THE MAN

A stranger marched into the wild north. But the further he went, the clearer it became to him: Hiko Seijūrō, thirteenth of his name, was done with the Land of the Rising Sun.

He stopped on the pebbly shore of the Omono river with the low sun in his eyes. Crouching, he sank his hands into the cold waters to wash off the day from his face. He should be way past Yuzawa by now, flanked by vast rice paddies as he followed the Omono river into the sea. Instead, he'd lost a day chasing an angry boy he'd already saved.

He didn't care for children. Never had, never would—or so he thought. That gaze had haunted him all throughout the night, from the moment he walked away from it and through his wholehearted attempts to drown it with booze and dimly lit rooms. Somehow, the kid's gaze burned hotter than the flesh he gripped to forget himself.

When he woke up alone, even his cloak seemed to judge him from a crumpled lump on the floor. He scoffed. Him, defeated by a foolish sense of responsibility he never had?

Gritting his teeth, he had undone every footstep all the way back to the foot of the mountain, where the low hum of a temple bell called the people of Innai to noon prayer.

The dry greens and dark grays of the ridge overshadowed the post town's every bend. It was vast. Ever-present. Inescapable. But that only meant everything but death eventually ended up in that town. Had the boy so much as tumbled down the hillside, his sullen mug would sooner or later roll all the way down.

Seijūrō cornered everyone who so much as met his gaze by mistake. Unapologetic, he probed and pressed the men, women and geezers who very much wanted to be left out of that drama. But alas, unsurprisingly, nobody knew anything. Nobody ever did.

With winter looming over their fields, nobody could spare a thought for yet another mouth to feed. Those less pressed for food just muttered about poor parents forced to sell their sons and daughters for the family's sake. Then there was the odd one who'd rather play deaf than face reality.

Some part of him still understood—still had that nub of filial piety festering somewhere. But that didn't mean he couldn't hate them. Wraiths, all of them, drifting through life with eyes so dull, so shameless.

None cared for a child lost while being dragged south.

No one wanted a lost boy. So why was he still looking?

Crows were cawing the day to an end. He glared at his reflection in the river, dark-eyed and gruff against the wan yellow sky. Fool. He shouldn't have held such hopes if the land itself was trying to shake everyone off it. Greed and misery had all but bled dry any goodwill he could've found—and now, the black ships had come to pick the bones clean.

His scowl darkened. Those cursed barbarians…

"Ain't nothin' been right since they turned up."

Startled, Seijūrō turned toward the scratchy voice echoing his thoughts—a wiry old man peeking out like a turtle from under a worn straw hat. He hadn't seen the old geezer before, slouched behind some bushes with a flimsy fishing rod in hand. Damn it—was he that much out of sorts because of a goddamn brat?

Narrowing his eyes, he took the old man's measure. He wouldn't have pegged that dim-eyed man for a sage, but…

"Ain't that right, old man," he conceded, tilting his head.

The fisherman nodded sharply at him, grinding his anger between his gums. He fished out a lackluster but hefty jug of saké and jutted it Seijūrō's way—only for the man's hand to pause at the last second, somewhat to his own amazement. He glanced at the sun, edging toward the mountaintops. His fingers curled into a fist. No time for that now.

"Say, you haven't seen a boy around here, have you?" The swordsman asked, clearing his throat. Then, as an afterthought, "An angry-looking one."

"Nope," the fisherman responded. Then, pinching a stone between his bony fingers, he hurled it at a noisy pair of crows lingering too close—only for them to veer off with a lazy flap of their wings. He clicked his tongue in frustration. "But winter ain't kind to mouths that can't work. Do y'rself a favor—stop lookin'. Unless yer takin' him in."

Seijūrō's scowl deepened. What the hell kind of answer was that? But the damned fisherman was not done.

"Ain't nothing to spare here—and if ye'r thrown in a temple, they crack your spine open." His voice dropped to a creak, eyes narrowed until just a sliver of black was left. "And if ye'r not, ye fish or ye starve. If ye'r lucky."

His lips pressed into a hard line, but his brow didn't shift. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. He'd hoped the boy had made it to the village, found a roof over his head. Finding him one, though? That was a whole other story. Still, he had pushed on, deaf to reason. Why? To drop him anywhere and get on with his life? What good was saving a boy just to leave him to rot?

"Better let it die, save it the trouble…"

A cold emptiness crept in, seeping through the folds of his robes like night chill. The old man didn't even flinch as Seijūrō stood.

"I'll be taking that jug now," the swordsman said, voice flat, flipping a few coins onto the dirt. Their sound brought a glint to the old man's eyes—if only for the second it took him to stuff them in his pouch.

Dead eyes everywhere he went… As if all light was blown out of them.

Without another word, he started toward the blood-soaked mountain. As he walked away, he heard the crows caw in protest once again.

"Those pesky lot, all they want is to steal my haul," the old man rasped, his hand already reaching for another stone. "Ain't nothin' been right since they turned up."

Meanwhile, behind his bent back, two cheeky tits pecked furiously at his bait, entirely unnoticed.