Sengoku [Chapter 4] RAW (Patreon)

Chapter 4 - Follow the Death

"The glory and prosperity of my life was as good as a single cup of sake. My life of forty-nine years is passed like a dream. I know not what life is; nor death. Both Heaven and Hell are left behind. I stand in the moonlit dawn; free from clouds of attachment.”

- Uesugi Kenshin, 1530-1578.

“Let’s do this,” repeated the young man, the words leaving his mouth before he could fully appreciate how stupid they sounded.

Not because they were wrong, exactly. They were, in one sense, perfectly appropriate words. They belonged to action films, competitive matches, team comms, and perhaps a person about to climb a difficult wall. They did not belong to a filthy, hungry, recently displaced professional gamer standing in an ancient market.

Several of the armed men stared at him and one of them snorted dismissively. The man on the barrel looked at him and Shimon held his stare because looking away would be a sign of weakness.

The man on the barrel, the broad fellow in the short coat marked with the strange stepped-triangle symbol, looked down at him with a professional cheer that had probably seen several dozen men to their untimely deaths.

“Good!” the man shouted. “Good, good. A spirited one!”

The young man immediately felt a wave of regret.

The crowd, however, seemed to accept this as a reasonable interpretation of events: spirited. That was a much better category than lost and terrified. Spirited young warriors could be stupid. They could be awkward. They could even say strange things.

The man on the barrel clapped again.

“Those with sharp swords and empty purses, come forward. Those with debts, come forward. The client pays advance coin now. Road expenses and final reward upon return. Proof required.”

A loose cluster of men gathered near the barrel. Shimon joined them because he had already crossed the social point of no return. Walking away now would be worse than never having stepped forward at all. 

A pair of young men came first, brothers by the look of them. Both were in their early twenties, though the younger might have been nineteen. They were similarly built, wiry and strong in the way of men who had spent their lives outdoors without too many comforts. Their armor was mismatched, their sandals muddy, their hair tied back with more enthusiasm than care. One wore a cracked jingasa hat pushed too far back on his head; the other had tied a strip of red cloth around one arm.

The older brother grinned at Shimon as though they were already old friends.

“Looks like a tall one is joining,” the older one quipped.

“Tall means easy to see when fangs and blades start flying,” said the younger.

“Ha! And a bigger shield to hide behind one,” the older added with a twinkle in his eye.

The younger considered this, then nodded at this profound piece of wisdom.

Shimon wanted to dislike them on principle, but their good humor was so open and undisciplined that disliking them felt like kicking a dog for wagging its tail.

Behind them stood a much older warrior, perhaps in his forties, which in this world meant he was a veteran of violence. He had a weathered face, a short beard gone grey at the edges, and the particular expression of a man who considered most speech an admission of weakness. His armor was worn but cared for, the faded from age rather than neglect. A sword rested at his hip as naturally as a hand. His eyes moved once over Shimon and seemed to find fault everywhere causing him to feel as if he were uncomfortably undressed.

This one can handle himself, the young, lost man thought.

The chip and the game world offered no assistance.

Beside the older man stood someone almost painfully pleasant. Mid-thirties, smiling, smartly dressed despite the mud, with his black hair arranged neatly beneath a travel hat and his clothing of better cloth than the others. His armor was light and discreet beneath a good outer robe, and to Shimon’s imparted memories his swords were plain enough not to attract envy but clean and well-maintained. His smile was so friendly, so oily, that Shimon disliked it at once.

The man caught Shimon looking and bowed with exactly the correct depth to be courteous without conceding anything that could be construed as deference.

“A hard task for all of us,” the other man offered.

“Apparently,” Shimon answered simply after letting the biochip and his own grasp of the Japanese language find the meaning in his archaic words.

The friendly man’s smile widened by the smallest amount, as if the reply had amused him in some way.

The last man who caught Shimon’s attention was younger than the smiling man and older than the brothers, perhaps in his mid or late twenties. He stood slightly apart, quiet and composed, wearing faded clothing and armor that had perhaps once been elegant. His jinbaori over his armor was made from good materials, but was worn thin at the hem and collar. The man’s face was narrow and handsome. The man had the almost exhausted and strained dignity of the rich who was learning the meaning of indignity.

He looked at Shimon’s swords, then at Shimon’s face, then simply looked away. Not hostile, not friendly, just decidedly disinterested.

The portly man on the barrel climbed down with some effort and led the gathered volunteers to a low awning set against the side of a storehouse. Beneath it sat a scribe with a brush, an inkstone, and a ledger, bound with rawhide and made from coarse paper. Two polearm men stood behind him, looking gruff and wary.

“Name, arms, mark, and witness,” the scribe said.

The young brothers went first, but the older one stepped forward, cutting him off. He puffed out his chest, and announced, “Kume Tarō, spear and sword.”

“Mostly spear,” the younger blurted.

Tarō cuffed him lightly across the back of the head. “Spear and sword.”

The scribe wrote without looking impressed.

The younger brother bounced forward with the energy of a man waiting for a festival rather than a jaunt through a forest filled with demon-adjacent monsters..

“Kume Jirō, spear, knife, and my elder brother,” he joked, an inane grin on his wife.

“An elder brother is not a weapon,” noted the scribe, looking vaguely annoyed.

Jirō's grin widened. “He hits harder than most.”

The scribe stared at him blankly until Jirō’s expression grew awkward. It seemed the tired-looking scribe was well schooled in dealing with the “humorous” types.

The older samurai came next. He did not bow. He did not perform. He simply stepped forward and declared, “Kuroda Genzō.”

“Arms?” asked the scribe in his bored voice.

Genzō looked at him.

The scribe’s brush hovered for a moment before he sighed. “Sword,” the scribe concluded. “Spear?”

Genzō tapped the yari resting against his shoulder.

“Spear,” the scribe added quickly.

The smiling man followed with the ease of a guest joining a tea gathering. “Mizuno Sōbei,” he said warmly. “Sword, short sword, bow when needed, and a humble willingness to assist.”

“Assist with what?” the scribe asked.

Mizuno gave an easy smile. “Whatever earns the full payment.”

Several men chuckled, but Shimon did not. Whatever joke there was had been completely lost on him.

The elegant young samurai stepped forward last before him.

“Sakurai Iori,” he stated.

The name was spoken with a cultured softness. The scribe looked up for the first time, perhaps recognizing something about the name, then wisely wrote without comment.

“Arms?”

“Sword and bow.”

His voice was calm, and Shimon noticed that unlike several men present, Iori did not need to touch either weapon to remind people that he possessed them.

Then it was Shimon’s turn.

This was where, in a sane world, he would give a fake name. However, the problem was that Shimon had never been good at improvising under social pressure. 

Shimon swallowed unconsciously.

“Ayanokouji Shimon,” he declared with as much confidence and gravitas as he could.

There was a very small change in the air.

Not much, but the name landed differently than the others. The brothers exchanged a glance. Mizuno Sōbei’s smile did not move, but his eyes sharpened. Sakurai Iori looked back at him with renewed interest. Even the scribe paused.

Of course, Shimon thought. Of course my stupid family name is a problem. Of course.

“Ayanokouji? Bit far from your clan lands aren’t you?” the scribe mused.

The chip translated the tone as uncertainty-status query-suspicion.

Shimon’s brain began sprinting uselessly. In modern Japan, his surname had sounded old-fashioned and overdecorated, like something attached to a character out of fiction. Here, in this impossible Sengoku-like nightmare, it probably came with a bloodline, a claim, and possibly enemies.

He lowered his gaze just enough to seem either modest or evasive. Both, he suspected, were safer than outright panic.

“A fallen branch,” he declared with as much confidence as he could muster.

The words were a thin shield, but once they had left his mouth he decided to defend them with silence.

A fallen branch. That sounded feudal and dramatic. It implied history while providing none. It was, in short, very good and sort of believable nonsense.

Sakurai ’s mouth twitched faintly, Kuroda’s eyes narrowed, and  Sōbei just gave out an appreciative little hum.

“Arms?” asked the scribe.

“Spear,” Shimon said. “Sword. Short sword.”

“And mark, you have a Kaō?” the scribe inquired, turning the ledger toward him.

Shimon looked down at the contract and thought for a moment. A kaō was a unique, abstract design, a cursive flourish combined with a person’s real name. It was also something Shimon had yet to create.

Remembering that small tidbit of lore, he shook his head and instead nodded toward the inkstone—the suzuri. The scribe nodded in return. Ayanokouji pressed his thumb into the black liquid as he looked over the contract.

It was not a contract in the modern sense. There were no numbered clauses, no definitions section, no liability waiver, no binding arbitration agreement. Instead, there were columns of brush-written names, marks, payments, witness seals, and a short block of formal text that the chip translated in fragments.

Service under witness of the Adventurer’s Za, advance payment accepted, road food provided, proof to be brought, and spoils reported.

Client not responsible for injury, loss, curse, devouring madness, disappearance, or spiritual stain was what the chip enigmatically translated.

“Devouring madness,” he whispered.

The scribe looked up.

Shimon cleared his throat and looked away. “Nothing.”

The contract was, essentially, a formality. It existed not to protect him, but to record that he had knowingly entered the mouth of danger in exchange for money. It was like clicking agree on terms of service before playing a game for the first time, except here the terms of service mentioned being eaten.

He pressed his thumb, making his mark. But, he decided, that was probably not enough. Sometimes the greater the deceit, the more believable it becomes. And, the greatest of lies are buttressed by details.

“Brush,” he asked and the scribe gestured for him to go ahead and take it.

So, Shimon took it.

He could write his name. Of course he could write his name. He was not illiterate. But this required more than just a statement of identity, it required a certain uniqueness.

For a moment his hand hovered uselessly. The characters of his own name seemed to split into too many things as he remembered his grandmother giving some tips on how to write beautifully, as would be befitting, now that he thought about it, a man who claimed the Ayanokouji name. The brush tip trembled. Finally, Shimon breathed out and wrote.

It was not beautiful, but it was serviceable as the chip helped guide his hand into the archaic forms of the kanji of this period. The end result, thanks to a corporation’s investment in him, was legible enough. The scribe did not laugh, which Shimon counted as a victory. 

This display, perhaps more than his arms and armor, gave him credence.

The scribe sanded the ink, pressed a small seal near the entry, then counted out the advance; three small coins, some dried rice, and a strip of salted something wrapped in leaves. The young man took it all.

Kuroda Genzō looked at Shimon.

“You’re green.”

It was not a question.

Shimon had been called many things in his life; Cheater,  prodigy. corporate shill, tryhard, half-Japanese, weird, lucky. Bot, once, by an anonymous account after a bad match, which he had pretended not to see and then thought about for nine days.

But green was a first, and green was difficult to deny.

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Shimon said.

“Most start before wearing the two swords.”

That landed a bit too close and Shimon’s fingers tightened around his spear.

He could lie. He could say he had fought in three battles, trained under seven masters, killed a bear with a kitchen knife, and studied the secret spear of a mountain temple. The problem was that lies invited follow-up questions.

So he said nothing, letting the silence do its usual work.

Kuroda Genzō’s cool expression did not change, but something in his eyes shifted. Perhaps he thought silence meant discipline. Perhaps he thought it meant arrogance. Perhaps he simply could not be bothered to press further.

Mizuno Sōbei stepped in smoothly.

“Master Kuroda, surely there is no shame in youth. A good lord favors bold men, does he not?”

“A good lord favors men who know which end of the spear bites,” Genzō said.

Jirō looked at Shimon’s spear. “At least he’s holding it right.”

Tarō nodded. “Better than Rokubei held his. Remember? He had it upside down until the levy captain hit him.”

“That was because Rokubei was drunk,” his brother returned, his voice feigning tiredness at this old, worn joke.

“He is always drunk,” Tarō joked back, causing both of them to laugh.

Shimon decided that he liked the pair in the same way one might like a bonfire inside a wooden house. Cheerful, warm, and probably dangerous to be near for too long.

The Za official conferred with the scribe, then with a man Shimon had not noticed before.

The newcomer had been sitting beneath another awning, partly concealed behind the movement of servants and guards. He was not old, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, but he carried himself with the weary importance of someone accustomed to other people lifting things for him. His robe was dark and fine, his hair arranged carefully beneath a small cap, and his face was smooth in the way of men who did not spend their lives walking in inclement weather. A small lacquered traveling chair waited nearby, with two broad-backed bearers resting beside it. Four guards stood around him in disciplined stillness, spears upright, swords at their hips.

The client, Shimon realized.

The man’s eyes passed over the signed group. They lingered on Kuroda Genzō with satisfaction, on Mizuno Sōbei with recognition, on Sakurai Iori with mild curiosity, on the brothers with resignation, and on Shimon with wary interest.

“This will be sufficient for my needs,” the commissioner concluded, his voice was pleasant but thin.

The Za official bowed. “As Master Hieda says. Six hired blades and your own guards. Enough for thieves and the carrion things.”

“Enough to learn the shape of the trouble,” Master Hieda replied. “If there is more, the Za may send more. If there is less, then I have overpaid and the world remains as it is.”

He smiled showing perfect teeth as he chuckled, but nobody laughed.

The important-looking man rose with assistance and settled into the traveling chair. The bearers lifted him with practiced grunts, and the guards arranged themselves around him.

The Za official clapped his hands again. “Go, then. Clear road, sharp eyes, honest proof. Return soon with your weapons tasting success .”

It seemed that there were still some problems with the biochip’s translation aids. But that did not stop Shimon and he followed because everyone else did, and because you had to walk down you chose..

They left the market by the eastern road, the market’s noise: vendors shouting, chickens making poor life decisions, men laughing too loudly, and the general noise of civilization fading slowly behind them.

Ahead stretched the road, packed and maintained with more care than Shimon expected. It was still mud and earth, but the drainage ditches were clear, stones had been laid in the worst places, and crude timber had been placed where the ground dipped. It followed the low rise of the land, avoiding the wettest fields, curving between the paddies and clusters of thatched houses.

Master Hieda’s chair moved at the center of the little procession. The bearers carried him with a rolling rhythm, their legs thick from practice. His guards walked close, eyes scanning the roadside in a way that made Shimon think they were not merely decorative. The hired men trailed and flanked them as the path allowed.

Kuroda Genzō walked near the front, saying nothing. Mizuno Sōbei walked near the center on the right and Sakurai Iori walked on the center left. The Kume brothers ranged constantly, forward and back, like enthusiastic hunting dogs.

Shimon kept to the side of the road and tried to look as serious as possible while the chip inside his head continued to update the map using the visual data being gleaned from his eyes.

For a while they walked in silence broken only by sandals, creaking gear, the grunt of the chair bearers, and the ordinary sounds of country life. A farmer and his son stood aside to let them pass, bowing low to Master Hieda’s chair and less low to everyone else. A woman carrying firewood watched them with open suspicion. Children stared at swords until wise elders pulled them back.

The party kept moving along the road in almost solemn silence.

Then Sōbei clapped his hands softly.

“Well, if we march in silence, we will all begin thinking too much. Thinking too much before work is bad for the liver.”

“Drinking is bad for the liver,” remarked Sakurai Iori sardonically.

“Perhaps something to pass the time?” Sōbei suggested.

Jirō brightened. “Stories, then?”

“Stories,” said Sōbei. “But, first it is best to know the men beside you. A man’s story tells you where he will run when the arrows start.”

“Forward,” Tarō said at once.

“Liar,” said Jirō. “You fell in a ditch.”

Tarō snorted before he corrected his brother, “While running forward.”

Mizuno Sōbei laughed warmly. “I will begin, then, since I have burdened you all with the suggestion. It is not much of a tale. Hardly worth speaking of.”

Which meant, Shimon thought, that he was absolutely going to speak of it.

“It was after my first battle,” Sōbei said. “I had thought, as young men do, that the battle itself would be the great terror. The shouting, the banners, the drums, the charge. I learned otherwise. Battle is confusion. The terror comes then. And once battle is done, there is the terror that comes after.”

Kuroda Genzō made a sound that might have been construed as agreement.

The too friendly man continued, his tone modest and reflective.

“Our side held. Theirs did not. Still, I found myself separated from my unit near a line of low pines chasing them down. Three of the enemy soldiers had fled there, thinking to hide until night. Poor men. Frightened and wounded, perhaps. One still had a bow, though his hands shook too badly to restring it. The others had dropped their weapons in their panic.”

Somewhere a bird called out to a potential mate.

“They saw me and begged. One offered coins. Another said he had a mother. The third said nothing. He only looked at my sword and understood the world better than his companions.”

Shimon’s stomach tightened.

Sōbei smiled sadly at the memory, as if it had caused him great sorrow and also some satisfaction.

“I was very young. I thought mercy and foolishness were twins to be avoided. So I killed the archer first. The second tried to run, but he ran poorly. The third, the one who understood, picked up a stone. Brave man. I gave him a cleaner death for it.”

Nobody spoke for a few more steps, then Sōbei sighed. To Shimon’s enhanced senses it felt practiced.

“I thought I had become a man that day. Years later, I learned I had merely become useful,” the other man continued humbly.

It was also a boast. Killed three after his first battle, he thought. Hunted down defeated soldiers and dressed it in clean philosophical-sounding words.

The chip offered its late insight.

Observed affect: controlled.Facial-muscular consistency: high.Possible rehearsed anecdote.

Yes, Shimon commented in the halls of his mind. I noticed the sociopath, thank you.

Genzō looked ahead. “Men who beg can still stab.”

The deceitful man just bowed his head. “Just so.”

Sakurai Iori said nothing.

Shimon wondered how many people here would kill him for his pouch, his swords, or simply because he became inconvenient. The answer, unfortunately, was not zero.

Jirō slapped his own cheeks lightly as if chasing away the mood.

“Too gloomy. Elder brother, tell the sweet bun story.”

Tarō groaned. “Everyone knows the sweet bun story.”

“Everyone knows it because it is good,” his brother cajoled.

“Everyone knows it because you tell it whenever someone says the word fear.”

Tarō looked around at the group, judged that no one had the will to stop them, and brightened.

“Very well. There was once a man who said he feared nothing.”

Jirō hunched his shoulders and put on a pompous voice. “Nothing! Not ghosts, not wolves, not debt collectors, not mother-in-law!”

“That last one is how you know he was lying,” Tarō said.

The brothers worked together with practiced ease. It became less a story than a little performance passed back and forth between them. They told of a gathering of men, each confessing what he feared most. One feared snakes. Another feared thunder. Another feared ghosts. Then came the man who claimed, in trembling secrecy, that what he feared most in all the world was manju.

Sweet buns. Horrible, terrible, dreadful sweet buns.

Jirō played the frightened man so extravagantly that even Kuroda Genzō’s mouth twitched.

“No! Spare me! Anything but these soft, sweet, fragrant horrors!”

Tarō mimed throwing buns at him.

Jirō caught invisible ones, devoured them in secret, and moaned with theatrical suffering.

“Ah! I am undone! This bean paste is too terrible!”

The punchline came as everyone expected. When the trick was revealed and the others demanded to know what he truly feared now, the man answered, with grave sincerity, that he had discovered an even greater terror.

Tea. Tea, to wash down all the manju.

The Kume brothers performed the ending together, one as the shameless trickster, the other as the outraged friend, and even men who had clearly heard the story a hundred times laughed. Sōbei laughed neatly. Iori smiled. One of Master Hieda’s guards made the mistake of chuckling and then pretended to cough. Genzō looked away, but not before Shimon saw amusement.

However, the silliness was lost on Shimon who could not see the joke. Like the jokes in Shakespeare’s play that apparently had entertained the masses once upon a time, centuries of developed humor separated him from the brothers. Shimon did not laugh and that made him look more like a brooding enigma 

His thoughts for a moment turned maudlin. It had only been a day since the battlefield, the cave, the corpse, the forest, the market, the pickpocket. Time had become grotesque. He had killed men yesterday. He had eaten mystery meat today. Now he was walking down a road in impossible Japan while two scruffy brothers performed ancient stand-up comedy that he did not find amusing in the slightest.

Human beings, he decided, were disgusting resilient animals.

“That one failed to reach you, Ayanokouji-dono?” Sōbei asked.

The honorific hit several ears and Shimon felt it land and disliked the courtesy. It was, like all of him, too polished. Too premeditated.

“Hard to fear sweet buns,” Shimon replied carefully with a shrug.

“Ah,” Jirō said, pointing at him. “That means he has never had bad ones.”

“Or never had enough good ones,” Tarō said. “That is the sadder thing.”

“I had pudding last night,” Shimon said before he could stop himself. “Or perhaps the night before.”

The group looked at him.

The chip, ever helpful, then translated pudding into something approximating foreign custard sweet.

“Foreign sweet,” Shimon clarified. “Soft. Egg. Sugar.”

Jirō looked fascinated. Tarō looked suspicious. And, Kuroda Genzō looked as if this confirmed several negative theories. But, it was Sakurai who rescued him.

“A western tale, perhaps? If Ayanokouji-dono has traveled, he may know one not worn thin by our ears,” Iori said with a scholarly air.

Shimon glanced at him, but the other man only looked back with calm, distant courtesy. A bridge, Shimon thought. He’s making me less strange by giving me a place to put the strangeness. 

Unfortunately, this meant Shimon now needed to tell a story. His mind went blank in the way minds do when asked to provide entertainment at the drop of a hat.

He knew stories. Of course he knew stories. He had consumed entire databases worth of stories, films, games, manga, anime, books, forum posts, historical anecdotes, urban legends, creepypasta, badly translated myth, and online arguments that had mutated into folklore. The problem was selecting one that would not reveal too much.

A story. A story. A story.

Something old. Something foreign enough to explain the unfamiliarity. Something about death because apparently that was the theme.

“In a far western land,” Shimon began, because that phrase seemed capable of carrying a lot of sins, “there was once a sickness that walked through towns like a lord collecting tax.”

The road quieted around him by a fraction.

Good opening, he thought, surprised at himself.

“No one could see it. No one could strike it. A man would drink with friends in the evening and be buried by morning. A mother would kiss her child and carry death from one room to the next. Graves filled. Houses emptied. Men said Death itself walked the roads.”

The words came easier now.

Not perfectly. He could feel the chip choosing terms, localizing images, smoothing strange corners. He did not know whether he was telling a medieval exemplum, a half-remembered Chaucer tale, or a story his high school teacher had once made them read. It did not matter. The bones were strong enough for belief in the here and now.

“Three young men, drunk and angry, heard that their friend had died. They cursed Death. They swore they would find him and kill him. So they took their knives and went out searching.”

Jirō leaned in despite walking.

“They met an old farmer on the road. Bent back. White beard. The kind of old man who looks as if he has already been forgotten by the grave.”

Shimon paused for dramatic effect.

“The three demanded to know where Death was. The old farmer pointed toward a tree and said, ‘I left him there, beneath the branches. If you are so eager, go find him.’”

Shimon glanced ahead. Even Kuroda Genzō was listening now.

“So they went to the tree. They did not find a skeleton. They did not find a ghost. They found a bag of gold hidden in a hollow among the roots.”

The brothers made appreciative noises.

Shimon continued, “Enough gold to make poor men rich. Enough gold to rich men powerful.”

Sakurai Iori smiled faintly.

“The oldest said they should wait until night before carrying it away, because men who suddenly carry gold in daylight invite trouble. One of them went to town to buy food and wine for the wait. On the way, he thought of the gold. Then he thought of sharing it. Then he bought poison.”

Sōbei’s smile became very still.

“He poisoned the wine so that when his friends drank, they would die, and all the gold would be his. But while he was gone, the other two looked at the same bag of gold and performed the same arithmetic. Two shares were better than three. One share was better than two. But first, they agreed, they would kill the man coming back from town.”

The road seemed quieter now, though birds still called from the fields.

“So he returned with food and wine. His friends stabbed him beneath the tree. Then, thirsty from the work and pleased with their cleverness, they drank the poisoned wine.”

Shimon let the silence sit for a moment.

“All three died beneath the tree. So they found Death after all,” he said, concluding the tale.

No one laughed. And, for several steps there was only the sound of sandals on the road.

Shimon began to worry that he had ruined everything by telling a story too foreign, too grim, and too obviously about every man currently walking beside him.

Then Kuroda Genzō grunted. “Good.”

That single word landed with the weight of a formal award.

Sōbei looked at the older samurai with an expression of amused surprise.

“You like that one, Master Kuroda?”

“It is clean,” Genzō said. “Men seek death with knives. Money causes death more often than not. More than sweet buns, at least.”

Tarō scratched his jaw. “I would not drink after stabbing a man.”

“You say that now,” Jirō replied. “But if you had been stabbing all afternoon?”

Sakurai Iori looked at Shimon. “A western tale? The Morokoshi”

“So I heard,” Shimon answered lightly.

Morokoshi, China his chip translated for him from the context.

The veteran spat into the roadside ditch. “I knew a man who found death under a tree.”

The group’s attention shifted. 

Shimon just wished there was a dialogue skip button.

“It was in a town north of here. Years ago. Before this lord fought that lord and all the places on the maps changed names again.”

That sounded like history in its natural form.

“There was a soldier on night guard. Not a brave man, not a coward. Ordinary. He stood near the edge of town where there was an old cherry tree. The flowers were nearly gone. Windy night. Moon behind clouds. He saw a white kimono floating near the tree.”

“Floating?” Jirō whispered.

“Empty,” Genzō said. “No woman inside. No feet beneath. Sleeves hanging. Moving like someone wore it, but no one did.”

“There are fox tricks,” Sōbei remarked lightly.

“There are,” Genzō agreed. “This was not one.”

The older samurai’s hand touched a small charm tied near the inside of his armor. For the first time, Shimon noticed it: a little packet of cloth, paper, and cord darkened by sweat and age.

“The soldier shouted. The kimono did not answer. He fitted an arrow, drew, and shot. The arrow struck true. The kimono jerked and vanished. When he went to find the arrow, the shaft lay at the roots of the cherry tree. No cloth and no woman. Only the arrowhead wet with blood.”

Nobody interrupted.

“That night he slept in the barracks. In the morning he did not wake. No wound. No mark. Eyes open. Mouth full of cherry petals.”

Jirō made a small sound of horror. Tarō, to his credit, only looked a little pale.

Shimon’s mind immediately tried to defend reality. Poison, prank, coincidence, undiagnosed aneurysm, murder staged with flower petals by a very theatrical killer.

The options all lined themselves up in neat modern categories and then fell over because in this world, this reality, he had seen orange quest text and a man riding a dinosaur.

“Did you see this yourself?” Shimon asked before caution could stop him.

Kuroda Genzō looked at him. “No, but I saw the man before they burned him so that his curse would not spread.”

That ended the discussion for a while.

***

The second bit of civilization Shimon would encounter in this world appeared soon enough near midday.

It sat in a shallow fold of land where the road narrowed between wet fields and a wooded rise. Compared to the market village they had left, it was smaller and poorer. Thatched roofs clustered together and smoke rose from their hearths. A narrow irrigation channel carried water past the road, and ducks moved through it with solemn authority. Bundles of reeds leaned against walls. Firewood had been stacked with care beneath eaves.

A rural scene, Shimon thought.

That should have comforted him. Instead, the normalcy made him nervous. Monsters belonged in dark forests, corpse fields, caves, and stories told by grim men on roads and not in such a setting like this.

And, the village was afraid.

He could see it once he knew to look. Doors closed too quickly. Men watched clutched tools that could too easily turn into weapons. Dogs did not bark at the procession; they whined and stayed low. Several houses had fresh charms tied above their entrances. Strips of paper fluttered from gateposts. A roadside Jizō statue had been given offerings of rice, cakes, and sake.

The headman waited near the village entrance with two older men and a priest or shrine functionary in stained white and faded red. The headman was thin, balding, and deeply unhappy to see armed help arrive, which Shimon understood after half a second.

Armed help meant trouble was real enough to pay for.

Master Hieda’s bearers lowered the chair. Hieda did not climb out at once. He received the headman’s bows with a small nod, then spoke softly. The words were too low for Shimon to catch completely, but his chip filtered out some of what his ears caught.

Audio enhancement limited by environmental interference.Partial capture:—three storehouses broken——no tracks like men——rice gone, millet gone——widow’s boy saw lights——old charcoal path——crows since dawn—

Shimon looked toward the forest rising beyond the far end of the village. It was not large, but it was dense, dark with cedar, oak, and undergrowth. The trees climbed a low ridge and gathered into a thicker belt of woodland beyond. Even in daylight, it had depth. Places to hide. Places to be eaten. Places where monsters waited.

Above it, black shapes circled. Crows, a lot of crows.

Shimon’s grip shifted on the spear.

“Men stealing food,” Tarō said with a shake of his head, voice lower than usual.

“Men leave tracks,” Kuroda Genzō replied.

Jirō swallowed. “Hungry men can be clever.”

“Hungry men are desperate, and desperation can make one very smart, or, usually very stupid,” Genzō stated, his face made out of stone. “That is why they become hungry men. Stay poor, and stay hungry, and die.”

Mizuno Sōbei smiled gently. “Let us not insult the poor before we know whether we must kill them.”

“That is the most polite horrible thing I have heard today,” Shimon muttered in English under his breath.

Sakurai Iori looked at him again, but Shimon looked away and pretended to ignore him.

Master Hieda finally rose from his chair and went with the headman toward the largest house. His guards followed. The hired men were left near a dry patch beside a storehouse, watched by villagers who clearly wished to look away but could not.

Waiting, Shimon discovered, was worse than walking. Walking gave the body a task. Waiting gave the mind room to think up horrors.

His mind, being an unhelpful organ, immediately began filling that room with possibilities. If the problem was hungry soldiers, then this was dangerous but understandable. Deserters, rout survivors, starving men hiding in the woods. They would be desperate, armed, possibly wounded, probably more experienced than Shimon in combat. It would be bad, but Shimon was no longer alone.

If the problem was yōma, then he had no meaningful category, which was decidedly worse. Then, his imagination supplied, if the problem was hungry soldiers who had become yōma, then his problems were grave indeed.

[QUEST STATUS]Hunt the YōmaCurrent Objective: Join hunting party and investigate reported activity.Party Members: 6Client Retinue: 5 combatants, 2 bearersThreat level: Unknown.Warning: Spiritual Contamination remains undefined.

Mizuno Sōbei appeared beside him with the quiet smoothness of a man who liked appearing beside people.

“Ayanokouji-dono, you speak to yourself often.”

Shimon’s soul attempted to leave his body. “Habit,” he replied.

“A useful habit, perhaps. A man who answers himself always has counsel.”

“That depends on the quality of the counsel.”

The oily man laughed softly. “Well said.”

He stood there smiling at the village, hands folded into his sleeves. To any observer, he looked like a pleasant and experienced man offering companionship to a younger traveler. But, Shimon could not shake the feeling of a knife being measured for the gap between armor plates.

“You held your spear well,” Sōbei commented.

Shimon replied with silence his old friend.

The other man gave him a level look. “You did not show fear.” “That is good. Controlling fear can make men respect the man who can do it. Eventually.”

“Men like you?” the young man replied, the question slipping out of him.

Sōbei turned his smile on him. It was still friendly. Perfectly friendly. Annoyingly friendly.

“Men like me respect usefulness.”

That was honest enough to be alarming.

Before Shimon could respond, Sakurai Iori approached.

“Mizuno-dono,” Iori said, bowing slightly. “The headman’s men are looking at your purse with great spiritual intensity. I fear they may mistake it for an object of worship.”

The pleasant-looking man laughed, the moment broken without seeming to be broken and again Shimon felt only distrust of him. He was too smooth by far.

“Then I should save their souls by hiding it better.”

He drifted away.

Shimon looked at Iori, not quite understanding what had transpired. Something lost in translation in this strange place.

“Thank you,” Shimon admitted.

Iori’s expression remained mild. “He is not a bad companion on the road.”

The man from the modern world met his eyes. “That sounds carefully phrased.”

“It was.”

Shimon decided he definitely liked Sakurai Iori more than was probably safe. Liking people in this world felt like choosing hostages for future grief. He had a feeling that life was brief, brittle, and cheap here.

“You are not from the east?” Iori said, more a statement than an actual question. “Nor, I think, from the west.”

Shimon stiffened.

Iori continued before Shimon had to invent anything. “But your name is old, your bearing is half-taught, and your equipment has lived several lives before finding you. That is not so uncommon after a battle.”

Shimon said nothing.

Iori looked toward the forest. “I have no wish to know what brought you here. Men on roads are often made of things they do not explain.”

A bridge, Shimon thought again.

Aloud, he said, “And you?”

“I am also made of things I do not explain,” the other man answered with a shrug.

That was fair.

The Kume brothers returned from somewhere with stolen or purchased radishes. They offered one to Genzō, who refused, then to Shimon, who accepted because calories were morality now.

The radish was raw, sharp, and covered in dirt. But it was also food, so he ate it. Hunger, as always, made for the best sauce, and he had a feeling that he best not eat his given rations for the time being.

After some time, Master Hieda emerged from the headman’s house. His face wore the same pleasant thin smile, but something in his eyes had sharpened. The headman followed, bowing repeatedly. The shrine functionary carried a small tray with folded paper, salt, and a little cup of sake.

“We will go to the forest edge,” Master Hieda announced.

“Not into the village storehouse?” Sōbei asked.

“The storehouse has already been seen. Empty grain jars, broken latch, no blood. Whatever entered did not linger there.”

“Tracks?” Kuroda Genzō asked.

The headman flinched at the older samurai’s voice.

“Some,” Master Hieda said. “Some like men. Some like dogs. Some like neither. Rain damaged them.”

Of course, it did, Shimon thought cynically, for he had no memory of it. 

They moved through the village. People watched them pass. An old woman pressed prayer beads between her hands. A little girl peered from behind a door. A boy of perhaps twelve stood too openly with a bamboo spear.

At the far end of the village, the houses thinned. The last fence leaned toward a field gone fallow. Beyond it, a narrow path led to the woods.

The crows circled above.

Not randomly, Shimon soon realized.

They had a center, for black bodies wheeled against the pale sky, calling down in harsh voices. Some landed in the highest branches. Others lifted off again as if disturbed by something below. Their cries overlapped until the sound became almost like laughter.

Master Hieda raised one hand.

The procession stopped.

“This is the boundary,” said the shrine functionary.

He sounded deeply unhappy about being the person who knew that.

A weathered rope had been tied between two trees at the forest’s edge. It sagged in the middle, hung with folded paper streamers that had gone limp from mist. Old offerings sat at the roots: cracked bowls, rice gone hard, a little clay horse, wilted branches, a child’s toy, and several things Shimon did not want to identify too closely.

Master Hieda stepped down from his chair with a servant’s help. He took the tray from the shrine functionary, then turned toward the hired men.

“No one crosses before the words are finished.”

Kuroda Genzō’s hand went to his charm. Mizuno Sōbei bowed politely. The Kume brothers stopped chewing. And Shimon just watched quietly.

Master Hieda placed a square of white paper on a flat stone at the boundary. Upon it he set rice, salt, and the cup of sake. Then he drew from his sleeve a thin strip of paper marked with dark characters. Not black ink, Shimon thought. Brownish. Rust-dark. He hoped it was ink.

The air changed.

Not dramatically. There was no thunderclap, no glowing circle, no orchestral declaration that a ritual had begun. The change was smaller and therefore worse. Animals and small things quieted at the forest edge. The crows stopped their cawing, and even the wind seemed to forget to rustle the leaves as the pressure in the air increased.

The chip reacted to something, a connection of sorts.

Unknown Carrier Signal Detected.Signal strength: Low.Pattern: Structured.Protocol Compatibility: None.

Meaningless nonsense, Shimon thought. Was the biochip trying to interface with the local whatever it was?

Master Hieda began to chant.

The language was not quite the local speech. Older, or formal, or simply bent in ways Shimon’s chip struggled to parse. Names appeared within it, or things shaped like names. Road gods. Boundary spirits. Hungry dead. Mountain shadows. The honored unseen. The uninvited. The restless. Those without faces.

The shrine functionary kept his head bowed so low that his forehead nearly touched his hands.

Master Hieda poured the sake onto the stone. He scattered salt. He placed the marked strip of paper against the rope, and for a moment, Shimon could have sworn the paper clung there without being tied.

Then the forest exhaled, and a smell came out. Rot, damp leaves, animal musk, old smoke, and something sweet beneath it. Too sweet. Like fruit left too long in the heat. Like meat pretending to be flowers.

The mercenaries drew a sharp intake of breath.

The orange screen opened.

[ENVIRONMENTAL WARNING]Boundary Crossing DetectedArea Status: Spiritually DisturbedHostile Presence: ProbableRecommended Action: Proceed with caution

“No,” Shimon corrected sarcastically. “Recommended action: leave.”

But, unfortunately, the quest did not update to that.

Master Hieda turned back toward them. His pleasant smile returned as if the ritual had been nothing more than a business greeting.

“The reports began near the charcoal path,” he said. “Food taken. Dogs missing. Then a man. Then perhaps men in the woods, if the widow’s boy saw true. You are to enter, search, and return with word. If there are routed soldiers, bind or kill as judgment allows. If there are yōma, bring proof. If there is a nest, do not be foolish, you are not heroes from the songs. Mark it and return.”

That sounded almost reasonable. Above the forest, the crows continued their black turning.

Kuroda Genzō looked at the circling crows. “Where?”

Master Hieda lifted his hand and pointed.

“Follow the death,” he said, and he smiled when he said it.

Not cruelly. Not warmly. Just as if the phrase was a practical instruction, like follow the road or follow the river. As if death had become a landmark.

The veteran cursed under his breath. “Yōma.”

He tugged at his charm again.

This time, no one laughed.