never take any woman besides me.”

“Even if Kin-san doesn’t fall for her, what if the woman falls for him? They say he’s got quite a lot of admirers though…” “Oh, how delightful! To have a husband so loved by women—how fortunate I am! What becomes of a man who isn’t even worth a woman’s snot? Heh… Brother, you’ve never been loved by a woman yourself, so you’re the one getting jealous here. I’m sure of it.” “Hmph, you’re quite something. If you mixed my Chie with you, it’d be just right. That wife of mine—already given me five kids, but still nothing but these damn jealous fits. It’s a pain. You’re always saying I torment Chie, but she’s the one getting jealous over baseless things—it always blows up into a huge fight. I envy Kin-san.”

Three years ago during their time with the Moji Hamao Group, Taniguchi Rinsuke had been far senior to Tamai Kintarō. There had been times when he watched with envious resentment as the newcomer Kintarō rapidly surpassed him, even speaking ill of Kintarō to his sister Man. Yet now he had become sworn brothers with that same Kintarō and entered his service as a subordinate. However, though he resigned himself to this arrangement out of acknowledged weakness—serving his brother-in-law with that mindset—he still found it difficult to suppress the occasional surges of resistance that welled up within him.

They turned into Shin-Nakamachi and walked in silence for a while. Once the lights of the Tamai house came into view,

“Man, your father in Hiroshima’s had a serious accident.”

She was startled,

"How bad?" "The letter was brief, so it’s not entirely clear, but apparently he was chopping wood and a splinter flew into his face." "It says that if it got into his eye, he might go blind." "Startled by that, your mother has apparently taken to bed as well."

“Maybe I should go back to Hiroshima for a while?”

A sudden, violent wave of homesickness—overwhelming as an unstoppable force—seared through every fiber of Man’s being.

Life and Death

From the second floor of Ryotei "Midoriya," the night sea could be seen. That area marked the entrance to Dōkai Bay. At Nakano Island in the harbor mouth, both a dense, primeval forest and the towering smokestacks of a coke factory stood illumined by moonlight. Tobata on the opposite shore was hazy and out of sight.

This Nakano Island, also known as Kawashima, once had Wakamatsu Castle guarded by Miyake Masaie, Governor of Wakasa—one of the Kuroda clan’s Twenty-Five Horsemen from the Chikuzen Domain. Now only stone ruins remained at the castle site, where a coke factory had been built. At the factory there had been a French engineer called "the Foreigner of Kawashima"—one Ee Mei Koi—who drew a monthly salary of 250 yen in Japanese currency, though he was no longer there.

The sound of the island's black great trees moaning in the wind carried across the sea. Listening intently to this, Okyō spoke in a breathy tone: "You can't imagine how long I've waited for this day." She leaned her body against Kintarō. "Okyō-san, you're truly relentless," he said. "To think you'd been coming to Shinkō's place all along—I never knew a thing." "You fled Hakata thinking you'd cleanly cut ties with me, didn't you?" "Ohoho, Kintarō-san—you really don't understand a woman's resolve, do you?"

“At the time, I did feel bad about it, but there was just no other way... Still, it’s weighed on me.” “I never paid you for tattooing me that time—left the Hakata inn bill unsettled too...” “Enough of this boorish talk.” “Do you truly think I did this for coin?”

“But that’s too…” “That’s enough about the past. The only reason I came to Wakamatsu was to see you, Kintarō-san. Now that my wish has been granted like this, what happened before doesn’t matter at all... So please, Kintarō-san—let me fulfill my wish.” In the four-and-a-half tatami room where they sat, only a small dining table occupied the space. The maid had brought simple food and drink before tactfully withdrawing, not lingering afterward. Though the window stood open, its view facing the night sea and island meant no fear of being observed from anywhere.

Okyō's piercing eyes—eyes that had conceived deep stratagems through long-term planning, eyes that had practiced patient endurance all for this single night—now grew keener still, burning with an achingly fierce resolve that would accept nothing less than absolute fulfillment of her purpose. It was akin to murderous intent—the uncanny combative spirit emanating from Okyō's alluring form now appeared tinged with something verging on madness. Even the checkered pattern of her kimono seemed imbued with an eerie presence reminiscent of Kiyohime who once pursued Anchin.

Kintarō stiffened completely,

“Okyō-san.”

“Yes?” “I’m sorry.” “Why are you apologizing?” “Please let me go home.” “Once you’ve done what needs doing, you can leave anytime.” “Kintarō-san—please grant me this one lifelong wish.” “Promise me.” “I’ve told you countless times—this isn’t about money.” “This is my deepest resolve.”

Kintarō showed an increasingly perplexed look and backed away, "Okyō-san, I'm glad for your feelings, but somehow... I just can't."

“Somehow—what do you mean by ‘somehow’?” “Getting involved with you in some... strange way—that’s a bit...” “Ah hah hah hah!”

And Okyō laughed like a man. It remained unclear whether this laughter stemmed from genuine amusement, suppressed anger, reckless abandon, or bitter self-mockery. Even Okyō herself—though wrestling with an aching heart—detested the notion of needlessly prostrating herself at any man's feet, her innate fighting spirit rebelling against such submission. Laughing shrilly to mask her turmoil and feign composure was the only defense she could muster.

Suddenly roared at with laughter, Kintarō stood dumbfounded as Okyō gazed at him with pitying eyes,

“Well I’m shocked! Kintarō-san, you’re more conceited than I imagined. Getting involved in some strange relationship—” She burst into harsh laughter. “You think I’m in love with you? That I chased you all the way to Wakamatsu just to beg for your affection? Don’t misunderstand me!” “Then what is this ‘lifelong wish’ of yours—this ‘woman’s single-minded resolve’?”

“The tattoo.”

“The tattoo?” He parroted back her words and looked at Okyō’s face anew. “You know, don’t you? When we met at Musashi Hot Springs, you properly promised me, didn’t you? ...On your left arm, an ascending dragon; on your right arm, a descending dragon—if I’m the one carving them, I absolutely want to do a matching pair on both arms. ...Isn’t that right? If you’re any kind of man, surely you wouldn’t forget a promise once made, would you? I too am a tattoo artist of some renown. I’m ‘Butterfly Peony Okyo’—the one who’s carved her name among those loudmouthed Kantō vagabonds not just through skill but through sheer nerve. Even if they piled up a mountain of cash, if I don’t feel like it, I wouldn’t tattoo so much as a peach for any loan shark out there. That’s because I became utterly captivated by your beautiful skin... don’t get me wrong. It’s not you I fell for—it’s your body. ...Never before have I thrown myself into something like this—no money, no profit involved—not even once. ...Do you understand, Kintarō-san?”

“Hmm... I sorta get it... but then again, not really...” “Kintarō-san, please,” Okyō shifted from her flippant bravado into a pleading tone, “Let me carve the descending dragon on your right arm.” “I won’t put on airs about doing the tattooing.” “Ever since you fled Hakata with just your left arm done, I’ve been ill.” “I might go mad.” “I dream of it and wake up screaming.” “No matter what it takes, I want to carve that descending dragon on your right arm—this life-risking wish, like being possessed.” A woman’s single-minded resolve. “Kintarō-san... please understand this feeling of mine.”

“It’s not that I don’t get it, but…” “You don’t think having just one half-finished side counts as a true man’s emblem, do you? I trust that Kintarō-san is an upstanding man who keeps his promises. I don’t doubt you’ll fulfill what was pledged at Musashi Hot Springs.”

“What a predicament…”

“Kintarō-san, show me your tattoo one more time.” Reluctantly, he rolled up his left sleeve. “Ah, how beautiful!” As if unable to restrain herself, Okyō gripped Kintarō’s arm with both hands and pressed her cheek against the dragon’s head. She pressed her lips to it and sucked at the tattooed area as if licking blue ink. Stray strands from her ginkgo-leaf hairstyle brushed against Kintarō’s face. Kintarō felt ticklish and increasingly uneasy, but not wanting to provoke Okyō, he let her continue unchecked.

“Show me that arm.” Stroking the pure white left arm, she released a volcanic sigh, “Leaving this arm untouched like this… Ah, if you refuse, Kintarō-san, I’ll carve that descending dragon on this arm even if I have to kill you to do it.”

“Okyō-san.”

“Yeah?” “Go ahead and do that.” “What are you going to do?”

“Why don’t you kill me first and then carve it?” “As long as I’m alive… well， that’s an issue…”

“Why?” “My wife doesn’t much care for tattoos, you see.” At those words, even Okyō seemed to flinch for a moment, but she quickly adopted an air of resigned bravado, “Huh? So Kintarō-san can’t even lift his head around his wife?” “So you’re a henpecked husband after all?” “Oh.” “That explains it.” “So you fled Hakata because you were scared of your wife, right?” “Your wife… this ‘Man-san’ person… I’ve always heard about her from our boss and elder sister.” “They say she’s a very capable woman, don’t they?” “A capable woman’s nothing but trouble.” “Hating tattoos like that—isn’t that just killing the husband who’s finally becoming a man?” “If you’re always watching your wife’s mood like that, you’ll never become a proper man and make a name for yourself.” “Kintarō-san, stand firm!”

While spouting such spiteful words, Okyō found herself tormented by strange visions flickering through her mind. The two butterflies she’d seen at the Women’s Hairdressing Shop—ones she’d earlier imagined as representing herself and Kintarō while dancing on Asuka’s stage—now transformed into a married pair in her mind: the yellow one became Man, while she was the spider stalking them. This vile vision kept rising unbidden.

As he gazed again at the tattoo on his left arm, (That this dragon clutched a chrysanthemum bouquet in its foreleg—that it represented Man—was something Okyō didn’t know.) Thinking this, he savored the inexplicable pleasure of his secret.

“Kintarō-san.”

“Huh?” “Are you really that against it?” “I’ll discuss it with my wife.” “Idiot!”

Kintarō stood up. “Are you leaving?” “Yeah.” “Do you think I’d let you go? If you don’t keep your tattoo promise, Kintarō-san, I’ll spread it all over town—‘Tamai Kintarō, who’s been making a name for himself lately? He’s actually a lying, cowardly, unmanly third-rate scum.’ That’s what I’ll say.” “It can’t be helped.”

“Kintarō-san, wait. “If you’re going to say things like that, I’ll kill you—kill you and carve that tattoo on you.”

Okyō lunged at Kintarō. Man lit a lantern in the kitchen. At the wellside, she washed and polished the new iron three-shō kettle she had bought from Inoue Hardware Store. She boiled water and set it aside, then scrubbed vigorously with a straw brush and rice bran until the grime and rust came off cleanly.

The cat was watching Man’s hands with listless eyes.

The grandfather clock began to chime - chin, chin, chin. She paused her work and counted - eleven strikes.

Upstairs, the subordinates who had been noisily playing shogi, shuffling hanafuda cards, and drinking sake had at some point fallen quiet.

(It’s about time he came home.) As she was thinking this, the front lattice door made an opening sound. "I'm home."

It was the voice of "Six-Zero" Genjū. However, unlike usual, his voice lacked energy. Man took a bow-handled lantern and went to the entrance. Genjū and Tokujirō. They weren’t particularly drunk, yet they acted oddly reserved and fidgeted nervously. They squinted at the lantern’s light. “You’ve worked hard. Everything went smoothly, I see.” “Now, come in.” “The sake’s been warmed for you.” “That’s enough for us. We were called over there more times than we could stand.”

“If that’s the case, can you really say Shark Gen-san’s drunk?” “To cleanse your palate, have a drink with Tokuyan.” “I’ve got baby octopus for snacks.”

“Nah, I’m goin’ to bed.” “I’m beat.” “I’m worn out.” “And Tokuyan?” “Yeah.” The two men scurried up to the second floor, furtively yet in great haste, as if they’d conspired beforehand. What they’d feared most upon returning was Man asking, “Wasn’t Oyaji with you?”—but when that fully expected question never came, they breathed sighs of relief. They didn’t want to tell Man how Kintarō and Okyō had grown alarmingly close before vanishing from Asuka at some point.

(That's odd.)

Man found the two men’s unprecedented attitude slightly suspicious. She had seen Kintarō walking through town with a geisha herself and had heard about it from her brother Rinsuke, so she didn’t find it particularly strange that Genjū and Tokujirō hadn’t been with Kintarō. However, the subordinates’ oddly secretive behavior—as though they were hiding something from her—lingered uneasily in her mind. She tilted her head slightly and furrowed her brows.

Even though she had boasted boldly to her brother Rinsuke, when it came down to it, Man was still a woman. A sudden surge of jealous suspicion welled up in her chest. Even so, as Man continued polishing the three-shō kettle in the kitchen, the front lattice door opened.

"Pardon the intrusion."

When she went out to look, a young rickshaw puller was standing there.

“The proprietress of Asuka asked me to pass this to you.”

It was a letter. After giving a tip and sending the messenger away, Man took it to the kitchen and opened it. As Man read on, her complexion began to visibly change. Her eyes narrowed like a fox's. The awkward katakana text in feminine handwriting began: "Oman-san, I did not want to let you know about such things, but please read this with full understanding."

Thus it began: "A troublesome matter has occurred. Though the reconciliation ceremony concluded without incident, due to a woman-related matter, an unpleasant atmosphere has arisen between your Kintarō-san, Boss Tomoda Kizō, and us.

Tonight, a demand came from Boss Tomoda that he take over Okyō-san—the geisha affiliated with my establishment. He pressed this most insistently. However, Okyō-san has long been involved with Kintarō-san and would not consent under any circumstances. Kintarō-san too appeared unwilling to let Tomoda-san take his woman, so both slipped away midway through the banquet.

Oman-san,

You likely knew nothing about Kintarō-san and Okyō-san's affair. I too had no desire to inform you of such matters, but with no other means to resolve this issue without your involvement, I hastily wrote this letter. Though it ought not be a letter—either Shin-san or myself should have come personally—as the banquet remains ongoing with cleanup required, I beg your forgiveness for resorting to writing.

Oman-san, Shin-san and I, knowing full well about your marital history from the old days, had been breaking our backs to keep Kintarō-san from taking up with any women. But matters of the heart being what they are—it seems Kintarō-san had been deeply entangled with Okyō-san for some time now, and he wouldn’t so much as lend an ear to our warnings.

Shin-san and I, whenever facing Okyō-san, habitually— Break things off with Kintarō-san. Since it’s you, Oman-san. We have been telling [her], 'Break things off with Kintarō-san—since it’s you, Oman-san'—but Okyō-san too seemed determined to dismiss it as unwanted meddling. However, if it had remained just between the two of them, it might have been manageable, but now that things have come to this state, we are at our wits' end. If the other party—being both the mediator in this recent dispute and an influential figure from Wakamatsu Kitte as well as a subordinate of the Yoshida family—becomes involved, I fear unimaginable disaster will befall us.

When Boss Tomoda learned that Kintarō-san and Okyō-san had gone off somewhere together, he flew into a rage and said the following to us. "Mori-kun, you've truly smeared mud on my face. Even though you knew full well I'd told you to take charge of Okyō tonight, you let Tamai and Okyō slip away. To repay my favor of mediating this quarrel with enmity—what sort of thinking is that?"

"No, I know nothing at all." Shin-san was startled and tried to explain, but Tomoda-san wouldn't listen. Even so, "Well, I'll let it go for tonight." "If you don't take care of Okyō tomorrow night, I'll have to reconsider."

And with that, he left.

Oman-san, To separate Kintarō-san and Okyō-san, there is now no other way but to rely on your strength. If it comes from you, Kintarō-san will surely listen. Please make him break up with Okyō-san. I beg you. "I humbly implore you." Man was like an erupting volcano.

Until she finished reading Kinuko’s letter, she turned pale, then flushed red, rolled her eyes white and black, exhaled breath like steam, made her shoulders heave like great waves, and several times nearly fainted from dizziness. She thrust the letter into her obi and then scrubbed the three-shō kettle vigorously. When anger arose within her, Man would habitually crave work with redoubled intensity—but now, transformed into a demon of jealousy, she polished the kettle until it gleamed beautifully with hands that channeled every ounce of her bodily strength.

(Damn you!) Burning with fierce anger, tears streamed down her face. (To deceive me...) The figures of Kintarō and the checkered-patterned geisha she had seen in town loomed in the air, as if mocking Man's kindness and foolishness. As if to erase them, Man shut her eyes, shook her head violently, and ground her teeth. (What should I do?)

The very fact that she had believed in her husband so completely made the backlash all the greater. As midnight approached, the surroundings were steeped in profound stillness. Until she began washing the pot, groans from critically ill patients at the hospital behind [the house] had been carried on the east wind—but after a burst of footsteps racing through corridors and clamorous voices, everything fell silent. They might have died.

The cat was sleeping on the hearth. Man washed the kettle clean, wiped it, and placed it on the Kōjin-sama altar in a corner of the kitchen. She stirred the wick in the earthenware pot filled with rapeseed oil and lit it with a match. She quietly pressed her palms together and clapped her hands once in prayer. The sound of her hands clapping echoed ominously through the deathly silent house. The cat opened its eyes slightly but soon fell back into a listless sleep.

Man entered the inner room. (He’s definitely not coming home tonight.) She had thought so, but she had no intention of rushing out in disarray to search for where Kintarō and Okyō might be. One day, when Tokujirō and Man were together, Kintarō, having returned from his travels, suddenly appeared, "I found your lover! "I’ll cut him down!" “Both of you, sit there.” She remembered the time he had shouted.

(Hmph, forget about others—maybe I should stack him up and cut him into four pieces.)

Man thought about where Sukehiro’s dagger was kept and muttered such things resentfully in her heart. However, despite her defiant front, an inexpressible loneliness and solitude—as though she were being relentlessly sucked into a collapsing world—enveloped her entire being. Tears welled up ceaselessly, one after another.

And yet, “Hmph, are you the only man around?” she muttered flippantly while busily preparing her luggage.

Muttering such sulky words flippantly, she busied herself preparing luggage.

She took out several kimonos, undergarments, and waistcloths from the paulownia wardrobe and wrapped them in a furoshiki cloth. Was it due to the height of her emotions? She felt, more intensely than ever before, the child in her womb moving violently and incessantly.

(Even though this child was about to be born...)

When she thought this, fresh tears streamed down. After preparing for her trip, she spread out the futon and burrowed into it. Usually, she would lay out two pillows, but now she kept only her own. She intended to take a short nap, then make breakfast for her subordinates, and depart early in the morning.

However, as she lay there unable to fall asleep, shortly after the clock struck twelve, there came a knock at the front lattice door. It must be Kintarō. “Man, open up!” he shouted.

Since settling in Wakamatsu, until now, Kintarō had never stayed away from home. Therefore, he had never been locked out either. No matter how late he was out for social engagements, he always came home. Man, too, had grown accustomed to waiting without locking the front door, no matter if one o'clock struck or two.

However, tonight, she had locked the door before twelve o'clock.

“Hey! Why’d you lock it? …Won’t you open up?!”

Rattling the lattice door violently, Kintarō was shouting in discontent.

Man lay in the futon, holding her breath. It seemed someone was clattering down the ladder steps from the second floor. Footsteps sounded on the tatami and headed toward the entrance. "Is that you, Boss?"

It was Tokujirō.

“Yeah, it’s me.” “I’ll open it now.”

When the lock fastened from inside was undone, the lattice door swung open violently. In a harsh, accusatory tone: "You knew I was coming back—why’d you lock it? Isn’t Man here?" "She’s here." "Who locked it?" "Sis locked it." "You’re mocking me."

From Kintarō's perspective, even if he did have some secrets, he had kicked away those feminine temptations and returned home. Though he felt guilty toward Man about being drawn to Okyō, when push came to shove, he'd maintained fidelity to his wife. He considered it reasonable for his spouse to show gratitude. Not that he particularly wanted praise—but being locked out made him think: (Where else would you find a husband like me?) Such resentment surged through him.

Among labor contractors, womanizing, patronizing prostitutes, hiring geisha, obsessing over mistresses, and maintaining second, third, and fourth mistresses had become everyday occurrences. Simply having many women was even said to be a sign of manliness. Moreover, there was the saying, "Refusing a meal set before you is a man’s disgrace," and those who raised white flags when women made advances became laughingstocks to such an extent.

Even so, Kintarō had resolved not to succumb to such vulgar trends and had managed thus far; tonight too, he had escaped that beautiful peach-colored temptation. All the more reason why being locked out made him strangely angry. The alcohol’s effects didn’t help either.

“Tokiyan, go to bed already.”

With that, he chased Ōkawa Tokujirō up to the second floor, then rushed to the bedroom.

Though it was pitch dark, he knew the layout of the place. Silently stripping off his kimono, he tried to burrow into the futon where Man lay sleeping. However, Man was wrapped tightly in the futon cover like a bagworm. She had firmly wound it around herself with both hands and would not let Kintarō near. “What’re you doin’?” “You’re the one—what’re *you* doin’?” “Won’t you move the futon?” “Ah—you stink of face powder. Disgusting. If you’ve got business with her, go to Miss Okyō’s place.”