The Plunder of Mount Hōdatsu

1 / 4

The Boatman at the Point of No Return

Nearing the hour of the tiger — or the tail end of the ox. Reason and fastidiousness had, by voyage's end, reached the point of no return. Before them lay Hakui Port, draped in night.

Gikiii —

Gukukukukuku.

Salt-cured wooden barrels. Sleeping should be nothing.

Gikiiiii — gukukuku.

As if anyone could sleep.

With rocking like this.

GIKIIII — KUKUKUKUKUKU.

Oro. Ka. How fool — urgh. Uugh, man learns from ten thou — things... Spirits, BLEARGH — sniff... sniff...

Her equilibrium had been liquefied.

The ship's prow was an akabeko — a bobbing red ox toy, swaying its neck. A face contorted in anguish, flushed red; hands on the deck, she was reduced to all fours. She too was an akabeko. Only her head rocking. That this bore absolutely no connection to the actual folk toy was impossible to believe. Logic refused to hold shape — a scrambled sutra of nonsense.

Good. Good. Stay just like that. The pirate breathed relief that the living cargo had been neutralized. Fragments of what reached his ears sounded like a curse — or perhaps prayer? The Japanese girl had pulled rodent impressions, squeaking at intervals that jolted him upright in shock, all while maintaining a center of gravity that the thrashing sea could not budge. Unshakable as a temple bell. He'd thought she must be a fisherman's daughter.

But look at her now.

For all her cunning sound effects deployed to wage war on his sleep, for all her single-handed crusade over dried provisions — even she had crumbled before these waves. The port was near. This would fulfill the arrangement with Kakunari. The promise of asylum. To see through the conditions for harboring a fugitive.

The voyage was ending.

Every ancient wound in her body creaking, she floated and fell with the sea. This was the open waters off Hakui Port — the Noto Peninsula.

Saaaaaa.........

Gikiiiii.........

Night wind. Sea wind. On the knife's edge between calm and menace, Furibi stood alone on the deck. His gaze followed a small boat ahead. A memory from the round table replayed.

That even Lady Kakunari could not fully restrain her. The words that followed weighed as much as their preface.

Which reins do you mean, my lady?

Below, the pirate repeating his soundings.

Those reins?

The thin rope tattled back and forth to its master, connecting the visible to the unseen bottom.

Against that — a coiled, rust-colored great serpent.

A furious order. A clicking tongue from the anchor man.

DOPPPO.

Dark water swallowed it. The trailing black rope — a torrent — thrashed and struck, gouging the deck. If it bored through to the hull, the ship would take root. This breed of violence deleted whatever it touched.

Those reins?

The errant drop was met with rebuke from a superior pirate — but his attention was not on the anchor. It was pulled, over his own shoulder, toward the accelerating living cargo.

A shadow exhaled and the wind followed. Kamado leapt for the approaching skiff. On impact, the hull lifted to expose its belly, but the boatman's skill must have righted it just in time.

Observing from the ship above that the boatman showed no anger despite the near-disaster, Furibi felt a moment's puzzlement before understanding clicked.

Brows raised, lips pursed, the pirates leaned over the deck with their fiercest faces pressed flat, glaring at the single bale of rice being lowered on a line.

The bobbing skiff was dangerously close. Bruised and battered. Even as the rice nearly toppled. The catcher, driven by pure desperation, stopped the bale with his body.

BAHAAA — uuuu....... haaaa.....!!!! Haa.....! Fuu, fuu. Fuuuuu......!

Place weakness and hardship on the table, and lives are staked.

The bale could not be tossed.

Kakunari-sama only sees results.

A rice bale packed with black powder.

· · ·

2 / 4

March and Message

West of Hakui, the open hills offered nothing but scrub forest. The ghosts of seafood floating in the dark were disguised as offerings for a Kiriko lantern festival. The pushcart groaned over damp earth — as heavy to pull as a rain-soaked festival shrine. Kamado could not even taste the sweetness of the strain. Up and over, again and again, until at last the end of the dismal path came into view.

The great octopus, the boiled shrimp, the festival banners — they had traveled long together. But well before arriving, the boiled shrimp had sprung backward like a cracking whip. The shrimp's guide had already returned to the sea.

Arrival and delivery in a single motion. No — something else. Neither amorous glances nor watchful caution. What reason could this overgrown oaf have for staring at her so fixedly? On a track separate from her racing thoughts, Kamado unloaded cargo in an unbroken sequence, never once pausing.

The dilapidated shack belied its interior. Inside, it was not half bad. Traces of a Buddhist temple throughout the grounds. A door with a single surviving front tooth. A wisp of Kakunari's cunning words rode the breeze and pressed inward.

Kakunari's voice carried the ring of certainty.

At the time, Furibi had found this hard to fathom. A rare misjudgment, he'd thought, even from one so wise.

But now, behold. The handling of cargo, layered with experience beyond measure. A refinement that seemed to belong to another person entirely — the fusion of water and oil, the union of moon and sun. An unnaturalness that should not exist by nature. Her everyday mind was impulsive, instinctive, feral. Yet when it came to freight, it was as if molten iron flowed through an intricate mold.

Elegance. Weight classes formed layers. Grace. The narrow doorway yielded effortlessly. Cargo flowed like water, settling perfectly. Splendor. The order of placement was the manifestation of logic — an inherent geometric beauty that rejected disorder.

Genuinely impressive.

Kamado continued to pretend she hadn't noticed his gaze. When she let her guard down at the very end, a festival mask slipped from the last bale.

After hiding the repurposed pushcart and taking a breath, she learned that the reason the man had been staring so intently was that "the stealth mask she thought she'd gently slid had flown across the room and split clean in two against the wall." Not the sort of carelessness one could admire.

They would lie low in this silent ruin for several days. Far from any village, ideal for concealment. By dusk, the fatigue of travel had brewed drowsiness.

Likely a young miner.

Provisions for sustaining life, as arranged. The young man looked at the octopus-masked man and the woman in her broken festival mask, paused for a beat, then smoothly:

He shut the door and left. The girl had cheerfully said something like "how kind of you" in a voice decorated for the occasion.

Then, as if she'd already forgotten all of that, her eyes fixed on his grilled fish, she asked:

A deserted port, and the silhouette that didn't belong. A large man, shouting something, weeping. More precisely, the straw doll at the end of his arm — screaming at breakneck speed, begging: don't drop me, don't drop me.

Kamado agreed. At the port's edge, the local black-powder bales had been collected via an opposite route — the recovery completed under cover of darkness.

The color of regret and resignation. "That's the kind of man he is." If one's deepest wish is at stake, all the more reason — he wants to see it with his own eyes. Furibi's face returned to its scowl, and as he did, he swatted Kamado's sneaking chopsticks with his own.

— Chief of the guard.

— The old man of ironware.

Night fell. Kamado settled into a corner of the dirt floor. She must have willed herself to stay still. Were it not for her watch duty, those double eyelids would have been shut.

"Oi, Kamado. Don't sleep."

However — he never spoke these words.

In the instant before he would have, a silent threat pierced through and struck his forehead.

From beneath downcast lids, her eyes housed a razor will — twin jade swords. The dull, strong gleam of scales. A black so deep it pulled the gaze inward. Feral eyes that stared him down.

To call this "a frog stared down by a snake" would be to make himself the frog. But this was a man who'd lived in the underworld, who'd killed Nagahama's scum on the killing floor. He had wagered his entire existence, death being no deterrent. Against the throat of that pride — the cold sweat that raced down his back was fast.

Fit for the task.

A human nature suited to entrustment. A pride forged within raw violence. A sensibility layered deep within destructive perfectionism — lonely and blue, indifferent to good or evil, a pure light that had walked its path. A stray who had never known love. He resolved to watch over her — as a comrade, as something like a father.

Fit for the task.

That was a raindrop fallen into the darkness of the wild. The night-dark eyes quietly lowered their spear, buried it in the dirt floor, and retreated into the depths. Having witnessed this, Furibi moved from wall to floor, lying on his back. This was, without question, the heaviest assignment of his life. Defenseless, he fell into the deepest sleep — having entrusted everything to the one most fit for the task.

· · ·

3 / 4

The Fox's Stratagem

Stop laughing so obviously. This is not of their choosing either. The young miners of Hōdatsu were hot-blooded. And — almost certainly as His Lordship had anticipated — the atmosphere was far more volatile than any volcanic gas. The resentment here was no dormant volcano.

Furibi and Kamado were to conceal their identities behind grotesque festival masks — or so it had been planned. The moment Kamado saw the sign reading "Tokunō Assembly Hall," she let out a heh-heh-heh-heh — and the miners, unamused, bristled with killing intent.

A mask of shrine-carpenter carving, fine with auspicious fishing motifs. The cost of elegance: only half the face remained.

He did not regret pressing his own mask onto her. The cross-shaped scar on her cheek must remain hidden. In the concealment strategy that exploited her prosopagnosia, the issuance of wanted posters could be suppressed — but that was merely a diversionary tactic to protect His Lordship. The foolish inhuman had nothing to do with it.

This would not do. Half-masked and brazen. He would leave even her voice exposed.

The ghost that Lady Kakunari spoke of —

Even the voice must be kept unknown, hidden as mist.

Kamado's voice carried sufficient understanding of the deception — a counterfeit chill. A good sign; the eyes glaring back at him were her answer. Laughter alone, unmoored from a face, would be difficult to trace.

— This death-courting fool.

— Maybe because the mask is already broken?

— It's pride.

— ?

The dynamic between them had not changed. Even so — "the one who carries" was more valuable than him. That much remained unaltered. The shadow of central power stretched and stretched. By the time it reached their feet, the scenery would transform. The darkness of humanity, imagination-defying — Kamado had witnessed it and still carried an equal measure of light, and he'd watched that light devour people like darkness itself.

What Kamado dropped as she departed was a darkness of foresight that blasted through the stagnant rage and injected the scent of death. The unmasked voice of Nana — a lethal dose of irony.

The young miners might have taken it as a reference to the Kiriko festival, but the involuntary leak of killer intent had sent the swelling men back to primal instinct.

When Kamado kicked the last bale as she set it down at the union hall, her face twisted in suspicion — and Furibi, despite himself, raised his voice.

· · ·

Delivery complete, they returned to the hideout. The gap-toothed doorway. The faded ruin. Timber aged to orange; a clearing invaded by scrub. A temple bell decaying in peace. Power's reach had silenced it long ago.

At the far end of the open ground — the fox mask stared directly at them.

I know. From here, we are ghosts without will, with nothing to do but observe a pitiable sake storehouse.

The answering thought was received, and the fox turned away. Safe and sound — that was all that mattered. His work, too, was nearly done.

Inside the old shack, the plan was advancing. Takagi Juichirō — head bowed.

Hijikawa, posing as an envoy of the Tokugawa, reasoned with the man.

What is that abyss. The pupils behind the fox mask could not be faced. Beyond the mask — void. To know what lay within was to know death. A tone of love-like persuasion, paired with cold brutality — surely two different people. But the miner who fought their blending could not last, and even Takagi had no choice but to nod before the god of death.

The fox's diagnosis. Silence affirmed the envoy's words.

Memories of mercenary violence flickered — but that was child's play compared to this. A different breed of monster altogether.

A denial that was an affirmation. Takagi continued:

Not a straw doll. That man ruled the port. Small only compared to the fox's colossal frame. Seized by the scruff, the tanuki of Hakui had wept and wailed at the river of the dead, until he was laid flat on the wharf, a straw effigy in collapse. The terror of the fox was seared deep into his bones.

The port rights — the union's hope. I sold them. Civil servant. War commander. Ink-black cunning eyes. Do not mix. Honda's envoy. A god best left untouched.

In the evening ruin, the fox addressed the grotesque seafood masks:

— What was that just now?

— Right now he's an official. Tokugawa.

— Yeesh.

— Heh heh heh.

With this, the third storehouse was locked down.

A rust-colored anchor around Takagi's neck.

Even if not spoken plainly, the message was delivered. Unavoidably: "As a trivial matter," it was to be treated — never questioned. As Takagi's head swayed in agreement — swaying, swaying — he was, in that moment, nothing more than a pathetic akabeko.

· · ·

4 / 4

The Flammable Dragon and the Fireproof King

Every tree absorbed the rage.

OOOOOOOOOOO — REEE HAAAAA —

His legs were invisible.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOO......!!!!!!

OOOOOOOOOOO....!!!!

Past saving. One had been swallowed, and the arsonist had hurled flesh at the shrine's ignition point — the curse of a man at the point of no return.

"Kamado's understanding of 'weight' runs deep."

GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAUUU....!!!!!!

An avalanche that brooked no argument. Mindless rage made manifest.

OOOOO — the weight, the enormity — the roar swallowed meaning itself — OOOOO GOOOO OOOO OOOOOO....!!!

OOOOO GOGA GOGOGOGOGO....!!!!

— Ah. She won't forgive this.

— Right... isn't — WHAT?!

— ?

The dragon at her turning back consumed all things, sweeping and devouring, swallowing and devouring still, eating the mountain. A false charge upon false charges — but still. Organic — inorganic — "all of it" — causality was irrelevant.

The boiled-octopus man, pressing a mask to his face, was calculating cannibalism. If the stubborn fool's mistake created an opening, he would not forgive it. Adjusting the delivery route — at the very least, he should have asked about food stalls before killing. He voiced his frustration aloud.

In the fishing town before dawn, the hangover of the festival night. Today, no firefighter would present themselves in this town. None would step forward.

A child is light. This one was always light.

How could she not be precious. (AAAAAH!!!)

.....The smell of sake. The discomfort of biting sand. Iron? This is the smell of iro — AAAGH! MY LEG!!!!

OOOOOOO — already taller than grandmother — GUOOOOOOOOO — grandfather is watching too, smiling. Because I want to be entrusted. With pride. OOOOOOO....!!!!!!!

GOOOOO (THIS—!) OOOOO I want them to think that OOOOOO

It hurts it hurts it hurts IT HUUURTS.....!!!!!!!!

Punching and howling — I took on the duty of fire guardian.

GOOOOO (Damn! Damn! Damn!) OOOOOO GOOOO (No more.) OOOOO GOGOGOGOGO (I can't... see—) GOGOGOGO —........—————..........————.

The silence that repainted everything left neither fire nor light.

· · ·

The air had stopped moving. On a gentle night, a mountain demon was witnessed for the first time. The early summer forest carried its tiresome humidity.

Many deified the gift that Furibi carried.

Are you trembling? Understandable. What did you make of it, miner? You'd likely been doing it regularly. The strike to the throat — without hesitation, the shortest path to death. If you'd grown up in a port, that was natural.

The hand gripping the dropped weapon was an infant's. The fierce gaze — bluster.

Clutching his chest, unable to stand.

— NNNNNN — .

The roar reaching the back of his skull — that was Lord Hijikawa. Kamado's timid retreating back; he could have laughed at every instance. The leading man and his arsonist slave vanished into the dark.

No — in cases like this, one dies. Almost certainly. The neck is by birthright a throne. But this was the way one holds a cat by the scruff.

When the sound of wood tapping against the throne of his Adam's apple rang out — mercifully, pain stole his consciousness first.

Ah, Natsu. Into fading consciousness, a falling.

Takagi, too, had seemed off.

Suddenly, from outside, one of the young miners bellowed:

Some firefighter indeed. Natsu was told to wait in the barn.

There'll be a pipe at the union hall.

The union boss lay face-down. Dead. Damn it. He could not look away from the unmasked demon. Where's the fool who chose me as his escort to the grave? That one had been a union man himself. He couldn't return to Natsu's silk skin. No — he would live. Only this porter. This clueless octopus was the only opening.

· · ·

Bunroku 6, early summer in Noto.

The day of the Kiriko festival. Outskirts of Hakui, on a corner of the grounds.

Kamado looked up.

His Lordship's tone signaled the start.

The ruin. The scrub-forest breeze, blue-green. Kamado. Furibi. Lord Hijikawa. Each took their mask in hand. About one hour until dawn. In the dim dirt floor of the old temple, a single black bale had been added — delivered by express horse, its intent unmistakable: to eliminate every last contingency.

What was spoken:

His Lordship played with allusions and verbs, making no move to stop Kamado, who had already begun loading without waiting for orders. Her movements were unhesitating as she filled the repurposed cart. But the single line the fox mask added —

She seemed caught off guard.

An answer given while the thought still continued.

Unrefined sake and the smell of brine. Drunken wretches littered the alleyways. The ghosts passed them, gliding along the highway. If they were to deliver, the Tokunō curtain would admit them.

The man was dutiful. He must have been watching. Eyes drained with exhaustion.

His Lordship, going by the name Hiyama, spoke brightly:

From behind Takagi's stricken face, the young miners emerged. Having gorged on unrefined sake, they were wooden puppets.

The young men of Hōdatsu stared in saucer-eyed alarm.

My lord, what are you saying.

That Hijikawa's call was a command — Kamado, standing nervously next to the bale, understood.

Yes. She'd just been scolded for kicking it.

A sharp, downward strike split the bale at its belly.

KA.

Sazaaaaa.......aaa.....

Thoughts could not keep pace with what Kamado had opened.

Saaaaaa... a... sa.....

What spilled forth, still bearing its husks — was not gunpowder.

Before Furibi could open his mouth to say "what is—," Takagi's roar drowned it out.

This was not yesterday's man. Rage. The resolution of one who has accepted death and resolved to kill.

A suicidal rush — but impressive. When commanded, orders are unnecessary. I received the first man's short blade — and killed him. Caught the second man's groin strike — and killed him. With Lord Hijikawa at my back, it was like Nagahama's killing floor all over again.

What only Furibi heard, murmured at his back by his master:

.......Could one call it light?

Ahhn.

Oi, Natsu. Ahh, ahh, ahhh. Ahhhn!

A sweet voice raised to the rafters, like a bird's cry. And then —

A snarl that disciplined the peeping town boys.

.......Could she remain as light?

Chi chi chi chi.

A lark's greeting — an auspicious sign.

The owl spy lamented the sweetness of its own talons. A fragment of the wooden mask, picked up. A tally, perhaps?

Black gauntlets bearing hanging wisteria.
One wing of a white crane.
An abandoned former nest.
A scrap of straw.
Half of a broken festival banner.
Glaring into the void.
The one and only — His Lord.
A dragon god's treasure ascending to heaven — that single, solitary soul.

.......Could she remain as light?