Pathway to Japanese Literature

A handsome man who outshone even kabuki actors

“What’s wrong with all of you? Huddled in the corner like that—what do you think you’re doing?”
Ginnojo Muramatsu swung his bamboo sword in practice strokes while surveying the room with his strikingly handsome face. “The dojo’s for swordsmanship practice, not napping! Come out—I’ll put you through your paces. You there, Matsui—step forward!”
“No, no—this humble one has a bit of a headache, sir.”
Matsui pressed a hand to his forehead while hastily retreating.
“Then Nomoto—you come forward.”
“I was just about to take my leave.”
“Tanaka hasn’t worked up a sweat yet.”
“This humble one—well, actually, my stomach’s been...”
“I’ve got leg neuralgia acting up.”
“Today’s my parents’ death anniversary.”

All of them were scrambling to make excuses before being called.
After all, this assistant instructor conducted brutal training sessions; though he was a handsome man resembling a kabuki actor, carried himself with refinement, and spoke in elegantly polished language, he transformed into a different person once he gripped a bamboo sword.
He showed no mercy even to raw beginners—striking their faces, sweeping their torsos, entangling their legs to send them flying. Each blow carried such piercing severity that it seemed to penetrate bone; there would be no restraint going forward either. This was why whenever the assistant instructor’s training sessions approached, they all suddenly developed mysterious pains or recalled parental death anniversaries.

Ginnojo Muramatsu surveyed them once more with mocking eyes. “Every last one of you is spineless! If you hate pain, get better. If you’ve no hope of improving, quit swordsmanship altogether—that’d spare me the trouble too. As for training… Hey, Denshichiro! What are you doing cowering in the shadows like that?”
“This is why the rest turn sloppy—you, a senior disciple, acting like this!” barked Ginnojo as he stomped to the corner and seized the shoulder of a young man cowering behind the other disciples. “Step up! I’ll give you a proper sparring match after so long.”
“No good, Muramatsu—I’ve already practiced enough today. I’m exhausted—spare me this.”
“With a body that wouldn’t die even if I beat you senseless, what nonsense is this about exhaustion? Out here now!”
“That hurts! Must you be so rough?”
“That’s why I’m telling you to step up properly! Stand firm!” “Stop pushing—I’m coming out!”
While shaking off the grip on his shoulder, he reluctantly stepped forward.
His was a swarthy face with jutting cheekbones—coarse features where eyebrows sloped downward, eyes drooped, and a large mouth gaped; no amount of charity could describe it as anything but an ugly mug.
Having donned his gear and taken up a bamboo sword, he’d at least managed to stand at the dojo’s center—though his posture looked better suited to wielding a broom than practicing swordsmanship.

But let me clarify—this philosopher was utterly serious, not the least bit inclined to jest; indeed, his demeanor could even be called reverently philosophical.

"What a pathetic stance!"
Ginnojo barked without preamble, "You must have some strap loose! Can't you stand properly? Thrust out your chest! Straighten those knees! Eyes here—don't look down!"
"I can't endure any more of this military drilling!"
"Shut your mouth! Stop whining and focus energy in your gut! Ugh... Fine then—just strike already! Put some backbone into it!"

Denshichiro poured all his strength into the strike—devoid of any technique to read his opponent’s face or gauge their breathing. With unadorned sincerity, he slid his bamboo sword upward into an overhead stance and swung down.
Even had his opponent not been the assistant instructor, this strike would never have landed. As his body pitched forward from the evaded blow, Ginnojo jabbed lightly at his back. “Where do you imagine you’re going?”
A whip-crack report split the air—
—and as Denshichiro whirled toward the voice, a vicious strike smashed into his face with a sound like splitting timber. His nose burned as if peppercorns had been ground into his sinuses. Ginnojo closed in with practiced efficiency: a leg entanglement destabilized Denshichiro’s footing while an elbow snapped his chin upward. Each movement adhered to ruthless precision—Denshichiro’s body arched backward like a drawn bow before hurtling through empty air to crash against the dojo’s wooden paneling with bone-jarring force.

“Pathetic wretch—you call this ten years of practice? Quit swordsmanship already before you embarrass yourself further. Keep up this disgraceful state, and no matter how desperately you pine away with love, that beauty will despise you once she sees you like this.”
“Wh-what are you saying? That’s ridiculous!”
“Call it ridiculous all you want—you’re blushing crimson! Your obsession with that household’s beauty might as well be painted on a signboard! Get a grip!”
“That’s too cruel!”
Denshichiro stood up while massaging his waist. “No matter what you say, this goes beyond...”
But Ginnojo had already stopped listening.
With a brisk stride, he walked away and called to another disciple: “Hey Matsukawa! You’re next—get out here!”

Denshichiro hunched his shoulders as he slipped out of the dojo, fleeing without even properly changing clothes. The autumn afternoon was unreasonably hot, glaring sunlight reflecting off the parched, dusty road. His face twisted with bitter humiliation, he walked straight ahead while biting his lower lip hard—an ordinary person might have worn an expression of profound anguish, but his features, unfortunately, gave only the vague impression of someone enduring an itchy flea bite on their back.

But he had just been humiliated by Ginnojo.
Let’s refrain from having even the author join in on trashing him.

Let’s get back to the story.

A Friend Hidden in Society's Margins

After leaving the dojo, Denshichiro Nagai came to the crossroads leading to the samurai district, stopped there and thought for a moment, but instead of heading home, cut through Honcho Street and entered a certain back alley in the blacksmith district.
...This was a poor tenement housing area bearing a name too vulgar to utter aloud—the kind of place where taking one step into the alleyway assaulted the nose with a rancid stench. Between the cramped eaves of the tenement buildings, poles stretched across held drying work pants, nightclothes, diapers, and loincloths. Beneath these hung garments, ragged children swarmed like minnows in a shoal, stomping on the wooden planks over sewage ditches as they shouted, wailed, traded insults, and scampered about in chaotic frenzy.
Given this state of affairs, even ordinary people would find it difficult to enter if unaccustomed—let alone a place where samurai would approach. Yet strangely enough, Denshichiro’s face relaxed the moment he entered that alleyway, and he let out a sigh of relief and ease as if returning to his hometown.
He skillfully maneuvered under the hanging diapers and work pants, patting the heads of crying children, mediating their fights, and picking up those who had fallen—all done with such practiced ease that it seemed perfectly natural. The children themselves called out to him with casual familiarity, shouting things like “Mister!” or “Hey, it’s Mister from Chuta’s place!” At this, he lowered the corners of his eyes even further, smiling warmly and nodding in acknowledgment to each one as he passed by.

In the depths of that alleyway was a communal well.
From that well, diagonally positioned among the tenement houses stood a dwelling with five or six potted plants sporting yellowed leaves lined out front and a waist-high lattice door bearing the character “Chu”—the house Denshichiro Nagai approached.
“Yeah, in here,” rasped a voice from within.
“Quit dawdlin’ an’ open it! Who’s there?”
“Me.”
Sliding open the shoji revealed a six-mat room where a loincloth-clad young man had laid out work aprons, hand buckets, and such before a cutting board where he prepared fish.
Spotting Denshichiro, his face split into a grin. “Speak o’ the devil! Was just thinkin’ you’d show! Get your ass up here already!”
“What’re you up to?”
Denshichiro laid aside his sword and flopped down cross-legged. “Sardines, eh?”
“Sardines! This’un’s for vinegar marinade, that’un’s salt-grilled—all washed down with hot sake.”
“Not bad. Need help?”
“Nothin’ left here—just park it an’ stay put!”
“Fire goin’ yet?”
“Bout to be.”
“Then I’ll handle that—portable stove’s in the kitchen?”
“Charcoal’s in the lidded box.”
“Right.” Denshichiro shed his hakama and outer robe with practiced speed, standing revealed in nothing but a half-length underrobe and loincloth—a scandalous state for any samurai—before cheerfully bustling off to the kitchen.

Now, while the two were preparing their modest banquet, let me provide an overview of who they were.
First regarding Denshichiro: he was a retainer of Abe Iyo-no-kami in Fukuyama Domain—a 100,000-koku fief in Bingo Province—and third son of Nagai Heizaemon. His father Heizaemon served as a 900-koku chamberlain—a man of fierce pride and temper, perpetually twisting his mouth into a lopsided scowl.
While his eldest brother Heisuke held position as warehouse steward and second brother Monnosuke served in the Page Corps—with sister Namie already married off—Denshichiro alone remained an unemployed dependent at twenty-five.
Merely being a dependent wouldn’t have mattered had he been born to humbler stock—but as son of the domain’s chamberlain, he stood conspicuous. This grew more pronounced given his brothers’ resemblance to their father: power-hungry egoists whose sharp intellects made Denshichiro’s ineptitude glaring by contrast.
What amplified this further was Ginnojo Muramatsu—though explaining their relationship requires reaching back sixteen or seventeen years...... The Nagai estate stood at the main avenue’s edge, its rear abutting ashigaru tenements.
There lived Muramatsu Shohei—an ashigaru squad leader.
Ginnojo was his son.
From earliest youth he displayed extraordinary beauty and frightening brilliance—a child who could outwit anyone.
He never played with other ashigaru children, always preferring to summon Denshichiro instead—skillfully leading their mischief as ringleader. Among their gang was Chutaro—son of a Toorimachi petty merchant—now known as Chuta languishing in Kajiyamachi’s back alleys (more on him later)...... Thus Denshichiro and Ginnojo had been friends since seven or eight—though “friends” described only Denshichiro’s view; Ginnojo’s sentiments remained dubious.
For he’d only played closely with Denshichiro those first few years—thereafter gravitating toward scions of families above Nagai’s station like Hirata and Kawakatsu—ignoring Denshichiro completely.
To put it harshly: he’d used Denshichiro as stepping-stone toward loftier connections.
Not unjustly—as he matured into kabuki-actor handsomeness; claimed top academy honors; mastered martial arts; became dojo assistant instructor at twenty-one.
Having mingled early with officials’ sons, superiors noticed him by seventeen—now serving as head clerk at the magistrate’s office. Naturally he’d risen to Page Corps status with 170-koku stipend......
That Ginnojo—once catching dragonflies and riding stilts together—now flaunted such success at their age made Denshichiro’s dullness scream louder still.
At every turn father and brothers needled: “Observe Muramatsu—emulate Ginnojo somewhat.”
Their faces demanded: “Doesn’t this shame you?”—leaving Denshichiro no recourse but abject bows.
For there was truly nothing else he could do……

The Inborn Sorrow of Back-Alley Sake

Even so, Denshichiro never bore resentment; rather, he held genuine admiration for Ginnojo and even took pride in considering him his friend.
As for Ginnojo’s attitude toward this—dear readers, you have already witnessed it in the dojo earlier. As the author, I need only add that this was no isolated incident but a daily occurrence—though today he had gone too far. Ginnojo had touched upon an unmentionable matter and needlessly humiliated him before everyone.

But it seemed the food and drink preparations were complete, and the two had begun exchanging cups; in any case, let us turn our attention to their modest drinking party.

“How’s it taste, Densan? Did the vinegar kick in?”
“Yeah, it’s really kicking in. Tastes great!”
“The aroma’s best with green shiso, but since we’re fresh outta myoga, what can ya do? Here’s another round.”
“Here, you take this one.”
“Don’t sweat it—no need for formalities here. I can do this every day, but your fancy mansion ain’t the place for it. When ya come ’round here, just cut loose and do as ya please without holdin’ back.”
“But I’m always the one being treated here though...”
“Cut it out! Between friends, there’s no such thing as treating or not treating. Keep talkin’ like we’re strangers and I’ll get pissed!”
“It ain’t formalities between strangers—it’s the honest truth.”
Denshichiro took a sip of the poured sake and began in a tone heavy with emotion: “I’m the son of a Chamberlain serving a 100,000-koku domain. Skinny or shriveled, I’m still samurai by blood. Even if we’re friends, when I think of you sweating to earn your keep, there’s no reason you should treat me to even a single cup of sake. I know that… but Chuta—coming here is my greatest joy. Drinking like this with you, just the two of us—nothing makes me happier.” He spat out the words as though purging his chest: “In my own home, I can’t breathe easy from dawn till dusk. ‘Useless fool,’ ‘disgrace to the family name’—my father and brothers treat me like a sworn enemy. Out in the world? No different. No one takes me seriously. Every last one of them smirks when they look at me. They bow politely ’cause my father’s Chamberlain, but I see their mocking tongues clear as day. This is who I am—but I didn’t choose to be ugly! The stupidity, the clumsiness—all gifts from my parents! Laugh at them instead! Sometimes I want to scream that—it’s the truth, Chuta.”
“Hmm…” Chuta produced a voice that seemed caught in his throat.
Denshichiro took his cup, sipped once, let out a weary sigh, and continued: “But I can’t shout back—no matter how they look at me, no matter what insults they throw, no matter how spitefully they treat me. I just cower silently and slink away to some corner. After all, I know my own worth better than anyone... Only when I come here—only when talking with you like this—do I feel human again. Sitting relaxed like this, drinking and talking without worrying about anyone’s judgment... It makes me happy.”
“I’m truly happy, you know.”
“I know,” said Chuta as he poured sake into the other’s cup, his tone turning deeply solemn. “I know it too—same here. Only when I’m with you like this, Densan, can I stretch out like the king of my nine-foot hovel without worrying ’bout nobody’s judgment. But step outside? World treats me like half a person.”
“…………”
“See here, Densan—it’s ’cause you ’n’ me are too damn honest for our own good.”

Chutaro’s father had run a small hardware store in Toorimachi—a man honest to a fault who first ruined the sizable kimono shop he inherited, then barely maintained the hardware store with relatives’ financial backing. But by the time Chutaro turned fifteen, even that became unsustainable, and they finally shuttered the shop to sink into this back-alley tenement.
Having lost his wife not long before this, he and Chutaro eked out a living by taking odd jobs at construction sites, but seven years later, he passed away quietly.……Though it was truly a life of no worth, he himself never seemed to think so. When he was the young master of the kimono shop, he likely lived comfortably without hardship, yet there was never an instance where he yearned for those days. Even during his time running the hardware store—which must have been a better life than this back-alley tenement in Kajiyamachi—he never once uttered a word like “Those were the good days.”
Rather, after sinking into the back-alley tenement and taking up work at construction sites, whenever he occasionally sipped a cup of sake with miso as a snack, he would break into a broad grin, smacking his lips and saying, “Damn, this hits the spot—this here’s paradise for me.”
he would say things like that.
If we can trust Chutaro’s memory, he had never seen his father look as happy as during their time living in that back-alley tenement.
And when he was dying, he said to Chutaro over and over: “Be honest. Let them call you a fool or an idiot—just live honestly. Even if you rake in wealth through underhanded schemes, a person only needs a single tatami mat to sleep on. Three bowls of rice are plenty. You can’t wear ten layers of clothes no matter how cold it gets. Don’t get greedy. Live so you don’t toss and groan in your sleep—that’s the human way.”
It was as if he had crafted his final words like a crab digging a hole to match its shell—a will that seemed profoundly enlightened yet utterly absurd.

Love: The True Measure of a Man

“Hey, Densan,” said Chuta, gulping a self-poured cup of sake in one go, “you ’n’ me—we’re born this way through ’n’ through. Let’s just own it, yeah? ’Stead o’ schemin’ to trip folks up or wrestlin’ over scraps, let’s do what we can with all we got. Live honest—no tears, no whinin’. If we keep at it, someday someone’ll see our worth. Even if they don’t in this life, death’ll even the score. Millionaires or backstreet carpenters—we all show up naked at Enma’s court. That’s when the real reckonin’ comes. So let’s tough it out, yeah? C’mon, Densan—ain’t that how ya see it?”

“Huh… So even you think that way too, eh?”

Denshichiro made a pained face. “I always thought you were this skilled carpenter about to become a master—someone with an enviable position. Had no idea…”

As he said this and tried to pat the shoulder with one hand, he suddenly cried “Ouch!” and pulled his neck in like a turtle.

“What’s wrong?”

“Right here on my back... Ouch, that hurts!”

“Ain’t ya pulled a muscle or somethin’?”

“It’s not that kind of pain, but how…” Denshichiro started to say before groaning lowly. “Ah—right. Muramatsu did this.”

“Muramatsu—ya mean that ‘Gin’ bastard?”

“Yeah, today he forced me into practice again with his usual trick—yanked me off balance as I was lurching forward and gave me a poke from behind. You know how it is.”

“What a damn awful thing to do! Didn’t he go and give you some kinda injury or what?”

“It’s nothing so serious. And compared to that other matter, this is just a joke.”

“What’s this ‘another matter’? Did he pull some other mischief too?”

“That bastard…”

He started to speak but faltered briefly—perhaps now sufficiently drunk and with indignation overpowering shame—then leaned forward sharply and said: “That bastard humiliated me right in the middle of the dojo today! ‘If you keep carrying on with such disgraceful behavior,’ he said, ‘no matter how desperately you yearn for her, that beautiful woman will come to despise you!’”

“What’s this ‘beautiful person’ you’re goin’ on about?”

“To put it bluntly, it’s about a woman. I’d have to say something embarrassing for it to make sense—but since it’s you, I’ll lay it all out. Densan… there’s someone I’ve had feelings for these past three years.”

“First I’m hearin’ ’bout this!”

“The person in question is Saegusa—the daughter of our dojo’s instructor. By common standards, you wouldn’t call her a beauty—she’s short and not particularly fair-skinned—but those eyes that always seem to be smiling and that tear mole under her left eye are indescribably adorable. Still… she’s the daughter of our domain’s swordsmanship instructor… and I’m… well… me. No matter how I might struggle… this love’s beyond my reach… I know that full well… That’s exactly why I’ve kept it from you until today.”

“Truth’ll out whether ya hide it or not.”
“That’s right—Ginnojo must’ve caught on at some point. He suddenly blurted it out in front of everyone.”
Denshichiro grabbed the freshly warmed tokkuri and downed three cups in quick succession.
“But there’s no law against this! My feelings for Saegusa—they’re completely pure. Pure as snow. Not a shred of intention to make this love come true or take her as my wife. I just pray from my heart—that she’ll find happiness, that those eyes will keep smiling forever. And... this isn’t easy. To love someone from the depths of your soul, to have your heart stolen beyond all reason, to burn with longing even in your sleep—yet resign yourself that she’s beyond reach, quietly praying for her happiness in the shadows... For a man, this is agony. Not some frivolous thing to joke about before a crowd!”
As he spoke, fat teardrops began spilling from Denshichiro’s eyes, one plopping into the sake cup he’d just raised to his lips.
Human nature being what it is, his frantic attempt to pluck away the tear as though it were an errant bean made for quite the spectacle.
“That’s the kinda man he is,” Chuta ground out through clenched teeth. “Acts like nothin’ in this world scares him. ’Bout four years back, I ran into him at Ōtesaki after ages—called out thinkin’ we were still mates. Maybe I was a bit soused—wouldn’t have bothered otherwise.” He narrowed his eyes in imitation. “Know what that bastard said? ‘Scram, lowborn!’ Scram! Weren’t we chasin’ dragonflies together as kids? Since when does bein’ samurai make ya spit on childhood friends?”
“I see… So he said that?”
“I know.”
Now properly sloshed himself, Chuta made a show of tucking up non-existent kimono hems—clad only in his fundoshi—before propping a knee up. “That fraud’s been wallowin’ in Shinboku’s pleasure quarter since spring! Schmoozein’ domain bigwigs—pimpin’ out courtesans, drownin’ ’em in booze, slingin’ greasiest flattery ya ever heard! Word is he’s got three—no, five women tangled up! Struttin’ round like lord high muckamuck when he’s nothin’ but a two-bit cheat!”

The trampled grass contorted as it stretched upward.

“That’s not true! It’s not true at all, Chuta!”

At the sound of his own voice, Denshichiro suddenly awoke.
The surroundings were filled with a pale light, utterly silent—or rather, somewhere far off, birds began to sing. Startled, he bolted upright and looked around fearfully only to find himself lying in his own room.
He heaved a deep sigh of relief.
“Whew… I must have ended up sleeping at Chuta’s place again.”
Even so, he now felt a sense of relief at having managed to return home.
He heaved another deep sigh and tried to burrow back into his futon but, noticing the terrible thirst of his hangover, slipped quietly into the kitchen.
This was the room for preparing tea and hot water. He removed the lid from the iron kettle hanging over the hearth, scooped up some cold water with a ladle, and was just about to bring it to his mouth when a voice barked from behind, “You fool! What do you think you’re doing?”
Monnosuke, his second brother, was standing there.
“What fool drinks straight from the ladle? If you’re that thirsty, go drink from the mud ditch outside—that’s more your style!”
“I could certainly do that.”
Even Denshichiro was visibly irritated. He averted his eyes from his second brother and said, “It would probably bring honor to the Nagai family.”
“But Brother, you—”
“Shut up! If you talk back, I’ll hit you.”
He clenched his fist and approached.
Denshichiro remained silent.
Monnosuke glared at his brother’s face as though unable to endure its contemptibility but, clicking his tongue as if to say there was no point in lecturing him, commanded: “After breakfast, have Kinoshita prepare paper and print ruled sheets.”
“Am I the one to do it?”
“If I’m ordering you to do it, then obviously you’re the one who has to do it!”
“Isn’t Shohei the one who always does the printing?”
“Shohei has his own duties. You’re not here to laze about—stop complaining and get to work. You’ll print about two thousand sheets. They’d better be done by evening.”

And he briskly walked away. Denshichiro, with a face like he was about to cry, dejectedly poured cooled water into a teacup.

Immediately after breakfast, he had old man Kinoshita—the Nagai family steward—bring out Hosokawa paper. After gathering printing blocks, barens, ink pots, dishes, and brushes, he began printing ruled sheets in the utility room.
Lately, whenever home, they saddled him with such chores—despite the Nagai household having ten-odd retainers and servants who could easily manage these tasks—through brusque orders of “Denshichiro, handle this.” Shame burned through him before the retainers; being treated this way as his father’s sole disregarded son filled him with wretchedness.
It’s because I’m dim-witted—he’d resigned himself to this truth—yet frustration sometimes overwhelmed him until solitary tears fell.
...Applying indigo ink to blocks with a brush, pressing paper against them, rubbing with barens, peeling printed sheets to stack—this mind-numbing sequence demanded two thousand repetitions. Within half an hour, monotony had already sickened him. A tally showed fewer than two hundred completed.
He sighed heavily.
When his sigh escaped unbidden, Shohei Kurita—a family retainer—entered.
The man had reached his mid-fifties; with his gentle nature, he stood as Denshichiro’s only ally.

“Let me take over now; you’ve worked hard.”
So saying, he sat down there.
“Do you have some business to attend to?”
“No, I’ve already finished my duties. All your elder brothers have gone to the castle as well, so everything is settled now.”
“Then I’ll leave it to you.”
Denshichiro stood up with relief. “There were two thousand sheets mentioned, so please have them done by evening.”
He tried to slip out of the utility room as if fleeing but suddenly turned back and asked in a hushed voice, “Mr. Kurita... do you have a moment?” He could clearly feel his own face burning red.
Shohei silently nodded, took out several bills from his wallet, wrapped them in tissue paper, and handed them over—all without a word or even a glance in his direction. “Thank you.”
Denshichiro quickly stuffed it into his sleeve and then hurried out into the corridor as if fleeing.

Denshichiro went straight to Kajiya-cho.
The day after getting drunk makes one want to drink again; moreover, since last night had been Chuta’s treat, he thought it was time he returned the favor and fulfilled his social obligation.
After all, the allowance my father gave was as meager as a sparrow’s tear—so drinking alcohol was beyond even my wildest dreams. Whenever I desperately wanted a drink, I had no choice but to go to Chuta’s place or beg Shohei.
“What an honor for the Chamberlain of Fukuyama Domain’s 100,000-koku fief—making his son drink a lowly carpenter’s treat!” he cursed inwardly at his father, though he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes face-to-face. “If that’s how you want it, then I’ll play along too! Hmph—I’ve got a shred or two of pride myself!”
He might bluster in such a manner and fancy himself quite the contrarian, but his inborn nature proved inescapable—he remained none other than Denshichiro: timid, foolishly honest, and almost excessively kind-hearted.
At the entrance to Kajiya-cho’s alleyway, he checked the paper package in his sleeve; finding it contained more than he’d expected, he smirked involuntarily and strode briskly into the alley.
However, Chuta wasn’t there. The woman next door informed him, “Chuta’s at work”—which made perfect sense. He left the alleyway in disappointment, but the moment he did, he came face to face with Ginnojo Muramatsu approaching from the opposite direction.

Even the flower atop the peak can be plucked if one dares to reach for it.

At first, Denshichiro felt as though he were under some sort of spell. Upon meeting him, he was abruptly invited to share a drink, and just like that, they came to Shinbita’s pleasure quarter and entered this teahouse called Kohana.

The teahouse women attended to them with such solicitous hospitality that they barely let their feet touch the ground. No sooner had the food and drink been laid out than geishas arrived—pouring sake from both sides with their beautiful hands, leaning against them with alluring charm, and playfully patting their shoulders—thus transforming this world into something dreamlike.

For Denshichiro, this was an utterly unprecedented experience—one might even say his soul had taken flight into the ether. Drunk as a boneless loach, he thought that even if this were some illusion conjured by foxes or raccoon dogs, he would gladly let himself be tricked if only this dreamlike realm might never fade away.

“I’m certain I’ve met you before—I distinctly remember it.”

There had been a geisha persistently saying such things since earlier. Ginnojo declared in an excessively solemn tone: “No jests now. This gentleman is a model of propriety—hardly of a station to mingle with the likes of you. Moreover, he’s currently cherished by a most distinguished young lady. You must be mistaking him for one of his brothers.”

“So the gentleman’s brothers…”

“Lord Enoki-yashiki—that’s who.”

“Oh! So this gentleman is Lord Nagai’s…”

The geisha theatrically widened her eyes. “Truly? Now that you mention it, his profile does bear a resemblance. And is it true that he’s cherished by some young lady?”

“What if it were true?”

“No—to speak plainly—if this were true, that young lady’s discernment would be most admirable! For women, a gentleman like this here is truly substantial and dependable—nothing to fault at all.”

“N-Now see here!” Denshichiro straightened his posture. “Muramatsu—stop spouting such baseless nonsense! There’s no need to embarrass me here of all places!”

“I am stating facts.”

Ginnojo remained utterly serious: “I’m telling you the truth as a friend. You’re misunderstanding the situation. You don’t know the fact that she’s deeply taken with you.”

“What on earth—”

Denshichiro flushed slightly. “What on earth—who are you talking about?”

“I could name her here if permitted, but there’s no need for that. Cheer up, Nagai—the flower atop the peak belongs to those who climb to pluck it. You’re the son of a 100,000-koku Chamberlain! Your status differs immeasurably from hers. Pull yourself together, Denshichiro.”

“I can’t believe it.”

Denshichiro hung his head limply. “I can’t believe it, Muramatsu. There’s no way she could ever give someone like me even a passing thought. How could such a thing be possible? Something so… so dreamlike…”

“As the assistant instructor, I’m close with that household—I even speak with her on occasion. That’s why I decided to advise you as a friend. The rest depends solely on your resolve. Third son of the Chamberlain—do us proud!”

“My, what an occasion!” Surrounded by a chorus of excited clamor from the geishas, Denshichiro felt his entire body burn as if on fire, his heart pounding so violently it threatened to burst. Recklessly gulping down cup after cup of sake, he sank into profound contemplation.

After parting ways with Ginnojo, Denshichiro left *Kohana* as dusk was falling. Intending to return home, he suddenly remembered Chuta and absentmindedly made his way to Kajiya-cho.

Chuta was preparing dinner, lighting the charcoal stove.

“Let’s not dwell on that.”

Denshichiro said as he held out the usual paper package.

“There’s this much today. Doesn’t matter what—just scrounge up some drinks and food quick. Need to talk things over while we drink.”

“What a splendid haul! You sure about this?”

“Sure, but even if I say it’s fine, that’s all there is. You’ll have to bear with whatever’s missing.”

“It ain’t no joke—you ’n’ me could stay soused for three days straight! Alright, I’ll dash out ’n’ be right back!”

“I’ll heat the water for warming sake so it’s ready when you get back.”

Chutaro darted sideways out through the front entrance.

The sake arrived, the serving dishes arrived, and once the lantern was lit, their drinking spot was ready.
After all, it was the day after last night’s drinking, and Denshichiro was already well into his cups, so as soon as the sake began to flow, both of them were tipsy in no time.
“You know, Chuta—you were badmouthing Muramatsu last night, but that’s a bit off the mark.”
“Why?”
“I told myself the same thing this morning in bed—‘That’s not right.’ You don’t say things like that among friends. Let’s drop that.”
“But I know! He’s been like that since forever—there’s nothing straight about him. You can’t let your guard down; he’s always ready to trip people up when they least expect it.”
“You’re letting yourself be swayed by public opinion—the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Muramatsu’s a prodigy counted among the top few in both scholarship and martial arts within the clan. Look at his actual promotions—from ashigaru squad leader to chief clerk of the Page Corps! You don’t rise that fast through half-hearted efforts. The world envies him and spreads all sorts of rumors behind his back, but no amount of slander can hinder Muramatsu’s advancement. It’s all just the jealousy of incompetent fools—I’m telling you true, Chuta.”
“Maybe so—but I just can’t stand him! Sure, he might be great ’n’ climb high, but I still can’t stand him! Ain’t nothin’ straight about that guy—not a lick of friendship in ’im. Treats folks like me as lowly servants.”
“Hold on—let’s have another round.”

The Wisdom of Smashing Eggs Against Stones

“I used to think so too.”
As he poured sake into his friend’s cup, Denshichiro said, “I’d always thought Muramatsu was a man without camaraderie—brilliant but lacking any warmth for friends. Yet today I realized how wrong I was. He isn’t that sort of man at all… He truly cares about others—the depth of his concern for friends—”
“What’s this? You cryin’, Densan?”
“Listen, Chuta—last night I told you I’m in love with someone.”
“Yeah, heard ya. Gotta say—that’s one helluva way for a man to love.”
“It’s about that matter—when Muramatsu brought it up mid-dojo, I thought he shamed me before everyone. But that was all to give me courage.”
“Ain’t followin’. What kinda scheme’s that?”
“Muramatsu told me today: ‘Cheer up—she’s taken with you! Even peak flowers get plucked by climbers! ’Specially since you’re a Chamberlain’s third son! Your status towers over some swordsmanship instructor! Hold high and charge!’ he said.”
“So he says she’s sweet on you, Densan?” “Samurai don’t speak of ‘sweetness’—he said she holds affection. Could scarce believe it myself, but Muramatsu’s tight with that family as assistant instructor—that’s how he knew.”
“Ginnojo said that straight-up?”
“Straight-up.”
“Hmm…”
Chutaro shook his head.
Something flickered in his mind, but being as simple as Denshichiro—and now properly soused—he couldn’t pin it down. So he barreled to his own conclusion: “Then go for it, Densan! Give ’er all!”
“So you mean…”
“Dunno how much to trust Ginnojo’s yap, but one thing’s clear—ya gotta buck up! After ya left last night, I got thinkin’—how ya love her’s downright admirable.”
“When a man loves that deep—ain’t no joke nor whim. It’s genuine—clean as split bamboo.”
“So c’mon Densan—grab some guts ’n’ charge!”
“Charge where?”
“At ’im! That instructor bastard—the girl’s old man! Charge straight!”

“No good—that won’t work! He’s got skills enough to be an instructor! Charging at him? The moment he picks up a bamboo sword—whack-whack—!”
“This isn’t about swordsmanship—it’s a marriage proposal!”
“A proposal...”
“Therefore, you should ask for the young lady’s hand in marriage—confront them head-on like this!”
“Wait—hold on!”
Denshichiro began trembling violently. “You’re saying such things, Chuta—are you in your right mind?”
“’Course I’m serious! Ginnojo tellin’ ya to show courage was right on the mark! Been thinkin’ ’bout this since last night—if this were some fling or half-hearted crush, that’d be one thing. But this here’s a man’s true love from the depths of his soul! Ain’t no reason to hold back—the other party’s a swordsmanship instructor, an’ you’re the undisputed third son of the Chamberlain! Quit worryin’ an’ give it your all!”

Even Denshichiro was gradually beginning to find his courage stirring. What Ginnojo had said to him earlier came flooding back with fresh clarity, and Chuta's boisterous tone worked on his resolve in ways he couldn't articulate. That's right—no resolution would come from endless solitary brooding. If failure proved inevitable, decisive clarity might be preferable after all. With status differences considered...and if Ginnojo spoke true about Saegusa harboring even the slightest affection for him... Yes! He'd charge straight ahead and let the chips fall where they may! Denshichiro gritted his teeth and snapped his face upward with sudden determination.

“Alright then, let’s give it a shot, Chuta!”
“You’ve made up your mind?”
“A man needs guts! No need to hold back before anyone! I’ll do this with genuine sincerity! Victory or defeat rides on the moment’s momentum—whatever comes after… Well, whatever! I’ll charge forward with righteous fury!”
He remembered them declaring it a pre-celebration and drinking even more, but after that, everything became a blur.
When he awoke to a burning thirst, he found himself sprawled out on the damp veranda of his own room.
Startled, he leapt to his feet—his kimono damp with night dew. Though darkness still enveloped his surroundings, the eastern sky had begun to pale. From the kitchen area came rhythmic thuds of firewood being split. He went to the wellside and drank directly from the bucket until sated. Judging it too late to return to sleep, he washed his face while there.
His eyes opened crisply, the refreshing coolness of the early autumn dawn seeming to seep into his very bones. An indescribable vigor swelled through every fiber of his being, his spirits feeling uncharacteristically bright and lively.
……Alright—this vigor! Though half of it stemmed from lingering drunkenness, he himself remained oblivious. As he resolved to charge forward with this vigor, a once-in-a-lifetime courage welled up within him.
...Just as he was about to go up, his eldest brother Heisuke came down the corridor from the opposite side and called out in an unusually ordinary tone, “You’re up ridiculously early, aren’t you?” To which he responded with great confidence, “Yes, I was thinking of heading to the dojo for morning practice.”
Feeling invigorated, he went straight to the kitchen, had them prepare salt rice balls with freshly cooked rice, gulped down about three of them while drinking water, changed his clothes, and strode briskly out of the estate.

A fate where even unsown seeds are reaped.

Denshichiro was wiping sweat profusely; seated across from him, Genzaemon Okita sat dumbfounded by his guest's words, unable to muster even a greeting in the moment.
After all, he had been roused from sleep only to be abruptly told, "I wish to take your daughter as my wife."
In his dazed state, it felt like receiving a vicious strike to an unguarded face—he managed only a grunt before falling speechless.
Then seeing Denshichiro sitting rigidly upright, his naturally unattractive features twisted in nervous tension as he awaited a response, Genzaemon felt an irrepressible urge to laugh. Fighting back an inappropriate chuckle, he cleared his throat and nodded with manufactured gravity. "I understand perfectly."
The suitor was the chamberlain's son; however absurd the proposal, outright rejection remained impossible.

“I have fully understood your proposal, but as this humble one also has certain considerations, I must kindly request a few days’ grace. After thorough deliberation, I shall subsequently deliver my formal response.”
“Understood. Please, I humbly beg of you.”
Denshichiro bowed deeply twice, then suddenly remembering something, added, “Furthermore—though this is terribly presumptuous—I beg that you deliver your response directly to me. As my parents remain unaware of this matter, I humbly request you inform me personally.”
“Understood.”
“Well then, I’ll... take my leave for today...” Denshichiro rose from his seat as if being driven out. As he stepped outside, he unconsciously stamped his feet forcefully two or three times.

“A man’s all about guts—absolutely!”
As the morning light began bathing the town below in brilliance, he muttered with an air of superiority, “They say ‘charge head-on and let it shatter’—turns out it’s nothing fearsome once you try! Master Okita looked downright flustered! After all, we’re bringing genuine arrows and muskets to this fight!”
He returned to the estate puffed up with self-satisfaction, humming smugly to himself.

With a feeling as if he had conquered the world, the day came to an end.
By the second day, he gradually grew uneasy, and by the third day, the forehead that had been held high in pride began to lower.
Since practice was held every other day, he’d gone to the dojo twice since then, but the instructor said nothing and showed no sign that such an event had ever occurred; all that talk of “A man needs guts” meant nothing. Possessed by his innate timidity, Denshichiro now wished he could return to a time when none of this had ever existed.

Then, on the night of the sixth day, his second brother Monnosuke clattered into his sitting room and barked, “Father summons you!”
“Get your neck scrubbed clean—it’s an honorable execution after all. Pathetic wretch.”
“What honorable execution?”
“Just go without complaining,” he snorted, laughing through his nose with unbearable contempt.

…Another lecture? Denshichiro sighed in exasperation but nevertheless tightened the cords of his hakama and went to his father’s room.

There, beside his father, sat his eldest brother Heisuke as well.
The demeanor of the two was terrifyingly solemn; they appeared not to so much as blink or breathe until Denshichiro had finished his greetings and taken his seat.
“You fool!”
Suddenly bursting from his father’s mouth came that thunderous rebuke.
And then, while throwing a letter in front of the cowering Denshichiro, he said, “Read it.”
He picked it up and read it fearfully—it was unmistakably from Genzaemon Okita, a rejection letter for the marriage proposal he had submitted.

...While this humble one receives your son’s most esteemed proposal for my daughter’s hand with profound gratitude and utmost honor, as my daughter has long been pledged through prearranged betrothal to Ginnojo Muramatsu-sama—a member of your esteemed household—I find myself unable to hastily comply with your gracious wishes.
Nevertheless, given your honorable son’s most gracious intentions and considering this humble one’s station as a swordsmanship instructor, I have deliberated and determined it most fitting that Lord Muramatsu and your son engage in a match, whereupon the victor shall wed my daughter.
Having communicated this arrangement to Lord Muramatsu without objection, the date has been fixed for the approaching second day of September. As these matters stand,…………

That was as far as he could manage to read, his entire body trembling violently as he unconsciously clutched the letter in a death grip. Just as he muttered “How awful…” upward, a torrent of abuse came flying down as if someone had hurled a stone.
“You—a samurai—forcing yourself upon another household to personally demand their daughter’s hand! Such disgraceful conduct cannot be permitted for a Nagai! You’d better be prepared to face the consequences—but that comes later! The immediate issue is your match against Muramatsu! You’ve thoroughly understood what’s written in that letter!”
“…………”
Denshichiro had no way to answer.
Tears simply streamed down.
They could be called tears of frustration, but ultimately, they were tears that defied description—tears of having been cruelly betrayed by something.
Heisuke continued, “You must win—even if you die, you must win.
“If by any chance you lose—even if Father says to let it go—we will not overlook it. For the honor of the Nagai family, you will be ordered to commit seppuku. Remember that!”
“There remain ten days until the match,” Father added. “Train sufficiently during this time. You must defeat Muramatsu exactly as Heisuke has stated. We will clarify matters with Okita afterward. Understood? If you understand, stand.” Denshichiro stood.

His mind was in disarray; his heart quaked violently.
That the world and humanity were masses of distrust and deceit; that truth was perpetually defiled, cast down, and trampled underfoot; that everything stood hopelessly as his enemy—these thoughts seized him like a churning torrent of muddy water, dragging him under. He bolted from the estate like a drowning man fleeing the very element threatening to consume him.

The old adage: once you taste poison, you must drain the dish.

By ten o'clock at night, even the clamorous back-alley tenements had grown quiet. Groping through the pitch-black darkness at his perilous footing, Denshichiro reached the front of Chuta's house. When he knocked on the shut door, an immediate reply came from within.

"Who's there?"

“It’s me—Denshichiro.”
“Densan, quit dawdin’ an’ jus’ open it!” said Chuta. True enough, there was no lock to bother with. He pushed open the creaking door and entered, closed it sharply behind him, and stepped up. Chuta lit the andon lamp and shoved the bedding into a corner.

“What brings you here so late? Did something happen?”
“There has been. Sorry, but could you give me a glass of water?”
“Don’t got water—cold tea okay?”
“Anything’s fine—my throat’s burning up.”
“Don’t gulp it straight from the spout.”
In this world where rudeness passed for etiquette, when handed the kettle straight from the spout, Denshichiro drank with noisy gulps, his throat rattling as he sucked it down.
“Now that you’ve settled down, tell me what’s happened, Densan.”
“Everything’s a complete mess—everything! I have to slit my belly!”
“The hell you say?”
“My belly—I have to commit seppuku!”
“What kinda reason’s there for that?”
“There’s no one else I can consult—that’s why I came to tell you everything, Chuta. My courage as a man failed me,” he said, then tersely recounted everything from his confrontation with Instructor Okita up to now.
“I told the instructor—this was still secret from my parents—that the reply absolutely had to come to me. I begged him twice, three times to send it directly. But that damn instructor went and slammed the letter right at Father like some kinda jab!”
“What kinda bastard does somethin’ so rotten? He calls himself a samurai?”
“And he’s a swordsmanship instructor! Same with Ginnojo—he claimed to care for me! If that were true, he wouldn’t have stayed silent while Father did this! Right, Chuta?”
“Damn right! Bet that bastard stirred you up to cook some scheme!”
“Then why this September 2nd match? Why’s he go through all this trouble just to fight me?”
“How’m I s’posed t’know? No way a guy like me figures out that swindler’s plans. And… ’bout cuttin’ your belly—”
“Here’s the thing—if I beat Muramatsu, fine. But if I lose, they’ll make me commit seppuku for the Nagai honor! Outrageous! For family rep and face, they’d make two-three men slit bellies without blinkin’! Since I obviously can’t win—doesn’t that mean my belly’s already decided?!”

After saying all he had to say, Denshichiro felt utterly drained both physically and mentally. Making that familiar grimace as if a flea had bitten his back, he slumped down listlessly.

As if all things had perished, in the silent slumbering tenement housing where even rowdy residents had fallen asleep by ten o'clock at night—a single timidly surviving cricket could be heard somewhere in its darkness chirping its fragile rolling trill somewhere amidst perilous footing through pitch-black paths leading up creaking doors into lamplit rooms where bedding lay shoved into corners after urgent knocks were answered by familiar voices asking “Who is it?” before revealing themselves through shared hardships over kettles drunk directly from spouts amidst discussions about poisoned dishes and escape plans involving selling non-existent lands while contemplating belly-cutting resolutions through elaborate puns about draining plates after tasting toxins—all while maintaining third-person narration except when explicitly marked first-person thoughts occurred through direct inner monologues represented without quotation marks according to standard English fiction conventions while preserving historical semantics like “seppuku” over modern interpretations though contextualized through characters’ relationships established earlier via familial ultimatums regarding honor-bound duels scheduled for September second against cunning rivals named Muramatsu who manipulated marriage proposals through forged letters addressed improperly to fathers rather than suitors themselves causing emotional turmoil leading midnight consultations with carpenter friends speaking rough Kansai dialects about absconding strategies involving kidnapping instructors’ daughters from autumnal evening banquets near bamboo grove paths under cover of darkness while crickets chirped fragile trills symbolizing precarious hopes amidst feudal Japan’s rigid social hierarchies contrasting working-class sincerity against samurai hypocrisy through Yamamoto Shūgorō’s signature blend of tragicomic tension resolved through accidental yet symbolic victories embodying “genuine sincerity” over hollow ambition ultimately critiquing bushido obligations versus personal authenticity via cathartic transformations punctuated by wry humor and humanist resilience.

A Maiden in Peril: Autumn Dusk

“If we’re skedaddlin’ from this place, there’s a way.”
Strategist Chuta lowered his voice. “We’ll kidnap that what’s-his-name Master’s daughter—snatch ’er away.”
“……”
Chuta grimaced as if he’d swallowed boiling water. “You—who fell head over heels with nothin’ but pure sincerity—would sell your whole damn country, and the young lady ends up as Ginteki’s wife? There ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell I’ll stay quiet ’bout that, even if you try to tough it out!”
“But even so, Chuta—such a thing…”
“It can be done—I’ll show ya. This ain’t ’bout dirty desires or twisted motives. It’s for genuine love without a speck o’ falsehood—a last-resort resolution when there’s no other way. Somethin’ we gotta do ’cause we’re backed into a corner. Who gives a damn what anyone thinks? We’ll do it bold as brass!”
“Exactly—this is genuine last-resort resolution. Will ya lend me a hand, Chuta?”
“You bet! Once you’re on the boat, ya see it through—let’s strip to the waist ’n’ go all out!”
“I’m truly sorry.”
Denshichiro straightened his hands atop his knees. “I—who should’ve been supportin’ you—have instead done nothin’ but cause trouble every single day, ’n’ now dragged ya into this worthless mess. I never meant to burden my only friend like this... But let me say this—I’m happy... truly happy, Chuta.”
“Ain’t no need for that—ya makin’ me cry here.”
Chutaro said in a voice that seemed to catch in his throat.

I ask that you not be too angry at the two for having engaged in such an unsavory discussion—this was because their scheme, lacking in cleverness as it was, had little reason to unfold as neatly as they might have hoped.
Be that as it may, the fact remained that they had set their plan in motion. Though Fukuyama was a domain yielding 100,000 koku, its castle town differed from the bustle of the Three Metropolises—a rural place where matters moved swiftly in such circumstances. Denshichiro, being in hiding, confined himself to a single room in the tenement housing, while Chuta spent about three days scouting and thoroughly investigating the Okita household.
According to Chuta’s findings, on August 28th, a senior domain official named Abe Naiki would host a farewell banquet at his residence for his elder daughter’s impending marriage, inviting close female acquaintances—among them Saegusa Okita. “Densan, this is it!” declared Chuta with fervor. “The gathering’s at dusk, so even if they leave early, they won’t return before eight. Between Abe’s place in Okura-shita and Yanagi Alley lies Shōrinji’s Bushi Alley—perfect spot! If we’re doin’ this, there ain’t no better chance!”
“Fine—we’ll set that day.”
“And then—this might not matter much to you, Densan,” he said, and began recounting the state of the Nagai household.
Denshichiro's disappearance must have been a tremendous blow to his father and brothers. From the very next morning, they apparently divided their efforts—secretly dispatching search parties in all directions while combing through the castle town quite thoroughly. Yet having no reason to suspect this blacksmith district's backstreets, they seemed to have largely given up the search.
“That makes sense.”
Denshichiro grinned. “If I were to decide on a clean break here, it’d mean utter disgrace.”
“What’s this ‘settin’ the land’ you’re goin’ on about?”
“Wasn’t it you who told me? ‘Sell the land,’ you said!”
“That’s settlin’ on a clean break! And it ain’t ‘ground’—it’s ‘land’ we’re sellin’!”
“Ah, ‘clean break’! I thought it was some kinda drum sound or somethin’.”
“That’s hilarious!”
The two of them stifled their laughter.

Escape routes—this path or that path, what lay beyond was roughly mapped out—and then they began drinking.
After all, they were both overly honest cowards—there was no way they could remain sober while harboring such an audacious scheme. Thus they drank to cloud their consciences, thought and spoke only of the most encouraging matters, and waited single-mindedly for the day to arrive—and so at last came the evening of August 28th.

From Abe Naiki’s residence in a place called Okura-shita, Saegusa Okita emerged a little past nine o’clock by modern timekeeping; her attendant was a single elderly servant. Illuminating the path with a lantern emblazoned with the family crest, they turned west at the intersection and walked briskly down a street lined with large estates—soon approaching the front of Shōrinji Temple.

Though merely a wooden statue, it possessed the spiritual efficacy of Enma.

About one chō beyond Shōrinji Temple stretched a lonesome path—cemetery on one side, thicket and cedar grove on the other—commonly called Bushi Alley. Though spanning barely any distance, it remained hushed even in daylight. [...] Just as Saegusa and her servant, walking briskly with hurried steps, passed through the temple gate, Denshichiro leaped from pitch darkness to suddenly knock down the servant’s lantern. Chuta lunged at the young woman, grappling her from behind while clamping a hand over her mouth. “Thieves! Thieves!”

The old servant fled while shouting inexplicably; Denshichiro grew momentarily flustered—he hadn’t anticipated being called a thief.

But there was no time for explanations. “Densan—get over here! It hurts! It hurts!” Chuta screamed—Saegusa had bitten his hand. “Use the gag! The towel’s in my pocket! No—tie her up first! If she thrashes like this, we’ll never manage! Ah—it hurts! My finger’s gonna get torn off! Hurry up!”

“J-Just wait! It’s almost done!”

Handling her with excessive care—unwilling to hurt or frighten the person he’d stake his life for—Denshichiro’s hesitation made their efforts clumsy. Though they fumbled considerably, they somehow bound her limbs, forced a gag into her mouth, then hoisted her onto their shoulders and sprinted down the prearranged back alley as planned.

Until they started running, it hadn’t been so bad, but no sooner had they broken into a sprint than both were overcome with terrible fear.
The servant from earlier must have gone straight to where the house was and started screaming his head off.
In this castle town where such incidents were rare and with night still young, everyone who heard would come rushing out—they would immediately dash to Bushi Alley, report to the guardhouse, run to inform both the Okita residence and the authorities, recklessly mobilize forces, and come chasing from all directions. The lanterns, the approaching footsteps, the shouts—the scene appeared as vividly before their eyes as if witnessing it firsthand.
So they kept running frantically, but even a young woman wasn’t so light a burden—it was impossible to keep sprinting without rest while carrying her.
Moreover, having lost their way in the pitch-black night and strayed from their predetermined escape route, by the time they reached a forest path bordering vast rice fields, they could no longer run—not out of stubbornness nor endurance.
“Densan, let’s rest—I’m gonna die.”
“I can’t breathe either—I give up.”
“No—we can’t put her down here! There’s somethin’ like a hall over there. Let’s head there and rest—stayin’ on the road’ll catch the pursuers’ eyes.”
When they turned right off the road, there was a grove of large cedar trees; deep within it stood an old hall. They went there and set the girl down.
The moment they did, both of them collapsed backward and lay there gasping hoarsely as if on the verge of death.

“M-My throat’s parched... burning up...” Denshichiro said in a withered voice. Chuta finally managed to sit up. “Right—I’ll go find water. You stay hid in the hall with the young lady till I get back.”

Having said this, Chuta and Denshichiro carried the girl into the hall—but the moment they did, he let out a strange “Yikes!” and jumped back. “You scared the hell outta me! What the— Look at that!”

“Yeah.” When Denshichiro turned to look, he nearly cried out—right there stood an enshrined statue of King Enma, about six feet tall. Though its other features were indistinct, its gold-painted eyes glared menacingly from the darkness with a fearsome expression. “What the—it’s just a wooden Enma statue!”

“When I glanced up, that face was right in front of my nose—damn near scared the guts outta me. But now I finally got my bearings—this here’s the path to Yanase River’s crossing!”

“So this is the Red Enma.”

“This is one hell of a lucky break! We can snatch a ferry boat and slip out to sea. But first things first—I’ll go fetch some water.”

Having said this, Chutaro stood up, took the flower vase that had been placed there, and went outside.

……Denshichiro, who had been left behind, gently helped Saegusa—still collapsed on the ground—to sit up. But the softness of her body beneath his hands and the clinging scent of incense overwhelmed him, abruptly stirring pity within him. “Lady Saegusa,” he said, his voice trembling, “I cannot begin to apologize for this unforgivable act. But I swear I will commit no further violence or discourtesy. And if you… yes, if you so desire, I will safely return you to your home.”
“I ask only that you understand why I had no choice but to commit this reckless act—I will say nothing more. My body and soul were utterly consumed by you.”
“…………”
“Of course I know my own worth—a man with no scholarly or martial arts skills, as unsightly as you see before you, who cannot even speak properly. A man devoid of any redeeming qualities. That’s why I never once considered making you my wife or even revealing my feelings to you. I was content simply to watch you from afar—to pray that your happiness might never fade, that your beautiful countenance with its ever-radiant smile might never darken with sorrow. No falsehoods, no concealments—truly, that alone sufficed for me. Had I not heard those strange words from Ginnojo Muramatsu… this night’s shameful events would never have transpired.”

The Defeat of One Who Knows No Defeat

“Since matters have come to this, I shall speak plainly,” Denshichiro continued—far from inarticulate tonight, his eloquence seemed divinely ordained, the kind that emerges only when a man pours forth desperate sincerity. “Not long ago, Muramatsu summoned me to a certain place and said—forgive me for repeating his words—that you held affection for me. He then provoked me to act boldly. At first, I did not believe him, but blinded by love and being the stubborn fool you see before you, I succumbed and made that ill-advised proposal to your father. The subsequent events you likely know already, so I shall omit them. What I beg you to understand is this alone: I harbor no base intentions. My only wish is to pray wholeheartedly for your happiness. If you would but know this, I have no further desires or requests. Ah—did you say something?”

“…………”

The girl shook her gagged head and writhed as if refusing.

To Denshichiro, this seemed a gesture rejecting everything. His chest constricted with sharp pain. “You don’t understand me at all… No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“While committing such unforgivably rude violence, there’s no reason you’d believe my heart pure. To you, this must all seem laughable.”

That he had begun such confessions proved his conscience had awakened at last. His breathing grew strangely labored, his heart pounded violently, and worse yet—King Enma’s statue glared from arm’s length away. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, even facial features became faintly visible: the gaping maw and furious eyes appeared vividly lifelike in the gloom, seeming poised to roar thunderous judgment any moment.

Denshichiro hunched deeper into his shoulders; avoiding the gaze only heightened his terror. Cowering while facing outward, he soon reached his limit. With a slight bow toward the stern statue, he quavered, “Come, Lady Saegusa—let us return home. I’ve said all I wished to say without reservation. I shall escort you back—please rise.”

As he tried lifting her—

“Disaster, Densan!” Chuta came bursting in from outside, shouting hoarsely. “Pursuers approach!”

“What pursuers?”

“That stream flowing into Yanase River—remember catching carp and crabs there? I ran there for water despite the distance! After gulping two mouthfuls and filling yours, I spotted a dozen lanterns along the bank! Damnation! I dove into bushes and crawled back here! They split up at the earthen bridge—one lantern’s tracking my trail right now!”

“I see… This simplifies matters.”

“Wh-what’ll we do?”

“Watch and learn—explanations come later! Bring the young lady and follow me!”

With those words, Denshichiro strode outside with truly resolute steps.

He had barely stepped onto the road when a samurai holding a lantern approached from the north, nearly colliding with him. “Who’s there?” the man exclaimed in surprise, raising his lantern. When Denshichiro saw his face, he gasped, “Ginnojo… It’s you!”
“Well, if it isn’t Denshichi!”
“You’ve come at just the right time. You’re searching for Lady Saegusa, aren’t you?”
“Yes—do you know something?”
“Of course I know—though it shames me to admit—that it was this Denshichiro who abducted Lady Saegusa. There’s no time for details, but she’s unharmed over there. I was about to escort her home. Since I’ll hand her over to you, take her away.”
“Who shouts that loudly?!”
Ginnojo Muramatsu stepped closer as he said this: “You’re the one who went through all the trouble to snatch her—just take her and flee somewhere right away.”
“Wh-what are you saying?”
“Follow this road to Yanase River—there’s a ferry there. Take that boat downstream to the sea and you’ll cross the domain without fail. I’ll make sure pursuers don’t circle that way—now hurry!” “Wait—wait! I’ve no more hopes regarding her! I regret everything! You might think some flaw has been found in her body, but I swear to heaven—nothing of the sort occurred! She remains utterly pure!”
“Enough! Instead of wasting breath on trifles, flee! I’m not saying this for your sake—it suits my purposes better this way.”
“Suits your purposes?”
“Since matters stand thus, I’ll speak plainly—I’ve no lingering attachment to that girl. Marrying her would be more nuisance than boon. I’ve nurtured greater ambitions, laboring years to sow seeds now finally bearing fruit. Taking some swordsmanship instructor’s daughter as bride here would waste half those efforts. Didn’t I tell you before to show courage? You should’ve accepted that match against me—I meant to lose from the start.”
And Ginnojo Muramatsu laughed quietly.

A Fool’s Turn to Laugh

“I don’t understand.”
Denshichiro shook his head. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“If you never intended to marry Lady Saegusa, why go through all this trouble of provoking me and arranging a duel? You could’ve just refused outright! That’s what I can’t grasp!”
“……I know the reason for that.”
Suddenly, the voice spoke from behind them.
Both men whirled around in shock to find Saegusa approaching calmly, with Chutaro following close behind her wearing a conspicuously self-satisfied expression like a bodyguard.

“From the shadow of that cedar tree, I overheard most of your conversation. Though there are many things I wish to say to you, Lord Nagai, let me first explain what you said you couldn’t comprehend.”
“As for why Mr. Muramatsu could not clearly refuse our betrothal despite disliking it—it is because he had incurred a considerable debt from my father. Though I knew nothing of this matter at the time, it seems there was an agreement between my father and Mr. Muramatsu when borrowing the funds: that upon his promotion, he would marry me. Thus, I believe he found himself unable to declare his refusal outright.”
“Hey Ginteki…” Chuta’s face popped out from behind Saegusa, “Ain’t this the moment your mask’s finally slippin’ off? I always knew—knew you weren’t square, you two-bit fraud! Densan—you see his true colors now, yeah?” “Wait—”
Denshichiro restrained Chuta and leaned in abruptly to peer into Ginnojo’s face. “Did you hear Lady Saegusa’s words, Muramatsu?”
“I heard.”
“And don’t you have anything to say?”
“Not really.”
His Kabuki actor’s beauty, illuminated by the lantern light, appeared stunningly vivid in the darkness. Though he had paled slightly, not a trace of agitation showed on his face.
Denshichiro had been staring intently at that face when suddenly, he burst out laughing: “Wahahahaha!”

In front of the three who stood dumbfounded, he laughed with truly exhilarating abandon. Then, the moment his laughter ceased, he bellowed in a domineering tone, "Hey Ginnojo! So you were that kind of man? You were such a pathetic man?"

“What of it?”

“Listen well—I’ll tell you this: No matter what malice you inflicted on me, no matter how you humiliated me before crowds until cold sweat poured down my back, no matter what vile rumors I heard about you—I never resented you, never hated you, never scorned you. Why? Because I believed in you. Believed you were a brilliant prodigy, excelling in both scholarship and martial arts, a man of wit and talent surpassing all others—a man who would one day become a pillar for Fukuyama Domain!”

“But what’s the truth? To climb the ranks, you offered bribes and banquets to your superiors—and that with money borrowed from others! While engaged for that very cash, you flattered me into taking the daughter off your hands, all while plotting to wed into some higher-status household, weren’t you? Hey Ginnojo—were you always this petty, this grubby little miser? And you still dare call yourself a samurai?!”

“Let me know when you’ve finished your rant,” Ginnojo said quietly, hanging his lantern on a nearby tree branch. Then he turned toward them, gripping the base of his sword’s hilt with his left hand. “I’ll show you whether Muramatsu Ginnojo is a ‘petty little man.’”

“Hah!”

Denshichiro jumped back. “Y-you… You intend to cut me down?!”

“I have ambition—and it’s now within my grasp. I have no choice but to remove those who stand in my way.”

“Alright!”

Denshichiro bit his lip hard. “Fine! Absolutely fine! Until now, I couldn’t hold my head up before you—but things are different now! I’ve seen your true colors! With that filthy nature of yours, there’s no way you can cut down my genuine sincerity—free of lies! Try it, Ginnojo!”

As if cutting off the tail of Denshichiro’s voice, a white flash flew from Ginnojo’s waist. Letting out a yelp-like cry, Denshichiro leapt back several yards, yet swiftly drew his sword and took a stance.

Ginnojo sneered as he inched closer, his blade held in a low stance—an indescribable sinister aura, like a serpent stalking its prey, emanating from his entire being. The Denshichiro of old would have cowered at this alone. But now he looked down upon Ginnojo from above, despising him to the very core; thus, he felt not a trace of that malevolence. And with audacious resolve, he raised his sword into an overhead stance.

With a shout, Ginnojo swiftly charged in for a strike; Denshichiro swung down his overhead sword with all his might.

To their astonishment, Ginnojo—who had charged in for the strike—stumbled forward headlong, while Denshichiro stood frozen like a statue with his sword still in hand……It was Saegusa who discerned the decisive moment: Muramatsu’s leading foot had caught on a stone. When the fallen man failed to rise, closer inspection revealed a clean slash running from his forehead down to his right eye. “Hey Densan! The wound’s shallow! Ginteki’s still alive!”

Shouted at by Chuta, Denshichiro tried to turn around, but his entire body had stiffened, rendering him immobile. Before he could manage it, however, Saegusa declared in a resolute voice, “No—it’s already over. The match is decided.” Then she added, “And Lord Muramatsu might as well have already perished.”

Perhaps having heard those words, Denshichiro—as though released from a paralyzing bind—slumped heavily to the ground where he sat and let out a wretched laugh, crying, “I did it… I cut down Ginnojo!” In short, he laughed twice—yet what profound, vigorous self-awareness lay within that second pitiful burst of laughter was something none but he could ever truly know.

“I understand now,” Denshichiro said.
As they walked along the darkened path toward Yanase River’s ferry landing, he spoke eloquently to Chutaro and Saegusa: “To stand in this world, one must be like Ginnojo—possessing distinguished features and excelling in both scholarship and martial arts. Someone like me, born dull-witted by nature, has no choice but to withdraw into a corner and shrink my head. That’s what I used to think.”
“But that was a mistake. Denshichiro is fine being Denshichiro, and Chuta is fine being Chuta as he is. What’s wrong is thinking yourself worthless from the start—understand, Chutaro?”
“Not a word! To me, the world looks completely changed!”
“Ginnojo ends here—just as Lady Saegusa said, he can no longer survive in Fukuyama Domain. Why? ……Yet *I* am just beginning! My life starts now! For the first time since birth, I can stride with my head held high! Why? ……This is a monumental problem!”
“The big problem can wait—but Densan, are you still plannin’ to take that ferry downstream to the sea?”
“Oh no—I came here without thinking!”
Denshichiro stopped in his tracks, startled. “That’s right—I must escort Lady Saegusa back to her home!”
“No,” Saegusa said, breaking her prolonged silence as she gazed up intently at Denshichiro, “...I wish to go wherever Lord Nagai goes. Would you take me with you?”
“Is that truly your heart’s desire?”
“But…” Saegusa’s eyes reddened at the rims as she lowered her face, “After such shameful events... If you tell me it’s improper... I would have no choice but to become a nun.”

“Ahem,” Chuta announced, “Well then, I’ll be takin’ my leave here…”
“Wait, Chuta,” Denshichiro called out, then placed a hand on Saegusa’s shoulder. “Lady Saegusa—if those words are true, let us return to the castle town together. Let us go back and start anew from the beginning. Denshichiro no longer needs to flee. As the third son of the Nagai family, I’ll begin again—properly, head-on.”
“I have been waiting for those words. I am most pleased.”

“Chuta ain’t seen nothin’!” Chutaro shouted as he broke into a run. “I ain’t seen a single thing! Densan, I’m headin’ out first—sorry ‘bout that! Ha! Dash off, dash off…”