Tenchū.
Tenchū.
Tenchū.
The days when the black envelope finds me are the days when retribution looms over the Bakufu. Retribution is dealt by these hands.
Time and time again, I transform into an Oni, a Shura, the harbinger of chaos, staining the streets of Kyoto crimson.
Whether I assume the guise of an Oni or a harbinger of destruction is of no consequence if the path leads to a world marked by equity and tranquility, a world where the feeble are no longer trampled upon.
I gaze skyward.
What am I searching for? Hints of Heaven?
I shift my gaze downward, and there lie the dim alleyways.
As I slide open the Shoji door, the room falls into a hushed tension.
A spacious chamber houses three high-ranking Bakufu officials, each surrounded by their loyal guards. Their exact number, whether fifteen or twenty, doesn't matter.
The room is bathed in a soft glow, adorned with meticulously arranged Ikebana. Tables overflow with a feast of freshly procured food and sake.
"I bear no personal grudge against you, but for the sake of the New Era, you must die."
Not a single scream pierces the air.
Crimson droplets splash onto sake cups, transforming them into vessels of death, the once-beautiful Chrysanthemums now resembling Higanbana, the red spider lily.
In the shroud of the night, the world is once again painted in ominous red.
My gaze drifts toward the feast spread across the table, and I ponder how many mouths these dishes could have fed in a poverty-stricken village.
The flowers, now tainted by blood, cast a shadow of regret upon me.
I hear that voice whisper in my ear, "You truly make it rain blood," resonating like the haunting notes of a Kagura Suzu in my mind.
I turn to look outside, where the heavens weep, their tears falling incessantly.
Leaving the room, I gently close the Shoji door behind me. There, I meet Iizuka-san, who remarks, "The cleanup of this will take some time. You may proceed, Himura."
With a single glance, I acknowledge him, then depart with the same composed demeanor with which I had entered.
The patter of rain intertwines with the fog in my thoughts.
"If I hold a blade right now, will you kill me?"
That gentle voice keeps repeating those words like an unending loop.
The rain washes away the stains on my clothing, but the metallic tang still clings to my senses. Yet, amidst that strange sensation, I detect a faint fragrance—white plum mingling with the stench of blood.
I'm losing my grip once more.
As I approach Kohagiya, the first hints of dawn paint the sky in subtle shades of gray. The world remains cloaked in darkness.
Within Kohagiya, shadows embrace me, a sight all too familiar. A hitokiri knows no distinction between day and night; we are creatures of darkness.
I reach for a water basin in the hallway of Kohagiya, the cool liquid soothing my hands. With each splash and scrub, the crimson stains dissolve, but their source seems inexhaustible. I scrub again and again.
Then, a whiff of white plum seizes my senses. I sense her presence behind me.
"Before cleaning your hands, you ought to wipe the blood from your face," she suggests.
Turning slightly, I accept the piece of dry fabric she proffers, much like one would offer a cup of tea. Her demeanor hasn't changed, as if watching a hitokiri purge blood from his hands is an everyday occurrence, and as if providing a fabric for such a purpose is the natural thing to do. Her eyes mirror that same unfathomable depth, like the void of night, where nothing truly matters.
I take the fabric and, with it, sweep the blood from my face. I realize that the blood I've tried to wash from my hands has finally been cleansed.
"Is this how you intend to continue, drowning in blood?" Her question, unfaltering, breaks the silence.
I have no answer, yet a spark of anger simmers within me.
Does she understand the daily struggles of the poorest in this country? How could she possibly comprehend? Has she ever endured months without rice, surviving solely on boiled weeds? What about nights when even that was a distant luxury?
Her hands, unblemished by the toils of labor, her luminous skin, her hair shimmering like ebony silk, and her graceful, water-like movements. What hardships have touched her? What can she truly fathom? She is likely raised in an esteemed samurai household.
So, how does she dare to ask?
"That has nothing to do with you. Don't involve yourself with me," I retort coldly, my irritation unabated.
Angry and vexed, I lack the courage to turn and meet her gaze directly.
She departs gracefully and without a sound.
I linger in that spot, not wishing to lay my eyes upon her. I dread locking my gaze with hers.
Some time passes, and I proceed to my room. As I stand outside the Shoji door, I realize she's not in the room. Relief washes over me.
Upon opening the door, the scent of white plum greets me. The futon lies neatly folded.
Within the Tokonoma, I behold an unexpected sight in the room of a demon: a beautiful flower arrangement.
It is modest, with an intricately curved branch, a handful of leaves, and two petite clusters of purple hydrangea.
I can't help but recall the crimson-dyed chrysanthemum and swiftly avert my gaze. I settle near the window, clutching my katana as is my habit.
My eyes repeatedly return to the diminutive flower arrangement.
So fragile, yet so poised.
I realize I have never scrutinized a flower so closely before, and I can't comprehend why I am doing so now.
Why do those delicate petals pierce me more profoundly than a blade through my flesh?
Before long, I succumb to rest. This time, I resist the allure of the intoxicating white plum scent.