Sengoku [Chapter 7] RAW (Patreon)

Chapter 7 - Satomi

“There is nothing outside of yourself that can ever enable you to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, or smarter. Everything is within. Everything exists. Seek nothing outside of yourself.”

- Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings.

“What happened?” Tarō demanded again

Shimon sat on his futon with both hands pressed against his throat. The side doors remained open. Cold night air pushed into the room, moving the paper charm tied inside his clothes, making it scratch softly against his chest.

Kume’s eyes shifted from the open doors to Shimon’s face. “Ayanokouji.”

“Bad dream,” Shimon grunted, the words already feeling vastly inadequate even as they caused the other man to just stare at him blankly

Shimon swallowed. “Wind opened the door,” he explained weakly.

Tarō said nothing for a moment. Then he rose, crossed the room, and looked out over the veranda, his sword in his hand. He glanced left, right, then upward, where moonlight silvered the edges, but nothing waited there. And the inn remained quiet, no alarm, no servants screaming, and most definitely no invisible thing crawling down the corridors.

The other man slid the door closed with careful hands and set the wooden latch. Then he stood there a while longer.

“Bad dream,” he repeated.

Shimon just shrugged with an attempt at nonchalance. “Yes.”

Tarō turned back, and somehow he looked older than he had that afternoon. Without armor, with his hair loosened and one side of his face bruised purple, grief and exhaustion had rallied. “Dreams can be bad,” he said at last, deferring true judgment and suspicion until later.

Shimon wanted to thank him properly, but settled for a noncommittal nod.

The orange screen waited. Accept?

“No,” Shimon whispered silently.

He thought of the weight on his chest. Of the air bending above his face. Of that terrible warmth inside his skull. Of the words, I am your friend. The young man was quite sure that was most definitely not his friend.

Accept?

Shimon closed his eyes. Refusing seemed brave. Refusing also seemed like one of those choices that protagonists always made in defiance before the world taught them the truth of the inevitable. So, gritting his teeth, he accepted.

[QUEST ACCEPTED]

Go Into Service With The Local Lord

Current Objective: Survive formal presentation.

Shimon opened his eyes.

“Wonderful,” he murmured.

Tarō, who had lain down again but had not put his sword away, glanced over. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replied hastily.

The other man grunted in a way that suggested he had begun to hate that answer.

After that, sleep should have been impossible. Shimon told himself as much while lying stiffly on the futon with his sword within reach and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling beams. The room had become untrustworthy. The doors were simply doors no longer, but entrances to the darker places. The shadows behind the painted screen looked too deep to be natural, and every creak of the inn became the first step of something coming back.

He was not going to sleep again, he promised himself. Unfortunately, the human body, even empowered, was a traitor of the oldest kind. Fear kept watch for a while, but exhaustion came behind it and dragged Shimon down into darkness.

***

When he woke again, morning had already entered and made itself present in the room. Sunlight filtered through the paper doors in pale rectangles, soft and ordinary. Somewhere outside, a servant moved along the corridor. Birds made noises as if all was well in the world.

Shimon stared at the ceiling and blinked. He was alive, and this was a much-welcome relief

A blue panel opened at the edge of his vision.

[PASSIVE MONITORING ACTIVE]

Sleep Quality: Poor

Total Sleep Duration: Insufficient

Stress Response: Elevated

Muscular Strain: Moderate

Hydration: Sufficient

Unknown Carrier Signal: Low / Intermittent

Condition: Spiritually Marked

Recommendation: Rest, food, and avoidance of further stressors.

Shimon blinked at it. “Avoidance of further stressors,” he whispered. “Genius.”

Tarō was already awake, sitting cross-legged near the wall while tying his hair back. His movements were slow, economical, and faintly painful to watch. The bruise at his ribs must have been worse than he admitted. 

He looked at Shimon. “You speak to yourself before breakfast, too?”

“Yes,” the young man replied, somehow getting up.

“Good,” Tarō grunted. “Then you are well enough to eat.”

That was a rather optimistic medical assessment, Shimon thought to himself.

Breakfast came soon after. Two servants entered on their knees, sliding the door open with a practiced smoothness. They brought low trays and set them before the two survivors. Shimon copied Tarō’s posture because copying remained his strongest social skill.

The meal was simple, but to Shimon’s body it had all the majesty of a royal banquet. Rice, white and steaming, and next to it, a bowl of soup with miso’s deep salty smell rising into the air. A small grilled fish, its skin blistered salt with pickled vegetables cut into neat pieces. Something green and bitter-looking in a little dish, and fresh tea in a plain cup.

No protein bar, no convenience-store chicken, no plastic container with a printed calorie count. No, this was real food as his mother liked to preach.

He picked up the black lacquer soup bowl, then nearly stopped because it was beautiful. Not gaudy, not museum beautiful, not the sort of object placed behind glass, but just beautiful in its simplicity and elegant lines. Around the rim, a thin line of red had been painted, and small flecks that might have been gold dust formed the suggestion of reeds near the base.

Shimon’s family had dragged him through enough cultural experiences during childhood visits to Japan that some old memory stirred. Urushi lacquer. Tree sap transformed by craft into something shining and durable. His grandmother had once told him not to touch a display case and then explained the history of lacquer bowls for ten minutes. He had not listened properly, and now, he regretted it with the specific bitterness of a person blessed by hindsight.

The rice was good, the soup was better, and the fish was the best of all. It was not complicated, but it held the simple, subtle flavors that Japanese food was famous for. His stomach might even be able to handle

Shimon ate too quickly until Tarō gave him a look.

“What?” Shimon asked.

“You will choke.”

“At least I will be full.”

Tarō’s mouth moved by a fraction, eyes still haunted. It was not a smile, not exactly, but the ghost of one. Then it was gone as quickly as it came.

He did not seem hungry, eating as he was with careful discipline. After a few bites, he set down his chopsticks and looked at his rice and then looked down at the food.

“My brother would have eaten both trays if he could,” he said softly.

Shimon had no answer for that.

As if in honor of his brother, Tarō picked up his chopsticks and resumed eating.

They had almost finished when footsteps came along the corridor. Not the soft steps of servants. These had weight, rhythm, and the subtle arrogance of men accustomed to violence.

The door slid open and two samurai waited outside, kneeling only long enough to be correct before rising. They wore castle livery: dark cloth, practical armor, and a crest worked on sleeve and breast. Two thick horizontal lines, one above the other. Simple, severe and repeated on small cloth badges and the little guard pennon carried by the younger man behind them.

The older of the two samurai spoke. “By order of Nagai Morichika-sama, senior retainer to Lord Satomi Yoshihiro, Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon are summoned for presentation.”

At last, a name to attach to the anxiety. Satomi Yoshihiro, a lord’s name. The local sun which all danger currently orbited.

Tarō set down his chopsticks, bowed from his seated position, and answered with a low, “We obey.”

Shimon copied him a fraction late. The older samurai’s eyes flickered to him, noting the delay. Not condemning, at least not yet, but noting it down nonetheless and making the young man feel rather exposed.

They were given little time to prepare. Their armor had been cleaned as well as could be managed overnight. Shimon’s was still mismatched, still not truly his, but much of the old blood and forest filth had been removed. Some cords had been replaced. His helmet sat with it, taken from yesterday’s harvest of death and had been adjusted enough to sit on his head without wobbling like a cooking pot.

His weapons had been cleaned, and after a careful inspection he saw that the blades of his swords and spear had been sharpened and polished. Looking at them, Shimon saw not just weapons, but the tools of the new trade that had been forced upon him. 

He was now a man with two swords and half-decent armour, summoned into the presence of a lord. The game, the System, fate—or whatever force was behind everything that had brought him here—seemed determined to railroad him down a path already laid out. 

The orange quest marker sat quietly in his vision.

Current Objective: Survive formal presentation.

***

They followed the samurai out of the ryokan into daylight, the castle town looking very different under the morning’s gaze. In the clear light of day, with his body fed and no yōma immediately trying to eat him, the place had become rather picturesque.

The street outside the inn sloped gently toward a wider road lined by wooden buildings with thatched or tiled roofs leaning close. Paper lanterns hung unlit from eaves. Shopfronts had opened, their shutters lifted, with cloth curtains swaying at doorways. Over there, a cooper worked at a barrel. Opposite, a woman swept dust from the packed earth before her home. Boys carried buckets from a well, and somewhere, a dog barked.

Smoke rose from hearths in thin blue threads. It must have rained in the night, for wet roofs shone under the morning sun. Beyond the buildings, Shimon caught glimpses of fields, irrigation ditches, and low ridges. The air smelled of rice, woodsmoke, damp earth, animals, and humans.

It was beautiful, felt almost semi-familiar and normal until he saw something that was not a cow pulling a plow through one of the fields.

In the Japan Shimon came from, this entire region would have been swallowed by asphalt roads, train lines, apartment blocks, power lines, convenience stores, road signs, vending machines, and the endless geometry of the modern world. Somewhere near here in his world, people would be commuting, staring at phones, complaining about train delays due to an enthusiastic jumper, buying canned coffee, and going about their day, without so much as looking at the sky. Here, the world had not yet been paved over and tamed by concrete and steel.

It felt like standing inside a taiga drama, except everything was very real and had not been softened for prime-time, family friendly viewing.

A pack lizard passed ahead of them, low and broad-bodied, dragging a small cart of firewood with the patient misery of a creature employed by civilization. It had pebbled green-brown skin, a blunt head, and a harness fitted around its shoulders. Not a dinosaur, perhaps. Or perhaps yes. 

The biochip in his brain tried to help.

[VISUAL MATCH ATTEMPT SUCCESSFUL]

Taxonomic Classification: Archosaurian / Aetosaurus variant

Thank you, Shimon thought. Looks like they really survived the meteor.”

The samurai leading continued, and people looked as they passed. Some recognized Tarō. Some recognized Shimon from the previous evening or from rumor, which was worse. Soft words were spoken from behind sleeves and hands.

“Yōma…”

“Two men…”

“Sakurai…”

“Ayanokouji…”

He kept his face still because it had served him well so far. Inwardly, he wondered whether this was how rumor and reputation spread. Yesterday, he had been a stranger in looted armor. This morning, people whispered his name in the street.

The patron had promised renown, strength, and wealth. Shimon decided he did not much care for renown if it did not come with a sponsorship deal. Renown in an age such as this one, was very much another target painted on his back. 

As they turned onto a broader road leading upward, Shimon risked a quiet question.

“The two lines,” he murmured.

Tarō’s eyes moved only a fraction. “What?”

“Whose sign is that?” 

Tarō gave him a look that suggested Shimon had asked why the sky was above them. Then the older man seemed to remember that Ayanokouji Shimon was a strange man who knew too little.

“Satomi’s Kamon,” Tarō muttered. “Futatsu-hikiryō. Two drawn lines. The lord’s sign. Do not stare at it like a fool in the market.”

“Right,” Shimon whispered even as the other man’s mouth tightened in disapproval.

The name tugged at something in his memory. Memories from a strategy game that he had played long ago. Sengoku maps, clan names, Kantō campaigns, Hōjō pressure, and the Bōsō Peninsula. But the details were unclear, and this world did not mean knowing a familiar would lead to familiar events. Dinosaurs and no Portuguese made that abundantly clear. Assumption about anything could be a critical mistake.

They approached the castle through a road that did not run straight. It bent and narrowed, then widened again near a ditch and earthen bank. The slope forced men to approach under watch from above. Fences, gates, walls, and towers did not sit in one neat line but in layers, each one a layered defence that would force enemies into a kill zone.

The castle itself was not the clean white tower of calendars and tourist brochures. It was earth, timber, plaster, and hard stone. The main enclosure rose on a reinforced mound, its slopes faced in places with rocks and in others packed hard with earth. Wooden palisades crowned sections of wall. Watch platforms jutted from corners, their roofs curved under dark tiles. 

The two-line Satomi crest hung from poles and cloth near the gate. Now that Tarō had named it, Shimon saw it everywhere. On sleeves. On small banners. On boxes carried by servants. On a painted board near the gatehouse..

They stopped before the first gate, and the lead samurai stepped forward and announced them. “Nagai Morichika-sama’s summons. Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon, survivors of the Hieda commission, bearing report for presentation before Lord Satomi Yoshihiro.”

Men on the gate looked down. Other men below answered, and their names were repeated. A guard disappeared inside and returned. The process was formal, loud, and very obviously designed to remind everyone that permission was not the same thing as welcome.

Shimon tried to study the gate while looking as if he belonged.

It was strange. Not strange like yōma. Not wrong. But not quite what he expected either. It looked broader and more swollen than the gates from reconstructed castles he had seen in photographs, the roof heavy and rounded, the side structures bulging outward in a way that gave the entrance a thick, muscled appearance. Bulbous was the word his brain supplied.

The opening through it was deep enough that passing under felt like entering the maw and throat of a beast. And, that impression did not improve when they went through.

On the far side, the path did not open into a welcoming courtyard. It turned sharply into a confined space between walls and banks. A killing pocket, Shimon realized. A masugata, or something like it, though this world had decided the square gate-courtyard could be improved by this world adding its own unique twist.

The niches were built into the inner side walls, and at first, he thought they were storage bays. However, they were low wooden pens with barred fronts. Then one of the shadows moved, and a narrow head lifted into the light.

The creature inside was about the size of a large dog. Feathering ran along its arms and tail in dark mottled purples and reds. Its snout was narrow, its eyes bright, its mouth equipped with sharp teeth. One sickle-clawed foot scratched lightly against the wooden floor of its pen. Another answered this from the opposite wall with a clicking hiss.

Shimon stopped looking at them because the lead samurai did not stop walking, and staring at military animals inside a lord’s gate probably marked one as suspicious.

Still, he imagined attackers forcing their way through the first gate, shouting victory, then being trapped in this cramped turn while archers shot down from above and handlers opened those pens. Dogs of war, except worse. The chip identified them as a variant of velociraptor.

[HOSTILE ANIMAL PRESENCE DETECTED]

Species: Velociraptor [variant]

Count: 4 visible

Behavior: Restrained / Alert

Threat Level: Moderate to Severe if released.

“Moderate,” Shimon thought. “Lovely. I assume severe begins when my face is in its mouth.”

One of the little raptor-things clicked again as he passed, head tilting with too much intelligence and Tarō’s eyes flicked toward the pens. His mouth tightened. 

So this was not completely normal for him either, or at least not comfortable. That actually perversely helps. Common sense is not dead in this version of the universe.

They passed through another gate, then along a climbing path between earthen ramparts. Men watched from platforms above as more Satomi banners fluttered in the breeze. A horned beetle crawled over the packed wall near Shimon’s shoulder, before flying off.

Then came larger animals. One stood in a yard beside a stable-like structure, being fed from a pole by a man. It was taller than a horse at the hip, long-tailed, lightly built, and with a head with a sleek snout filled with serrated teeth. Its arms were not as small as the tyrannosaurid mount Shimon had seen on the road. They were longer, strong, tipped with claws like curved knives. Feathers or protofeathers fringed its neck and forearms, more sparse than the little gate raptors. Fukuiraptor, his memory suggested, and his chip soon confirmed. Or, at least, a terrible variant of the animal that was supposed to be long dead

The animal turned its head as they passed, and everyone near it respected the length of its tether.

A second kind of creature moved near a barracks courtyard, much smaller and stranger. They reached about to Shimon’s waist, and were long-necked, bipedal, feathered along the tail, with long, grasping forelimbs. Several were being drilled by handlers with whistles and hand signals. They moved in quick starts and stops, heads bobbing, eyes fixed on bits of meat tied to cord. Fukuivenator variant, the knowledge of his old world informed. Or something descended this world’s impossible biology.

Less immediately terrifying than the Fukuiraptor, but still quite capable of removing a person’s fingers with speed.

He wondered why he had not seen so many creatures before. Then the answer arrived with embarrassing obviousness; resources and money.

A castle could afford them, and its lord could feed them. A retainer might keep one prized beast if rich or important. A village could not stable a carnivorous dinosaur any more easily than a convenience store could keep a tiger. Meat, handlers, space, training, injury, breeding, and medicine; all of it cost money.

Power announced itself not merely by banners and walls but by the number of monsters it could afford to feed.

They were led further inward, through more turns and guarded thresholds, until they reached a structure that was not quite a keep in the modern fantasy sense and not merely a hall either. It stood within the inner enclosure, raised on foundations, its roof broad and dark, its timber polished. Guards waited at the entrance, servants moving quickly here and there. A pair of small feathered animals perched near the eaves under the eye of a handler, their heads tucked beneath their winged arms until one opened a black bead eye and watched Shimon pass. Microraptors, like Nagai’s, but a little more feral. Security for the roofs and protection from infiltrators.

They removed footwear and their swords were handled according to rules Shimon only half understood. He watched Tarō and did what Tarō did. Then, they were led to a waiting room.

It was not large, but it was finer than the inn room. The tatami smelled clean. The walls were plain, but the wood was polished to an almost mirror gleam, and a hanging scroll displayed a brush-written phrase that Shimon read as virtue-beneath-heaven-order.

They sat, and the room fell into a fresh silence. And, this was not a companionable silence, but the silence of men waiting to learn whether breakfast had been their last meal. Shimon sat on his heels because Tarō sat on his heels. This soon became annoyingly painful, but nothing when compared to his earlier trials.

The samurai who had brought them waited by the door, and they did not make conversation, their stoicism adding to the heavy quiet. 

Bored but increasingly nervous, Shimon tried to recall every scene from every period drama he had ever watched. What came back were only scattered fragments: people bowing deeply, doors sliding open, men in formal robes speaking with unbearable slowness. Someone shouting burei-mono just before the violence began. Teacups. Tatami lines. Never step on the threshold. Do not meet the lord’s eyes for too long. Do not speak until spoken to. Do not laugh. Do not sit incorrectly. It all tumbled through his mind in one confused, useless bundle. 

Dogeza seemed safe. Forehead down, hands placed correctly, making oneself small. It was difficult to accidentally insult someone while performing full physical submission.

He would speak as little as possible. He would follow Tarō. He would answer only what was asked. He would become the furniture, because, unfortunately, disrespect in this world did not seem like the kind of thing that resulted in a review. A samurai could be killed for rudeness, or ordered to kill himself by cutting his own guts out.

The story of the forty-seven rōnin came to mind with sudden, terrible clarity. It had begun, at least in the popular telling, with an insult. This led to an assault, followed by the seppuku of a lord. The lord’s lands were then confiscated, his retainers made masterless, and those men spent years preparing their revenge—only to be ordered to kill themselves afterward. He did not remember all the details, but he knew enough that the consequences of incorrect speech would be very real. It almost made him miss social media. Almost.

No manners could get a man killed.

The unknown patron had promised to make him great. But, Shimon did not want to be great. He wanted obscurity with a steady income, and the protection that afforded while he figured things out.

Period dramas were one thing, and even Shimon liked samurai aesthetics in the same abstract way that people liked swords, castles, without all of the other messy bits. The young man was most certainly not too enamoured of the samurai spirit to end up committing seppuku because he turned a tea cup two times instead of three.

Was that even a rule? He did not know. And, that was the entire crux of the problem.

Suddenly, painfully, he wished he had paid attention during all those touristy cultural experiences his grandparents had taken him to when his family visited Japan from America. Now strange forces had placed him into history that never was in a waiting room to meet the lord of the local land.

“Do not look like you are thinking so loudly,” Tarō muttered and complained.

Shimon blinked. “Sorry.”

“Also,” Tarō added, barely moving his mouth, “do not apologize unless needed.”

Silence settled over the room once more, gradually thickening until it became stifling. At last, the shoji slid open. A young attendant knelt at the threshold, both hands placed properly before him and his head bowed, while another waited on his knees beyond. The entire movement was performed with such effortless grace that Shimon once again felt boorish in comparison. 

“Enter,” said a voice.

The samurai beside the door gestured. Tarō moved first, and Shimon soon followed him. The pair passed through a corridor and into the main hall.

The long, formal chamber was arranged according to an unmistakable hierarchy. Men sat along either side, their rank measured by their proximity to the power at its head: advisers, senior retainers, priests, clerks, and armed men who needed no hand upon their swords to radiate menace.

At the far end, seated upon a raised dais, was the lord.

The announcer spoke first, his voice carrying through the hall. “Before Lord Satomi Yoshihiro, lord of this castle, are brought Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon, survivors of the Hieda commission and bearers of report concerning the yōma slain beyond the eastern village.”

Satomi Yoshihiro.

The lord was younger than Shimon had expected, perhaps in his thirties, though the lines around his eyes spoke of hard-earned experience. Those who held power in the Warring States were forced to mature quickly. His face was composed, with a sharp jaw and the controlled stillness of a man who knew that every reaction was being watched. His robes were not ostentatious, but the fabric was fine, carefully layered, and arranged with precise attention. A short sword rested close at hand. Behind and around him, the Satomi two-line crest adorned screens, banners, and even the smallest fittings. 

Nagai Morichika sat to one side, his posture perfect, the little feathered microraptor nowhere visible today. Somehow, Shimon missed it. Near him, Master Hieda was also present, looking smaller here than he had the other day. The young man realized that wealth changed one’s presence depending on whose room it stood in.

The shrine priest from yesterday was there too. He looked at Shimon for one moment and then looked away. That was not comforting.

Tarō bowed deeply, prompting Shimon to copy him.

A breath later, he decided deeper was safer and lowered himself further, hands to the tatami, forehead nearly touching. The room held its silence, and he wondered if he had overdone it.

Satomi Yoshihiro spoke. “Raise your heads.”

Tarō did, followed soon by Shimon. The man from another time and place did not look directly at the lord’s eyes, instead choosing a point somewhere near the man’s sleeve.

“My retainer Nagai Morichika has given report,” Lord Yoshihiro stated. “Master Hieda has given report. Priests have confirmed the proof. Yet dead men cannot speak, and even those who live often speak poorly. You will tell me what happened.”

Tarō bowed again. “Yes, my lord.”

Shimon bowed half a heartbeat later, and then the questioning began. Tarō began with the recruitment; Master Hieda’s commission, the Adventurer’s Za, Kuroda Genzō taking command, the Kume brothers at the front, Mizuno Sōbei and Sakurai Iori with bows. 

At the mention of Sakurai, several faces in the room shifted. Not much. These were trained men after all. But enough to make it known that they were unsettled.

Yoshihiro asked, “Sakurai Iori spoke his own name under witness?”

Tarō answered, “Yes, my lord.”

The lord’s gaze moved to Hieda.

Hieda bowed. “The name was entered. The Za official witnessed it. The scribe recorded it.”

A clerk to the side consulted a paper and nodded and Tarō continued with his account. They moved through the road, the village, the storehouses, the charms, the crows. Tarō described the legless Hojo soldier crawling from the woods, begging to be killed, then dying before he could say more. He did not embellish, and his voice remained rough and flat in the retelling.

He spoke next of Mizuno taking the soldier’s head, then the coolies fleeing at the sight of the slaughter. Then came the part about the hollow and its dead. And yōma feeding upon those dead.

As Tarō spoke, the room seemed to grow colder. Men who had not been there could imagine themselves there now. That was the power of plain speech, Shimon realized. It left room for fear to fill the empty places of the imagination.

Then came the most important part, the part when everything went wrong. Sakurai.

Tarō’s jaw tightened. “Kuroda-dono ordered Sakurai to fetch a spear from the abandoned bundles. Sakurai drew instead. He cut Kuroda-dono’s arm at the joint. Deep. Then he called to the yōma as brothers.”

A stir moved through the hall.

Yoshihiro’s face did not change. “His words?”

Tarō swallowed. “‘Come and feed, my brothers.’”

The shrine priest made a small sign with his fingers and Nagai Morichika’s eyes narrowed and became hard.

Yoshihiro looked to Shimon. “You saw this?”

The room turned toward him.

Shimon’s mind vacated itself. “Yes, my lord,” he somehow managed.

Good. Short. Polite. It would have to do. 

The Lord studied him with a neutral expression. “Did Sakurai show strange behavior before this?”

This was more dangerous.

Shimon considered every interaction. Sakurai had been quiet. Cultured. Interested when Shimon mentioned guns that did not exist here. Strange, yes, but in a way that everything was strange to him. The young man could have said all of this and more.

“He was calm,” Shimon said instead, taking great care with his words. “Well-spoken. Skilled. He asked little. I suspected nothing that I understood.”

One advisor leaned forward. “That you understood?”

Shimon lowered his head. “I am green, my lord. Kuroda-dono said so himself. I did not know him well enough to judge.”

There was a faint shift in the room. Not amusement exactly, but something close to it. Tarō glanced at him, and it might even have been approval.

Another retainer asked, “Did he avoid charms? Salt? Priests? Did animals fear him?”

Shimon thought of the road. Of the village. Of the forest. Of the microraptor yesterday. Had it reacted to Sakurai? He could not remember. Memory, traitorous thing, offered only fragments.

“Not that I saw,” Shimon answered. “I suspect the yōma hid well because the man it hid under, hid well.”

That produced silence. He cursed himself, wondering if he had said something too poetic.

Yoshihiro’s gaze remained on him. “And then?”

Tarō resumed, but only briefly.

“The yōma charged. Mizuno-dono called for my brother and me to hold them while he and Ayanokouji moved on Sakurai. Kuroda-dono, though wounded, struck Sakurai with his spear. Ayanokouji cut Sakurai. Then my brother struck one of the grey yōma with his spear. The point went in.”

Tarō stopped. For the first time, his voice lost its flatness, something in it threatening to break. “The thing pulled itself along the shaft. Another struck Jirō. He fell. I threw my spear and missed. I drew my sword and charged.”

His mouth tightened. “Then something struck me. I remember the blow. I remember the tree. After that, nothing until I woke.”

The admission landed cleanly. Not weakness, not shame, just a fact as if he was discussing the state of the weather.

Another retainer looked at Shimon. “So from that point, only Ayanokouji can speak to events.”

Unfortunately, yes, Shimon thought. 

“Yes, my lord,” Shimon said aloud.

Satomi Yoshihiro watched him. “Then speak.”

He chose truth with important omissions. “Sakurai was wounded but not dead. Kuroda-dono’s spear had pinned him. Mizuno-dono fought though his eye was hurt. I cut Sakurai again.”

He did not say the voice had entered his skull. He did not say the thing had told him he was not human, not yōma, but would suffice.

“Sakurai’s head nearly came free,” Shimon continued. “He fell. The yōma still came.”

An older advisor asked, “The three grey ones?”

He looked at the older man. “Yes.”

“And Kuroda Genzō?”

“Dying or dead by then,” Shimon answered succinctly. “He had already done more than a wounded man should have been able to do.”

That seemed, again, to be the acceptable answer.

“Mizuno Sōbei?” another important looking man insisted.

“Alive then,” Shimon reported, schooling his face to calm. “Half-blind. He pulled me back when I would have stood too long. He fought beside me.”

That was also true, for Mizuno Sōbei had stood with him. Shimon had disliked him, but that did not make the debt he owed the dead man vanish.

“One yōma had Jirō’s spear in it,” Shimon continued. “It moved badly. The other two were whole. We tried to keep them away. We failed. Mizuno died fighting.”

His voice almost caught there and he hated himself for that moment of weakness. The room listened.

Shimon remembered the grey shapes,  teeth, arms too long, and the cold clarity of his chip. Something else riding through him, using him. Lines in the air, thin and bright, and the sword vanishing into its sheathe, gathering energy then exploding into  strikes that reduced monsters to meat.

Yae Ikazuchi, the eightfold lightning draw. But that was not talk for this room.

“I do not remember all of it clearly,” he stated, and it was truth enough armored by omission.

A retainer frowned. “Yet you killed them.”

“I was alive at the end,” Shimon said. “They were not.”

The hall became very still and Nagai Morichika looked at him as if trying to decide whether this was stupidity, insolence, or the highest form of battlefield simplicity. Lord Satomi Yoshihiro’s mouth moved by the smallest possible fraction.

“Alive at the end,” the lord repeated.

Ayanokouji gathered what sincerity he could. “Yes, my lord.”

Yoshihiro did not press immediately. Instead, he asked about the aftermath. Tarō could speak again there. He explained waking, seeing Shimon alive among the dead, seeing Sakurai’s changed corpse, seeing the three grey yōma dead. He explained taking proof; the yōma teeth, Sakurai’s head, and the heads of routed enemies, and the burning of the bodies. He spoke too of the practical part of leaving weapons and armor for later retrieval.

At this, one older retainer nodded as if approving the sense of it.

Shimon needed to place the spotlight clearly upon someone else. “Tarō insisted the dead be burned, and he brought us out of that place.”

Tarō looked uncomfortable.

Good, Shimon thought. Suffer being useful.

The lord listened, and his questions circled back to Sakurai again and again. How had he entered? Who had spoken for him? Did anyone know him? Had the Za official recognized the name? Had Sakurai handled the contract? Did he sign with a kaō? Did he bleed before being revealed? Did he eat with them? Did he ask about patrols, villages, storehouses, routes, old battlefields?

Most answers were no, but some were worse. The worst being that they did not know. That, it seemed, troubled the room more than any monster’s teeth. A yōma in the forest was a horror. A yōma who could sign a name under witness and stand among hired men was a grave threat to civilization.

Shimon understood that kind of fear. The modern world loved systems. Security systems, identification systems, and payment systems. When stripped away, it showed the true vulnerability of the society it protected.

At last, however, the questions slowed.

Satomi Yoshihiro sat in silence for several breaths, his gaze resting not on the survivors now but on some point in the middle distance.

Then he spoke. “Men died in my land. Men under witness. Men sent to learn the shape of disorder. They found it. The dead will be remembered and their names recorded.”

Tarō bowed until his forehead touched the tatami. Shimon copied him half a heartbeat later.

“The Adventurer’s Za was permitted to gather blades because yōma work is filthy, dangerous, and beneath the orderly deployment of troops,” Yoshihiro continued. “Such convenience now shows its flaws.”

Master Hieda lowered his head deeply.

The lord’s eyes moved to him. “Hieda.”

“My lord.”

“You will assist Nagai Morichika in examining the Za’s records. Names, marks, commissions, payments, scribes, witnesses, all of it.”

Hieda bowed even lower. “At once.”

Shimon felt the distant, shameful relief of someone watching blame and responsibility apportioned to another. 

Then Yoshihiro turned his attention back to the survivors. “Kume Tarō. Ayanokouji Shimon.”

Both men remained with their heads bowed.

“You went into the forest as hired blades. You return as men who have killed yōma and uncovered danger hidden in human shape. Such men are not easily dismissed. A blade that has proved its edge may yet be called upon to cut again.” 

The lord glanced at Nagai, prompting Morichika to lean forward and speak in a voice that carried through the hall. “These two are brave men. Proven by deed, witnessed by retainers, confirmed by all, and marked by survival where better armed men died. My lord has use for such men. Yōma sightings have worsened across the border villages and roads. The matter of Sakurai Iori entering through the Adventurer’s Za raises suspicion over those hired to clear the very threat they may now conceal.”

His gaze rested on Shimon briefly.

“Therefore, by my lord’s will, Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon are taken into service under the Satomi banner. They will be retained for yōma matters and placed under my supervision until otherwise. A house made vacant by the recent battle shall be assigned for their use, along with stipend, duties, and instruction.”

A house. Shimon’s mind caught on that first because it was the most absurdly normal part of the declaration. A base, a save point without the convenience of saving.

Then the rest arrived; taken into service, duties, supervision, and yōma matters.

The orange screen opened.

[QUEST COMPLETE]

Hunt the Yōma: Optional Objective 3, Acquire proof of guild recognition is now overridden by Lord’s Patronage. 1 bonus Attribute Point acquired.

Go Into Service With The Local Lord.

Objective: Enter the service of the castle lord. [Completed]

Objective: Become recognized as a yōma hunter. [Completed]

Reward: Patronage acquired.

Reward: Local Reputation increased.

Reward: Class Upgrade.

Reward: 130 experience points, 1 bonus Attribute Point.

Title Acquired: Proven Yōma Hunter.

Affiliation Acquired: Satomi Clan Retainer.

Class Upgraded: Ronin → Samurai.

Now, Shimon was within striking distance of the next level thanks to the quest. And, interestingly, it looked like he could still complete bonus objectives from old quests as long as he did not fail them.

The lord was still speaking as he placed both of his bonus Attribute points into Body.

“You will serve well,” Yoshihiro declared.

Tarō bowed. “This low one is honored beyond measure.”

That sounded correct, and suitably humble so Shimon bowed and repeated it. “I am honored beyond measure.”

Yoshihiro looked at him for a moment longer than comfort allowed. “Ayanokouji.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Men who survive strange things often become strange men.”

Shimon’s hands tightened reflexively.

The lord continued, “See that your strangeness remains useful.”

Shimon bowed even lower. “I will strive to do so.”

That seemed to satisfy Lord Satomi Yoshihiro, and the formal dismissal came soon after. They backed out, or rather Tarō backed out properly and Shimon followed him with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb. The doors closed, and the hall vanished behind wood and paper.

Only then did Shimon allow himself to breathe.

They were then led back to the waiting room. No one spoke for a long while as Tarō sat heavily, though not carelessly. His face was difficult to read.

“You are samurai again,” Shimon remarked softly.

Kume looked down at his hands. “My brother would have laughed,” he admitted.

Shimon waited, waiting for the other man to lance the recent boil.

“He would have said I finally found a lord by getting hit into a tree.”

The words sat between them, and despite himself, Shimon let out a small breath that was almost a laugh and almost not. Tarō’s mouth twitched. Then his eyes grew wet and he looked away. Shimon pretended not to see, the highest form of face saving mercy available.

Like this, they waited.

Outside, voices moved through the hall. Men came and went. The machinery of the castle resumed around them, adjusting to new decisions. Somewhere nearby, a dinosaur shrieked once, high and annoyed, followed by a handler’s sharp command. 

After some time, Morichika entered. This time, he came without the full weight of ceremony, though he still carried enough of it to make Shimon nervous. The samurai who had escorted them bowed and withdrew.

Nagai sat opposite them and both men bowed to him.

“At ease,” Nagai said gruffly. “You both did well enough.”

Tarō bowed his head lower. “Nagai-sama honors us.”

“I spoke for you before my lord,” Nagai continued. “Do not make me regret it.”

There it was. Patronage, the old and universal bargain. I helped you, therefore your future errors are attacks on my judgment.

“Yes, Nagai-sama,” Tarō said.

“Yes, Nagai-sama,” Shimon echoed dutifully.

Nagai’s gaze moved between them. “The matter of yōma has been handled poorly. Too long we have left small sightings to shrines, temples, villagers, hired blades, and the Adventurer’s Za. That was convenient. Convenience invites rot. Sakurai Iori entered under witness. That means the rot has learned doors.”

Shimon liked that phrase, even as it troubled him. The rot has learned doors.

The important samurai continued, “My lord has ordered that yōma control be brought closer to hand. Under my hand, for now. I am gathering men who can fight, priests who can see the signs, monks who can put the dead properly beyond reach of the dark arts, and scholars to document our efforts and find the patterns. You two will be part of this great work.”

“Scholars?” Shimon asked before he could stop himself.

Nagai looked at him.

The young man lowered his head. “Forgive me.”

“No,” Nagai chastised. “Ask when the question is useful. Stay silent when it is not. Learn the difference quickly.”

“Yes, Nagai-sama,” Shimon answered in his most polite voice.

“Scholars,” Nagai explained nonetheless, “because old records speak of patterns. Places where graves open. Years when births go wrong. Villages abandoned and then erased from tax ledgers. Priests remember some things. Monks write others. Warriors through combat, their hands learning better answers to the question of killing. But, answers can be found as much on parchment, as they can be on the edge of a blade. Still, when honor dies, only the blade remains.”

Shimon thought of databases, search functions, pattern recognition, and metadata. Things the world did not have and badly needed if it was to achieve this goal.

His chip stirred, as if reminded of its purpose.

[ANALYSIS NOTE]

Potential long-term objective: Data aggregation may improve threat prediction.

No, Shimon thought quietly. Do not volunteer for supernatural data science and investigation.”

Nagai’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps at some small change in his face. “You have thoughts.”

Shimon bowed. “Only that records are useful, Nagai-sama.”

“Good. Then you can learn to read ours properly if you cannot.”

Nagai looked to Tarō. “Kume Tarō, you have practical knowledge and sense enough to know fear without succumbing to it. You will be useful.”

Tarō bowed.

Then Nagai looked at Shimon. “Ayanokouji Shimon. You are either very lucky, very skilled, or some poorly understood combination of the two. Until I know which, you will be watched.”

Shimon bowed lower. “I understand.”

“You do not,” Nagai snorted. “But perhaps you understand enough to obey.”

“Yes, Nagai-sama,” Shimon responded quickly.

After all, that, at least, was true.

Nagai leaned back slightly. “You will both be given a house today. It belonged to a man who died in the recent battle and left no close kin within reach. His weapons have gone to the storehouse. His debts have gone to the accountants. His roof will now cover you.”

Shimon thought of the corpse whose sword he wore. Of pouches taken from dead men. Of armor harvested from the field. Of a house emptied by violence and filled by survivors because waste was a luxury. This world, it seemed, recycled everything that was useful.

Even grief, the grief of a brother.

“You will also receive lessons,” Nagai stated.

Tarō stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Lessons, Nagai-sama?” Tarō inquired.

“Yes. You are brave men. You are also rough blades, and rough blades cut the hand of the cook who tries to use them in the kitchen. Kume, you know enough to pass among low retainers and hired men. Ayanokouji knows enough to be dangerous to himself in a hallway.”

Shimon stiffened at the words, despite the truth behind them. He had, after all, faced and defeated several monsters and men, even if he had not killed them all by his own hand alone. 

Nagai continued, “You will learn service. Proper speech. Proper dress. Etiquette. Records. Chain of command. When to stand. When to kneel. When to speak. In time, you may even become respectable members of the Satomi clan.”

Nagai rose and both men bowed again to him.

“One more thing,” the senior retainer remarked just as he was about to leave.

Shimon froze and Nagai looked at him first, then Tarō. “In the hall, you both gave credit to dead men. That was well done.”

Tarō’s head lowered further.

“Do not forget the living require credit too,” the important samurai added. “A man raised by another’s word owes a debt.”

Debt. The shape of the things that moved this world, and the shape of the rope around his neck. Debt to the unknown thing that had saved his life.

These things weighed upon Shimon Ayanokouji. But, Shimon merely replied with a, “Yes, Nagai-sama”. 

Nagai nodded once and left. The door slid closed behind him, and for a long moment, neither new samurai spoke.

Then Tarō exhaled, slow and heavy. “Lessons.”

Shimon looked at him. “That is the part that worries you?”

Tarō’s expression was grave. “Learning how to make marks on paper is neither interesting, nor much fun. I have not been much for numbers or poetry either.”

“It is, what it is,” the young man replied sardonically.

Shimon closed his eyes. Samurai, he thought. I have become a samurai.

His childhood self, the one who had liked violent games and dramatic last stands might have found that wonderful. His present self mostly wondered whether the assigned house had thick, strong doors.