Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

The moonlight fell upon the low roof.
The location was Hakata, at the back gate of Tokiwa-kan—a waterside teahouse in Nakasu—where the sound of a rickshaw stopping echoed. Entering was the tall and stout Sugiyama Shigemaru, wearing a faded white Satsuma kasuri robe left untucked.
Sugiyama strode through the narrow path—to his right a storehouse, to his left towering stacks of firewood bundles—and emerged before the deep-planted inner garden.

When he opened the half-broken brushwood door, the lamplight dimly reflected on the water lilies in the pond.
Sugiyama followed the bamboo fence, traced along the garden stones to circle the pond, and emerged beside the teahouse that stood in the shadow of a large stone lantern.
Embracing a pine trunk with one hand and leaning at an angle to gaze through the banquet hall across the pond, he saw the long narrow room—typically called the “Gōketsu Room”—with its sliding doors and paper screens thrown wide open. Beyond them, on the transom directly visible from this vantage point, the familiar poem “Clouds or Mountains? Wu or Yue?” from Sanyō Gaishi’s *Night Mooring at Amakusa*—scrawled in sweeping brushstrokes that ran wild across the surface—cast faint shadows.
It was a small banquet of industrialists surrounding Yasuba Yasukazu, the newly appointed Fukuoka Governor.
Yasuba had some connection with the Gen'yōsha.
To trace it back, it was Sugiyama who had persuaded Yasuba—then a Councilor of the Genrōin—to become Fukuoka Governor. When Yasuba dismissed the idea with “What self-respecting man would let himself be kidnapped by some Chikuzen Liangshan Marsh in this glorious Meiji era?!” it was again Sugiyama who cornered him with grandiloquent rhetoric: “Now now—which is nobler? To spend your days dusting off the whiskers of clan oligarchs fattened on high salaries, or to breathe the lofty spirit of youth in this glorious Meiji era?” Thus did this pale-faced penniless scholar leave even the famously forthright Yasuba floundering.
He had not merely persuaded Yasuba.
Yasuba’s words—a final evasive excuse about needing to consult with his boss Yamada Akinori, on whom he had staked his entire fate—were firmly seized upon by Sugiyama, who immediately shifted tactics.
“Very well. In that case, I shall take responsibility for His Excellency Yamada.”
“While entrusting oneself entirely to His Excellency Yamada feels somewhat precarious, in these times of scarce talent, there truly remains no path to achieving Kyushu’s unification without securing you through decisive means. Having come this far, I too shall stake my life on this—I will carry it through to the utmost limit.”

Sugiyama then immediately visited Gotō Shōjirō, insistently obtained a letter of introduction, called upon Yamada Akinori at his residence, and promptly began direct negotiations.
It may not be entirely accurate to interpret that the obstinate Yamada was completely taken in by Sugiyama’s grandstanding, but in any case, Yasuba assumed his post as Fukuoka Governor within a month—if that—of these events.
Thus, it could not be denied that the stone Sugiyama had thrown had yielded some effect.

The banquet hall swirled with bodies, making Yasuba’s limping figure impossible to locate in the chaos. Yet even the resonant strains of Hakata-bushi that hung heavy in the air—so unlike the battered shamisen heard at ronin and students’ revelries—carried an inherent dignity of their own.
"They’re doing well—" he thought, and a smile he couldn’t conceal rose to Sugiyama’s face.
When he considered that the very force that had dragged Yasuba this far resided within his own heart, a feeling of "Serves you right!" surged up within him, directed at no one in particular.

Sugiyama then rounded the teahouse toward the damp veranda—that night, he was scheduled to dine there with his comrades Kijima and Hoshinari.
Though slightly behind schedule, Sugiyama called out casually—
“Hey.”
—he called out as he entered.
Though he had asked the maid to arrange young geishas for proper hospitality, inside the room—across a low table—Hoshinari Kyōtarō sat stripped down to his underrobe, while Kijima, wearing a grimy striped handwoven cotton kimono and brownish kogura hakama, faced him with displeased expressions.

“What now?”

While fanning himself with one hand, Hoshinari said in a prickly voice,
"You made us wait two hours—where in blazes have you been loitering about?"

"My apologies, my apologies—I had business in Yawata that made me late. Came rushing by rickshaw from the station—soaked through with sweat, I tell you."

When his eyes met Kijima’s gloomy gaze, Sugiyama quietly averted his own.

“Plus, I did tell the maid properly, but where’ve those geisha girls gotten to? Bunch o’ slowpokes, I tell ya—it’s not like they’re all worked up over at the Governor’s banquet or anythin’! Either way, my fault for bein’ late. Cheer up an’ drink!”

Sugiyama poured sake to the brim into Hoshinari’s cup.
And then, as he tried to clap his hands loudly—

“If you’d come sooner, we wouldn’t have complained—but since it’s you, we figured you’d gone off somewhere spinning your tall tales and clean forgotten about us.”

“Don’t talk nonsense—let’s get some geishas in here instead.”

“No—”

Kijima, who had remained silent until now, blinked his sunken eyes rapidly.

“We don’t need geishas—two or three came earlier but we sent them right back.”

“Sent them back?”

“—Geishas would just distract us.”
“Tonight’s no banquet, you know.”

“You’re insufferable—got somewhere to be?”

“Tonight—they’re all waiting at Yoshimiya, you know.”

“Shimanaijima Town? Leave that be. More importantly, I need to sit down and speak with you.”

“That won’t do—it’s a farewell party.”

“Is this farewell party yours?”

“That it is—you coming along?”

“In that case…”

Sugiyama's brows suddenly darkened.
“So you’ve finally decided to depart, then—”

“Yeah. Action above all else.”

Kijima sullenly clamped his mouth shut.
Sugiyama quietly looked back over his shoulder, as if checking his surroundings.
The leaves of the fatsia plant stretching toward the veranda glittered in the lamplight.

“So…”

Sugiyama felt a chill pierce the depths of his chest at the murderous intent radiating from Kijima’s eyes.
“When are you departing?”

“I’ll board the ship late tonight—the plan should take about a month, but depending on how things unfold in Tokyo, I might return in two or three days. Calling it a farewell party might be overstating things, but given the circumstances, we’ve got to solidify our comrades’ unity.”

“Yeah.”

Sugiyama nodded deeply and, while pouring himself a cup of sake, drank it down in one gulp.

“After all, these are perilous times—we must all prepare to lay down our lives eventually. But you—you’re letting zeal carry you too far.”
“Don’t let haste ruin grand strategies—Ōkuma’s treaty revision is undeniably critical for the nation. But—this isn’t the sole matter demanding fury. Every soul here with purpose keeps rage and sorrow locked in their breast.”

“Enough!”

Hoshinari twisted his lips sardonically.
“Bottling it up solves nothing—this crisis won’t wait another hour.”

“Now, hold on.”

With one hand lightly pressing down, Sugiyama peered into Kijima’s sullenly silent face.

“That’s precisely why I wanted to meet you two—with the situation this dire, one misstep could lead to irreversible consequences.”
“What do you think of last year’s Rokumeikan incident?”
“The lords of the court are rotten to the core.”
“Even among them, Ōkuma is barely tolerable—Itō and Inoue are rotten to the marrow. Here’s what I think: Halting treaty revisions is vital, but far more critical is using this moment to intensify the righteous discourse of the nation! By confronting the Ōkuma affair, we can seize the chance to purge society’s entrenched evils. Remember how Liu Bang, the Duke of Pei, achieved his ambition by suppressing Qin’s tyranny and galvanizing an era’s moral fervor? Stumble here, and disaster follows—above all else, preparing for today’s crisis demands discourse and nothing else! Had you stabbed Inoue at Matsushimaya last year, we might’ve ended that old schemer’s breath—but then we’d have lost this chance to amplify righteousness. That’s what I fear most: even if a strike like Bolangsha succeeded, Gen'yōsha would’ve been uprooted entirely.”

“Hold on.”

Kijima’s eyes suddenly began to gleam sharply.
“That may—that may be as you say, but discourse remains mere discourse. However fiercely you inflame national debate, if treaty revisions take effect, even should every last man and woman in Japan become righteous patriots, it would all be for naught—a festival already ended. You claim I should rejoice at having spared Inoue for the sake of noble arguments—but what might have been? Such things can’t be known without trying.”

“No—I understand. Even Saigō, bearing such public trust as he did, could accomplish nothing through martial force. To purge the sovereign’s inner circle of vipers, there exists no path save discourse. Had Saigō stood forth and swept through Kyushu with words alone, he might well have shaped the realm to his will—don’t you agree?”

Sugiyama’s wrist, resting on his knee, trembled violently.
Kijima bit his lip hard, as though stifling the emotions surging within him.
“You’re completely wrong—true, this isn’t an age of brute force, but neither is it one of empty words. You’re too swayed by that Tosa-style rhetoric.”

“Then what era is this?”

“—A duel.”

Kijima pressed firmly on his lower abdomen with his left hand thrust into his pocket.
“This is an era to cut straight to the decisive act—today’s urgent task isn’t rousing public discourse but halting treaty revisions at all costs. Discourse can come afterward. You’re right that Saigō failed when he raised an army, but what I still regret is why such a gathering of heroes didn’t settle it through single combat. Had there been one hundred men resolved to die, they could’ve achieved their purpose without sparking a great war and paying unimaginable sacrifices.”

Kijima’s voice, which had begun haltingly, gradually gained force.
Sugiyama felt as though he had clearly discerned Kijima’s unshakable resolve.
Suddenly, he was seized by an anxiety akin to cold water trickling down his spine.
Last year, when he had tried to stab Inoue and gone into hiding—when all the society’s comrades had banded together to track him down, and through Toyama Mitsuru’s persuasion, the crisis had finally been averted—this memory suddenly rose in Sugiyama’s mind.
Tonight’s meeting, after all, was nothing but a scheme born of the same intent to pin down the substance of anxiety as that time.
—The Kijima now before his eyes was different from last year’s Kijima.
Last year’s Kijima, while being incited by emotional impulses, had been unable to fully shed his personal resentment toward Inoue.
However, Kijima’s face tonight showed not even a flicker of emotion.
It was strange enough that he—who would typically grow flustered, his words disordered and logic muddled—became increasingly calm the more heated he grew. But even more perplexing was how Sugiyama, who habitually overpowered his opponents with overwhelming force, now found himself helpless against a frustration that threatened to twist him into submission.

“But…”

Sugiyama fidgeted restlessly and mumbled evasively.
“Ōkuma and Inoue are different!”

“What’s different—?”

“Ōkuma isn’t as cunning as Inoue!”

“That’s what you’re hung up on? —No, you’re wrong. If you mean Ōkuma has more conscience than Inoue, fine—I’ll grant that. But it’s neither here nor there. This isn’t the time to debate who’s better, Ōkuma or Inoue. You’re losing focus. I don’t hate Ōkuma—we need to stop the treaty revisions. What else is there to consider?”

The sound of geta clacking against garden stones reached them, and a young maid approached with a sake decanter in hand—but upon seeing Sugiyama, she immediately—

“Master.”

she called out.
Governor Yasuba was requesting that Sugiyama show his face even briefly.

"How did you know I was here?"

“Well, Master—Goryon just now...”

Sugiyama grimaced with distaste.
Then, immediately, Kijima—

“We should probably get going soon—Sugiyama, you ought to come to Yoshimiya once you’re done here.”

“Now, hold on—I’ll just show my face and be right back. Tonight’s truly become the night we must part ways with you all.”

The fact that the two were departing for Tokyo had been known among close friends since several days prior.
Sugiyama was not unaware of the urgency of the situation—far from it, he knew everything there was to know.
However, when public opinion overwhelmingly leaned against the revision proposal, it was doubtful whether Ōkuma could override popular sentiment and carry it out.
The opposition arguments were seeking to sway not just politicians out of power but even the opinion within the halls of government.
Today, as Itō Hirobumi—the original instigator, more so than Inoue Kaoru or Ōkuma—began to waver, Sugiyama privately dismissed the likelihood that Ōkuma, whom he interpreted as merely Itō’s puppet, would stake his political life to carry out the revisions. Though he prided himself on spearheading public opposition, deep down he took the outcome for granted.
More than that, he considered it far more important to seize this momentum and overthrow clan-based politics.
Moreover, from Gen'yōsha, Tōyama and Miwa Sakujirō were advancing to the capital with comrades in tow.
He had only just returned a month prior from sounding out Gotō Shōjirō’s true intentions.
The flames of opposition centered on Tani Tateki, Miura Gorō, and Torio Koyata were rising day by day, and even within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs under Ōkuma’s control, wasn’t a young diplomat like Komura Jutarō voicing dissent?
Even in Kyushu, the Gen'yōsha and Kumamoto Kokkentō—who had long been locked in mutual animosity—drew closer without either side making the first move, organizing the Chikuzen Association with the resolve to halt treaty revisions and counter the Kyushu Progressive Party, Ōkuma’s sole bastion of support.
The public opinion whipped into a frenzy since Inoue’s Public Security Regulations had now reached a point beyond containment.
Ōkuma was not one blind to the surging tide of public opinion.
He was now at a loss over how to manage the ship he’d boarded—this vessel of circumstance. As for Ōkuma’s true intent—to push himself to the breaking point, then stage a calculated gambit just as the tide of public opinion seemed poised to turn in his favor—Sugiyama sought to discern it through his own brand of human insight.
If Kijima were to rush in now and start something outrageous, it might steer Ōkuma’s resolve in the opposite direction.
For him, who had a vague inkling of why Kijima was heading to Tokyo, stopping him had become an absolute necessity—whether he willed it or not.
It wasn’t just the fear of misdirecting the movement of public opinion.
For the future of Gen'yōsha—no, to go a step further—even to steer the great tide of public sentiment, which had finally begun moving in a certain direction, according to his own script.

Sugiyama Shigemaru, who prided himself on being a master strategist, had taken it for granted that persuading Kijima would be a mere trifle—something he could accomplish before breakfast.
However, the Kijima of tonight seemed to possess a resolve far beyond the ordinary.
To put it plainly, a coldness akin to an immovable boulder—unyielding to any push or strike—surged through his heart.
At that moment, another maid arrived.
—Yasuba was insisting he show his face without fail.
After saying “I’ll go right away” and dismissing the maid, Sugiyama abruptly adopted a grave expression and spoke.

“—The time is coming when we must stake our lives to devote ourselves to our lord and country. Going to the capital is all well and good, but guard your life above all. You treat your life too recklessly—this alone I implore you, Kōki.”

Tears welled in Sugiyama’s eyes.
“Promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”

“I haven’t thought of anything.”

Kōki said in a reluctant voice.
“Once you’re done with your business, you should come to Yoshimiya—everyone’s been wanting to hear Sugiyama’s eloquent speeches again after so long.”

“Alright, I’ll definitely go.”

“We’ll be waiting—there’s plenty of time, so no need to rush.”

2

As Sugiyama left, Hoshinari hastily threw on a yukata and donned the hakama that lay crumpled and discarded in the corner of the room.

“Hey, let’s go.”

At Hoshinari’s urging, Kijima remained seated formally,

“Wait—”

he called out in a low voice.

“What?”
“I have something to discuss—sit down.”
“You mean now?”
Hoshinari cast a fleeting glance toward the garden, then planted both elbows firmly on the low dining table.
“Shigemaru-san seems to have caught on a bit, hasn’t he?”
“Who knows?—That’s just his habit of talking big. The foremost hero of our society, with eyes clouded by ambition, would never see our resolve. But more than that—just now, listening to Sugiyama’s words, I’ve realized something clearly.”

“What’s that?”

“Hoshinari—don’t get angry.”

He started to speak, then fell silent for a moment before—

“You—stop this.”

“What are you—?”

“I’m going to Tokyo.”

“What are you saying, now of all times?”

“—After all, this is how it must be. Let me go alone.”

“What is this—am I not reliable enough?”

When Kōki saw Hoshinari’s flushed face, he thrust his knees forward.
“I’ll do it—I will do it.”

“You know damn well—if you do it, I’ll do it too.”

“No—you mustn’t.”

“Why can’t I?”

“If two of us act together, calamity will befall Gen'yōsha. That’s why you must leave this matter to me alone—I’ll withdraw from Gen'yōsha as of today, and become a man acting alone. Hoshinari—believe in me. You have a wife and children. I won’t have others sacrificed or burdened because of me. That’s why I secretly went through the process to leave the Tadeno family I was adopted into and revert to my original surname, Kijima. But your circumstances and mine are different.”
“I beg you—whether it succeeds or fails, let the responsibility be mine alone.”

The words were undoubtedly abrupt, but desperate resolve showed on Kijima’s face.
The three who had pledged to carry out the act were Hoshinari, Hoshinari’s younger brother Akira, and one other—though Akira alone had already departed for Tokyo ahead of them (moreover, he had been positioned from the start as a behind-the-scenes collaborator).

“What does a wife and children matter now of all times?”

“—Understand this—I want to shoulder this responsibility alone until the end. You’ll have your own proper time to cast away your life later. I’m not telling only you to withdraw—we’re merely dividing our roles to complete one task. But it’s become clear this isn’t your moment to act. If both of us move, their vigilance will only tighten—and needless to say, the Progressive Party’s lackeys won’t stay silent.”

“So, are you telling me to stay in Fukuoka?”

“You have a wife and children—if we carry this out, someone will inevitably suffer misfortune. We’ve prepared ourselves for that much. But there’s no need to willingly sacrifice others. We only get one life, Hoshinari—let’s value it properly. Sugiyama understands our true intentions too. His insistence on preserving life and my demand that you stand back might differ slightly, but even he doesn’t think mere words are our ultimate weapon.”

“Then.”

Hoshinari blinked rapidly.
“Then it’s fine if I act on my own.”

“What do you mean by ‘acting on my own’?”

“I have my own ideas.”

“Don’t talk nonsense—there’s only one objective here. What I need from you is to stay prepared to die and wait. The situation in Tokyo remains unpredictable, and there’s still a chance Mr. Toyama’s efforts might bear fruit. Above all, we can’t afford to miss our opportunity.”
“It’s not just about taking down Ōkuma—acting too soon would be disastrous, but waiting too long—”

“Yeah, I get that too.”

As emotions surged within him, Hoshinari’s cheeks trembled convulsively.
“I’ll stop, I promise—but after I do, no matter what action I take, you won’t complain?”

“No complaints—”

Kijima poured the leftover sake into the cup washer, then thrust it before Hoshinari.

“We’ll see this through to the end. If I falter, you’ll take over—no need for explanations.”

Leaving half of the sake Hoshinari had poured, he gulped it down in one breath.
“Every man has his innate role. Mr. Toyama was born to gaze steadfastly upon the realm. Sugiyama should rise through stratagems—if Toyama is the belly, Sugiyama is the eyes.”

“No—not eyes, but ears.”

“It matters not which. We are shishi—we act. We’ve no talent beyond execution. What I find lamentable are those like Shimada Ichirō and Nagatsura Gō.”
“Why couldn’t a warrior of Shimada’s caliber cut down Ōkubo alone? Men must always settle matters one-on-one! Six men attacking Ōkubo was well enough—but that parade of accomplices dragged out afterward? Sheer recklessness! Even were I to strike down Ōkuma, I’d not let a single cur’s whelp be implicated—not one!”

When silence fell, the commotion from the hall seeped through the walls.
"Let's get going," Kijima said as he stood up.
Circling around the garden stones toward the back gate, they could hear the distant sound of waves.
In the moonlight, their two faces emerged.

“If that’s how it is,”

Hoshinari turned back while closing the gate.
"I'll call off going to Yoshimiya tonight. Kōki—you handle it."

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going somewhere—but don’t worry, I’ve firmly kept the promise I made earlier.”

“What a fine moon,” he said with feigned nonchalance, gazing up at the sky.
Kijima reached out and touched the pillar of the gate.
The rough texture of the wood grain, weathered by rain and wind, stirred in him a melancholy sense of parting.
During the Restoration, when Takasugi Shinsaku had been hiding in this house as a lodging, surrounded by police with no way to escape, he masked his face with a cloth and, carrying on his shoulders a young courtesan named Nanigashi who had attended the banquet that night, made his leisurely exit through this very gate with the air of a carefree patron.

This hidden self takes a hand towel, draping moonlight as a veil across my cheeks—

This dodoitsu verse composed by Takasugi Shinsaku likely gave voice to his state of mind at that time. Amidst the roaring emotions of farewell, Kijima recalled these very dodoitsu lines—verses he would invariably sing when drunk.

3

After perfunctorily leaving Governor Yasuba’s banquet, Sugiyama had his rickshaw driven to Yoshimiya in Shimonamijima-cho. By then, it was already past eleven o’clock. He continued thinking of Kijima, vexed by a restlessness no amount of drink could quell. Unsuppressable things, unpreventable things—they gradually took shape within Sugiyama’s mind. Their first meeting had been over a decade earlier, at an inn in Shibaguchi where Toyama was staying. The taciturn Kōki had spent many days in sullen silence since those times; even when Sugiyama held forth with eloquence before comrades gathered around the hearth, Kijima alone would lie stretched out on the veranda apart from the others. Even when facing each other, they rarely exchanged words—and though it was not that their temperaments inherently clashed, Sugiyama’s expansive countenance, which could not help but forge a self-suited atmosphere among crowds, and Kijima’s somber expression that seemed to savor solitude had unknowingly formed an antithetical relationship beneath the same roof. One day when other comrades had gone out and only they remained, it was Kijima who first spoke to Sugiyama—the latter leaning against a corner desk reading a book. It was the season when Ueno’s cherry blossoms had finally begun to bloom—an afternoon beneath a flower-hazed sky tinged with faint murkiness. Sugiyama recalled that time as he was jostled by the rickshaw.

“Sugiyama!”

Kijima kept his back turned to the room as he spoke, remaining sprawled on the veranda.
“What’s the purpose of living, I wonder?”

Sugiyama faltered momentarily, yet that obstinate streak of his—the one that surfaced without fail—now swelled up once more.
“It’s because you’re hung up on living that such doubts plague you—I’m fixated on dying, so none of that matters to me.”

“Dying, is it?” Kijima said.
“But if you don’t understand living, you can’t possibly understand dying.”

“It’s because you’re sickly that such notions arise—if living’s unbearable, you’d do better dead.”

“That may be—when dying comes, does slitting the windpipe suffice?”

“You—meaning to die?”

“Not exactly—but knowing how to die steers how to live. You can’t properly live without readiness to die any moment.”

“Hoh.”

Sugiyama smirked as if to say *How presumptuous*.
“Slitting your throat like that’s for amateurs.”

“Then how should I do it?”

Without turning toward Sugiyama, Kijima asked back while lying down.
To this, Sugiyama explained: “When a samurai takes his own life, the carotid artery lies behind the ear—so you plunge the dagger deep by the earlobe, slash diagonally across the windpipe. Keep gripping the blade, plant both hands on your knees. Endure a moment—the blood drains from the brain. Lets you die decently, posture intact.” As he spoke, Kijima—who had been lying down—suddenly sat upright.

“I see—you’re quite the expert. Have you done this many times before?”

Even Sugiyama seemed stumped by this.
“How many times do you think I’d do such a thing?—I only heard about the method from an old martial arts instructor.”

“Has that instructor ever tried dying himself, I wonder?”

“How should I know?”

Because Kijima’s earnestness left no room for pretense, Sugiyama felt exposed—as if the emptiness of his words had been laid bare.
Those eyes of Kijima’s, fixed unwaveringly on some unseen point, now blazed forth from fragmented memories that flickered through his mind.
When the rickshaw reached Yoshimiya and he moved to disembark,

“Mr. Sugiyama.”

A voice called out from behind.
Before the black wall was a river like a muddy ditch, and a human figure approached from the base of a small bridge.
Pressing down a straw hat with one hand,

“Kōki-san asked me to pass this letter on to you.”

The words came in a hurried tone from comrade Morikubo Sakuzō, who ran a bookstore.
“He said to give it to you right away when you came.”
“Then—has Kijima gone?”

Sugiyama had grown strangely restless.
By the light of the eaves lantern, he read the letter: *Elder Brother’s concern touches me deeply. I solemnly swear to guard against rash actions—pray set your mind at ease. Though belatedly mentioned, I humbly borrowed eighteen yen from Mr. Morikubo upon departing the capital. I entreat you to permit repayment at your earliest convenience. Should misfortune befall me in Tokyo, I beg your suitable disposition of all matters. In haste—* The characters bore idiosyncratic strokes.

“Has Kijima already boarded the ship?”

“Ah, he said he’d have a drink on board since the moon was out.”

Dismissing the voice behind him, Sugiyama had already started running toward the shipyard.
As he ran through the shipyard, immediately before him lay the beach.

Crunching through the white sand as he descended the slope toward the water’s edge, four or five *chō* out at sea, a small swaying light cast its glow upon the waves.
No human figures remained visible at the pier.
A night of strong winds, under a moonlit sky—the shapes of ships moored in the harbor loomed like sketches in faint ink.

Sugiyama stood atop the sand dune, perched on his heels,

“Hey!” he shouted.
“Kijima! — Is Kōki there?!”

The booming voice reverberated through the ground only to be swallowed by the crashing waves, but Sugiyama’s voice grew increasingly shrill until it became a piercing cry that seemed torn from his very core.

“Kijima—!”

Sliding over the rows of wave crests, his voice finally seemed to reach the barge jerking through small movements.
A lantern-like light frantically signaled back.

“Who’s there?—”

Only the faint reverberation of the voice calling back remained in Sugiyama’s ear. Now that he mentioned it, overlapping black silhouettes flickered into motion. They seemed to be shouting in unison, but he couldn’t discern what they were saying.

“It’s me—Sugiyama!”

“Hey, Sugiyama—I’m off.”

“Got it?—Stay strong. I’ll handle the rest.”

A single lantern began moving across the barge. They must have hurriedly lit the lamp. The lantern bore the mark of the character “Ha.”

“Kijima—take care of yourself.”

The distance grew much greater, and the barge seemed to abruptly change direction.
The light of the lantern that had been held high suddenly disappeared.
Creak, creak—only the faint sound of oars rowing against the waves could now be heard.

4

As they moved out to sea, the waves grew higher.
When they realized the man standing on the sandy dune shouting was Sugiyama, everyone began clamoring at once.
Aboard the barge were Mateno Hansuke, Fujishima Issō, Hisata Zen, Tamai Kyōichirō, Hikita Fumoto, Yoshiura Einosuke, and others.

“Hey—”
Hikita shouted, his face drenched in sea spray.
“Sugiyama—I’ll see him off in your stead!”

There was no way such a voice could have reached him, yet Sugiyama’s figure—white robes hitched up above his hips, arms spread high in a swimming-like stance as he shouted—stood silhouetted against Hakata’s city lights, vividly embodying the divide between those departing and those left behind.

The fact that Hoshinari had decided at the last moment tonight to abandon his departure from the capital must have stirred something unfathomable in their depths—something that defied comprehension.
Everyone twisted back the words they wanted to say into hidden recesses of their chests, suppressed them at their throats, all while trading hollow jokes and making idle talk.

"How strange—from here, Yanagimachi's lights do look rather alluring after all."

"Enough—you'll make Mr. Kōki homesick."

“You’ve got to stay resolute—look there! That moon’s better than Yanagimachi’s lights.”

“’Tis a fine moon indeed.”

“Ah, the moon and water!”

“See? After all—what remains is Yanagimachi, ain’t it.”

When the barge reached the Juntemaru—scheduled to depart Hakata Bay at dawn the next day—the group climbed the slanted ladder one by one, with Kijima leading the way.

On the deck, they gazed at the moon while exchanging farewell cups, then made to return via the barge they had kept waiting.

On the deck, a captain with a large burn scar on his left cheek came out to welcome the group.
The ship was an eight-hundred-ton cargo vessel, yet had ample space to accommodate around ten passengers.
Though it couldn’t be called a proper cabin, first of all, the fare was cheap, and for travelers accustomed to the sea, this was actually preferable.
Through the captain’s kindness, a flower-patterned straw mat had been laid in a corner of the deck.

Everyone formed a circle, and Hikita Fumoto, holding the one-shō flask with great care, began stroking it on his lap.
At that moment, the moon hung directly above the ship.
Clouds lit by reflected light streamed past, grazing the moon.

Kijima placed one hand on the mast and staggered to his feet.
“Now—the Kijima-chō!”

With teary, clouded eyes, Tamai looked up and shouted.
Kōki pressed down on the knot of his hakama with his right hand and, while placing his left hand against his side, leaned forcefully backward.
He kept his eyes closed and lips tightly pressed as if to calm his heart for a while, but when he finally opened them slightly—

“The wind howls as Yishui runs cold, —”

He began to chant in a low voice.
The "Kijima-chō," a customary chant among comrades, would typically surge in intensity after the first line and pause naturally at "stalwart" in the second line to draw breath—but Kijima cut off his words where the verse broke, then bit his lip as if in anguish.
A surge of emotion welled up in his chest.

The lights of Hakata still lingered faintly in the sky—this was not a hometown he would live to see again.
Kijima leaned against the rear mast, raising his left shoulder.

“The wind howls as Yishui runs cold.”

The deep reverberation faded into the waves.
His throat tightened up, but no matter how he tried, the next word—"stalwart"—would not come out.
When his voice broke off, the slight chill of the night wind suddenly seeped into his body.
Tears welled up in Kōki’s eyes.
Tears trickling down thin cheeks glittered in the moonlight.

"It’s no good."

Kōki sat down on the straw mat, masking his emotions with a smile.

"My throat’s bone-dry—can’t sing properly."

“Fine, fine,” said Hikita.
“Let’s have a drink instead—no time to dawdle around.”

Compared to when they had arrived, the waves had clearly grown higher—now plainly visible.
The barge boatman, struggling to handle the vessel, had been shouting something repeatedly toward the figures on the deck since earlier.
Hikita passed a cup borrowed from a crew member into Kijima’s hand and tipped the flask’s mouth.
Kijima drank it down in one gulp and passed it to Fujishima, who took a tentative sip before furrowing his brows in suspicion.

“What’s this—it’s strangely watery.”

“It’s water, so of course it’s watery. Don’t spout nonsense—just pass it around quick.”

Hikita fixed a piercing glare out of the corner of his eye.
The group fell silent at once.—Everyone understood what it meant.
The unspoken feelings they could not voice seemed to deepen their sense of parting; no one made a move to stand, silently exchanging glances.

The sound of waves striking the hull grew fiercer.
“Alright,” said Hikita, rising first to his feet.
“It’s about time we head back. I’ll stay on the ship to see you off—all of you go ahead first.”
“You’re seeing us off?”

Hisada said in a voice choked with coughing.
“You say you’ll send us off—so it’s just you going?”

“I have business in Shimonoseki—I’ll return first thing tomorrow morning.”

“What business?”
“There’s a fine woman waiting.”

Not a single man took those words at face value, but everyone boarded the barge swaying on the waves while making sarcastic remarks.
It must have been past midnight already—autumn was already stealthily creeping in amidst the distant roar of the tide.

5

The next morning, after parting with Hikita in Shimonoseki, Kijima was walking on the upper deck in his sleepwear when several passengers clattered up the gangway.
As he leaned absently against the railing and looked down, there appeared before his eyes the faces of Iwaki Kumagorō and Kimura Toshio—old comrades from the society.

Kijima, intending to preempt them, suddenly thrust his face out from behind the engine room into the view of the two men climbing the gangway.

“Where you off to?”

Iwaki, who was in the lead, jerked his shoulder back.

"What's this—Matono, ain't that you? What're you doin' there?"

Kijima had not seen either Iwaki or Kimura for nearly half a year (though they were comrades, they were senior members of long standing, each leading an independent life with a home and wife of their own).

"I'm headin' to Tokyo—got disowned by the adoptive family, so I'm leavin' with nothin' but the clothes on my back."

Kōki squinted toward Moji Port and let out an empty laugh.

“You’re joking, right?”

Iwaki—his thin mustache quivering beneath his nose, buttons of his white high-collared summer uniform undone—pulled a silver pipe from the tobacco pouch at his waist.

“Nah—ain’t like that. Figured I’d head to Tokyo, maybe set up a veg shop again.”

“Quit mockin’ folk—since when d’you care ’bout makin’ a livin’?”

As Kimura’s eyes glinted sharply behind his glasses, Kijima pursed his lips as if to sneer—*Hmph*—but immediately broke into a laugh.
“Don’t talk nonsense—even I gotta eat to keep living.”
“You’re headin’ to Tōyama’s place, ain’t ya?”
said Iwaki.
“Nah, ain’t goin’—I’ve already resigned from the Gen'yōsha.”
“You serious?”
Iwaki took a drag from his tobacco pipe, then suddenly adopted a serious expression.

“I’m dead serious—I’ve no ties left with Gen'yōsha. When I reach Tokyo, I mean to call on Hiraoka and have him sort out my funds.”

“You spout such riddles—you who chased Inoue through every alley in Fukuoka last year. What’s made you change so?”

“That’s another matter entirely.”

Kōki veiled his deepening gloom beneath a hollow laugh.
Though he needn’t bare his resolve outright, meeting his companion’s earnest gaze—so ready to take him at his word—left him feeling grotesquely unmoored.

There was still about an hour until departure.
Iwaki casually sat down on a thick rope that had been haphazardly piled up, unwrapped the furoshiki bundle he held in his hand, and took out boxed sushi wrapped in newspaper.

“How about it? Care to join?”

With that, he placed it beside his knee and—

“The situation in Tokyo is hardly favorable.”

“I never imagined Ōkuma would resolve himself to this extent. They say Minoura (Katsuto) will arrive in Shimonoseki in two or three days.”

“So that bastard’s become a lackey for the Progressive Party too?”

Iwaki said while stuffing shredded tobacco from his leather pouch into his pipe and putting it in his mouth.

Kijima picked up the newspaper that Iwaki had carelessly discarded at his feet.
When he smoothed out the wrinkles and spread it open, it was the July 19th issue of the Yūbin Hōchi.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the lead editorial signed by Yano Ryūkei.
It was titled “Treaty Revision Dialogues,” with that day’s issue being the fourth installment.

Those who oppose treaty revision fail to comprehend the significance of civilization.
The first criticism states that hiring several Westerners as judges damages the nation’s dignity and risks inviting foreign interference on account of this.
However, the stipulations of the revised treaty are entirely distinct from mixed courts such as those in Egypt; so long as the authority over appointments, dismissals, and disciplinary actions remains entirely in our hands, there is no particular reason for our nation’s dignity to be compromised nor any fear of inviting interference.
How much more so when we can employ naturalized foreigners?
How much more so when the right to abolish it after twelve years is undeniably in our hands?
The second criticism states that opening the interior is dangerous and that it would be better to keep it sealed off.
However, intercourse among nations must be equal between them and us.
Since European nations have already granted our people access to their interiors through liberalization, we alone must not commit such unequal acts as maintaining a blockade.
The third criticism states that land ownership rights should be prohibited due to the fear of foreigners monopolizing land.
However, should foreigners come to monopolize shares in railways, public bonds, shipping companies, and other enterprises, thereby dominating the world of commerce and industry, then even if we retain ownership of land alone, it would prove futile.
Therefore, if one fears foreign occupation, all enterprises must be prohibited without exception.
If one insists on such measures, there is no alternative but to abandon treaty revisions from the outset.
How much more so when our nation’s land yields the least profit compared to other enterprises?
Throughout the world exist lands far more lucrative than those in Japan—lands within Japan itself covering areas hundreds of times greater.
There is absolutely no fear that foreigners will swarm to monopolize only Japan’s land.—

He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and threw it into the sea.
It was only natural that Yūbin Hōchi—the Progressive Party’s official newspaper—would endorse Ōkuma’s treaty revision proposal. Yet seeing such assertive arguments laid out so boldly, he could no longer contain the seething emotions surging within him.

Kimura reached out and picked up a seaweed roll from the boxed meal.
“The Progressive Party isn’t to be underestimated either. Right now in the battle of words, the Chikuzen Association is on the back foot. If we don’t ignite some fires ourselves, they might gradually erode our position.”

“Haven’t you heard that even in Kyushu, a faction of the Sōaisha has already allied with the Progressive Party? For now, only Kagoshima remains quiet—but once Kuroda (Kiyotaka) steps in, we can pretty much predict how things will move.”

“What exactly is Mr. Tōyama accomplishing in Tokyo? To abandon Kyushu’s arena of discourse and leave it barren—Kōki-san.”

Kimura directed a sharp gaze toward Kijima.

“Get your act together, or it’ll be a right mess.”

Kimura alternated between uttering phrases and stuffing his cheeks with boxed sushi.

Kijima watched nameless seabirds skimming from crest to crest of white waves as they gradually moved seaward, his expression heavy with anguish—yet without sparing a glance for the boxed sushi Iwaki offered, he quietly rose to his feet.

“I’ve had too much to drink since last night—I’m a bit tired, so I’ll take my leave now.”

The early autumn sea’s color seemed to prickle into his eyes.
Kijima’s demeanor—burdened by some unspoken anxiety—appeared to register at once in Iwaki’s gaze.

“Kōki-san.”

Iwaki’s voice shifted abruptly in tone.
“Have you truly withdrawn from the Gen'yōsha?”

“Ha—”

“So then—what exactly do you plan to do once you’re in Tokyo?”

“—I haven’t thought that far through yet.”

“What strange things you’re saying—I’m asking in all seriousness here!”

“I am answering in all seriousness.”

“Kōki-san!”

“What is it?”

“You’re wrong about that, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean—are you saying you’re no longer involved in the treaty suspension movement?”

“I’m not saying that—I have my own reasons. But I believe we’ve had enough of debates.”

Iwaki crossed his arms as if deep in thought but immediately nodded as though he had reached an understanding on his own.
“In Tokyo—do you have a place to stay?”

“I do have a place, however I don’t wish to go anywhere.”

“Then why don’t you come to my inn? I can manage your living situation any which way.”

Iwaki’s eyes, relentlessly pressing in, appeared to be trying to extract something from Kōki’s expression.
To convey the feeling of being at a loss for words to his opponent, Kōki burst into loud laughter.
“Once I’m in Tokyo, maybe I’ll find myself a good woman to look after me.”

Kōki shrugged his shoulders as if to spur himself on, laughing as he descended the staircase that resembled a hole leading to the lower cabin.

When the ship set sail, the weather shifted, and before long a light rain began to fall over the inland sea.

6

After parting with Kimura, the coal merchant, in Osaka and arriving in Yokohama with Iwaki, Kijima—unable to refuse Iwaki’s insistent kindness—disembarked from the same train at Shinbashi and immediately hailed rickshaws to enter the gate of Akebono Inn (now Chuo Inn), Iwaki’s regular lodgings near Kajibashi.

It was the evening of August 22.
Ginza-dori’s gas lamps had just been lit， and within their shadows， a woman’s face floated faintly into view， glowing vivid against the darkness.
The first chill of early autumn already crept through， borne on whispers from willow leaves brushing together.

The second-floor room faced a moat. Before it stretched Mitsubishigahara with its gentle undulations, where white susuki plumes floated in the evening dusk, and here and there the roofs of brick-built foreign trading houses were visible. Distant lights were reflected in the clouded sky.

A memory from years ago seeped and spread through Kōki’s mind.
I wanted to meet Katsu Kaishū, with whom I had been exchanging letters frequently since last year, and also Yamaoka Tesshū, with whom I had long shared daily life behind the cemetery in Shitaya.
Is Nakae Chōmin still there in that damp, sunless alleyway at the back, cursing the world with that thick-stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth?
Memories of those cherished days—when he and his comrade Makioka Yoshikiyo hauled vegetable-laden carts from their rowhouse in Atagoshita to sell at Shibaguchi—flashed through the depths of his mind.

"But now I must act from a position detached from both my past life and human connections."—He touched the tip of his finger to the Samonji dagger concealed deep within his breast.

That night after dinner, Iwaki suggested, "How about we go to Yoshiwara?—" but Kōki,

“Well…” Kōki scratched his head.
“My stomach’s been acting up and I’m not feeling well—let’s call it off.”

Kōki leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, his knees hugged to his chest with both hands.

Seemingly having a regular woman in Yoshiwara, Iwaki brushed off Kōki’s refusal with a casual “Then get some proper rest—I’ll just take a stroll,” retrieved his personal medicine—“Dokushōgan”—from his handbag, and handed it to Kijima.
After seeing off Iwaki—who had thrown a thin haori over his yukata—as he headed out the entrance, Kijima flopped down into the futon the maid had laid out. Yet an inexplicable restlessness kept him from sleep, a mounting agitation that made each passing moment unbearable.

When alone with his thoughts, what surfaced in his mind was Hoshinari’s face from their parting in Hakata. Realizing he couldn’t stay put, he sprang up, changed into his kimono, entrusted a message to the maid—“Tell Iwaki not to worry if he returns; I’m off to visit a friend in Shiba”—and stepped out clutching a small cloth bundle. Guilt toward Iwaki pricked him, but erasing his tracks left no choice but to seize this chance. With time still early, he made straight for the familiar nursery in Atagoshita, resolving to use its second floor as his temporary base for observing developments.

The momentum of opposition to Ōkuma’s revised proposal had gradually begun to permeate public opinion across all strata since that time. Rallies by various factions were held nearly every night, newspaper editorials grew increasingly heated, and no sooner had *Shinonome Shinbun*—the spearhead of opposition—repeatedly faced sales bans and disappeared from public view than *Nihon Shinbun*, which had until then remained subdued, abruptly initiated a direct assault on Ōkuma’s diplomacy. The capital’s battleground of rhetoric had finally bifurcated into two camps: the editorial stances of *Shinonome*, *Eiri Jiyū*, *Asahi*, *Tōkyō*, and *Azuma*—arrayed against government-aligned outlets like *Hōchi*, *Chōya*, *Mainichi*, and *Yomiuri*—steadily escalated in intensity.

The nursery, where an elderly couple lived alone, had been an ideal place to lay low. But after their daughter—who had been working at a teahouse in Osaka—returned home, the neighbors’ comings and goings grew frequent. Though Kijima had no apparent workplace, his routine of leaving early and returning late gradually became the talk of the town. When September arrived, he moved to the second floor of his acquaintance Tsukamoto Chūshichi’s residence in Kanda Midoshimachi. However, one night after an assembly at Shintomi-za theater, detectives tailed him on his way back. Suddenly uneasy about his safety, he returned to the Atagoshita nursery the next morning and began staying at Shirakakukan, a student lodging house not far away, under the pretext of having come to Tokyo for the bar exam.
The room he rented was a north-facing four-and-a-half-tatami space, its walls stained with watermarks from leaks. Opening the sooty shoji revealed a fertilizer-stacked warehouse directly ahead, while the road outside lay flanked by deep mud ditches.
Of course, no sunlight reached it from morning till night, but even Kijima—who could endure most hardships—found himself unable to bear the stench of the mud ditches, a smell that seeped into his very gut.
His weak stomach churned whenever he caught a whiff of the thickly murky mud ditches’ stench, waves of nausea rising within him.
The room was apparently located directly below the boarding house’s entrance.
The alcove’s plank floor had rotted through, leaving a large hole; when he stuck his face out, he could see people coming and going.
Once mid-September passed, rainy days grew more frequent, and the stench of the mud ditches—which sapped one’s appetite—seeped and spread through the gaps of tightly shut doors.

Because he had developed a headache since morning, Kijima ended up falling asleep with the thin cotton futon pulled completely over his head.
When he opened his eyes, it was already evening, and the sound of rain pattered against the tin eaves of the roof.
In the dark room, only the broken part of the alcove's plank was dimly illuminated.
When he peered down casually from above, a man in a short workman’s coat stood with his back turned, brushing off raindrops from his furled oil-paper umbrella with one hand.

The way the shoulders shifted resembled Hoshinari’s, making his heart leap—but surely not—he thought, timidly pulling his neck back. Then came the rattling of a poorly fitted shoji being opened without ceremony.
A maid holding a lamp entered.
“Mr. Kijima—there’s a visitor for you.”

As if doused in cold water, Kijima shuddered convulsively while biting his parched, cracked lips.
When the maid left, heavy dragging footsteps echoed on the stairs,

"What's this—were you asleep?"

In the fortnight since their last meeting, Hoshinari stood there with a wispy new mustache grown beneath his nose.

7

“How did you know?”

Kijima rolled up the futon tightly from one end, made space for Hoshinari to sit, and then furrowed his brow deeply.
“You scared the life out of me.”

“I looked everywhere—first thought you might be at Mr. Hiraoka’s place, but when I went there, they claimed ignorance. Then figured Nakae Chōmin’s—went there too—finally remembered the nursery. Asked around, and there you were.”

It seemed he had managed to pick up a lead somewhere.
In the lamplight, Hoshinari’s face glowed with a glossy sheen.

“Well, right—you ain’t hungry?”

“I just ate. More importantly—what happened? You’ve gotten so skinny—you look like you just crawled out of prison.”

“And so—”

While brushing back his long hair, Kijima forced a wry smile.
“You—when the hell did you get here?”
“It’ll soon be ten days. Once you’ve gone through with it, I won’t be able to sit still any longer—Mr. Tōyama’s been asking why you haven’t come by all this time.”
“I see—I thought I wouldn’t meet anyone.”
“I get that.”

Suddenly, Hoshinari lowered his voice.
“Kijima—the moment has truly come. The sooner we move, the better—every single day counts.”

“I’ve weighed that too—but even acting requires timing.”

“The moment’s now! Opposition’s surging through every class—can’t you see? The situation’s critical. If you keep dawdling, I’ll do it myself.”

“Don’t spew nonsense.”
“I still say it’s premature. Now’s when we watch how public sentiment unfolds—calmly.”

“Public sentiment—…?”

Hoshinari rolled up one sleeve as if agitated.
"I never thought I'd hear such words from your mouth—what d'you make of Itō resigning as Privy Council President?"

"I don't think much of it. He likely realized he couldn't manage alone—we knew this'd happen from the start. Nothin' to be surprised 'bout now."

"Well then—how Ōkuma'll wriggle through this fix—nobody knows. Today at Nihon Shinbun, I met Kuga Katsunan an' heard 'bout yesterday's cabinet meetin'. Kuroda (Kiyotaka) an' Gotō (Shōjirō) went at each other head-on, they say."

“How’d it blow?”

“Kuroda’s dead set on pushin’ through with it, ’s what they said.”

“That’s right—Kuroda’s the type to push through on sheer stubbornness. Once he does, Ōkuma’s resolve’ll harden bit by bit. Sugiyama’s been sayin’ we need to stir up public opinion, but it ain’t just public opinion that needs rilin’. Ōkuma himself—soon enough he won’t have the luxury of frettin’ over what the masses think.”

“What good’ll come of waitin’ around for that?”

Hoshinari raised one knee and began shaking his leg incessantly.
"I think Kuroda's prepared to let the cabinet collapse if it means pushing through."

“I’ll do it. I will definitely do it.”

“Do it and it ain’t over yet.”

“No—this is a matter of life and death, Hoshinari. You’re missing the fundamental point. We ain’t done just by killing Ōkuma. We gotta make every citizen understand how critical it is to halt this treaty revision. Most of those bastards in the corridors of power can’t even fathom what’ll become of this nation! No wonder the people don’t grasp the urgency—hell, this whole country’s drowning in Westernization fever. Yano Ryūkei’s out here spoutin’ that there’s plenty o’ land abroad more profitable than Japan’s, so lettin’ foreigners own land here ain’t no threat. What kinda logic is that—givin’ ’em the freedom to buy up everything and claim there’s no risk? Yano worships foreigners like gods! It’s fools like him muddyin’ public discourse. Nakae Chōmin called foreigners animals, not men. If they buy up every inch of our land, what’ll become of us? Japan might as well be dead! But folks swayed by Yano’s drivel don’t realize their own asses are on fire—they think this opposition movement’s just another power-grab carnival.”

“That’s the crucial point, isn’t it?—Just wait and see. Opposition will increasingly overwhelm both high and low. Itō quit the Privy Council ’cause he foresaw this moment comin’.”

"That's right—Lord Katsu Awa-no-kami's holding firm over there, ain't he?"

"Lord Katsu will of course act. Tani must already be dithering. If Tani, Miura, and Tōyama form a blood pact, Ōkuma won't be able to sit idle either—but wait. We'll see how far Kuroda clings to his stubbornness. Only after we've thoroughly gauged that can we move."

"You think you're that certain?"

"I am, I am—watch close! Boom!"
"I'll make it go Boom!"

“Boom!”
“Boom?”
“It’s just one life to give, after all.”

Kijima smiled meaningfully and looked at Hoshinari.

“I no longer think of my father or mother.”
“To preserve the divine majesty of our Sovereign’s realm—I have cast aside both home and body.”

He breathed out these verses barely above a whisper before adding huskily: “Mr. Katsu’s poem.”

8

When October arrived, the situation suddenly shifted.
In Kijima’s initial plan, he would hide before the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ gate and take aim to fire his pistol at the fleeting moment when Ōkuma exited.
If he missed, he intended to immediately grab his dagger and charge out (the pistol was one he had kept close to his person ever since Kim Ok-gyun’s Korean incident).

For this purpose, he had been stealthily loitering around Kasumigaseki nearly every day, meticulously studying the most advantageous vantage points and distances. Yet as security around the Ministry of Foreign Affairs gradually tightened, he even considered staking out Ōkuma’s departure from his private residence in Waseda instead. However, upon realizing that the sparse pedestrian traffic in that area left no place to conceal himself, he concluded that Kasumigaseki remained the only suitable location after all.
In terms of ensuring his actions left no room for ambiguity or suspicion, the conviction that the only place to strike down Ōkuma in his capacity as Foreign Minister was Kasumigaseki had grown increasingly certain in his mind.

However, by the time mid-October had passed, security around the area had tightened so severely that moving about in ordinary clothing became nearly impossible. He had maintained constant contact with Hoshinari to coordinate their surveillance for an opportunity, but one night when he visited the second floor of the Baryokuya lodging house in Kanda Nishikichōkishi where Hoshinari stayed,

"I was just about to go see you."

Hoshinari lunged forward and grabbed his shoulder.

"I've got some good news."

"What's this about?"

“Come here.”

With that, he sprawled out at length in front of the desk.
“That night when you said ‘Boom!’—that ‘Boom!’ you kept talking about wouldn’t leave my head. But now it looks like we’re close to getting our hands on that very boom.”

“That’s welcome news—where is it?”

“Same Boom! But I tell you—lately it’s gotten damn near impossible to get close to Ōkuma. Miss with the pistol and that’s your only shot, and this dagger here ain’t reliable in this mess. Gotta be a Boom! I tell ya!”

Hoshinari quietly stood up, deliberately opened the street-facing shoji screen, and while making an outlandish joke—"Compared to your boarding house’s mud ditch stench, my place’s horse dung ain’t half bad!"—settled onto the windowsill. Then he shook with laughter—Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!—but immediately hunched forward and dropped his voice. "Met Mr. Ōi Kentarō yesterday—others were there jawing away when he let slip something queer. Right in the thick of it—Boom!" "Heard it’s buried behind Yokohama’s foreigner cemetery."

“How come?”

“Don’t know the details—said it’s relics from the Kabayama Incident. Ōi-san didn’t elaborate further, but I figured this was our chance, so I played dumb and came straight back—you, go see Mr. Tōyama tonight and get him to write you a letter of introduction to Ōi. If it’s Ōi, he’ll spill his plans. Gotta move fast or it’ll slip away.”

“That’s perfect.”

Kijima’s face visibly tensed.
That night, he spent his meager funds to have a rickshaw rush to the inn in Akasaka where Tōyama was staying.
Tōyama seemed to perceive something beneath Kijima’s words about wanting to meet Ōi.
"No need to rush things—if it’s Ōi, I’ll go myself tomorrow morning and get it done your way. I’m about to eat now—why don’t you join me for some beef?" He clapped his hands and had the maid prepare a sukiyaki pot. Then, in quiet, fragmented phrases, he began recounting details of a secret meeting held two or three days prior at Tani Tateki’s residence.
That night’s gathering comprised elder statesmen and political pundits frantically opposing the treaty revision movement—Asano Nagatada (Marquis), Miura Kanju, Sugiura Shigetake, Takahashi Kenzō, Miyake Yūjirō (Yukiryō), Chigira Kiyoomi, Fukutomi Takatoshi, Tōyama Mitsuru, Kosho Yoshikado, Sasa Tomofusa, and Hirose Chimaro all assembled to deliberate final measures.
“We’ve exhausted every possible method. There’s nothing left but to petition the Emperor,” Tani declared, plunging the gathering into deathly silence.
Marquis Asano, seated in the place of honor, immediately—

“Very well.”

As he said this, Marquis Asano surveyed the gathering.

“I shall petition for His Majesty to halt the revisions.”

When the words trailed off, everyone exchanged looks in the same manner.
They understood there was no other lifeline left but this single remaining one, yet precisely for that reason, a faint unease lingered over selecting Marquis Asano as their representative.
It wasn’t that he was unfit for the role, but rather that a marquis—this sentiment must have lingered in everyone’s heart.
But even so, the frustration of being unable to state it outright before Asano had imperceptibly generated a somber atmosphere; then Tani assumed a posture as though bowing respectfully and looked up at Asano’s face.
“I deeply appreciate your kind offer, but there is no need to trouble the Marquis himself.”

As the words trailed off like vanishing smoke,

"I shall petition the court."

Tani Tateki declared with resolute bearing.
This brought everyone relief, yet they couldn't abruptly voice approval now that Tani had broken the silence after remaining quiet during Asano's initial proposal.
The gathering lapsed into momentary awkwardness until Miura Gorō—seated directly across from Tani—hastily straightened his posture.

"Let me go instead—grant me leave to petition the court."

Tani's expression grew sharp and tense.
"What are you saying so abruptly—are you claiming I'm not fit for the task?"

“That’s not it—don’t get the wrong idea.”

“No—it’s not a misunderstanding, but isn’t this absurd? In terms of rank, you’re a viscount and I’m a viscount too; if you’re a lieutenant general, then so am I. Yet here I am saying I’ll go, and you butt in from the sidelines—what’s the meaning of this?”

Miura smirked and scratched his head.

“That’s not quite right—if you go now, the Ministry of the Imperial Household will be on guard and won’t process your audience request. Especially with this petition opposing treaty revisions—there’s no way they’ll accept it.”

“Then would you be acceptable?”

“Even if I submitted the same petition, it would be the same outcome—but I have a different approach.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s the point—I’m not trying to outmaneuver you or anything. Our qualifications are no different, but if I go, there’s a reason I would be granted an audience.”

“What’s that?”

“—I am the Director of the Peers’ School, humbly entrusted with His Highness the Crown Prince’s education.”

Miura’s voice trembled faintly.
Tani, too, stared blankly as if overwhelmed, but suddenly—

"That..."
he said in an uneasy voice while
"Miura,your reasoning is sound—however—you should reconsider."

Miura, who had been bowing his head, looked up.

“There’s no room for reconsideration. As long as Kuroda and Ōkuma remain in the cabinet, they’ll clearly carry it through to the end.”
“Unless we stop Ōkuma’s breath, even convening an Imperial Conference won’t make him yield. If that’s how it stands, we’ve no choice but to petition His Majesty—whatever condemnation follows.”

“Mm,” Tani said and fell silent.
Miura spoke in a low, hoarse voice,

"So—"

He sharply drew in his breath.
"I am resolved—for Miura as well, this will likely be his final act of service."

The gathering fell into a solemn silence.
While listening intently to Tōyama’s words spoken in scattered fragments, Kijima kept gnawing on the scorched smell of beef stew that seeped through his hunger.

9

Miura's court visit strengthened the upper echelons' resolve.
After returning from the palace, he secluded himself in his room and sat upright wearing white ritual undergarments, prepared to commit seppuku should the imperial response prove unfavorable. When late at night the creak of a carriage sounded before his gate, he took a hand lantern himself and opened it to find Privy Councilor Motoda Nagazane standing outside.
When Motoda saw Miura,

"Oh!"

He cried out in a hoarse voice and clung to his shoulder as if embracing him.
"You’ve done well. With this, the great matter of the nation is decided."

Motoda did not speak much; sitting across the brazier in the tea room, he departed after letting slip vehement words about the treaty revision proposal—uncharacteristic of his gentle disposition. However, once Miura’s court visit became known, Shinagawa Yajirō, Director of the Imperial Estates Bureau, also revealed an anti-government stance in his attitude.
He sent a letter to Yamagata Aritomo, who was returning home after concluding his overseas trip, issuing a warning to avoid missteps in post-return measures while onboard the ship.—After parting with Tōyama and returning to his lodgings, Kijima visited Ōi Kentarō at his office in Omote-Jimbōchō the following evening.
Ōi began speaking in a familiar tone as soon as he faced Kijima.
"I heard the details from Mr. Tōyama this morning—he said you’re the man our society places its highest hopes in."

When Kijima immediately began talking, Ōi nodded emphatically with “Hmm,” “Hmm,”
“Things will become clear once you reach Morikubo (Sakuzō), but getting there requires steps—I’ll write you a letter of introduction. First go meet Takano Rinzō at the Azuma Shimbun as the initial procedure.”

he said.
He immediately took a scroll and began writing fluidly.
I humbly entreat Your Excellency regarding an urgent matter. The bearer of this letter is Mr. Kijima Kōki, a member of the Gen'yōsha, who has come to Tokyo with unwavering resolve in staunch opposition to Ōkuma's treaty revision proposal. Though he currently encounters certain preparatory inconveniences regarding a particular aspect of his arrangements—for which I deeply apologize—should Your Excellency grant him an audience and deem him worthy of trust, I earnestly beseech you to extend whatever appropriate assistance may be possible.

“This should do,” Ōi said, briefly glancing down at the letter of introduction he was handing over.

“That’s acceptable.”

“However, could you please remove just the phrase ‘Gen'yōsha member’? I have not come to Tokyo as a representative of the Gen'yōsha.”

“I see—then this should suffice.”

Ōi took up his brush and added the character for “old” above “Gen'yōsha.” From there, Kijima went directly to the Azuma Shimbun office to meet chief editor Takano—a Liberal Party member from Chiba Prefecture—where the crotchety Takano scrutinized his face as if cross-referencing it with Ōi’s letter of introduction, staring holes into him before...

“Understood. Then take this letter and visit this person early tomorrow morning.”

With that, he wrote a brief letter of introduction addressed to Kuzu Genkei and handed it over. The following morning, when Kijima visited Kuzu Genkei at the Sakura Inn in Nihonbashi Gofukumachi as agreed—it seeming Takano had informed him the previous night—Kuzu had prepared sake to welcome Kijima and revealed the pent-up frustrations in his heart, declaring that he had resolved to strike a decisive blow at the roots of the clan-based oligarchy and was now preparing to organize a Blood Pledge Corps with Nakae Chōmin as its leader.

As their conversation progressed, Kijima found himself drawn to Kuzu’s open-hearted and unclouded character.

“Anyway—boom!”

“I’ll take full responsibility for that matter—rest assured, I’ll have it in your hands soon,” Kuzu declared briskly. After the two of them drained over one shō of sake and Kuzu proposed, “Let’s drink deeply tonight,” Kijima—for the first time in months—boomed out his signature recitation in resonant tones: “Crossing a thousand mountains, ten thousand peaks veiled in mist...” Just then, Fuchioka Komakichi, whom Kuzu had arranged to visit beforehand, strolled in with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

Kijima, feeling as if a weight had been lifted, spoke with Fuchioka—whom he was meeting for the first time—in an unburdened manner, and as he did so, his thawed emotions swiftly crumbled along their destined course of collapse.
It was Fuchioka who proposed going to Suzaki once they were properly drunk, but the solemnly upright Kuzu Genkei agreed immediately. Though midnight approached, they rode three rickshaws through the sleeping town’s fragmented pools of lamplight and plunged into Suzaki’s pleasure quarter.

The next morning, the three drank morning sake on the second floor of a seaside restaurant near Daimon and parted ways.
As they parted, Kuzu whispered that he would now visit Morikubo Sakuzō in Kanda Midoshimachi with Fuchioka and come straight to his lodgings once everything was arranged, so he should stay in until nightfall (Morikubo had come to Tokyo a few days earlier to attend the National Youth Assembly Against Treaty Revisions held at Ueno Park and had temporarily returned home, but had made plans to meet Kuzu that day at an inn in Kanda to solidify strategies for the plan led by Nakae [Chōmin]).

When Kijima returned to the second floor of the Shingaku-kan, it wasn’t long before Hoshinari rushed in with a panicked expression.
After explaining that arrangements for convening the Imperial Conference had finally been made, he—
“Hey.”

His eyes sharpened as if pressing in.
“We can’t afford to dawdle any longer. I hear the government’s about to launch a major crackdown on the press—especially after the Imperial Conference. They’re saying they’ll arrest every last suspicious bastard wandering the city streets to quell public outrage.”

“So you’re resolved to carry this out by any means necessary?”

“That’s correct.”

Even as he tried to lower his voice, it kept rising in volume, and Hoshinari clicked his tongue impatiently.

“Here’s how—tomorrow morning I’ll visit Komura Jutarō at the Foreign Ministry. You’ll enter the gate with me, stand in the shadow of the stone wall like you’re waiting for me, and strike the moment you see the carriage arrive.”

“Now calm down—I’ve got another plan. Wait just tonight.”

“Waiting’s fine, but the government could issue the Second Security Ordinance any hour now—if we act, it must be within these next two days.”

“Don’t rush. There’s still time. Someone’s coming to see me tonight—step out and wait. Have you forgotten our promise in Fukuoka? I’ll strike first. You’re the second wave.”

“What first wave or second wave? I’ll see your actions through to the end.”

“No need to worry—our fate will be decided tonight. This will be the end of it.”

He lightly pressed the Samonji dagger over his kimono to show it.
Though Hoshinari felt there was something unsettling about Kijima’s composure, he found himself unable to press his own argument when confronted with those words, and reluctantly rose to his feet.

"If you insist, I'll reconsider—wait. I'll come once night falls."

After resting a hand on the shoji screen as if suddenly remembering something, he mentioned having visited Hiraoka (Kōtarō) earlier that day, where there'd been a telegram about their old comrade Takeshita Atsujirō arriving tomorrow in Yokohama from America—he was planning to meet him.

"That won't do."

While saying this, Kijima made a gesture of restraining Hoshinari with one hand.

“You—it’s a hassle, but go to Hiraoka’s place and get him to lend me a morning coat and top hat. With just that, it’ll be like giving a demon an iron club.”

“What’s this, so sudden?”

“Depending on tonight’s discussion, we might have to open our vegetable shop within two or three days. I’ll be paying courtesy calls in formal attire.”

Having said this, Kijima laughed deliberately loud enough to be heard in the neighboring room.

10

On the evening of October 18—beneath a row of chinquapin trees lining the stone wall of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (most of which have now been destroyed)—Hoshinari paced back and forth with a stroll-like gait.
He occasionally pulled out his pocket watch from between his obi and hakama, sinking into thought, but when the hands faintly moved to four o'clock, a schoolgirl-like young woman with her hair tied back approached from Hanzo Gate along the moat-side road directly below, jostled in a rickshaw while clutching a white Chinese-style case between her legs.
The sun had not yet set, but twilight hues already flickered in the stone wall's shadow.
In the autumn dusk, the city's clamor seemed sucked skyward, leaving behind a hushed stillness where the wind's whisper seeped into one's soul.
The creak of carriage wheels gradually swelled, shattering that silence.
He planted one foot on the stone wall and gripped a chinquapin trunk with his right hand.
He caught his breath and bit his lip to suppress his pounding heart.
At that moment—a tall gentleman materialized: morning coat, top hat, folded umbrella tucked under his left arm, walking toward the ministry's main gate.
Just as he thought Now—a carriage from the left glided across his path.
Only the deeply draped hood filled his vision.
The instant Ah! formed in his mind—an earth-rending roar exploded.
The stone wall he'd braced with one hand seemed to lurch violently—he instinctively clutched the chinquapin trunk with both hands—but by then cannon-smoke white haze enveloped everything, sealing his eyes shut.
The carriage carried Ōkuma Shigenobu, who had exited a cabinet meeting minutes earlier, raced through Sakurada Gate, passed before the Konoe Former Training Corps, and was turning his horses toward the ministry gate for his Kasumigaseki residence when a morning-coated man with a top hat emerged from the wall's shadow—hunched forward like a bowing supplicant.
A hairsbreadth escape.
The driver frantically whipped the reins—startled by the blast, the horses reared before plunging deep into the compound.
Kijima appeared convinced his strike had succeeded.
As he reached for the Samonji dagger in his right pocket, five or six police officers burst from the gate.
All seemed panic-stricken, yet when they saw Kijima standing composed,

“The culprit?” they asked in a frantic, trembling voice.
“Which way did the culprit escape?”

“Ah, the culprit—”

Kijima answered in a cracking tone.
“The culprit fled toward Tora-no-Mon. His Excellency is safe, I tell ya.”

Seizing the moment’s confusion after the police officers had begun running along the moat road, Kijima sat before stacked construction bricks and plunged his drawn dagger deep into his ear with a wet crunch.
He tried to slice diagonally across the trachea as Sugiyama had taught him, but his hand slipped, sending him pitching forward face-first.

The figure fading through the smoke appeared before Hoshinari's eyes like a dream. He suppressed his welling tears and strode briskly toward Hibiya, skirting along the stone wall and slipping past the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' back gate. Through his tear-blurred vision flickered the sight of police officers running in formation toward Kasumigaseki, followed by a clamoring crowd trailing behind them. When he reached the intersection before Hibiya, his chest filled with a hollow desolation—as though everything had ended in a tangle of awe and dread. He entered the izakaya at the crossroads and gulped down sake alone. Tears flowed ceaselessly. On Ginza Street, where the lights had just been lit, formidably armed police officers stood at every intersection, inspecting passersby without discrimination.