"That woman, she's peculiar."

"Huh? Why?"

"I've never seen her smile."

"Yeah, me neither."

"She barely ever speaks too."

"She is exceptionally beautiful, though."

"That's true, but... I'd prefer a more average-looking woman who is more cheerful."

"Yeah, sure. I saw you trying to strike up a conversation with her, but she turned you down instantly."

"What? No way... When did I ever..."

"But you can't deny she is quite something to look at..."

"That's true..."

"You should think twice before trying to put your hands on her. That's Himura's woman, you know?"

"What? Himura's?"

"You didn't know? He brought her here."

As I descend for a meal, the murmurings of my fellow Shishi reach my ears. I am aware that rumors swirl about her and me, and their attempts to link us vex me.

Yet, it is predictable. I brought her in the dead of night, and she occupies my room.

Yet another peculiar aspect catches my attention: my reluctance to utter her name, even in thought. Why this avoidance?

Her name resurfaces.

Tomoe.

I ponder, and suddenly, vivid images emerge — deep, dark eyes framed by long, graceful lashes; a glimpse of pale, porcelain skin; and the fragrance of Hakubaiko.

These mental flashes are fleeting, gone in seconds.

I proceed downstairs, sliding open the dining room's Shoji door to claim my place at the table.

Iizuka-san seats himself beside me. He appears poised to speak but reconsiders, perhaps sensing my foul mood.

The dining hall's massive Shoji door slides open again. Even without looking, I know she has entered. Excitement among the Shishi members is palpable. Iizuka-san whispers inquisitively, "Where did you find a woman like her?"

I find his curiosity irksome.
"Iizuka-san," I say, and that is all it takes for him to abandon the topic for the rest of the meal.

I realize I am making an effort not to look at her, yet I can't comprehend why this effort is necessary.

Throughout the meal, as she distributes food, she utters not a single word to anyone. She is a woman of few words, and that is none of my concern, or so I tell myself.

During the meal, Iizuka-san states with a serious tone, "Katsura-san and Katagai-san are in the other room."

I offer a slight nod in acknowledgment.

After finishing the meal, I place the empty bowl and the chopsticks aside, stand up, and head to the room where Katsura-san and Katagai-san are.

Katsura-san contemplates and says, "There is something peculiar about this situation."

"Himura mentioned that the assassin correctly identified him and waited for his arrival, knowing the path he would take," Katagai-san adds with a low, weighty voice, while Katsura-san listens attentively.

"Yes" I reply.

The room contains only the three of us: Katsura-san, Katagai-san, and me. Iizuka-san's role is merely to escort me here, and he has no active part in the conversation, so his presence isn't necessary nor requested.

A shroud of uncertainty envelops the Shishi; information leaks, information that can potentially mean life or death for the Shishi. A single misstep can alter history.

"It doesn't add up. If the Bakufu possesses information about Battousai's whereabouts and description, why haven't the Wolves of Mibu started a raid yet?" Katagai-san ponders aloud.

"It's highly likely that it's an organization completely unrelated to them, an organization that operates in the shadows, one we don't know about." I reason.

Katsura-san finally breaks the silence,

"An organization with a formidable information network, clearly not sharing their knowledge with the wolves of Mibu, at least not yet, and their intentions remain a mystery."

"Questions linger - how much are they aware of? Who is the source of their information? How deep does their knowledge go? How powerful are they? And, who are they?"

I address Katsura-san,

"Katsura-san, we must tighten your security. We still do not know who we are up against. With the wolves of Mibu and this shadow enemy, we need to exercise even greater caution. Something bigger than what we can imagine might be brewing underneath."

Katsura-san gazes directly at me and says,

"No, Himura. This time, the target may not be me. The attacks might be aimed specifically at you. The Bakufu is acutely aware of your existence by now, and they'll go to any length to eliminate you."

"More than myself, you must be careful, Himura."

I briefly close my eyes and meet his gaze to respond,

"Your fears are unnecessary."

"This blade shall not rest until the sun of a new era rises."

I watch as Katsura-san closes his eyes for a brief moment, and a smile graces his face. It isn't a smile born of joy; it is a smile of resolute conviction.

I understand that our conversation has reached its conclusion. Without waiting for permission, I rise from my seat and leave the room. I can hear Katagai-san's voice behind me, commenting on my behavior, but I pay it no heed.

In my heart, the unwavering conviction of witnessing the dawn of a new era shines as brilliantly as the moon in a cloudless night sky.

The following three days bring relentless rain. It is as if the heavens weep, and the narrow streets of Kyoto are repeatedly painted in blood.

Each dawn, I return to Kohagiya, where a freshly laundered tenugui awaits me beside the wash basin. Every time I see it, I can hear that soft, beautiful voice questioning, "Do you intend to continue killing in this manner?"

Oddly, the irritation that voice once provoked within me seems to have dissipated. Now, it feels like I am closing my eyes and submerging myself in a lukewarm pond. Sight and sound are obscured, leaving only a faint presence, as clear as the air yet elusive to the touch.

I carefully take that dry tenugui and use it to cleanse my face and hands. It seems to effortlessly remove the blood, a task that has proven stubborn in the past. I wonder why the blood comes off so easily now.

Ascending the stairs to the first floor, I open the shoji door to my room. In the interplay of light and shadow, a new flower arrangement graces the immaculate tatami mats, its fragility radiating a sense of pride.

I am no longer as fearful of staining it. I carefully touch the arrangement, feeling the mild coolness of the petals on my fingertips.

Glancing towards the corner of the room, I spot another neatly folded futon beside mine. The scent of white plum fills the air, surrounding me as I drift into sleep. I resist its pull, but not too vehemently.